The Camaro Murders

by Ian Lewis

  I thought it was kind of a mean trick, and I’m unhappy Starla has now let go of my hand. She knows Timmy because he lives in the trailer park too. He’s really good at baseball and is always trying to get attention.

  “Hey, Culver,” Timmy says to me, “you ever been down to the ravine?” He’s talking about the ravine where Potter’s Creek runs behind the school. There’re woods on both sides and everybody says the Principal keeps a shack out there where he takes kids who are bad. On recess, some kids go back there, even though no one’s allowed. I always stop at the edge of the trees.

  “You’re not supposed to go back there,” Starla says.

  “Aw, Jeff and I been back there a bunch of times,” Timmy says like it’s nothing.

  Starla’s eyes widen. “Does Mr. Cressup really have a shack where he paddles kids?”

  “I ain’t telling. You’ll have to see for yourself,” Timmy says, arms folded. He looks at me and begins to taunt. “You ain’t scared, are ya’ Culver?”

  “No, I’m not scared,” I say. I am, though. I’m afraid to get caught by one of the recess monitors.

  Timmy says, “I dare you to go back there.”

  I shrug and say, “I’ll go back there. I’ll do it.”

  “What about you?” Timmy says to Starla. “I’ll bet you’re a scaredy-cat.”

  Starla says she isn’t, but she looks like she is. I want to say she doesn’t have to go if she doesn’t want, but we’re interrupted when a car pulls up.

  It’s Starla’s mom. “Starla Jean, what do you think you’re doing?” She’s calling from the open window.

  “Nuthin,” Starla says, “just walking home.”

  Her mom ignores this and says, “Timmy, why don’t you run on home now.”

  “Yes ma’am,” Timmy says before running off in the direction of the trailer park.

  “Come on, Culver. I’ll give you a ride home.” Starla’s mom waves us over. “Be careful now—look both ways.”

  Starla and I make our way across the road and climb into the car. I think it’s a Buick. Starla sits in the front and I sit in the back. It smells like hairspray and peppermint.

  “Buckle up,” Starla’s mom says, peering into the rearview before turning the car around. She still has her apron on over her pink blouse, and there’s a pen behind her ear.

  I obey and put on my seat belt.

  “Culver was walking me home, Momma,” Starla says.

  “I know, honey.” Chewing gum, her mom looks at me in the rearview again and says, “Thank you for being a gentleman and walking my daughter home.”

  I look away and mumble, “You’re welcome.”

  Starla’s mom is real skinny. Her elbows have a funny way of sticking out as she steers the car. They look like they’re going to pop out of her skin. The earring in her right ear is missing the little cap that goes on the back, and she’s always pushing a few strands of hair away from her face. She keeps talking. “What are you going to be for Halloween, Culver?”

  “I want to be Batman,” I say, “but my mom won’t let me because he’s got devil horns.” Man, did I want to be Batman.

  “So what are you going to be then? Starla is going to be a princess.”

  I can hear Starla in the front seat. “Uh-huh. I’m always a princess.”

  “Maybe you should be Superman,” her mom says. “You live on Granger Road, right?”

  I nod. “Yeah, my house is 1-1-4-5-4 Granger.” I don’t really like Superman. He doesn’t even wear a mask. How come people don’t figure out who he really is? “Maybe I’ll just be a baseball player again,” I say.

  We drive in silence the rest of the ride, which isn’t much farther. I say “bye” to Starla and her mom after we reach my driveway. Lunchbox in hand, I stop and turn as the Buick backs out onto the street. Starla waves and I wave back, and then I worry about recess tomorrow.

  You’re Just a Shadow, Now

  January 10th, 1999

  August Burroughs awakens in the Upper Territory

  My body twitches, expecting another whack with the shovel, but when I open my eyes I’m not lying in the yard like I expect. Instead, I’m lying on a cot in a small room.

  The walls are covered in dark wood paneling and the rafters in the ceiling are exposed. There’s a filthy window with patchy daylight at the other end of the cot, as well as a door with a gap underneath.

  The jingle of a dog collar greets me as I sit up, and I’m surprised to see Halfacre lying next to the cot. He picks up his head and looks at me like he’s been waiting for me to wake up.

  “Hey, pal,” I say. “Where are we?”

  Halfacre wags his tail twice and then stops to crane his neck at the front of the room. There are clunking footsteps outside, moving away from the door.

  I slide my legs off the bed, a little dizzy, and reach in my pocket for my pack of smokes. I must be on the wildlife preserve in Lockworth, and this must be one of the ranger stations. But how did I get up here?

  As easy as I can, I put a cigarette in my mouth, expecting my lips to explode in pain, but they don’t. My teeth aren’t busted-up, and nothing is swollen. How long would I be out for them to heal?

  My lighter is in my front pocket like it should be, and I light up for what I expect to be the best smoke ever. Then I inhale nothing. There’s no taste at all. I can’t smell the burning tobacco, and there’s no flavor on my lips.

  I hold the cigarette away from my face and give it a good look, and for a second it looks foreign to me. I let it drop to the hardwood floor before I stamp it out. My senses must be off from the beating. “Let’s get some air,” I say to Halfacre.

  I’m still a bit off-kilter when I stand, but find I’m not so much dizzy as I’m uncoordinated. It must be from sleeping for so long. It’ll wear off.

  There are a few other well-used cots in the room, but not much else. A folding chair and small table in the opposite corner are the only other furniture.

  I reach for the door and it sticks against the frame, so I give it a good shove. Then Halfacre and I walk out onto a narrow, wooden porch. It runs the length of the small cottage where we’ve apparently been spending our nights. There’s a man with his back to us at the far end.

  He’s staring out into a morning fog that has rolled in, thick enough that I can’t see much further than ten feet or so. The air is so still that for a second I don’t feel like I’m outside.

  The man doesn’t move. He looks about six feet tall, and his black hair is a little longer than mine; some of it falls underneath the collar of his plaid shirt.

  “Hey,” I say in his direction.

  The man looks up, but doesn’t turn around.

  “Hey, buddy.” I walk towards him. “Listen, what am I doing here? Where am I?”

  Still no answer from him; he must be slow. I grab him by the shoulder, at which point he turns around and I take a step back.

  The man’s face looks etched with a hatchet, with his skin stretched tight over it. “Glad to see you’re awake,” he says. “Listen, I’m sorry things turned out the way they did.”

  “Er…What things?” I ask.

  The man makes a swinging motion before answering quietly. “You know…”

  I almost laugh. “What, you mean the fight?” I grin, expecting the man to join in laughing. My smile fades when he remains serious.

  “Friend,” he says, “I’m going to say this as straight and plain as I can. You’re dead.”

  I chuckle at this. “Buddy, I’m not sure I know what you’re talking about.”

  “So is he.” The man nods at Halfacre.

  “Right…whatever you say, pal.” This guy is obviously mental. “Do you know a fella named Dirk? He works here. I know him.”

  The man ignores me. “You were beaten down by one of your degenerate fellow men—murdered. Then your body was dumped in a field. I brought your soul here.” He points to a clearing where I can barely make out the lines of a car.

  Something sparks in my memory. For
a second everything comes rushing back at once, kind of like waking up and remembering a dream from the night before. I remember this guy pulling me away. The whole time I could see Hank standing over my lifeless body.

  Hank just stood there confused, looking back and forth from me to Halfacre, neither of us moving.

  I faded in and out after being dragged to the car and then driven for who knows how long. I don’t know what happened to Halfacre. He must have got in the way of the shovel.

  “I carried your soul here,” the man repeats. “Your soul—do you understand? All you have left is your soul.” He waits for me like I’m supposed to respond. “Your ghost was lost. So I constructed this body for you with bits of your DNA.” He gestures at me like he’s pointing out something that isn’t important. “But it’s not very substantial; you’re just a shadow, now.”

  I don’t believe a word the man is saying, but my legs give out anyway. Sliding to the floor boards of the porch, there are several thoughts fighting over my mind. Cold-cock this guy. Find Dirk. What happens when you die? Go back to sleep and try to wake up again.

  The man continues to speak quietly, almost to himself. “Sorry for being so blunt about it, but you seemed like a hard-nosed guy.”

  “Sure—whatever,” I say. I don’t want to hear what he has to say, even though I’ve got a sick feeling he’s telling the truth. I reach for a cigarette and then remember I can’t taste them. Damn it.

  “I need you to listen to me, to be open-minded,” the man says. He’s shifted gears again, from distant to serious and focused. “I need your help.”

  “Oh, yeah? With what?” I say with as much sarcasm as possible. There’s no way I’m dead. I can’t be. I can feel my body. I’m breath…wait, I’m not breathing. I haven’t taken a breath in the last thirty seconds.

  Like he can read my mind, the man says, “Go ahead; take a deep breath.”

  Near panic, I take a huge gulp of nothing.

  “It’s just a reflex,” he says with half a grin. “We can talk inside. I’ll try my best to answer your questions.”

  “Get away from me,” I say as I stand and stumble away from him. It’s a dream, that’s all.

  At a trot, Halfacre follows me off the porch.

  The man walks to the edge of the first step. “You don’t want to go out there—not now, not by yourself.”

  A few steps from the porch, I look as far as I can see into the fog. There are trees beyond the clearing, big ones, but that’s all I can tell. “I’ll take my chances.”

  “Please,” the man says, “hear me out. There’s something else—you can still find your ghost.”

  I point a finger at him and again tell him to stay away from me. My gut says to run, and I always listen to my gut.

  Our Walk Through the Woods

  October 28th, 1986

  Culver Crisp on recess

  Starla and I stand on a small hill away from the kids on the playground. The woods are in front of us, and Jeff and Timmy are behind us. I was hoping Timmy wouldn’t remember his dare from yesterday.

  “You gonna go, or what?” Jeff snickers. He’s wearing a jean jacket just like Timmy, but he’s got a Mötley Crüe patch on the back of his.

  “Yeah, I’m going,” I say. I don’t want to look chicken in front of Starla, so I head toward the trees and then stop, waiting for her.

  She doesn’t follow. Her eyes are really wide.

  Jeff and Timmy are still laughing and saying things like, “She ain’t gonna go.”

  Starla looks back and forth. Then she walks over to me with her head down.

  We move away from Jeff and Timmy, and Starla grabs my hand. This makes me feel brave. I hear Jeff and Timmy run to the edge of the woods to watch us go.

  “Don’t be scared now!” Timmy yells. They laugh at that.

  I want to punch them both.

  Starla’s arm touches my arm, and she asks, “How far do we have to go?”

  “I don’t know. I’ve never been back here before.”

  Most of the leaves have already fallen off the trees. They swish and crunch as we walk through them. There are other noises too—whistling bird sounds and echoes everywhere.

  I’m not sure what the ravine looks like. Someone told me it’s like a big ditch. I don’t know how far we’ll have to go to get to it, either. Everything is brown and gray and taller than we are, so we keep walking because nothing looks like a ravine yet.

  We’re far enough that we can’t hear Jeff or Timmy anymore. It’s cooler in here and a little wet. I try to keep us in a straight line, but there are a lot of stumps and fallen branches, so we have to go around them.

  Starla follows me, and I still have her hand. I notice her breath and ask her if she’s O.K., because I don’t know what else to say. She says she is, but I don’t believe her.

  It feels like we walked forever when we finally get to a ledge. There’s a bunch of dead weeds in a big ditch below. It must be the ravine because it goes in both directions.

  I’m not sure how we’ll both make it down. There are a lot of stones and roots in the way. The other side is mostly dirt.

  “Do we have to go across?” Starla asks.

  “Yep, Mr. Cressup’s shack is on the other side, and Timmy says we have to touch it with our own hands.”

  “Culver, I don’t like it back here,” Starla pulls on me. “I wanna go back.”

  “We can’t go back yet,” I don’t tell her that I want to leave too. I’m worried about getting back before the bell rings.

  “But I don’t wanna keep going!” she says like she’s about to cry. “I’m scared.”

  “How ’bout I go then? You can stay here and wait till I come back.”

  “O.K.,” she says and then sniffles.

  The ravine isn’t too steep where we’re standing, and I think I can get down it if I run. I take one step back and then start down the edge, running as fast as I can so I won’t stumble. I reach the bottom and then stop myself two steps up the other side.

  “See? It’s not so bad,” I yell to Starla.

  She sniffles again and smiles. I climb my way up the other side. I turn to see Starla again when I get to the top. “Are you going to wait?” I ask.

  Starla nods. “Uh-huh, I promise I’ll wait if you promise to come back.”

  “I promise, cross my heart and hope to die.”

  “Stick a needle in your eye,” she says.

  We both smile, but she’s so pretty I have to look away. I walk in the other direction.

  I can’t stop thinking about Starla as I move further from the ravine. She wore her new dress today. It’s blue with a white collar, so she looks extra pretty. Maybe I should tell her that when I get back. I could say she’s prettier than the flowers. No, that’s dumb. Maybe I shouldn’t say anything at all.

  I wonder if she’d hold my hand on afternoon recess. What would Jeff and Timmy say? They’d probably make fun of me. I’d slug ’em both if they made fun of Starla. I’ll ask her to hold my hand on recess when I get back.

  A lot of the trees on this side of the ravine are dead. They look black compared to the others. Some have fallen down and I have to climb over them. It’s quieter too. I don’t hear the weird sounds anymore.

  There’s no shack that I can see. What if Jeff and Timmy are lying? What if Mr. Cressup doesn’t have a shack? I’m worried recess might be over and don’t think I should keep going. I decide I’ll just say I touched the shack even though I didn’t.

  I turn around and start to run. The ground flies past me so fast once I get moving, I can’t keep my eyes on it; I have to slow down so I don’t trip and fall. I fell down in the woods once and it hurt. I had bits of twigs and dirt in a cut and my mom had to wash it out. I cried a little, but that was last summer.

  The leaves sound like paper under my feet, and I imagine someone’s chasing me. I know it’s my mind playing tricks, but I always feel like someone’s chasing me when I’m running and scared at the same time. Maybe Starla will h
ear me coming.

  The ravine isn’t too far ahead. I get to the edge but Starla isn’t on the other side. “Starla!” I yell. She doesn’t answer. I’m not sure I’m at the spot where I left her.

  With one hand out, I try to slide down the side of the ravine. My foot slips in some loose gravel and I scrape my knee trying to slow down. At the bottom, I look down to find my jeans are torn and my skin is bloody. Then I climb the other side as fast as I can.

  At the top, my heart is echoing inside me when I think Starla has gone back without me. I’m going to be in big trouble. Why would she leave me here? I run a little ways in each direction, and then head into the woods.

  There’s a sick feeling in my stomach and my throat feels like there’s a wad of paper stuck in it. The woods are getting brighter when I hear the echo of my name up ahead.

  “Culver! Culver Crisp!” It’s one of the recess monitors.

  I’m in for it now. I cringe as I run into the clearing. One of the monitors is standing with her hands on her hips.

  “What were you doing back there, Culver?”

  “Nuthin,” I say.

  “Did Starla Jenkins go with you?” The monitor says this like she doesn’t know where Starla is.

  With my head down, I say, “Yeah.”

  “Is she still out there?” the monitor asks.

  “No, I mean, I thought she already came back.” The wad of paper in my throat is now a rock.

  “We already blew the whistle and everyone’s lined up,” the monitor says as she looks down at me. “You two were the only ones missing, but Starla hasn’t come back yet.”

  Travelers

  January 10th, 1999

  August Burroughs traveling through the Upper Territory

  Halfacre and I walk for an hour or so before it’s clear we’re not the only ones in the woods. The rustling from either side of the narrow path is a giveaway for whoever’s watching us.

  I ignore the whispers and the grubby faces poking out of the brush here and there. An arm or leg appears as our watchers get braver, but they draw back before I can catch them.

  Halfacre is attentive, darting his head back and forth when he senses something, but stays at my side as we push through the fog. I’m banking on his size being a threat.