Childish Games

           It happened on the first evening it felt like fall, when the humidity finally dipped and the stickiness clinging to our skin was replaced by a cool breeze. We’d taken to collecting jack-o-lanterns that had succumbed to the summer heat. Most had been placed outside too early for the holiday, so the carved faces had warped into long morose expressions.

            It had been Ambrose’s idea. Being the only one with a wagon to haul our loot, none of us thought to object. We wheeled away the collection of knobbly faces into the copse beside our street, so no adults could find us.

            “I know why we put pumpkins outside on Halloween.” Franky pushed dark curls from his face. “Myron from Ms. Belview’s class told me. It’s to keep evil spirits out of the house.”

            Ambrose rolled his eyes. “Myron, who believes in Big Foot? That Myron?”

            I grinned. “Myron who eats his boogers?”

            “Yes.” Franky eyed the trees around us, as though those very spirits were listening. “But he knows what he’s talking about. The pumpkins scare away ghosts. Why else would people bother making them?”

            “If you believe anything that dumb-dumb says you’re as stupid as him.” Ambrose sneered.

            Franky turned to me, but I simply shrugged. He gave a sigh and muttered something under his breath that sounded like you’re stupid. The jack-o-lanterns watched with varying levels of delight.

The final vestiges of summer followed us through the thicket. Shadows from the remaining green leaves dappled the worn trail. We laid out the pumpkins around the base of a large oak, lined up by ascending grotesqueness.

            “I bet you won’t eat it,” Ambrose challenged to no one. He found a large branch and sunk it into the orange flesh.

            “Bet you won’t,” Franky replied.

            “I would too. I just don’t want to.” Ambrose pulled out the branch and the pumpkin deflated with a gasp of relief. We grinned at the sound. “Anyway, I know what we should do.”

            I didn’t need to ask. I knew what Ambrose was thinking as he lifted one of the pumpkins. It was what he always did with breakable things.

            “Think fast!”

            Ambrose lobbed the pumpkin at Franky. The orange gourd barely made it a foot before it fell and exploded on the ground. I erupted in laughter, seizing the next jack-o-lantern. Stringy innards flew in every direction, splattering trees, and ground alike. We scrambled around roots slick with juice. I caught a glimpse of Franky and Ambrose briefly as they peered around trees. Their faces, round with clinging baby fat, were smeared in entrails like war paint. When all the jack-o-lanterns were smashed our hands sunk into the ground for worms or other wet things to throw at each other.

            We finally collapsed at the base of the oak, chewing on pumpkin seeds. Ambrose occasionally spit some at Franky.

            “You think it’s time for dinner?” I asked.

            Ambrose shrugged in the nonchalant way he’d mastered, even though we knew how much he cared to get home on time. Once, after we’d lagged too long in the woods, Ambrose appeared the following day with a sullen expression. He showed us the welt he’d gotten on his back.

            “I’m hungry,” Franky sighed.

            “Here you go,” Ambrose spit a mouthful of sticky seeds at him.

            “Knock it off.” Franky scooped up a pumpkin fragment and flicked it at Ambrose. “I’m going home.”

            “Party pooper. We still have time before we got to go.”

            “Well, I’m hungry and I’m leaving.”

            “Just let him,” I tried, but Ambrose had his mind set. Once he fixed on something there was rarely much we could say to change his mind.

            “Not until you get past me!” Ambrose jumped to his feet, arms spread wide. “I’m the forest troll! No one gets past without paying me in gold.”

            “Trolls live under bridges, stupid.” Franky said. “And I’m going home.”

            Ambrose pushed Franky back. “I said gold!”

            Franky tried dodging Ambrose’s reach, but only succeeded in being thrown into the dirt. His face steadily grew red. With each failed attempt to get past his brows knit tighter until his boyish face had become unrecognizable.

            “Stop it, Ambrose!” I snapped. “Just let him go.”

            “Not until he pays me.”

            Franky shoved into Ambrose, but only succeeded in moving him an inch. “You just don’t want to go home because your daddy beats you.”

            When I think back on that moment, I sometimes believe the air changed with their faces. Roiling heat washed from the redness in Ambrose’s cheeks. Franky shrunk, eyes wide. He stammered something apologetic that Ambrose could not hear.

            Ambrose shrieked, fingers grouping dirt until they landed on something solid. He swung. His fist collided with the side of Franky’s head, and just as quickly Franky collapsed without a sound.

            Ambrose wiped his face clean with a grin. “I win!”

            Franky lay still in the dirt. The ground around his head grew black, until it looked like he was ringed in a halo of oil. I crouched over him, my heart feeling too large for my chest as it knocked in my ribs. When I turned back to Ambrose, he was staring at the jagged rock in his hand.

            “I thought it was a pumpkin,” His voice was soft, as though whispering it would change what had happened. Ambrose dropped the rock. It rolled, landing beside the puddle of blood. He shook his head fervently. “It was an accident. I swear! I thought it was a pumpkin.”

            I looked back at the seeping wound on Franky’s skull. His dark hair now matted in gore.

    “It was an accident!”

     I gulped air. “We need to tell an adult.”

     “It was just an accident.”

“But, Franky is – “ I paused, unable to say what he was. What we both knew he was. “He’s hurt.”

      “If you tell an adult, they’re going to think you did it too.” Ambrose spoke quickly, all the while his eyes darting towards each subtle shift of shadow. “Grownups don’t care if you’re telling the truth. They like punishing kids. They won’t believe you, no matter what you say. And then you’ll go to jail too.”

         The wind shifted, spewing newly fallen leaves onto the offensive scene, onto the mangled pumpkins, onto Franky. We stood still, neither sure what to say or do. I couldn’t stand the quiet.

       “We have to do something,” I said.

Ambrose nodded. He chewed his lip.         “We bury Franky.” I gasped but Ambrose pushed on. “We’ll make it nice. But we’ve got to bury him, anyhow. I’ll call my parents. Say I’m spending the night at your house. That way we can come up with where Franky went. Maybe say he went home early without us, and we don’t know what happened.”

       I don’t remember agreeing. I don’t remember saying much other than a nod and a groan. We dug under the bows of the great oak. We dug until our fingers grew numb and the dirt became hard. When it was only a foot deep, we rolled Franky into the hole. His eyelids were half open, as though we caught him mid-blink.

        “Close his eyes,” Ambrose said. I shook my head. “Fine.”

        Ambrose reached out but paused as his fingers entered the grave. He suddenly snapped back and shook his hand as if he’d burned it.

      “Forget it. Let’s just hurry up.”

We collected the pumpkins shells, the sticky insides, the broken faces. All dumped atop Franky until his grey face became hidden in orange. Sweat trickled down my back.

       I looked to Ambrose. “Should we say something?”

       Ambrose nodded. “You first.”

       “Sorry Franky,” My fingers involuntarily rolled into my palm. “You were a good friend. And a really good goalie.”

       “The best.”

        With that, Ambrose began heaving the dirt into the hole. I watched Franky disappear. First his feet and legs, along with the stems. Next his hands. The pumpkin seeds, his chest. Finally, Ambrose pushed the ground over Franky’s head. He gave a loud grunt as he heaved, and the grinning jack-o-lanterns vanished.

       We left as the final rays faded. Long shadows crept over our feet. It felt as though the branches were trying to cling to us and I had to remind myself they couldn’t drag us back. It was only once we left the copse I found myself able to breath.

        The streetlamps clicked on, illuminating the empty neighborhood and its sparse decorations. Sparse since we’d robbed it of every pumpkin. Only the sound of the wagon wheels pulled behind us broke the stillness. Ambrose glanced back at the woods and shivered.

      “It’s too quiet,” He muttered. “Where is everyone?”

      I shrugged. “Maybe it’s already dinner time.”

     “Or maybe the evil spirits got them because we stole the jack-o-lanterns.”

       “Stop it, Ambrose!” I snapped. “Franky was just telling stories. There’s no such thing as ghosts, or spirits, or anything like that.”

       Ambrose eyed the woods all the same.

       The aroma of cooking meat and warm spices met us at my front door. I made sure to leave our muddy shoes and the wagon outside.

      “About time!” Mother called from the depths of the house. “We’re about to eat.”

      “Ambrose is going to spend the night.” I called back.

        My mother’s head appeared through the kitchen door. Her flaxen hair was still pinned up without a strand out of place. “Oh, hello Ambrose. Does your mother know you’re staying?”

      “Yes ma’am.”

       Her eyes scanned our clothes and then added. “Wash up before dinner.”

       Ambrose didn’t say a word as we cleansed ourselves of the grime. I waited as he scrubbed beneath his fingernails until I was sure they’d bleed. He said nothing as we sat down for dinner and listened to my father discuss what Eisenhower should do about the Soviets. His gaze was locked on the dark window, eyes following every sway of the tree outside.

      “Did you see him?” Ambrose whispered once my family left us to clean the dishes.

      “See who?”

      “Franky,” He hissed. “He was standing outside while we were eating. I saw him!”

      I rushed to the window, pressing my nose to the glass. “Where?”

       “He was right there,” Ambrose leaned against the glass beside me. “I swear.”

      “There’s no one there.”

       “Well he was.” A neighbor’s car passed, its headlights illuminating the window for a moment. Ambrose gasped. He stumbled back, face rapidly losing color. “Look!”

      I turned back to the window. Two handprints were smeared on the outside of the glass. Above them, a smudged face with triangular eyes and jagged open mouth.

     “It’s Franky.”

     “It’s not Franky.” I said with more confidence than I felt. “You know it isn’t. It’s probably a trick of the light or something. Jerry down the street likes making jokes. I bet he did it.”

       Ambrose shook his head. My stomach roiled the longer I looked. Ambrose didn’t seem interested in speaking anymore, so I ushered him into my bedroom. He stood like a shadow, pressed against the wall as I made up his bed on the floor. His eyes grew frenzied.

       “We should try to sleep.” I said.

        Ambrose crawled into the sheets, his face barely a shade darker. “I’m scared.”

      “It’ll be okay.” I tried. As Ambrose’s eyes watered, I felt my fear burrow deeper. “I am too.”

       “I didn’t mean to hurt him.” His voice was soft. “I get so angry sometimes. I never mean to hurt anyone.”

      “I know Ambrose.”

      We stared at the dark ceiling, listening to each other’s breath. We heard my father’s heavy steps pass the door followed by my mother’s, still in her pumps. Their door snapped shut. Ambrose swallowed. A cicada began screaming outside.

      “I can’t sleep,” Ambrose rolled towards me. “I don’t think I’ll ever sleep again.”

      “Me either.”

       “Do you think, maybe we should tell?” Ambrose said. “An adult I mean.”

      I wanted to say yes. Yes, we should have said something already. But my chest constricted at what Ambrose warned. Adults did like punishing children. And I didn’t stop the fighting. I was just as guilty.

      I shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe?”

      Ambrose relaxed. “Maybe we think about it tomorrow.”

      I sank further into my sheets. The cicada stopped. In its wake only the hum of the fan filled the void. The longer I listened, the more it sounded like a whisper caught in a breeze.

        Hey…hey…hey…

        I rolled over to see Ambrose staring at the ceiling, fear etched across his face.

       “You hear it, too?” My voice barely above the noise of the fan. Ambrose nodded. “Doesn’t it sound like-?”

       “Shh!” Ambrose hissed.

       “But it sounds just like Fran- “

       “Don’t say his name!” Ambrose gripped the sheets tighter around himself. “He’ll hear you.”

       I looked back at the fan, trying to convince myself we were simply tired. That our imaginations had gone too far. The ceiling fan grew louder.

       Hey…Am…brose…Hey…

       My limbs grew cold. I burrowed deeper into the covers hoping to stave off the creeping horror infecting my body. Ambrose whimpered. The fan grew louder.

        HEY…AMBROSE…YOU’RE…DEAD…

         In a flurry of movement, Ambrose flung the sheets off himself and scrambled to the door. The fan continued shrieking as he ran into the hall. I followed, moving as quickly as tiptoeing allowed. Ambrose didn’t care whether he woke Mother or Father. His path was audibly marked with pounding feet and slamming doors.

      “Ambrose! Wait!”

       I caught him at the front door. His face no longer looked familiar. Instead, I saw only a contorted version of the boy I knew.

      “I got to go.” He rocked on the balls of his feet. “If I stay here, he’ll get me.”

       “Franky isn’t going to get you.” I stepped forward. “Come back to bed.”

        “You know why, don’t you? Why Franky got in the house?” Ambrose ran his hands along his face, pulling at his skin until it left marks. “We took the jack-o-lanterns.”

       “So?”

       “The spirits! They can come in now!”

        I opened my mouth to argue. A sharp knock came from the kitchen window. We froze, neither wanting to see what made the sound. In the silence I stared at Ambrose, and he at me. I gestured for him to join me. He shook his head.

        The knocking began again, escalating until it sounded like someone trying to break the glass. Ambrose screamed. He flung the door open and ran into the dark street.

       “Ambrose!” I yelled after him.      “Ambrose, come back!”

      I froze on the stoop, watching his dark shape briefly illuminated under a streetlamp before he disappeared. The pounding on the window stopped.

        I’d woken my parents. A search party was formed. Within an hour, flashlights dotted the surrounding streets. I waited with my mother. She cooed gentle lies about how Ambrose would be alright. For a while I believed her. I wanted to believe that perhaps he was already home with his own parents.

          When morning light crept into our house, I pulled myself from the sofa and stepped outside. An unfamiliar chill bit at my skin as I stared at what waited on the porch steps. I stooped down, hands grasping the large jack-o-lantern that hadn’t been there the night before. I turned it in my hands, feeling its perfect skin. Small droplets of sap leaked from the eyes.

         Its face was contorted, so there was no doubt it was screaming.