by J. R. Tate
We arrive on scene and the third story of a vacant row house is blazing, just like I had expected. A crowd of people stands on the other side of the street, watching, pointing, their mouths open in shock like they’ve never seen something like it, but truth is, if they’re from this area, it’s familiar – these houses burn pretty consistently from drug use and meth labs.
I ignore the group of people and get to work, gathering my men as we assess the situation.
“Any reports of people inside?” I ask, and no one has. “No one goes in without a hose. Looks to be contained to the third floor, so attack underneath.”
“This damn place is a dump. Let it burn. Let the whole damn street burn!” Jones yells, motioning toward the building.
I ignore his comment. I somewhat agree, but it’s our duty to get the fire under control. “Let’s dig in,” I say, as we all head toward the front steps of the inferno.
The heat is heavy, the smoke thick as we knock down the front door. Kneeling, the smoke rises above us, but the visibility is zero as we wait for most of it to blow away. Nodding to our hose man, we enter, checking the stability of the stairs before we head up. Flames overhead blanket the ceiling – and for a second I admire the view. Blue, orange, and red cascade above, and we all watch as it moves down the walls. Fire is a living thing if you want to get technical. Living things eat, they breathe, and they kill. No fire is exactly the same, and this one is getting out of control if we don’t hurry.
“Get the water on it, now! Get to the second level!” I yell, motioning up the stairs.
Something grabs my attention in a room off the landing. There’s no fire, and the smoke is a thin layer right at eye level. Pushing the door farther open, I trek off from the group, trying to find what initially caught my eye. The silhouette of something flashes on the wall – and I’m not even sure how that is possible. There are no flames and the room is dark. Edging farther in, I scan the room.
“Hello? Anyone in here?” My voice echoes, and I don’t get a response. “Hello? I’m with the fire department! Anyone here?”
Kneeling, I check under the bed. I see the legs of a young child, but when I reach out, there is nothing. It’s like my hand goes right through. Holy shit, not again. Taking a deep breath, I feel the fresh air off of my oxygen tank, and look again. The smoke is getting much thicker, and flames are beginning to break through the far wall. The fire is spreading, and I grab my radio, attempting to contact my Chief.
“We need back up! Get another truck down here, now!”
The radio static crackles. “It’s spreading to the row house next door. We got your back up coming, Lieutenant!”
I close my eyes and feel the burn from the smoke. Pushing back under the bed, I lift the mattress with my back. I hear footsteps behind me. Damn it! If there is no one under here, they’re going to know I’m crazier than a shit house rat. But finally, as the other men help me get the mattress completely off, I see a kid, no more than the age of two, pushed up against the corner, his eyes wide in fear as he looks at us. We must look terrifying on top of being in the fire, so I take my mask off so he can see my face. Rule number one any firefighter knows is that you never take your mask off, but screw the rules. Reaching for him, I smile.
“It’s okay, kid. We’re here to help.”
I have to wonder why there is a bed here, and why this child is by himself. We had reports it was vacant, but those aren’t always credible. Sliding him out, I cradle him in my arms and hurry down the stairs, seeing another ladder company arrive just in time. I hand him off to the paramedics and watch as they cart him to a gurney where they work.
“How is he?” Chief asks, and I keep watching.
“Looked okay from what I can tell. Probably just some smoke inhalation.”
He pats me on the back and hands me a bottle of water, and I use most of it to pour over my head. I taste the salt from my sweat, and streams of soot trickle down and drip into my coat. I get my first look at the fire from the outside, and it has spread, but with the second company responding, it is now under control.
“Good job, Gallagher. It’s like you never even left.”
I am getting sick of hearing that. He means it as a compliment, but I hate leaving and coming back. Adjusting is hard, but I do have to admit that getting a save my first call in feels great.
“What was he doing in there, Chief?” I ask, pointing at the house.
“That’s for social services to figure out, Lieu. You got him out. That’s your job.”
I eye the ambulance again, and the nerves in the pit of my stomach settle when I see him sitting up and smiling. I’m no caseworker, but he looks malnourished. It’s hard to tell considering what he just went through, but I can only imagine what the poor kid has gone through.
“I hope they find his parents,” I say, grabbing another bottle of water and drinking it down.
“Like I said, Gallagher, the medics will contact social services. When did you become such a bleeding heart?”
I shrug and all my crew gathers at the truck, each one of them accounted for. The building is one hundred percent contained. I ignore my superior’s question and take one more look at the child as they close up the ambulance and head toward the hospital.
“Good job, guys.” I toss the water bottle aside. “Lets get the secondary search done with and get the hell outta here.”
***
Rusty
I finally wake up around noon, and amble down the stairs to the kitchen. I vaguely remember hearing my dad get up for work, but past that, I was out. I only have a few days before school starts, and I’m glad, but at the same time, with the move, it feels like the summer has gone by way too fast. Grabbing the milk out of the refrigerator, I take a sip straight from the carton. I can hear my mother yelling at me, telling me to get a cup. Swiping my mouth with the back of my arm, I put it back and sift through the pantry, hoping to find something to curb my appetite. We haven’t done any grocery shopping, but I am thrilled when I find a package of Pop Tarts that haven’t been opened yet.
Sitting at the kitchen table, I look at the top headlines on the front of the newspaper. I hope my dad has read it already – the dude is so picky about it. It’s the same news every day… a shooting, a car wreck, a drug bust. Tossing it aside, I open up another foil wrapper and finish the icing covered chocolate pastries. The clock ticks on the far wall and the silence of the house is creepy.
Going to the living room, it takes me a second to find the TV remote. It’s crammed between two couch cushions and just as I go to click it on, I see something run past me, toward the hallway. It sends a chill down me, and I don’t even want to look, but what if someone got in? We aren’t exactly in the ghetto out here, but who’s to say they don’t have crime here too?
Standing, I hurry toward where I saw it, yelling out. “Who is here?” As expected, it’s quiet. The hairs on the back of my neck rise up as I check each door. What if someone jumps out and grabs me? What if they have a gun? I think about my dad’s revolver, probably tucked away under his pillow upstairs. A lot of good that will do me now. “If someone is in here, get out! I’ll call the cops.”
I hear footsteps coming from the bathroom toward the end of the hall, and I kick the door open, ready in a fighting stance for whoever is waiting on the other end. I feel like a moron when there is nothing there but a toilet and a bathtub. Thank goodness no one saw that. I stand still for a few seconds. Not another peep is heard. I’ll stand by my story – this house is freaking creepy, and I won’t let my dad live it down.
I go up to my room and get dressed, slapping on a ball cap and sliding into my boots. There’s still tons of yard work to do and with my dad back on the job, he’ll be too exhausted to do the remainder when he gets home. I slide open the garage door – it’s not even electric, and pull the mower out. I know my dad bought this place to get away from the home he has memories with my mom, but seriously? I wonder what drew him to this place. Does he want to go looking fo
r trouble? This has haunted written all over it, not to mention all of the old stories about what happens along this highway.
I look in the direction of the pond. Of course, I can’t see it from where I’m at – the trees are thick and the fog still lingers. I’ll not go back there. I’ll just finish up the side yards and call it a day.
I go to pull the chain on the mower when I hear the voice, stopping me.
“And who are you?”
Turning, I see an older man in over-alls standing a few yards away. He’s balding, and his squinty eyes make him appear to be smirking at me. Hell, maybe he is, but from the instant I take a look at him, I get a weird feeling about him. There’s gotta be something in the air around here. Things are just so strange.
“I should be asking you that.” I shouldn’t be so sarcastic right off the bat, but I can’t help it.
“You Nathan’s boy?”
“You know my dad?”
“I do,” he nods stepping closer, pulling a thick cigar out. He puts it in his mouth but doesn’t light it, just chews on the end.
“How?” Was this a guy from the firehouse? He’s not familiar to me.
“I met him yesterday. Talked to him this morning. Can I ask you something, kid?”
Him calling me a kid is like nails on a chalkboard. I grit my teeth and grip the handle of the mower, trying to compose my frustration. I just want to get the yard work done. I don’t want to see little creepy things in the house. I don’t want to talk to this weird guy.
“What?”
“Why did you move out here?”
“I sort of had to. I’m not eighteen yet.”
He shakes his head. “Not what I mean. Why did your parents get this place? Discounted rate? Because, let me tell you, that’s not always a good selling point, if you know what I mean.” He continues to chew on the cigar and I want to knock it out of his mouth.
“My parents didn’t get it. My dad did. And I’m not sure why. Frankly, it’s none of your damn business. Why the hell do you care?”
He clicks his tongue between his teeth. “Such a mouth you have on you. You learn that from your dad?”
“Look, Mister, I need to get this mowing done. I don’t have time to talk.” I don’t even let him respond, and get the mower started. When I turn around, he’s gone, and my nerves settle a bit. What had he and my dad talked about? I shouldn’t even care. I focus on the mowing, hurrying before the heat gets too unbearable to finish.
After getting the yards done, I trek inside and take a cool shower. It relaxes me, and though I try my best to not think about the nosey neighbor, his voice echoes in my head. What a freaking creeper.
When I get out, I see my dad is home. He’s relaxed on the couch, his legs resting on the coffee table as he watches the news. I come down the stairs and sit in the recliner adjacent to him, neither of us speaking right a way, just acknowledging each other with a nod. Just like the newspaper, it’s the same news stories on the TV too.
“Thanks for getting that mowing done, Russ.”
“That wasn’t the hard part of today,” I say. I debated telling him about the guy, but why not? Maybe he can enlighten me on who he is and why he’s so curious about us.
“What do you mean?” He finally takes his eyes off the TV and faces me.
“This weird dude came up to the house. Was asking me all these questions.”
My dad arches his eyebrow and sits up. “Weird dude? What did he look like?”
“Older. Losing his hair. Creepy.” I feel like I’m overusing that word, but I can’t think of anything any better to describe everything.
He bites his bottom lip and nods. “That would be Hershel Roberts. Apparently he lives down the road.”
“What’s his deal?”
“Not sure. He’s lived out here his whole life. Thinks I’m crazy for buying this place.”
“I’m sort of thinking that too, Dad.”
His glare hits me hard, but he doesn’t say anything to it. “He’s just an old guy. I think he’s bored. You know how they are. They give unsolicited advice. They are always thinking people are out to get them. I’m sure when new people come around, it’s just suspicious. It’ll die down.”
“Or maybe he knows something we don’t,” I say. “Dad, you of all people shouldn’t be in the denial you’re in. We know spirits and ghosts exist. He warned you about this land, didn’t he? This highway? And you’re chalking him up to crazy when you know damn well that what he says can be true. You have seen it! I have seen it!”
He leans his head back on the couch. I know I’m striking a nerve with him, but he still doesn’t budge. “It’s not happening here. We came out here to get away from it all.”
“And you know you’re full of shit! Dad, the grave out by the pond! I think I saw something running down the hallway today!”
This gets him to sit up again, his eyes wide. “What did you see?”
“I don’t know. I heard footsteps and it was quick. At first, I thought someone had broken in. I had just woken up so I could’ve been disoriented from that.”
“That’s probably what it was, Russ. You were still half asleep. Nothing is or will happen here. You forget that I took care of it. I helped those ghosts.”
“You are unbelievable, Dad!” I throw my hands in the air and stand up. “Why are you in denial?”
He follows me into the kitchen, his jaw clenched. It’s the same look he gives me when I’m in trouble – when I break curfew, when I talk back, or when I disrespected my mother. The glare he gives me when he wants me to turn my phone off, or when I’m being a hitch in his side. It’s the glare that makes me cower down, but this time I stand firm. I’m so pissed at how ignorant he’s being. I’m pissed that we have these knock down drag out fights. They are worse since Mom dying.
“I’m not in denial, Rusty!” He yells and slams his hands down on the bar. “I’m not in denial!” He repeats it, this time quieter. “It just can’t happen again. It can’t!”
“Why can’t it, Dad?” Probably not the best question, but I need to know why.
“Because I can’t go through something like that. And I don’t want you to, either.” He rests his hands on the back of a kitchen chair and leans on it, unable to make eye contact with me. “Drop all of it. Not another mention. Everything is fine.”
I take a deep breath. The guy is defeated. And though he doesn’t admit it, or doesn’t realize it, what he’s going through is denial at its finest. Maybe there is nothing going on. Maybe what I saw today was my imagination. But still – there is still nothing set in stone saying that he’ll never see anything again. We need to be ready just in case. There are no absolutes in life. But one thing I am certain about – he’s not doing well, even if he thinks he is. Things are starting off similar to how they did the first time this all happened. Maybe I’m reading way too much into it. I need to give him the benefit of the doubt.
Stepping closer, I try to think of something to change the subject. The tension is thick between us. “How was your first day back?”
Looking up, his face relaxes. He breaks a small smile and scoffs. “Shit, Russ. We gotta stop fighting like this.”
“I know.”
He pulls me in for a tight hug, his arms strong around me. Even as a teenager, the embrace makes me feel safe.
Pulling away, he replies, “It was a good day back. I had a good day.”
I’m happy to hear it. He was long overdue for a good day. If there’s anyone who deserves it, it’s him.
Chapter Five
Nathan
After dinner I take a walk around the land. Rusty taking care of the mowing has knocked a good chunk off of my to do list, and now I just need to do some repairs on the house and a storage shed near the pond. I also need to think about fixing the dock, though that’s on the back burner. Picking up a rock, I skip it across the pond and it skims the surface four times before it finally sinks.
I think about what Rusty told me earlier. He claims
he saw something in the house. I told him I can’t engage in that sort of talk, but what if it was Sammy? I feel like I might have seen him too, but I chalked it up to my imagination. I wish he had gotten a better look. If he described him the way he was, it would be far more than a coincidence. I don’t think Rusty has ever seen Sammy, not even in pictures. He’s never been to my dad’s house to see the shrine all over his walls. So if he did describe him, I’d have to take it seriously. Of course, a part of me is glad that he didn’t get a good look at whoever or whatever it was. That way none of this is solid. That way I can keep denying that something is possibly happening again.
I stare out at the murky water and then backtrack to the grave of the little girl we stumbled across yesterday. The grass is still tall around it – it’s a part of the land that Rusty didn’t get to, so I kneel down and pull the blades away, ripping them from the earth below. I hadn’t noticed before, but there are rocks that circle the outline of the grave.
Turning, I feel like someone is watching me, but I’m alone by the grave. A breeze passes by, and I hear -
“Thank you…”
It sounds like a young child, but the wind blew at just the right time. It can’t be anyone speaking to me.
“Thank you, Nathan…”
This time my name is plain as day, and I look up, as if whoever is speaking might be hovering over me. The wind picks up more rapidly, and dark storm clouds brew overhead, churning in a circular pattern. Lightning flashes from cloud to cloud, and an instant rumble of thunder shakes the ground.
I continue to look up. The weather changed within seconds, as soon as I started messing with the grave. Another flash of lightning is too close for comfort, and I forget trying to figure out if someone is talking to me. I jog toward the house, narrowly missing the rain as it starts to pour in all different directions. The trees slap against the house, and I watch through the screen door as the rain falls in sheets, some coming in sideways.
