by Mark Boliek
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Much like the sky above us on the beach, the sky was overcast when JT woke the next morning in Warhead Dale. No sun poked its rays through the holes that dotted the old mansion’s walls. A melancholy mood blanketed the house, very different than the morning before. Then it had felt like a new beginning, almost hopeful, with the bright rays of the sun beaming over the ocean, but now the clouds, inside and out, left JT feeling much more uncertain. It is a strange thing how a mood can change from one moment to the next.
JT popped his eyes open and, like many who have not quite slept well enough the night before, had no idea where he was. After a few moments, he remembered and gained his bearings. His body was a mixture of cold and sweaty, a very unnatural feeling to say the least.
His stomach ached from hunger again, but he could find no food anywhere. His lips were parched with thirst. He stretched his bum knee and knew he needed to get some medicine for relief; he had none with him. He did not want to become dependent on pain medicine, but sometimes he could not ignore the throbbing.
JT threw his head back on the couch and clasped the dirty sheets around him, thinking for a moment that it might have been a good idea to go back to Linda’s with Michael. Why am I acting like this? Betrayal, that’s why—at least that is what he convinced himself.
He found some energy and flipped open his grandfather’s journal, but only managed to scrape his thumbs across some of the pages, not really taking note of what any of them said. He tossed the old book to the couch’s arm and dragged himself around the old mansion, looking for nothing in particular. It was a waste of time. He thought he would feel like he was doing something, but really, what did he think he was going to accomplish?
He wanted to talk to Billy. He did not know why, but the once—and possibly still—gruesome monster seemed like the only one he could talk to at that moment. He just didn’t have the means to do that. Maybe it was because now JT felt comforted by the Essence. JT could have used some comfort. His cane didn’t work for him and he felt dejected about that. And his old buddy George the horse was not around, either.
He opened up faucets around the house to see if he could squeeze any kind of water out of them, but he couldn’t. He was definitely hungry and thirsty.
JT was beat.
For reasons he didn’t understand, he wanted everything to just disappear. The problem with that was that everything didn’t disappear. He remained alone in his grandfather’s shell of a house. And he knew staying there and sulking would never achieve anything positive.
He swallowed hard. He had money in town; he needed to get clean and eat. He reached for his shoulder and felt the bandage there. He assumed Kali had put it on him when they returned from Bruinduer. He thought about her unmercifully. He missed her. He also missed Michael. He shook his head to try to empty the feeling.
I don’t believe I am doing this, but what choice do I have? he thought as he bundled up his grandfather’s journal, placed it in his duffel bag and limped with his cane out the front door.
He meandered down the front steps, gazing at all of the signs of the adventure they had getting to Warhead Dale the couple of days before. The two large oak doors of the mansion had been blown to bits, the splinters of wood lying strung across the front lawn some fifty yards in all directions. Looking at the scene, it seemed impossible that anyone standing in front of the doors could have survived the blast.
As the day often does, it made everything appear different. Though clouds still hid the sun, the light revealed the true condition of the old house. Less than a decade had passed, but the worn wood had definitely taken a beating from the humid air. Without proper maintenance, salt from the ocean winds ate away at the paint and plaster, allowing termites to camp in its tender wood and thrive. The rotten wood and broken glass would only accelerate the old house’s demise. If nothing was done to save it, Ol’ Captain Luke’s house would soon crumble from the inside to the out.
JT’s cane clipped the rocks on the path through the tunnel of trees at the end of the drive. Small rocks flew up from the ebony shaft. JT wondered why they had been so tense the night they crept up to the old mansion. It certainly did not look forbidding to him now. In fact, the overcast day, the salty aroma, and the slight breeze made him feel comfortable. Even the odd chill breeze that blew through his shirtsleeves felt calming.
As he navigated the tunnel of trees, JT noticed something strange. When he and Michael had tried to catch up with Kali the day before, vines had wound themselves onto the iron gate, rendering the gate almost impossible to see. Now, to his pleasant surprise, the branches were completely cleared. He did not know why or how the coppice had been vanquished, but it had happened, and he was relieved. Initially, he had had no idea what to expect or how he would get out of the drive.
He stood in front of the cold hard iron. Though pleased that he did not have to make his way through a thick bunch of vines, twigs, and branches, he was less than pleased with climbing back over the gate. He quickly remembered that the cane was not only the key to the mahogany door, but also the key to the front gate. He slid the skull and cross bone handle into the lock and tried to turn it. He soon remembered that the groove on the back of the skull did not fit the lock on the gate quite well enough because, as he turned, the cane stopped, unable to budge the tumblers.
Disappointed, JT looked around. Through the bars, he could see that Michael’s big old rusty blue car was gone. He knew that Michael probably had cleared the branches from the gate for him.
JT snickered, remembering the old car bouncing and grinding its way up the dirt service road at the Shorts’ farm. Feelings crept back into JT's brain, whispering that he might miss Michael. He shook his head again in another attempt to empty it.
Even though Ol’ Captain Luke’s house stood quite a ways back from the iron gate, JT was surprised that he had not heard his slight friend crank up the loud machine the day before when he left. He felt sure that Michael had bounded over the gate with no problem, but JT knew, as before, that his knee would suffer if he climbed over.
He gently laid the skull and cross bone cane against the brick wall, then clutched the gate and bricks the best he could. He lifted his right leg, but, as soon as his weight transferred to his left knee, he tumbled back to the ground. Furious, JT felt his blood burn his skin. He clenched his teeth. He was still young. Why was he suffering when Michael had no problems hurdling this obstacle?
He snatched the cane off the bricks. He did not care if the lock broke or not. He slammed the skull and cross bone handle back into the keyhole and turned the shaft hard, even as it stiffened. He felt the handle bend as his knuckles turned white and the sting in his palms as he gripped even tighter. JT thought he heard a crack in the handle, but then it turned and the lock broke. The large iron gate opened with a loud clamor of squeaking and grinding.
The worn brass plaque with the words “Warhead Dale” across it swayed to and fro, whining in the crisp autumn wind.
JT was relieved.
He planned to head toward town and the bank, which he knew would be a long walk. He just hoped he could remember how to get there.
A small, light blue pickup truck pulled up to the curb just as JT decided which way he would start. The lady who stepped out of the truck had a medium build, a button for a nose, a mane of curly brown hair, and wore a checked waitress uniform about the same color as the truck. It was Linda Peterson.
