The time Sandman went to SCAD without me

About 15 years ago (give or take), my close personal friend Capgras Fregoli went away to school at the Savannah College of Art and Design, where she majored in sequential illustration.

This is a fancy-schmancy way of saying that she went to college to study comic books. When I went to college, I studied courses with names like “Shakespeare” and read works like Ralph Ellison’s “Invisible Man.” She got to take courses with names like “Frank Miller” and read works like “Watchmen.” The jury is out of which of us had a better course of study.

At some point she mentioned that she was aware of “Sandman,” the seminal 1990s horror series by Neil Gaiman, but had been unable to read the series properly. The college library had a copy, but it had become so abridged over the years by people removing their favorite pages and panels that it had become a challenge to appreciate properly.

I thought of Capgras as something like a sister. We’d known each other about six years by this point, so I did what any decent friend would do in the circumstances. I bundled my entire Sandman collection, including related works, into a box and shipped it to her at school. She acknowledged before getting it that she appreciated what a sacred trust this was. I was shipping a favorite $200-plus comics collection in excellent condition — not the sort of thing you want to risk anything bad happening to. (Nothing did. When it came back several months later read cover to cover and duly appreciated,there was nothing to show the collection had been anywhere other than in my own bookshelf the entire time.)

Still, she told me that several people did try to take a look when they saw the collection out in her room, and she always told them hands off, it belonged to a friend. As I told my daughter tonight, I imagine people saying “Oooh, Sandman!” and reaching out a hand to flip through “The Kindly Ones” or “Brief Lives” and then attempting unsuccessfully to flee as my friend lunged at them across the table and stabbed them repeatedly in the chest with a knife kept handy for just such a moment.

This is a complete Sandman collection, after all. You just don’t take any chances.

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Room for One More

It was 3 a.m. Friday and Maggie was wide awake.

Maggie is a thirtysomething single mother with three children, a mortgage, and a job with a salary that plateaued even as its responsibilities and the cost of living have continued to mount. It’s enough to wake anyone at three in the morning, even without the feeling that they”re paying too much for their phone plan.

UntitledAfter fifteen minutes of tossing and turning that failed to get her back to sleep, Maggie was getting up to turn on the light and find something light to read when she heard the trill of a robin. The song was coming through the window, which to her surprise she saw had been left open.

The light of the full moon fell on the street below. The muted shadows of trees lay across sidewalks and yards, and every neighbor’s house was pale and bleached. And coming down the street was a solitary vehicle, an old horse-drawn hearse with a coffin in the back. Its rail-thin driver sat alone on the bench, disinterestedly holding the reins in one hand while he used the other to hold his cell phone.

He looked up at Maggie, and in that light she saw a sallow face with sunken eyes. “Does your cell carrier give you the cell coverage you deserve? Verizon has fewer dropped calls than any other carrier, and their already affordable rates come with a discount for military personnel,” he said. He gestured to the back of the hearse, and Maggie saw that the coffin was empty. “There’s room for one more.”

She woke with a start, gasping for breath. On the night table her alarm clock showed the time “3:04” in glowing green numbers. Outside it was still dark, and the birds of the morning were still quiet. It would take two more hours until she fell asleep.

Friday morning was no better. This time she found herself getting off the elevator in the bottom floor of the hospital. The old analog clock in the hallway showed 3 o’clock, and as she walked through the empty hallway, the only sound she heard was the soft pad of her own feet upon the tiled floor.

There was a soft trill, like birdsong, that came through an open door. As her heart began to pound in her chest, Maggie found herself drawn inexorably forward, through the door and into the room.

It was the morgue. Bodies lay on all the tables, covered in sheets, and latched doors covered the steel sarcophagi where the other members of this silent town lay in state. A single table was vacant and by it stood an orderly with his cell phone in his hands.

“With Verizon’s unlimited plan, you get unlimited texting and unlimited minutes to the U.S., Canada and Mexico,” he said. “Plus you can stream video with quality as good as on a DVD, all for the low, low cost of just $40 a month per line.” He pocketed the phone and placed his hands on the empty morgue table. “Sign up today, Maggie. There’s room for one more.”

Maggie screamed, and woke up in her own room. It was 3:04, and the room was shrouded in darkness. Moonlight came through the window and fell on the stuffed monkey her daughter had left there that evening before bedtime, its hands clutching metal cymbals and its face twisted by the shadows into a grotesque, mocking sneer.

There’s room for one more, it seemed to say. Come on in, there’s room for one more.

She stayed awake the entire night, hugging her legs as she waited for the dawn, feeling ashamed at being frightened by a dream but unable to shake the nameless dread that was creeping over her.

Things came to a head that Sunday in church. After a sermon on being nice to one another and smiling more at people, Maggie was talking with her friend Jon, as he and some of the others lingered in the parking lot, and explaining how she was trying to make ends meet by cutting needless expenses.

“Well, what’s your cell plan?” he asked. “See, I’m on the Verizon Beyond Unlimited Plan. That gets me premium unlimited data, and unlimited cell minutes throughout the U.S., Canada and Mexico, plus texting. Plus, when we stream video, it’s high-density, and it can act as an unlimited mobile hotspot. It’s only $50 a month,and whole we can have up to four lines, so far we’re only using three. So there’s room for one more if you want to join us.”

As Maggie turned pale, his phone rang, with a ringtone that sounded like a bird bursting forth into joyous song. He answered it, then looked over at her. “Maggie, a bunch of us are going to Manticora’s for lunch. We can give you a ride if you want. There’s room for one more in our car.”

Maggie screamed and ran away, leaving Jon and his family utterly confused in the parking lot.

That afternoon, the entire church except Maggie died at 3:04 p.m. due to a gas leak at Manticora’s. At the table with Jon and his family was one empty seat, the only one in the entire restaurant.

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Taking a road trip with Papa

UntitledWhen you’re college age and don’t have wheels but want to get around, pretty much the only way to do it is to stick out your thumb and catch a ride.

I had a friend in college named Brad who used to go all over the Northeast that way during breaks, despite the risk. Brad was from California, so when spring and fall break rolled around, he’d hitch a ride to see friends going to school in Cambridge or upstate New York, or once even in Toronto.

The trip that put a stop to it was the trip he took to Baltimore his junior year. Funny part is, I don’t think he even knew anyone there. He just wanted to go see it because he could. Even when he didn’t have friends he was going to visit, Brad had an uncanny knack for meeting people and finding places to stay on the cheap, that would have made the rest of us anxious.

He left campus around four o’clock with his backpack in tow, and walked along William Penn Highway and other roads that kept parallel with Route 22 until he finally got a lift that was headed his way, about an hour or two later. The ride picked up the interchange before 78, and took him down I-476, past Swarthmore, before dropping him off at Ridley Park, Pa.

Brad hadn’t been able to get a ride on Route 22 until around six o’clock, he said; and by the time they dropped him off at Ridley Park it was easily 8:30. He thought about getting a room somewhere, but that’s not a cheap option, and usually if you find a truck stop, you can find someone who’s willing to give you a ride just so they have someone to talk to as they drive through the night and into the early morning.

The truck stop was open, but there weren’t many people in it, and none of the drivers was interested in giving a lift to him. Baltimore was too close, and a stop there just wasn’t in the cards.

Brad was starting to wonder if he was going to be stuck in Ridley park overnight, when he noticed someone watching him.

He cut a colorful figure. He was short, dressed in black tails and wearing a high hat like he was going to a formal ball. There was the core of an apple he had been eating on his table, and he sat there puffing a cigar. When he noticed Brad looking, he grinned widely, raised his right hand and crooked his finger at Brad to call him over.

“Looking for a ride to Baltimore?” he asked, as he shuffled a deck of cards on the table in front of him. “I can give you a ride.”

Brad told us that the man seemed little off to him, the way people sometimes do, but he also seemed friendly and Brad hated the idea of being stranded overnight or having to use a large chunk of his money on a hotel, so he agreed.

“Excellent!” the driver said. “Want to play a game of cads before we go?” He spread out the deck across the table. The cards were vulgar and pornographic. Brad made a face and the man full-out laughed at him. “Frightened by a woman’s boobies?” he said, and laughed again. That was the least graphic part of the cards.

Brad was having second thoughts, but the driver grabbed his hand and practically dragged him out of the truck stop and toward the parking lot where his car was parked. It was a sedan as black as the man’s coat tails, with tinted windows. He opened the trunk and threw Brad’s pack in before opening the front door and shoving Brad in just as unceremoniously.

The seats of the car were covered with leather, and every surface on the inside of the car was spotless, but the air was smoky and it smelled like used bedsheets. Brad was starting to second-guess his decision to take this ride when the driver got in the car and gave his top hat to Brad, to hold in his lap; and then they were gone.

“Papa, who’s with you in the front seat?” came a voice from the back seat, and Brad suddenly realized that there were two other passengers in the car. A pair of women were lounging in the back seat, either drunk or high, in their late 20s.

“He’s a friend of mine I am taking to Baltimore,” the driver said, and the car tore down the road so fast that Brad instinctively grabbed the arm of the door for support and pushed his right foot against the floor of the car in front of him. The driver noticed and laughed again, his bright white teeth showing in the darkness. “There’s no brake over there,” he said. “Don’t worry, you’ll be there in no time!”

Worrying was something Brad couldn’t help but do. The road in front of him held his eyes captive, and he stared unblinking and open-mouthed as they would zip up to the rear of one car after another and then weave into the other lane to pass them at a dizzying speed. He stole a glance at the speedometer and saw that it was already past 80.

“Can you — can you slow down?” he finally managed.

“What’s that?” his driver asked, and he pressed the accelerator further to the floor. “I couldn’t hear you.”

There was a flash of red and blue behind them, and the driver laughed again. Brad was beginning to hate that sound.

“Hey look, my friend,” the driver said, “boss police wants to chase me. Do you think he can catch me?” And impossibly, the car sped up again, and the police car disappeared behind them.

The driver was laughing again. If a demon in hell laughed at the souls in its clutches, it would laugh like that. The laughter, the heady smell, and the dizzying speed were a terrible concoction, and Brad felt himself getting sick.

The driver noticed.

“Hey girls,” he said. “Papa’s little friend isn’t feeling well. Think you can make him feel better?”

Hands reached out from behind the car seat and started to touch Brad on the arms, on his chest and the sides of his head, while soft voices whispered to him to relax. At one point, he told us, somebody actually passed him a cup with a fruity drink in it that he later realized was rum. He wondered if it was drugged, because at some point he became convinced that he was dead. He had died back at the truck stop, and the rider was taking him into the afterlife. The driver had taken Brad out of his body, put him in a small clay jar and was lowering the jar into a dark pool of water that had gathered in a crypt from the rains that had fallen on the cemetery.

“Just stay here for a year, my friend, and we’ll be back,” he said. His voice echoed off the walls of the stone mausoleum where he had tossed Brad’s bones with a jumble of others. There was a heavy grating noise as the lid was being closed, and then Brad had enough.

“For the love of Christ!” he shouted. “This isn’t funny. Stop it. Let me out!”

The driver turned and glared at him, smiles all gone. He pulled over to the side of the interstate, opened the back of the car to get Brad’s pack, and threw him out right there. They were on I-95, with signs for the Fort McHenry National Monument and Historic Shrine coming up.

As Brad watched, the driver got back into his car, pulled back out onto the road and drove off. In a moment, the car had vanished.

The highway patrol found him sitting there on the side of the highway about 20 minutes later, out of his mind and violently ill, still holding the top hat. They took him to the University of Maryland Medical Center, where they treated him for shock, although toxicology couldn’t find anything wrong with him.

There was one doctor, he said, who took an interest in his story, a doctor whose accent made it sound like she might be from Martinique or one of the other islands in the Caribbean. She had him tell the story again and again, and after he had told it to her to her satisfaction, she crossed herself and told him he had been lucky.

When they discharged him on Sunday, this doctor was supposed to be the one to sign him out, but then she saw the top hat among his personal things, and left the room immediately. She wouldn’t come back in, and somebody else had to sign him out instead.

To the best of my knowledge, Brad never hitchhiked again.

Copyright © 2018 by David Learn. Used with permission.

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When a sacrament is just lunch

Eat some bread and drink some wine during church, and it’s a sacrament we call Communion.

Outside church, it’s lunch.

During church, we can have all sorts of rules on how to celebrate the sacrament correctly. Does it have to be consecrated by a priest? What kind of bread do we use? Is it actually wine, or is Welch’s grape juice acceptable? What about some other brand?

No one complains that Maurice is defiling the sacrament if he goes to the deli and orders the wrong bread, adds some pastrami, or gets apple juice instead of wine.

Same bread, same wine. One’s a sacrament, the other isn’t.

If the deli owner refused to sell Maurice lunch because he was disrespecting the deli owner’s religious beliefs about Communion, no one would take the deli owner seriously.

Just saying.

Copyright © 2018 by David Learn. Used with permission.

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The Guardian of Meadowbrook Road

Rita was about 8 years old when her mother and she moved into the old Muller house on Meadowbrook Road.

When Rita started attending third grade in Level Green Elementary School that fall, she had no difficulty getting friends to come visit. The area was still moving from a farming community to a suburb, and with subdivisions still largely unheard-of in Level Green, the properties along Meadowbrook Road were some of the biggest in the area. Front yards alone often were a half-acre, while the back yards rolled down forever into a ravine that ran all the way into Murrysville. Adults valued the space for the greenery and the privacy. For kids, especially those with smaller back yards, a place like Rita’s was an adventure waiting to explore.

It was one of those explorations that Rita and one of her first classmates found a block of cement in the ground in the back yard with the name “Wachter” engraved in faded letters. They also found a pussywillow, an old shed with a roof that was about to cave in, and the area where the Mullers had burnt their leaves in the fall; but it was the cement block that grabbed their attention the most and it was the cement block that they asked about at dinner that night.

“The Mullers used to have a dog,” her mother said. “He told me that when it died about ten years ago they buried it out back so they could still feel he was around. I think that was its name.”

As you’d expect, the next few days at school all Rita would talk about was her new dog. It was black with brown legs, but it looked like silver in the moonlight. It was as big as she was; no, it was ten times bigger. It was vicious like a wolf, but it was as gentle as a puppy with her. Eventually word got around Mrs. Cromer’s class that Rita was making it up, that all she had was somebody else’s dead dog, and the boys especially started teasing her. She stopped talking about it, but she would still draw doodles in art class and in the margins of her homework assignments, of herself with a giant dog. The teasing had pretty much played itself out by this time, and everyone just let her enjoy her pretend dog.

It wasn’t like there weren’t other problems to worry about, after all. There was a rash of thefts along Colbaugh Drive that October. At first it was just cars that had been left unlocked and along the road, but by early November someone was breaking the locks and even a few windows and rooting through people’s gloveboxes, looking for wallets or other valuables.

Then it became home burglaries.

Level Green was a quiet community with some roots that go back to before the Revolution. Local folklore says that a young George Washington chased fleeing Indians through the Shades of Death following the Battle of Bushy Run during the French and Indian War, and that was probably the last time anything really exciting had happened in the community. There weren’t many active farms left, but there was a lot of open space and the people who lived there generally led quiet lives that involved living in Level Green and driving 40 minutes or so to work in places like McKeesport and West Mifflin, or maybe 20 minutes to Monroeville and Murrysville if they were lucky. The burglaries got attention the way few things could, and they were all people were talking about at church and at school. A family came home from a day trip and found their valuables gone. One woman called the police to report someone trying to break into her house while her husband was away, and while the police didn’t find a suspect, they did find a badly damaged back door where he had tried to break in. So by early December when the elementary school students were learning the words to Christmas songs like “Too Fat for the Chimney” and wondering if it would snow for Christmas, their parents were making sure that no child was going home to an empty house. Latchkey kids like Rita would go home with a friend and then their parents either would pick them up, or the friend’s parent would drive them home personally before dinner after getting a call to verify the parent was home.

It was five o’clock on a Wednesday in early December when Rita caught a ride home to Meadowbrook Road with her friend’s mother. It was already pitch-black outside, but the porch lights were on and so were the lights in the living room, so when Mrs. Kowalczyk dropped Rita off, she waited in the driveway until Rita walked to the door, unlocked it and waved goodbye before she drove off.

From what the police later were able to work out, the burglar already was in the house when Rita’s mother arrived. She had come through the front door and called Mrs. Kowalczyk before she noticed anything amiss, and by the time Rita came in the door 10 minutes later, the burglar already had overpowered her and left her tied up in the basement while he ransacked the rest of the house.

This is where the police are less clear what happened. That the burglar tried to catch Rita is obvious. Terrified by the sight of a strange man in her house, she screamed and ran up the stairs to her bedroom, where she had always felt safest. She locked the door and ran to the corner, where she tried to hide behind a large wooden toy chest, only for the door to break as the burglar kicked it open.

One of the police investigators credits Rita with pushing the burglar through the window and then using the phone in her mother’s bedroom to call 9-1-1. The burglar, who suffered several broken bones in the fall, claimed that the family’s vicious dog, which he described as an 80-pound German shepherd, had come “out of nowhere” and attacked him once he broke into Rita’s room. According to him, it bit him on the arm and was going for his throat when its attack pushed him through the window. His arm was bleeding, and badly, but medical personnel said it was cut by the broken window. And of coure, as both Rita and her mother told police, there was no family dog. (They later remedied that, with a large but very friendly St. Bernard named Clifford, whose bark was loud enough to frighten anyone.)

Rita was a celebrity at school once she came back that Friday. She didn’t want to talk about it, and since the teachers insisted that no one push her to talk about unless she wanted to, her classmates more or less respected that silence.

All she did say is, “He would never let anyone hurt me.”

Copyright © 2018 by David Learn. Used with permission.

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The girl who lived in the floor

Luckily this did not happen to us.

I read the story several years of a married couple who, shortly after they moved into their new house, discovered that their daughter had a new imaginary friend named Emily.

She would go into her room to play by herself, and soon they would hear her animated conversation and laughter. Who was she talking to? Emily!

She would be tired in the morning. Why? Emily was lonely, and had come by to visit and they had talked.

Details gradually came forth about Emily. She was black. She was 8 years old. She liked ponies, and she liked to read. Also, she lived in the floor. Why the floor? Well, a bad man had put her there.

Well, imaginary friends are common enough for children, especially when they move, and while some of the details were odd, they showed some imagination.

As time went on, their daughter grew older and made new friends and Emily stopped coming around. Eventually the parents decided to make some renovations to the house that involved ripping up the floor in their daughter’s room.

Under the floorboards near her bed, were the tied-up remains of a black girl, estimated age: 8 years.

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President Trump, the Religious Right and my Jesus

My Jesus cares about justice. There is no evidence that Trump or his supporters do.

My Jesus healed the sick. Trump has made cuts to healthcare, while his supporters approved.

My Jesus welcomes refugees. Trump turns them away while his supporters nod their approval.

My Jesus said “Blessed are the poor” and “Woe to the rich,” and warned about the dangers of wealth. Trump is a billionaire who passed tax cuts for the wealthy, cut social aid to the poor while his supporters applauded.

My Jesus welcomes people of every tribe, nation and language. Trump wants to build a wall, block entire countries and set strict quotas on immigration. His supporters are all on board with this.

My Jesus warned against people who harm children. Trump’s administration tears them from their mothers at the border, loses track of them, and defunds groups that provide prenatal care. From his supporters on the Religious Right? Crickets.

The first-century followers of my Jesus understood something about the holiness of sexual commitment in marriage. Trump brags about grabbing married women “by the pussy” and covers up a string of affairs. The Religious Right “gives him a mulligan.” Ralph Reed even says character doesn’t matter.

My Jesus talked theology with a Samaritan and commended the faith of a pagan. Trump slanders Islam,and his Religious Right supporters cheer him on.

My Jesus warned us against men like Trump. The Religious Right tells us he’s the dream president for Christians.

What’s the matter here? Which god do you serve?

‘Cause I’ve got to say, for all the news you make about your faith, it doesn’t look much like my Jesus.


Copyright © 2018 by David Learn. Used with permission.

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The haunted cemetery

My brother Steve will deny this, which is to be expected; but this is how I’ve told the story to my children for a few years. You’ll have to decide for yourselves where you stand.

The Old Stone Church is about 5½ miles from where we grew up, in the heart of Monroeville, Pa. It’s on Monroeville Boulevard and Stroschein Road, right across from the Eat ‘n Park diner and a quarter-mile uphill from the Miracle Mile.

It’s the site of a former Presbyterian church that’s more than 150 years old, which a while ago sold the property and moved to another location. It still gets used for photo ops, and for weddings; and of course for funerals, because it has a large open and active cemetery. (I mean active in the sense that it’s maintained and in use, not in the sense that every Halloween the dead all get up and throw a head-banger of a party, but if you know differently than I do on that score, please feel free to share.) The place employs a caretaker who cares for the lawn meticulously, watering the grass and raking things when needed, among other responsibilities.

Like most other cemeteries, Crossroads Cemetery has accumulated a few ghost stories over the years. The land once belonged to a farmer named Robert Johnston. As the story goes in the spring of 1799 when the winter’s snows melted, Johnston found the body of a small boy in his woods. Unable to locate his parents, Johnston decided to bury the boy by the spot where he had found him, which happened to be near where he had buried his sister-in-law three years earlier. In 1800, he dedicated that small piece of his land to be a cemetery.

Supposedly on some wintry nights you can see the boy struggling to find shelter. There are a few other stories associated with the place, much of which are bollux, like the supposed “Monroeville strangler” buried there, whom teens claim to have seen while they were walking through the cemetery at night, or Caroline Cooper, who legend says hated kids when she was alive and will pull you down into her grave if you walk on it. Standard stuff.

I tell you this not because I think it’s particularly credible, but because it helps you to understand what happened back in July 1984.

My brother Steve was 12, and like most boys that age, was determined never to let people think of him as a chicken. And if you must know, he wasn’t. When he was 15 and we went skiing for the first time, he dived headlong into it and was swooping down the intermediate slope before he had figured out how to brake or steer, because he was determined to enjoy himself and the beginner slope was too dull. (I pretty much stayed on the beginner slope the entire time I bothered trying to ski, and was ready to go far sooner than he was.) Maybe because he’s the youngest of four brothers Steve has always been one to jump into things with both feet.

So when we dared him to walk through Crossroads Cemetery, he wasn’t about to back down even after we’d been telling stories about Caroline Cooper and the Monroeville Strangler, especially once Bill started egging him on.

Blair and I were worried about getting trouble if our parents found out, but Bill was enjoying watching Steve squirm too much to let that stop us. We were soon all loaded into the car, with Bill at the wheel, on our way down Saunders Station Road and headed toward Monroeville.

Along the way, Bill spelled out the terms: Steve had to walk through the graveyard, from one corner to the other and back, right through the middle both times; and then had to repeat the process with the other two corners, while we watched. If he did this, Bill would give him ten dollars.

We got to the church parking lot, and after a little stalling, Steve got going. The moon wasn’t out, and it was a little cloudy, so although we were doing our best to keep track of him, we kept losing him and then finding him again a minute later. After about ten minutes in, we were getting bored, and wondering if Bill would let Steve out of the bet early, when Blair noticed that Steve was slowing down. Then he stopped moving, and disappeared completely.

Later after he had recovered, Steve told us that he was actually a lot more frightened than he had let on. He’d been thinking of Caroline Cooper’s ghost, and wondered where her grave was; and kept thinking of all the times he’d heard that story or others like it. And then there was that serial killer. But he’d pressed on, telling himself “There are no monsters, and there are no ghosts.”

He was about five minutes in when he felt something brush his ankle. But he steadied himself, and kept going. “There are no monsters and there are no ghosts.”

Now in the dim light, there were plenty of shadows, and plenty of places for things and people to hide, and we’d been feeding his imagination with plenty of stories earlier that evening. So it shoudn’t be a surprise that when something actually grabbed his ankle, Steve started to panic.

“There are no monsters, and there are no ghosts,” he told himself again, out loud this time, and he took another step.

Whatever was holding his ankle tightened its grip. He pulled harder, and so did it. After a moment, it gave way a bit, but only a bit. Something caught his other ankle, and slowed him down further.

“There are no monsters and there are no ghosts,” he said, even louder, and he admitted by this point he didn’t care if we heard him or not. He was getting that panicked.

He took another step, and something lunged at him from out of the darkness and knocked him out cold. He had time to scream, and he went down.

Back in the church parking lot, we heard him scream, and the three of us ran down to find him. I think we were all starting to wonder if there was some truth to the ghost stories, or if someone was hiding there to waylay people or just avoid police. We were worried about our brother, and we were worried what we were going to say to our parents to explain what had happened.

We found him almost on the other side of the cemetery, by Caroline Cooper’s grave. His feet were tangled in the coils of a garden hose, and he was out cold from being hit in the forehead after stepping on the caretaker’s rake.


Copyright © 2018 by David Learn. Used with permission.

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The day a live boy went to school on Halloween

Malcolm attended the charter school in New Brunswick back in 2005, making him one of the kids who enrolled in the charter school the year after it finally had moved into its own building on the south side of the city. What happened to the kid is a damn shame.

Malcolm was a quiet and unassuming kid, all things considered. One of his teachers, who told me his story once we were at the school and I had joined the board, remembered Malcolm as someone who followed directions and did what was expected of him without complaining. Sometimes he was a little too compliant and didn’t advocate for himself, but when push came to shove, you could count on him to find a solution to whatever problem he was faced with.

Malcolm was from North Brunswick, but transferred to the charter school when he was in second grade, thanks to the enrollment lottery. Nowadays that would be harder to do, because the school is established and its lottery fills up with students from its three home districts; but at the time the charter school was younger and never filled up its vacancies with local students. There were even a couple students from the Oranges who attended.

Anyway, back to Malcolm. Being as his family was new to the school and unfamiliar with its calendar, his mother (understandably) assumed that it was open the same days as the schools his older sisters and brother went to, and so that Halloween she packed him a lunch and dropped him off as usual since it was a Monday morning, and everyone had school on Mondays.

He got to school, and when he didn’t see anyone running around outside, he just assumed he was late, so he went in. It wasn’t quite what he was expecting. There were teachers there, and there were students; but none of them was anyone he knew. Feeling very confused and unsure what to do, he walked to his classroom and sat down.

Now when people think of schools that are closed, particularly on holidays like Halloween or Christmas, we usually think of them as empty. They’re not. They’re always filled with the ghosts of students who went there and the teachers who led the classrooms. Some of them died there, and others just had nowhere else to go, but they all come back. How could they not? When they were alive that was where they spent half their time. The school remembers, and it pulls them back.

So Malcolm sat there in class with a classroom full of 20 other students, all of whom were dead. The teacher? Also dead.

About halfway through show-and-tell, he realized he was the only one in the room who was breathing. This made him feel very awkward.

Not long after that they went to gym class, where the teacher had them play dodgeball. He felt he was at a disadvantage because the ball actually would hit him,whereas it went through the other students.

He had always loved music class but this new teacher played everything in a minor key and had them enter and leave the room to Chopin’s funeral march.

When they returned to class and started their personal education packets, Malcolm started to feel that the other children were pointing at him and laughing. By the time it came for circle time and everyone gathered on the carpet, no one wanted to sit next to him and he was ready to cry.

The teacher noticed how sad and lonely he looked, so she encouraged him to sit next to her. She was pale and it was very cold next to her, but Malcolm didn’t want to be disrespectful so he sat right next to her, criss-cross the way he had been taught.

“Now I know if you’re here, you’re probably still feeling upset about how you died and that’s why you don’t want to cross over,” the teacher said. Her voice was calm and matter-of-fact, and it took a moment for Malcolm to realize what it was she just had said.

“Let’s take a moment to talk about how we died, and share with each other how that makes us feel, and what we’ve been doing in all the time since,” she said in her reasonable teacher voice. “Malcolm, why don’t you go first?”

“But I’m not dead!” he protested. “I’m a live boy.”

There are moments in every school when the entire classroom is focused on one student, and that student does something inappropriate. Maybe the student farts, or breaks the desk when they sit down, or just says something unrelated to the class activity. Whatever it is, it’s something that turns the entire classroom on its head, wrests control from the teacher and leaves all the other students laughing.

That was what happened to Malcolm. The entire class burst into laughter and even the teacher had a hard time stifling back her giggles. His ears burning, Malcolm ran from the classroom while shouts of “Live boy! Live boy!” followed him.

He ducked into bathroom to escape the taunting, but in his hurry, he failed to realize it was the girls room. A girl ghost shrieked when she saw him, and her face melted away until he screamed and tried to run away, only to find that the door had closed behind already.

“Live boy! Live boy! Go away, live boy!” The taunts followed him out into the hall and all the way to the office. There he discovered that the door was locked, and the receptionist wouldn’t let him out until school was over for the day. It was only 10 o’clock.

“Go back to class, live boy,” she said.

Heartbroken, defeated and dreading the thought of eating lunch surrounded by a bunch of ghosts, Malcolm started shuffling back to class, when he found himself staring at the large trash bin the custodian was getting ready to take outside. Malcolm climbed inside and burrowed his way in until he was completely covered with paper towels and other trash. A moment later, the bin began to roll down the hallway, and ten minutes later he was free.

Alas, the story does not have a happy ending. When he made it home an hour later, pale and weak in the knees from his ordeal, his mother would have none of it.

“No son of mine is playing hookey,” she said. “Your sisters are at school, and your brother is at school, and you are going back to school this minute. Ghost teachers and ghost classmates. The very idea!”

She took him back to the charter school and watched from the car as her son, defeated, walked back in.

On Tuesday, the education director came to school after a three-day weekend and found a disciplinary note on her desk with Malcolm’s name on it that said he had been found truant and was being held after for punishment.

He has never been seen since.


Copyright © 2018 by David Learn. Used with permission.

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The haunted park

A block away from our house is Feaster Park, a neighborhood playground with all the amenities kids these days could want. There’s a sandpit, there are slides and monkey bars, swings for little kids and swings for big kids, basketball courts and picnic tables to sit and chill with one another.

We’ve taken the girls there many times, especially when they were younger and we didn’t have the playset in the back yard that we eventually got a year or two before the Youngest came along. We’ve had good times there, even though the place isn’t perfect. There’s graffiti sprayed on the playground equipment, I’ve heard reports of drug paraphernalia in the sand, and there was one time I found a used condom on the slide.

“Also,” I told Middle Daughter’s friends Tanner and Isabella on the morning of Halloween, as we celebrated her eighth birthday party, “it’s haunted.”

I pointed across the street at Pittman Park, which looks and acts like an annex to Feaster Park. “That used to be a cemetery,” I told them. (It did.) “After the Civil War, New Brunswick took the soldiers from the city who had died in the war, buried them there and dedicated the park to their memory.” (All true.)

“So why is it haunted?”

“Ah,” I said. “The soldiers saw some horrible things in the war, and died violent deaths. After all that, they found it hard to sleep, and when they moaned and walked at night, it disturbed the people who lived nearby, which is why they were sent back to New Brunswick. The people hoped that if the soldiers were sent home in honor, that they would finally rest and go to their final sleep.”

That’s how it worked for most of the soldiers, I explained. But there was one soldier who was especially restless, and even a quiet place like Pittman Park couldn’t calm him. His ghost kept walking, and started disturbing the spirits of the other soldiers buried at Pittman Park with him, until finally the city dug up his body and moved him across the street to the corner of Feaster Park, where they buried him again, away from the other soldiers, and planted a tree on top of him to keep him still.

It worked, of course, but only for a while. The tree grew, and its roots held him in place, but he was awake and restless and being held there against his will just made him angrier. But the years passed, and without any new sightings of the ghost, people forgot about him and moved on.

Until one day, of course, when a boy saw the tree and decided to climb it. He walked up the tree and grabbed a branch and the wind shook the leaves and he thought he heard a voice say “Boy, don’t climb my tree.” But what did he care? He held onto the branch with his right hand, and he planted his left foot on the trunk, and he swung himself up into the tree.

The branches shook as he got his footing, and the leaves rustled, and he thought he heard a voice say “Boy get down now, and let me sleep,” but he was only 8, and trees were meant for climbing, so he stood in the tree and he grabbed a higher branch — and his foot was stuck.

The boy tried to pull himself up, but it was no good, his foot was caught. And then for a moment he thought he was in luck because it seemed like the branches where he was stuck were giving way a little, and then he realized his foot was sinking into the trunk.

He gave a start and tried to push himself free with his other foot, but then it got stuck too, and in a moment he was caught up to his knees in the trunk.

“Somebody help!” he cried but the other kids were all playing in the middle of Feaster Park, and he was here by himself in the corner, and now he had sunk in up to his waist.

“Help, please!” he screamed again, but by the time anyone came he had sunk into the tree up to his neck and he couldn’t grab onto anything to get loose, and no one else could help him either, They just watched as he sank lower and lower.

“Tell my mom I love her” was the last thing he said, and then his face disappeared into the trunk and his arm too, and he was gone.

“People have avoided that part of the park ever since,” I told the kids, “but they say that if you walk past the tree on days like this, you can still hear the boy calling for help.”

The girls were quiet, wrapped up in the story. It was Issa, the lone boy at the party, who spoke first.

“Yeah, right,” he said, and he led them off to find something else to do.

Copyright © 2018 by David Learn. Used with permission.

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