Fated Release (Fated Keepers Series Book 2) (13 page)

The Haunting in Yankee Town

Prologue

All I have ever known is the game.  From the first day I picked up a ball and tossed it so carelessly in the air, I was hooked. It fit in my hand like it belonged. The raised edges of the thread rub along my palm as I rotate it in my grasp before tossing it into the air once again. I remember that day like it was yesterday and not over twenty two years ago. Memories like this, moments in time when your life abruptly changes and you catch the tiniest glimpse of what your future may hold. You feel that stirring of passion for something you don’t quite understand.

I was seven years old and bored out of my mind sitting in the living room of our small one bedroom apartment. My mom was finally home from her shift at the restaurant and my sitter, Stephanie, had already left for the day. We lived in one of the less than ideal neighborhoods in Jersey, but it was all my mother could afford and I was grateful. Truthfully we had more than most. I know it was rough on my mom ever since my dad bailed. He just decided one day that he didn’t want a wife and kid anymore and never came home. She got a letter in the mailbox that he had just left there, not even taking the effort to mail it, stating that he was
out
and to not look for him. He said he would come back if he felt the need, but not to look for it to happen anytime soon. We later found that he had won a small lottery with one other guy at the plant he worked at, and instead of caring for his family, he decided to take off. Enjoy life. I personally never missed him and I preferred to see my mother healthy and bruise free, even if I rarely saw her because of the amount of hours she worked.

That day, sitting, cooped up in the tiny apartment, I was going stir crazy. I think that after about twenty minutes of getting on my mom’s nerves she finally told me to just go outside and play. “Be back in before dark. I want you washed up and ready for dinner, you hear me?” She asked as she rushed me through the front door. “Yes ma’am. I will.” I yelled back to her running as fast as I could to get outside. I remember walking around for awhile; kicking rocks and watching the birds take off and settle in one tree or another. I had just started to get as bored outside as I had been inside; when out of the corner of my eye I caught a glimpse of something intriguing. I could barely see it peeking out of the overgrown shrubs cornering the house next door to ours. Looking both ways to make to make sure no one was watching, I darted into the neighboring yard and ducked beside the bush. Reaching my hand out, I grabbed the ball. It was burnt orange in color, covered in clay mud and part of the seam had been busted open from something. Age maybe, or blunt force, I wasn't sure and at the time I didn't care. It was treasure and I was the captain, finally finding the hidden cove after searching the seas for a lifetime.

              I looked around again before darting back to my own front yard, where I took the ball and more closely examined it. I dunked it in the water at the base of one of my mom’s flowering plants and then quickly rubbed it clean on the pants leg of my jeans. Underneath all the dirt and mud I found old yellowing ball with brown threads sewn into the side. My mind flew in a million directions with the new games and adventures I could have with my newly found treasure.

The neighbor watched out his kitchen window, smiling slightly at the joy I had found in the lost, forgotten keepsake. Remembering a time when he had found his first ball and the joys that had followed. Chuckling softly to himself he returned to his old walking chair in his own living room, the glass of lemonade lay forgotten on the kitchen counter where he had left it after noticing the young boy. Memories of older days running through his mind.             

I played outside that first day until the sun had almost completely set.  Lightning bugs were flittering through the skies and the locusts were calling to their friends when I finally made my way in the front door. The smell of dinner called to me, and my stomach growled in response, but before I made my way to the kitchen, I snuck into the closet of the bedroom I shared with my mom and I hid my new ball. I slid it inside an old white sock and then buried the sock beneath the stack of winter clothes on the floor. Exiting the closet I turned back once more, making sure it was well hidden and then I went to the restroom to wash the dirt and sweat from my face and hands. Today had been a great day. One of the best days I could ever remember. I couldn't wait until tomorrow when I could pull my treasure out and feel the weight of it in my hands once more.

I wake early the next morning and lay there anxiously waiting for my mom to leave for work before I jump up and rush to the closet. Through the night I think of nothing else. I tear through the pile of clothes on the floor until I see the lone white sock, bulging at the bottom with a large circular shape. I hear Stephanie in the kitchen, probably getting breakfast ready and I shove the ball into my front pocket as far as I can, before I walk in there to greet her. “Good morning Tiger. What do you want today?” I don't know why, but I feel like I need to keep my treasure a secret from her. From everyone. Its mine and I don't want to share it with anyone. “I’m going outside to play.” I tell her as I take a bite of my oatmeal.

Stephanie makes the best oatmeal. She puts a small amount of butter in it and coats it in sugar and cinnamon. When it’s the perfect texture she pours a small amount of milk on top of it. It is one of my favorite breakfast dishes, along with a glass of chocolate milk.

As soon as I finish my bowl of food I grab my tennis shoes and head out the door. The sun is already high in the sky and I can feel the warmth as its rays touch my shoulder. The air is damp with the smell of the bay about twenty minutes away. This is my favorite time of day. I am in the front yard with the grass rubbing against my legs. It’s coated with moisture from last night’s dew and it makes me itch a little as it touches the bare skin of my calves. I hear a dog bale off in the distance as I take my ball out of my pocket.  I stand there for a few moments and just stare at it. This small, round, imperfect ball has saved me from a summer of misery and boredom. My thoughts race with the unlimited possibilities. I just wish I knew what its true purpose was. What are the brown threads sown in it for? Why is it this size and not bigger? Smaller? These are only a few of the thoughts I have this morning.

I toss it up lightly, testing its weight and the feel as it hits my palm. The next time I toss it, I throw it just a little higher. It feels natural. Throwing and catching the ball in the air, watching it through squinted eyes as it rushes back down to my palm. The sting as it hits my skin. I love it. Hours have passed before I even realize it. Stephanie is on the front porch calling my name for lunch and I tuck the ball back into my pocket where it will remain safe until I can we can play again.

The neighbor watches with joy in his eyes as I find my rhythm and as I learn the repetitive motions needed to catch every toss. I don't see him. I have no idea I am even being watched, but he is there. Once again remembering times long ago when he used to play outside with his own ball. He stands there at the kitchen window, sipping on his hot coffee, with a smile on his face. He enjoys seeing the joy on the young boys face. He likes to watch as dreams and hopes flit across his young eyes.

I play outside any and every minute I can for almost a month straight before I meet Cecil.  When he first steps out the door of the house next to mine, I freeze. I grab my ball and hide my arm behind my back afraid that he has seen me and that he wants his ball back. He can't have it. Not now. I have gotten really good at throwing and catching in the last month and he can't take my ball now. I need it.

“Hey boy!” he yells toward me. I look toward my door, debating making a run for it, but one look from the tall, heavy black man in the yard next to me has me changing my mind.

“Sir?” I ask him.

“Gotcha a ball der huh.”

“Yeaaa, yes sir. I found it.”

“I know you found it son, I ain't gonna take it from you.” I now feel much more comfortable, knowing that he is not trying to take my only prized possession. “You know what to do with it, Son?” he asks me as he pulls a strange looking glove from behind his back.

I am curious about what he knows about my ball and what it is used for and I’m even more curious about the dark brown, leather glove in his hands.

“Your momma home son?” 

“Yes sir.” I tell him.

“Well come on lets go talk to her and then I’ll show you what this ball is meant for.” I lead him to the door of my home where he stands and waits for me to return with my mom. She is drying her hands on a dish towel as she approaches the front door. I can see the look of apprehension in her eyes. I just don’t know if she is worried about the large man in the doorway or if she is wondering what I may have done to cause such a visit.

Cecil removes his cap as mom comes into view and offers his hand to her. “Ma’am, I am Cecil, your neighbor from next door. I been watchin yer boy here toss that der ball around all by himself for a while now and I was gonna offer to teach him to catch if that is alright with you ma’am.”

Mom glances down at me and at the ball I am holding, seeing it for the first time. I see the question in her eyes and I hold my breath waiting for her reply.

“Yes. I think that will be fine. Kenny, you mind your manners and be respectful. Do you hear me young man?” I let out the breath I have been holding and wrap my arms around her waist.

“Yes Ma’am! I promise!” I tell her and then rush out the front door, leaving my mom and Cecil there to work out any other details. I am about to learn about my ball, and I can't wait.

Chapter 1

Kenneth Williamson

We are tied 3-3 in the 9
th
inning of the World Series in 1953. The New York Yankees and Brooklyn Dodgers. The first two hitters struck out. I step up to the plate; the first pitch is a strike. The pitcher throws a fastball down the middle; miss. The umpire calls strike two.
This time,
I think to myself.

The pitcher gives me a wink as the hind-catcher says, “ Hey man, your shoes’ untied”. That might have worked, if he hadn’t of said it to the last two hitters, but I don’t pay attention.

This time.

The pitcher throws a curveball and I am running for my life. I swing hard and it goes all the way to the right outfield; he misses the catch. Rushing to snatch it up, he tries to throw it to second base but I’m already at third. I keep running, running, finally sliding into home.

              The next thing I know my team and the crowds are all running on the field.

“We won, Kenneth! We won the World Series!”

Robert, my best friend since grade school was screaming into my face. I can’t believe I made the winning score. This is unbelievable. They hand me the trophy and raise me onto their shoulders. I yell as I hold the gold, shining trophy up for everyone to see, bragging to the opposite team.

              We get into the locker room to change and grab our gear. I’m walking towards my pick up when Robert yells towards me.

“Hey, Ken!”

“What’s up ole’ Robert?”

“The team and I are going out to celebrate, but wouldn’t be much of a celebration without the winning hitter. Why don’t ya join us?”

“Sounds great,” I said with a smile.

“Alright, be a Joe’s in 15 minutes, buddy!” He yells as he jogs toward the opened gate.

              I’m at Joe’s around the time I was supposed to, maybe a little early. No one is really there. It’s about 9:30 P.M. and I’m the first of the team to get here. I take a seat beside a man drinking a glass of whiskey. He looks troubled, so I scoot down one just to be sure nothing gets started.

“One beer, please,” I tell bartender.

“Coming right up.”

              About five minutes into my drink, I can hear the team coming in the doors all at once. All of them walking towards me and patting me on the back.

“Great game, buddy!”

“Can’t believe you actually did that!”

“Twelve shot of Tequila, on me,” Robert says in my direction with a smile on his face.

We’re all getting a light buzz when the drunken guy that was beside me stumbles over to us and says, “There’s nothing like a win, isn’t there? Can one of you point me in the direction of the bathroom?”

“Tell ya what, I’ll take ya,” I tell him while I grab his left arm to help him keep his balance.

“What’s  brought you out tonight?” I ask trying to small talk while he attempts to walk to the restroom.

“Wife cused  me of cheating. Never felt something like this in my life.Just didn't feel like sitting at the house anymore.”

“Oh, god. I’m sorry about that, man.”

“That’s alright, nothing much I can do but drink myself to death,” he says as drool comes pouring out of his mouth when he tries to speaks.

I take him into the bathroom, leaving him in there alone while he does what he has to do. I wait on the outside by the door. He stumbles out, after running straight into the door and I say, “Listen, I think you’ve had enough to drink tonight. Why don’t I call you a cab to take you home?”

“I’m not finished just yet, and hey, wh-who are you to tell me when I need to go ho-home, anyway?” He asked as he props himself against the wall, slinging his whiskey out of the glass he carried to the bathroom with him.

“I don’t want any trouble, sir. Just don’t want ya so drunk you’ll pass out,” I said, even though I think we’re

almost to that point.

“Well, I don’t think you should put your nose where it doesn’t belong. “

“Alright, that’s it. Come on. I’m gonna call you a cab. Hand me your drink, its getting all over the floor!” I grab his shoulders and lead him to the alley behind the bar to use a payphone and get him a cab.

“I need a cab at Joe’s Bar. Uh-huh. Alright, thanks.”

I turn around and the drunken guy is digging through a pile of garbage a few feet from the pay phone.

“Hey, man, come on. The cab will be here in 5 minutes.”

He pulls a crowbar out from the garbage. It’s old and rusted. He’s holding it at his side as he walks toward me.

“I told you I didn’t want to leave,” he says.

“I was just looking out for you. No need to start a fight or anything,” I back up a few feet from him. “I’ll just go back inside and you can wait for the cab yourself. I’ll even pay.”

“I don’t want your money.”

“Okay, we can work this out, but first you need to put that down,” I said while pointing to the crowbar in his hand. He walks closer to me and raises it over his shoulder.

The next thing I know is I’m lying face up on the ground. Blood is pouring from my mouth and stomach. I try to tell him to stop but he keeps on; over and over again. I’m looking at him and his face shows an expression of evil. He seems to be enjoying it. Then he stops, drops the weapon, and backs up. He seems to realize that he has made a mistake. The whiskey took over and he has done something he never thought he would do.

              He starts to run. Its then that I realize I am looking down at my own body. With blood pouring from my insides out all around my team shirt and khakis. I’m confused as to what has just happened.
I feel no pain. Actually, I don’t feel anything at all.
I look at my standing self and there’s not a spot on me. So, I run too. I follow this man, although I have no idea why. I’ve never seen him in my life. But I follow him anyway.                            

“Wait up!” I yell towards him.
I don’t think he heard me.

“Hey, man! Stop!” I yell again but he just keeps running.

              I follow him all the way to a house. It’s two stories high, white pillars in the front.
If this is his house, he’s a rich man.
He walks to the door, but takes off his jacket, button up and shoes at the doorstep.
Why would he do that when it’s freezing outside?
He walks in slowly closing the door behind him. I hear it lock, but I can see him through the windows. He’s pacing back and forth with is hands on top of his head, messing up his clean cut hair. He falls to his knees. I think he’s crying, but why? What has happened? He walks into the kitchen and I can’t see him anymore. I walk around back and hear a door slam. He’s walked out back and is  pouring gasoline onto the clothes he took off. He lights it ablaze.
Why is he burning his clothes?
This doesn’t make any sense to me. This man seems terrified, unable to understand the reason behind whatever he’s done.

I stand there and watch him burn his clothes in the outdoor firepit before he returns inside again. I realize suddenly that I am still standing in his backyard and I have no idea where I am suppose to be or who I am. Walking up to the back door I raise my hand to knock, but when where it should connect with solid wood, my hand passes right through. What the….

Stay tuned for more The Haunting in Yankee Town coming 2015