The Ghost of Oak by Fallon Sousa Page A

inside. He was a
curious boy, but until that horrifying day that he would remember
for as long as he lived, his fear had always overcome him,
restraining him from proceeding to engage in the little adventures
that he so longed for. Sadly, this time he would wish that his
fears had kept him far away from the silly things that he wished to
do.
     
           He knocked on the front door foolishly, as if an
intruder would want to be detected. When no answer came, the child
crossed his fingers for good luck, and turned the doorknob
cautiously, just to see if it was locked. As it turns out, it
wasn't. He crept into the old gambrel, hoping to make it out alive
later that day. The house was spooky. The furniture was dusty, as
if never cleaned, and the curtains didn't match.
           Old photo frames cluttered the walls, and the top
of the mantel. The house was also adorned with various peculiar
items, such as pentagrams and black candles and whatnot. And to top
off the boy's increasing terror, an old grandfather clock chimed,
marking the start of a new hour. More than anything, he wanted to
run away, and forget about Ellen McDonald, and her strange old
house, but now he was way too curious to do so. He wanted to check
out the rest of the first floor, but a nagging feeling in the pit
of his stomach that was telling him to go up the finely upholstered
cherry staircase.
           So, one slow, cautious step, after another, he
did. At the top of the staircase, there was a bedroom. He peeked
inside. The furniture and drapery was just as drab and unsightly as
that of every other room. Just when he was about to leave, he
noticed something. There was an old, wrinkled up figure lying in
the bed, as still and motionless as a statue. He walked up to the
bedside, his heart racing and looked at the figure carefully. It
was Ellen, and she was dead. He wanted to scream, but remained
calm. He ran downstairs, and into the ugly old kitchen. For a
wealthy old woman, Ellen had no taste or really any nice things at
all.
            He grabbed the old French phone by the wire, and dialed 9-1-1
in a sudden panic. It wasn't that he was ever fond of Ellen, or
ever cared about her, it was just that he had never came upon a
dead body before, or had to report finding one. A scratchy male
voice cracked on the other line.
    "Hello"? The man asked.
     
    "Listen, I'm a paper boy, and I
snuck into a creepy old crone's house. It was unlocked. I started
looking around, and I found her dead in her room. My name is Johnny
Woods, and I'm ten years old. I live in Little Compton, Rhode
Island, and the woman's address is 1534 Oak Street. Today is June
30, 1965. I'm really scared. Hurry!" The boy said in one
breath.
     
    "Every thing's going to be all
right, boy. We'll get somebody over there as soon as we can, just
calm down." The man hung up.
            Johnny did what he knew he should, and he went outside and
sat on the bottom porch step, waiting for the cops to get there. A
few minutes later they did, and they went upstairs, hauled out
Ellen's corpse on a gurney, and left. Johnny ran home to the
comforting arms of his mother and father. Mr. and Mrs. Woods
suggested that they attend the funeral, but poor little Johnny
couldn't bear it, so they chose not to attend, and sadly, neither
did any other living soul. So, Ellen's funeral was held privately,
and she was buried in the cemetery with a plain stone and wooden
coffin, bought with money from her estate.
            Slightly over four decades later, a group of rowdy men
crowded a cheesy bar pondering the next crime they wanted to
commit.
            "Why don't we go grave digging tonight?" suggested a
middle-aged biker, who was just dying to concoct something that
would prove his buddies chickens someday.
            "No way dude!" most of the men said at
once.
           "C'mon, what are you guys chicken?" he snorted,
quite pleased with himself.
            "No!" they shouted, and