Graveyard Walk

There wasn’t anything Henry liked about his new school. The classes were dumb. The teachers were dumb. The kids were dumb. And that’s why Henry always took the shortcut home. And he always walked alone.

It didn’t matter to Henry that his shortcut included a path directly through the old town graveyard. Even when the other kids told him that the graveyard, which hadn’t been used in years, was haunted. They were just chickens. Henry wasn’t scared of any old ghosts.

Because, even if there were ghosts, Henry believed he was tougher. Once or twice a week, on his walk home, he would stop in the middle of the graveyard, look around slowly, and yell as loudly as he could.

“I ain’t scared of you ghosts. If you ain’t scared of me, show yourself!”

Henry never managed to wake the dead with his taunts. This proved to him that he was tougher and braver than any ghost.

One gloomy day about two months into the school year, Henry didn’t stop to yell at the ghosts.

The sky was dull gray, and a sharp wind cut in from the north, scattering fallen leaves in whirlwind gusts and waving bare tree branches.

As a matter of fact, Henry’s pace through the graveyard was quicker than usual. He even felt a little nervous, and those nerves tightened when he heard the first shriek.

It started low and faint and built to a high-pitched wail. Henry nearly jumped out of his shoes. He calmed himself and looked around. Convinced he saw nothing, he continued walking.

“I ain’t scared,” he whispered. Then he heard the second shriek.

This time Henry didn’t have to look around. A gray, billowing shape floated a few yards in front of him. It was Henry’s turn to shriek. But he couldn’t run. Frozen with fear, he stared at the ghostly figure in front of him. It didn’t touch the ground.

The wind picked up with a force nearly strong enough to knock Henry off his feet, and he saw the ghost moving toward him.

Now Henry ran, propelled by terror. Nearly blind, eyes fogged by the harsh wind and fright, he didn’t see the gravestone in his path, but felt the sharp pain when his knees crashed against it, toppling him headfirst into what could only be an open shallow grave.

Henry screamed, scrambling to his feet, grabbing at loose, moist earth. How had he fallen into a grave? This graveyard hadn’t been used in years?

Adreniline helped Henry to pull himself from the hole. Good sense kept him from looking back as he ran full speed the almost-mile to his house, where he collapsed into a frightened, exhausted heap.

Henry missed the next week of school. No one knew why. And no one could figure out why, when he returned, he didn’t take his shortcut anymore. Instead, he insisted on walking home with the largest group of kids he could find.

No one picked up Henry’s shortcut through the old graveyard, where the gray stones sit silently among bare trees and a few shallow graves wait unfinished after nearly 20 years. And where the only movement comes when the wind blows at a good clip and a tattered gray blanket hung forgotten on a pole whips in a frenzied flight.