Tales Around the Jack O'Lantern (2 page)

Timmy shook his head. He could tell by the vines growing up
the side of the house, the fire had happened a long time ago, not since last
night.
 

He took a step back, towards the gate, when something
hanging on a post near the house caught his eye.
 
His hat.
Someone had
placed his hat up where he could find it.
 
It took him a moment to get his legs to move, but when he could he ran,
grabbed his hat and sped back to the gate.

As he pushed himself back through the narrow opening, he was
sure he felt someone touch his shoulder and whisper, “Thank you, boy.”

A cold breeze drifted through the room and the candle’s
flame
flickered
wildly sending shadows dancing on the
walls.
 
Mary shivered and pulled the
afghan closer in the darkened room, picturing the old man her father had
described.
 
She looked across the room
and jumped, muffling a scream as she quickly realized the pale, white specters
sitting across the room were actually her twin brothers holding flashlights
under their chin. “Not funny,” she criticized.

Chuckling, they gave each other high-fives and grabbed more
candy from the bowl. “Not another bite of candy,” their mother warned,
instantly staying their hands.
 
Then her
voice warmed greatly. “Not until you share a story.”

The young men looked at each other and, in the uncanny way
of twins, communicated without speaking and just nodded.
 
Then, two voices taking turns and nearly
speaking as one, they shared their story.

The two Marines pushed through the thick forest, their
weapons drawn and their senses alert.
 
They had become separated from their unit during a skirmish with the
opposition force but because of the unspoken bond they had shared from the
womb, they were still together.
 
They had
been fighting in a valley and, between the bluffs and dense
vegetation,
had no way to see if they were in a safe spot or if the enemy troops were on
their trail.

They clambered up a hill, hiding behind the large boulders
and primeval trees. This forest in Southern Europe was older than any building
in the United States and the Irish twins from Chicago could feel the ancient
power emanating from it. “Where do you think we are?” the younger twin, Tom,
asked his older brother, Art, in a whisper.

“I think we’re about six clicks from the main road,” Art
replied softly, then seeing the look of frustration on Tom’s face added, “Like
three miles.”

Tom grinned briefly. “Thanks,” he said. “I don’t know why
they can’t just use miles.”

They hunkered down behind a huge boulder and listened to the
sounds of artillery fire in the distance. “Sounds like it might be coming
closer,” Art finally said softly.

“Yeah, but who’s coming closer?” Tom asked.

“Good question,” Art replied.

They both took drinks from their water bottles, mimicking each
other’s actions unconsciously and then wiped an arm across each face in twin
synchronicity.
 
Synchronicity so strong
that the military, who normally separated brothers, decided that this time it
would be a boon for the Special Forces they served for them to be together.
 
“Which way?”
Art
asked Tom.

Tom angled his head in the direction away from the noise of
the fighting.
 
“If we can get through
this valley and up on one of the bluffs, we’ll be able to get a better idea of
where our guys are,” he said. “And we might be in a better position to help
them.”

Pulling their helmet back onto their heads, they moved
slowly around the boulder, staying low and headed down into the underbrush
towards the edge of the forest.
 
About a
half mile later, Art put his hand on Tom’s shoulder to stop him.

Tom turned and was about to speak when the quick shake of
Art’s head stopped him.
 
Instantly alert
he listened intently and heard it too.
 
In the distance, coming from the opposite direction of the fighting,
were the sounds of voices.

“Soldiers?”
Tom whispered.

Art shook his head again. “Too unguarded,” he said. “It has
to be civilians.”

“We’ve got to warn them a battle is coming to their
neighborhood,” Tom said.

Art nodded in agreement.

Doubling their pace, but still trying to move stealthily
through the brush, they covered another half mile in no time.
 
There was a clearing a few yards ahead of
them, so they stopped and listened again.
 
This time the sounds were clearer.

“Kids,” Tom said, grimacing. “Dammit, those are kids’
voices.”

“I remember from the recon map there was an orphanage in the
area,” Art said. “We
gotta
get them out of there.”

They moved to the edge of the forest and stopped. “There it
is,” Tom said, pointing to a large brick building on the top of a hill over a
half of a mile away.

Art looked up and down the tree line next to where they
stood. “If we run out into that field, we’re sitting ducks,” he said. “There is
no protection.”

They looked into each other’s eyes and understood what they
had to do. In one quick motion, they put their arms around each other in a
quick hug, then stepped back, turned and ran into the field.
 
The noise from the artillery was closer than
before and they could feel the earth shaking from explosions from larger
weapons, but they continued to run.

In the distance they could hear the thrumming of a fighter
jet and prayed, if it was one of theirs, it would recognize them and they
wouldn’t become casualties of friendly fire.

Their feet beat against the dusty, hard ground of the
field.
 
Their hearts pounding in their
throats, their eyes focused on the base of the hill.
 
Together, step by step, they ran, praying
they would still be alive at the end of the day.

They dove into the brush at the base of the hill, breathing
heavily and waiting for a moment to see if sniper fire would follow them
in.
 
Finally, as their breathing slowed
and their hearts stopped pounding, they heard them again.
 
The children.
 
But this time, they were singing.

“What the hell?” Tom
asked,
standing and moving towards the stone steps at the bottom of the hill. “What
kind of teacher has choir practice when they hear mortar shells exploding in
the vicinity?”

“Why aren’t those kids in a bomb shelter?” Art asked,
finishing his brother’s thoughts.

They jogged up the steps and rushed across the green lawn
that led to the front of the large building.
 
The song grew stronger as they neared; a haunting melody that was both a
prayer and a lament.

Tom grabbed the door and Art covered him, his weapon
ready.
 
Tom pulled open the door and they
both rushed inside. The music stopped.

The men stumbled back against the wall, too overcome to
speak.
 
There was no longer a
school.
 
All that was left was the front
wall, a façade that covered the devastation of an attack that decimated both
the building and its occupants.
 
Scattered within the rubble of the building were the broken lifeless
bodies of the children.

Oblivious to the sounds of war beyond the hill, the two
brothers worked into the night digging a grave and carrying the little bodies
to their final resting place.
 
There were
no adults found, so the brothers assumed the children had been left to fend for
themselves as the war waged on around them.
 
At the far end of the school, in the place that used to be a playground,
freshly turned earth now protected the remains of the children who used to run
and play.
 
Art and Tom removed their
helmets and bowed their heads.
 
“Now I
lay me down to sleep,” Art began and Tom joined in, repeating the old prayer
their mother had taught them as children. “I pray the Lord my soul to keep. His
Love to guard me through the night, and wake me in the morning's light. Now I
lay me down to sleep, I pray the Lord my soul to keep. Thy angels watch me
through the night and keep me safe till morning's light.”

Their voices cracked and they each took a deep, shuddering
breath and continued with the final verse, “Now I lay me down to sleep, I pray
the Lord my soul to keep. If I should die before I wake, I pray the Lord, my
soul to take.”

Then, exhausted, the brothers stumbled to the lone wall and
fell asleep under its shelter.

The sounds of an approaching helicopter woke them in the
early dawn.
 
Looking up, they saw a
Blackhawk circling the field in front of the school for a place to land. Grabbing
their gear, they ran from the shelter towards their comrades.

“How you do it?” asked the Marine who helped them climb into
the chopper.

“Do what?” Art asked.

“Send up that beacon?”

“Beacon?”
Tom asked.

“Yeah, it was like a beam of white light shooting straight
up from your location. It lasted for about ten minutes,” the Marine said. “Long
enough for us to figure out where you were and get you out before you were
overrun.
 
It was like a miracle.”

“Yeah, something like that,” Art said.

“Yeah, just like that,” Tom added.

“How come you never told us about this before tonight?” Sean
asked his brothers.

They both shrugged. “It wasn’t time yet,” Art said.

“Yeah, tonight, it was the right time,” Tom added.

A soft, sniffling noise was heard coming from their mother’s
direction.

“Hey, we didn’t tell it to make you cry, Ma,” Tom said.

“I’m not crying at all,” Margaret contended. “It’s a bit of
a cold I’ve had for a day or so.”

“Well, my story will scare the snot right out of you,” Sean
announced.

“Sean,” his mother reprimanded.

“Sorry, Ma,” he said, with a very unrepentant tone while his
brothers snickered in the dark.

“I was a rookie in the force,” he began. “And it was just
about Halloween…”

The rookies always got the worst beats and even though Sean
O’Reilly was fifth generation Chicago cop, there were no exceptions.
 
So, he walked the graveyard shift around
Lincoln Park on the north side of the city, next to the lake.
 
Although Lincoln Park stretched for over
seven miles along Chicago’s lakefront, Sean’s area was twelve hundred acres of grass,
trees, bike paths, jogging paths, museums and even a zoo that bordered Diversey
Parkway on the north and North Avenue on the south.
 
During the day, this area was a mecca of
activity for families on picnics, joggers running alongside the lake and buses
filled with children going on field trips.
 
At night, it was a mugger’s paradise.
 
This was why Sean O’Reilly was required to walk the nearly two square
miles over and over and over again every night.

With the leather band of his flashlight swinging slowly from
his hand as he walked, Sean started on the farthest north portion of the park and
followed the bike path along Stockton Drive, passing by the statues, the
softball diamonds, the benches and the landscaping.
 
After exploring this part of Chicago by foot
for over a month, he had become familiar with every dark shadow and each unique
sound.
 
He experienced, in his own mind,
a symphony of the lake shore at night.
 
The waves slapping the rocks were the percussion, the sailboats rubbing
against their moorings created the high-pitch cry of stringed instruments, the breeze
whipping through the tall masts of the sailboats in the harbor were the wind
instruments and the honking from the cars on Lake Shore Drive were the
brass.
 
Occasionally, especially if the
moon were full, some of the animals from Lincoln Park Zoo would be featured as guest
soloists, leaving their haunting cries echoing throughout the park.

Sean even got to know the difference between the sound of a
squirrel in the brush and the sound of a rat searching for food.
 
He avoided them both, he was a cat person.

It was on one of those nights, when the moon was full and
the leaves had nearly all fallen off the trees, that he met August.
 
The old man sitting on the park bench in the
dark startled him at first and then concerned him. “Excuse me, sir,” Sean said
as he approached the motionless man. “Are you okay?”

It took a moment for the man to respond; he stared at Sean
and shook his head twice, as if he couldn’t quite believe someone was speaking
to him. “I beg your pardon,” the man replied. “Were you speaking to me?”

Nodding, Sean sat down next to the fellow.
 
He was not very tall, rather plump and
squinted, as if he’d lost his glasses.
 
What was left of his hair was thin, white and tossed over his bald head
in one of the worst comb-overs Sean had ever seen. “Yes, I was speaking to
you,” Sean said, keeping his voice gentle so as not to startle the elderly
gentleman.

“Oh, well,
then
let me respond. I
am quite well, thank you.”

Sean smiled. “I’m Sean O’Reilly,” he said.

“Oh, how do you do,” the man replied with a wide smile. “I’m
Augustin Bates. Please call me August.”

“I don’t believe I’ve seen you here before,” Sean said.

“Really?”
August replied,
surprised. “Well, that’s funny. This is where I spend most of my evenings.”

“Well, perhaps that’s the problem,” Sean said, wondering if
the old man had lost track of time. “It’s nearly one o’clock in the
morning.
 
Not evening at all.”

The old man met Sean’s eyes with a twinkle in his own. “No,
not evening at all,” he replied with a chuckle. “More like the witching hours
to be quite precise.”

“I thought the witching hour was midnight,” Sean said.

August shook his head. “Oh, no, historically any time
between midnight and three in the morning were known as the witching hours.”

Sean nodded slowly. “So, you’re into history?” he asked.

“Yes. Yes, I am very fond of history,” August replied,
“Especially the history of this part of the city.
 
It has quite a colorful history.”

“Well, I would love to hear more,” Sean said, deciding the
old man was harmless and seemed to be in full possession of his faculties. “But
I really have to continue to patrol.”

Sean stood and, surprisingly, the little man stood too. “Do
you mind if I walk along with you?” he asked. “I promise not to be a bother.”

“No problem,” Sean said. “And maybe you could share a little
of that history of yours with me.
 
It’ll
help me to get to know Lincoln Park a little better.”

“It would be my pleasure,” August replied.

They walked along in silence for a few minutes and then the old
man cleared his throat. “Well, the first thing you should know about the park
is that it was once a cemetery,” he said.

“No!” Sean said, halting and looking at his companion with
disbelief.
“A cemetery.”

“Yes, it was the very first city cemetery,” he replied.
“Back when the city didn’t stretch quite as far to the north.”

“Was it a big cemetery?” Sean asked, looking down at the
ground below his feet.

“Oh, yes,” August replied. “It stretched from Diversey
Parkway to North Avenue and held the bodies of thousands of the dear
departed.
 
They were from all walks of
life.
 
There were those who died from the
cholera epidemic, those who were just poor who were buried in Potter’s Field,
those who actually bought cemetery plots for families members and the soldiers.”

“Soldiers?”
Sean asked.

August nodded sadly. “There were six thousand Confederate
soldiers who died in Camp Douglas whose bodies were buried here too,” he
replied.

“Six thousand soldiers,” Sean repeated, surprised at the
number. “How many people were buried in the park?”

“About thirty-five thousand,” August replied, shaking his
head. Then he leaned in and whispered. “And some of them are still here.”

A cold chill ran down his spine and he took a deep breath.
“What do you mean, still here?”

“Well, the folks in the city decided that they didn’t want
the bodies this close to the water, they said it was a health hazard,” August
said, contempt in his voice. “If you ask me, they just didn’t like the idea of
a graveyard built near where they wanted to build all their fancy new homes.”

“So, where did they put the bodies?” Sean asked.

August began walking again and Sean followed along. “Well,”
August said, picking up his cane and pointing it in a westward direction. “Most
of the bodies were moved over to Graceland cemetery.
 
They got fine new plots and markers
there.
 
The city did a fine job of making
sure people were satisfied with the move.”

He continued to walk, moving further into the park. “But the
sexton of the park,” he began, and then he stopped and looked at Sean. “That
was the fellow who was in charge of the cemetery.
 
He dug the graves and kept things neat and
clean.
 
He ran the place.”

“The sexton,” Sean repeated.

August nodded with a smile. “Yes, the sexton was responsible
for the graves of all those who were buried,” he said, walking down a narrow
path that was surrounded by trees on both sides. “And he knew that they didn’t
take them all.
 
They didn’t move
them.
 
They just moved the important ones
and left thousands of bodies here under the park.
 
No markers, no gravestones, no one to
remember them.”

Sean shook his head. “No, someone remembered them,” he
replied. “It seems to me that any sexton worth his title would have remembered
them no matter if they were rich or poor.”

August turned to Sean and smiled brightly. “You are a bright
young man,” he said. “And you do understand. Yes. Yes, the sexton would
remember.”

“But, what I don’t understand is how you know all those
graves weren’t moved,” Sean said.

The air grew still and heavy.
 
The noise from Lake Shore Drive faded away
and the whining from the boats in the pier intensified for a moment, as if
thousands of lost souls had cried out.

August met Sean’s eyes and his smile turned sad. “Because,
my dear, young man, I’m still here.”
  
And then he vanished from sight.