realized the truth of his parents’ comments. His life had changed… he had changed the summer Timmy was killed. It was as if a part of him died that year too.
The downtown buildings started to fade away and were replaced with the faded paint of a white-washed shed. Mike looked around, confused at first, and then realized where he stood , Emil Forrest’s property. The place they found Timmy’s body and the bodies of four other boys, buried in a shallow grave.
At the corner of the property someone had posted five small white crosses. Even after twenty years they remained upright and freshly painted. He wondered about the family members who still came to clear the snow, place new flowers and wreaths on the crosses and make sure the makeshift memorial stayed in good repair.
He glided around the side of the shed. The front door was padlocked, a stain of red rust running from just above the doorknob down the front of the door. The windows were covered with plywood and bright yellow signs with black block letters reading “NO TRESPASSING” were stapled all over the exterior.
The shed, where the police had found the items belonging to the boys, was still a place that intrigued many visitors to the area. He shook his head and smiled ironically. There had been rumors that the ghosts of the little boys had been spotted near the shed. One national television show about ghost trackers had actually wanted to film on the property. The town of Lena firmly denied their request.
No, there are no ghosts here , he thought, their murder has been solved and they have been able to move on.
Emil had been their bus driver since kindergarten. Emil, who took the time to listen to their stories and laugh at their bad jokes . Emil, with his slow speech, his stale candy and his amazing ability to remember every child’s name, birthdate and grade. He had always trusted Emil, always liked Emil. After the murders, he found he didn’t trust many.
He glided across the yard and up to Emil’s house. It was dark and empty. The same “NO TRESPASSING” signs littered across the porch and the front of the house. The porch was rotting, the siding needed a coat of paint, the windows on the second floor had been broken and all the entrances and windows on the first floor were covered by heavy plywood. Vandals had spray painted vulgar epitaphs on the side of the house. Words aimed at Emil, a man who would spend the rest of his life in prison. The only people who read the words were the families who were drawn to the last place their sons, brothers or grandsons had been alive.
He turned and glided away from the porch, slowly moving towards the street, but imagining the final spot he wanted to visit that day. A moment later he was standing in the middle of the Lena Cemetery, in front of Timmy’s grave.
Timothy Patrick Beck
1982 – 1992
He rested on the stone bench in front of the tombstone and looked around. Timmy’s grave had been placed towards the top of the hill, so he had a view of the cemetery and the houses all around him. It was a pretty good spot. He idly wondered where his grave had been located. He really didn’t have any desire to find out.
“So, Timmy,” he said to the tombstone, “sorry I haven’t been here to visit much lately. But, the funny thing is, I’m dead too. I got poisoned by some crazy woman who was upset because I didn’t fall in love with her. Yeah, leave it to me, right?”
He looked up at the oak tree at the top of the hill, its bare and spindly limbs coated in snow. It looked dead, covered with snow and standing all alone on the top of the hill. But he knew it would come alive again in the spring. He wondered if there would be a spring for Timmy and him.
“I didn’t go to heaven, Tim,” he said. “I’m still here, on earth. Don’t know what that means. I guess I’m hoping there is a heaven, you know, so we can kind of hang out together. But, being down here, that hasn’t been all that bad either.
The downtown buildings started to fade away and were replaced with the faded paint of a white-washed shed. Mike looked around, confused at first, and then realized where he stood , Emil Forrest’s property. The place they found Timmy’s body and the bodies of four other boys, buried in a shallow grave.
At the corner of the property someone had posted five small white crosses. Even after twenty years they remained upright and freshly painted. He wondered about the family members who still came to clear the snow, place new flowers and wreaths on the crosses and make sure the makeshift memorial stayed in good repair.
He glided around the side of the shed. The front door was padlocked, a stain of red rust running from just above the doorknob down the front of the door. The windows were covered with plywood and bright yellow signs with black block letters reading “NO TRESPASSING” were stapled all over the exterior.
The shed, where the police had found the items belonging to the boys, was still a place that intrigued many visitors to the area. He shook his head and smiled ironically. There had been rumors that the ghosts of the little boys had been spotted near the shed. One national television show about ghost trackers had actually wanted to film on the property. The town of Lena firmly denied their request.
No, there are no ghosts here , he thought, their murder has been solved and they have been able to move on.
Emil had been their bus driver since kindergarten. Emil, who took the time to listen to their stories and laugh at their bad jokes . Emil, with his slow speech, his stale candy and his amazing ability to remember every child’s name, birthdate and grade. He had always trusted Emil, always liked Emil. After the murders, he found he didn’t trust many.
He glided across the yard and up to Emil’s house. It was dark and empty. The same “NO TRESPASSING” signs littered across the porch and the front of the house. The porch was rotting, the siding needed a coat of paint, the windows on the second floor had been broken and all the entrances and windows on the first floor were covered by heavy plywood. Vandals had spray painted vulgar epitaphs on the side of the house. Words aimed at Emil, a man who would spend the rest of his life in prison. The only people who read the words were the families who were drawn to the last place their sons, brothers or grandsons had been alive.
He turned and glided away from the porch, slowly moving towards the street, but imagining the final spot he wanted to visit that day. A moment later he was standing in the middle of the Lena Cemetery, in front of Timmy’s grave.
Timothy Patrick Beck
1982 – 1992
He rested on the stone bench in front of the tombstone and looked around. Timmy’s grave had been placed towards the top of the hill, so he had a view of the cemetery and the houses all around him. It was a pretty good spot. He idly wondered where his grave had been located. He really didn’t have any desire to find out.
“So, Timmy,” he said to the tombstone, “sorry I haven’t been here to visit much lately. But, the funny thing is, I’m dead too. I got poisoned by some crazy woman who was upset because I didn’t fall in love with her. Yeah, leave it to me, right?”
He looked up at the oak tree at the top of the hill, its bare and spindly limbs coated in snow. It looked dead, covered with snow and standing all alone on the top of the hill. But he knew it would come alive again in the spring. He wondered if there would be a spring for Timmy and him.
“I didn’t go to heaven, Tim,” he said. “I’m still here, on earth. Don’t know what that means. I guess I’m hoping there is a heaven, you know, so we can kind of hang out together. But, being down here, that hasn’t been all that bad either.
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