Nathaniel (14 page)

Michael shifted uncomfortably. “Damon Hollings says Mr. Findley’s farm is haunted.”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake. You didn’t believe him, did you, honey?” When Michael hesitated, Janet’s voice lost some of its lightness. “There’s no such thing as ghosts, Michael, and there never have been.” She turned to Amos and Anna, expecting them to support her, but Amos seemed lost in thought, while Anna had turned away and was slowly pushing her chair toward the car. “Amos, tell him there’s no such thing as ghosts.”

“I’m not going to tell him something I don’t know about, Janet,” he said at last.

Janet stared at him. “Something you don’t know about?” she repeated. “Amos, you aren’t going to tell me you believe in ghosts!”

“All I can tell you is that there’ve been stories,” Amos said at last. “So I guess I’ll just have to say I don’t know.”

“What kind of stories?” Michael demanded.

“Things,” Amos told him after a long silence. Then he smiled grimly. “Maybe, if you’re good, I’ll tell you all about them, just before you go to bed tonight.”

Michael tried to keep his excitement from showing, tried to keep his expression disinterested. He failed completely.

The prairie was different then; the grass was tall, and in the summer you couldn’t even see where you were going. It would grow five, maybe six feet high, and it was like a great sea, green at first, during the spring, and then, in the summer, it would turn brown, and as far as you could see, there it was, waving in the wind just like in the song. Then the cattle came, and the grass started getting more like it is now—still thick, and still tall in the spring, but cut down as the summer goes on. It never used to get cut at all. It would just stand, bloom, go to seed, and die
.

And in the winter, the prairie would turn white, and the snow would be so thick no one could go out in it. No one except the Indians, with their travois. And even they didn’t travel much in the winter. They’d pitch their tepees, and huddle together, and somehow they’d get through it
.

That was what the white people didn’t know. They didn’t understand the prairie, didn’t have any idea of what it could be like. The thing of the prairie is that it just seems to go on and on forever. And there’s nothing to measure it by. So what used to happen is that people would lose track out on the prairie. Not of where they were—they always knew that. But they’d lose track of who they were, and what they were
.

It would happen slowly, so slowly that most people
never knew it was happening to them. They’d come out here from the east, and they’d be looking for land. A lot of them were city people, and what they wanted was to be out of the city. So at first they didn’t even have towns. Instead, they’d claim tracts of land—big tracts—and they’d build their houses right in the middle of it, and everything they could see was theirs. And they didn’t have any neighbors, not to speak of. Oh, there were other people, but they lived miles away, and the only time you saw your neighbors was during a house-raising or a wedding, a birth or a death. For the rest of the time, you were by yourself, with no one but your family. And sometimes you’d be snowbound for months on end
.

It seems like it was the women it got to the most. They’d go on for years, raising their children and taking care of their husbands, and everything would seem to be fine. But inside, they’d start losing their sense of themselves. They’d start feeling like they were disappearing into the prairie. Every day, little by little, getting smaller and smaller, until they’d start to feel like one morning they just wouldn’t be there anymore. And then it would happen. One day something would just sort of snap inside their heads
.

That’s what happened in Prairie Bend. Except that it wasn’t called Prairie Bend then, and there was no town yet. Just a few big farms, and the bend in the river. And there was a woman. A woman named Abby Randolph. Her husband had died that fall, and even though she was pregnant, she stayed on, trying to take care of the farm and raise the children
.

She seemed fine, the last time anyone saw her, which was in the fall, just before the first snow. And then the snow came, and it kept on coming. The drifts built up, covering everything, and a lot of people died, right in their own houses
.

That’s not what happened to Abby, though
.

Abby started hearing things. At first, she didn’t pay any attention to it. She’d wake up in the night, and she’d hear something downstairs, like someone moving around. So
she’d get out of bed and go downstairs, but there wouldn’t be anyone there. Then she’d check on the children, thinking maybe one of them was playing a joke on her. But they’d be in their beds, sound asleep
.

Then one night Abby heard the sound downstairs. It didn’t go away. It got louder and louder. Finally, Abby went downstairs
.

The noise was coming from the front door. Three knocks, and then a long silence, and then three more knocks. For a long time, Abby just stared at the door, knowing it wasn’t possible that anyone could be outside. It was February, and the drifts were ten feet deep, and there was no one else for miles around. But the knocking didn’t stop. And then Abby opened the door
.

There was a huge man looming in the doorframe, covered with snow, with ice forming on his beard and his eyebrows. Abby stared at him for a long time, and then the man took a step forward and his eyes seemed to flash at Abby. And he spoke
.

“I’ve come for my boy.”

The first time it happened, Abby just shut the door, but after that, it happened every night. Every night, she’d wake up and hear the pounding on the door, and every night the man would be there, and every night he’d say the same thing
.

“I’ve come for my boy.”

Then one morning, after the man had come the night before, and Abby had shut the door, one of the children was gone. And that night, the man didn’t come back. But then, a week later, he came back again, and when Abby opened the door, he smiled at her. “You can have him back in the summer,” he said. “You can have him back when the grass is high.”

And one by one, that winter, Abby Randolph’s children disappeared until there was only one left
.

Then spring came, and the snow melted, and people started visiting each other again. When they first came to see Abby, she was sitting on her front porch, with a very
strange look in her eyes. And they found one child upstairs—her oldest son—crouched in the corner of his room. They tried to talk to him, but all he’d do was scream whenever anyone went near him. And the rest of the children were gone
.

They tried to talk to Abby, but she wouldn’t say much. All she’d say was that the children’s father had come for them, and that he’d bring them back when the grass was high
.

The spring passed, and then the summer came, and one day some neighbors went to visit Abby and found her out in the field, digging. When they asked her what she was looking for, she said she was looking for her children
.

“The grass is high,” she said. “The grass is high, and it’s time for them to come back.”

The next day, they found Abby. She was in the barn, pinned up against the wall with a pitchfork. Her son was with her, crouched down on the floor of the barn, watching his mother bleed to death. They didn’t talk to the boy, didn’t bother to give him anything like a trial. They just hanged him, right there in the barn. They say he died even before his mother did. Abby didn’t die for hours. She hung on, trying to save her baby. And in the end, she did. The baby was born just before she died. And later on, in Abby’s cyclone cellar, they found some bones. They were the bones of children, and it looked like they’d been boiled
.

For years after that, people would disappear around Prairie Bend every now and then, just like people disappear everywhere. But around Prairie Bend, they never found the bodies, and they always say it was because of Abby’s last son. They said Abby’s boy had gotten hungry, and gone looking for something to eat
.

And they said that sometimes, when the weather was stormy and the grass was high, you could still see Abby, late at night, out in the field, looking for her children …
.

*  *  *

Michael stared up at his grandfather, his blue eyes wide and frightened. “That—that’s not a true story, is it Grandpa?”

“Of course it isn’t,” Janet quickly replied. “It’s a horrible story, and I wish we hadn’t heard it.” She turned to Amos, her face pale. “My God, Amos, how could you tell a story like that to a little boy?”

Amos Hall shrugged. “If he hadn’t heard it from me, he’d have heard it from someone else. It’s been around for years, and it never changes much.”

“But surely no one believes it?”

“About Abby? I don’t suppose anybody knows the full truth about her and her kids, but it’s probably close to the truth. Things like that used to happen around here. Like I said, the prairie would get to people, and they’d just crack up. It could have happened to Abby that winter—”

“No more,” Janet pleaded. “I don’t want to hear any more about it. I meant the last part, about her son still wandering around and people still seeing her out in the field. Surely no one believes that, do they?”

“I don’t know,” Amos replied. “Who knows what people see? But I can tell you, people around here tend to be pretty careful about their kids, particularly during summer. But of course, that’s only common sense. We get tornadoes during the summer, and they can be nasty. Get caught out in a tornado, and you just have to trust to luck.” He stood up, stretching. “Anyway, that’s the story. You can believe it or not, as you see fit.” He turned to Michael. “And as for you, it’s time you were in bed.”

Michael got slowly to his feet and kissed his mother goodnight, then his grandmother. He started out of the little parlor, but then turned back.

“Grandpa? What was the name of Abby’s son?”

“Nathaniel,” Amos told him. “His name was Nathaniel.”

Michael climbed up the stairs and went to his room, then undressed and slid into bed. A few minutes later he turned off the light to lie in the darkness and stare out the window into the night. Far away across the field, he could see a shape moving through the moonlight. He knew it was the dog, the dog who had saved him from the pigs, then waited for him all day, wagging his tail fiercely when he caught sight of Michael, and not seeming to mind when he had not been allowed inside the house. But he was still there, like a shadow in the night, patrolling the fields while Michael slept.

That’s what I’ll name him, Michael thought. Shadow. His name will be Shadow.

But as he drifted off into sleep, it was another name that kept echoing in his ears.

Nathaniel …

“You guys ever hear of somebody named Nathaniel?” Michael’s voice betrayed none of the tension he had been feeling as he helped with the painting of the house the next day, glancing only occasionally westward toward Findley’s barn. Now, in the bright spring sunshine, the crumbling barn’s fascination seemed to have lessened, and Michael had begun to wonder if the sensation of its calling to him—or of something inside it calling to him—had been nothing more than his imagination. But that name kept coming back to him. Nathaniel.

The name he had heard whispered in the barn; the name his grandfather had used last night.

So now, as he diligently helped Ryan Shields and Eric Simpson apply an uneven coat of not-quite-white paint to his bedroom walls, he tried to ask his question with a nonchalance he wasn’t feeling.

“Nathaniel?” Ryan repeated. “Where’d you hear about him?”

“Grandpa.”

“The story about the kid who killed his mother?”

Michael nodded, and put down his brush. “Is it true?”

Ryan shrugged. “I guess so. Except the part about the ghosts of Nathaniel and Abby still hanging around here. That’s just a story they told us to keep us from shagging out at night.”

“My dad told it to me,” Eric offered. “I was only a little kid, but it gave me nightmares.”

“How do you know it’s not true?”

Ryan gave him a scathing look. “Come on. It’s just a ghost story.” Then, seeing the look of uncertainty that clouded Michael’s expression, he grinned. “You don’t believe in ghosts, do you?”

Michael hesitated only a split second. “Hell, no.” He picked up the brush once more and began applying more paint to the wall, covering up the thin patches but leaving a series of brush marks. Eric watched him for a moment, then shook his head in disgust.

“You sure don’t know much about painting, do you? I bet your mom makes you do that over again.” He dipped his roller into the tray of paint, and began going over the area Michael had just done.

“Did Grandpa tell about the knocking at the door, and that weird man all covered with snow?” Ryan asked. “That was the scariest part.”

Michael nodded, but Eric looked perplexed. “What man? All I ever heard was that every time Abby ran out of food, she cooked one of her children and fed it to the rest of them.”

“Yeah,” Ryan agreed. “But Grandpa says she never even knew what she’d done. She always thought a man came for the kids. That’s why she’s supposed to still be out looking for them.”

“Can you believe that?” Eric asked. “Who’d ever believe a story like that?”

“Well, we did,” Ryan said, reddening slightly.

“Yeah, but that was when we were little,” Eric declared. “I figured out the ghost part of it was just a story when I was ten.”

“Sure,” Ryan teased. “That’s why you’re always the one that chickens out when someone wants to sneak into Findley’s barn in the middle of the night.”

Now it was Eric’s turn to redden, but he made an attempt at a recovery. “That place is dangerous. It’s gonna fall down any day now.”

“You’ve been saying that since you were ten, too.” Ryan deliberately ran a paint roller over Eric’s hand. “Oops.”

“Cut that out,” Eric yelped. “It
is
gonna fall down!” He shook his own roller at Ryan, spattering paint across his friend’s face.