The Tradition

Chapter Seven (Summer, 2000)

(7.5k words, 30-40min read)

Summer: defined partly by the weather, but mostly by the school calendar. Winton Middleschool had a half-day for the last day of school and even that seemed like too much. Why have any day at all? Nobody was learning anything!

The Astronomy Club’s favorite class was their last class before freedom: English, taught by their favorite teacher Mr. Richard. A lot of the kids called him ‘Mr. Dick,’ but it never got under Mr. Richard’s skin. He said it himself: ‘I’ve never found it in me to hate anyone. Not even people who’ve wronged me.’ Myles thought it was the peace Mr. Richards had that bothered some of the other students. He didn’t react badly to insults and misbehavior, he just made you think. And Myles enjoyed thinking.

“We’re not gonna see him for another three months,” Myles said over the hundreds of feet and voices marching and talking as they passed through the exit doors. The air changed from dry, school-flavored hopelessness to a pleasant, fresh humidity that complemented the sunny sky.

“You’re seriously sad about not seeing a teacher?” Langley asked. “I’d be overjoyed.”

“Don’t you like Mr. Richard?”

“Not enough to worry about him during summer.”

“Whatever, we got important business,” Pretty said, slinging his Jansport onto his shoulders and dislodging his bike from the rack. Myles and Langley mimicked him.

“We’re gonna do it still?” Langley asked, strumming his right pedal down and torquing his bike forward.

The Astronomy Club rode toward Beck’s Bridge right off of Main. “Of course we’re still gonna do it,” Pretty said.

The boys sped their bikes down Jasper street and talked about which disney princess they’d rather be. Myles disagreed with his fellow Astronomers as they said he’d be Snow White because he was so kind. Jasper eventually curved north, and then they looked both ways before taking a right onto Roadblock. Conversation picked back up onto what villain they most resembled. They said Pretty would make a great Jafar. Then they took the second left onto the slow-curving (and deeply scenic) Greenwold Street, away from downtown Winton. On the entire length of Greenwold, they decided Langley would be Attila the Hun from Mulan and Myles would be the old guy from The Aristocats. Myles strongly disagreed with their assessment. 

Conversation quieted down. Pretty was usually the navigator. Myles knew how to get to his own house most of the time, but most of him didn’t care where he was. All that mattered was he was free from worrying.

They rolled down to the deepest part of Winton: Beck’s Creek. Follow it a mile north and it’d turn into Walnut River (“Because of the Walnut Indians,” Pretty joked when Myles asked; the didn’t know why its name changed or why it was called ‘Beck’s Creek’ in the first place.)

The biggest and longest bridge over the creek was devoted to Greenwold Street for some reason. If you followed Greenwold, you’d just run into a three-way stop and head to farmland on the left or pass some of the baseball fields on your way to Wilkes-Barre. But here it was: beautiful, sturdy, and gigantic. Wide sidewalks, three-years-fresh concrete, grey steel railings. Excellent for spitting and throwing things off of (the Astronomy Club had thrown a discarded tire off the bridge not two weeks ago; it made a satisfying splash.)

The Astronomers coasted down the hill toward the concave of the valley and steered onto the left side of Beck’s creek. They could see the little white caps the stream made twenty feet below. The water swept by like a controlled, convoluted interstate. It sounded like a crowded crosswalk.

“We’re here men,” Pretty said and swung his leg off his bike and laid it against the railing protecting them from traffic.

The other two Astronomers dismounted and walked their bikes close to their Leader’s before putting them down beside his.

Pretty slid his backpack to the ground and unzipped the largest pocket, swollen in a messy 6” by 8.5” by 11” rectangular solid. Myles and Langley placed their own down next to his. They formed a triangle of backpacks, one boy behind each as they were opened and all of their papers from the entire semester removed. The whole mess of tests and homework (“I didn’t even learn anything. I just spat a bunch of stuff back onto the paper.” They’d overheard some of the other students talking. That was Marshall Baker, the genius kid of Winton Middle School. He was also the son of a cop.)

Langley pulled the papers out and flipped through them. He had already taken out some of the pages where his doodles were worth saving, or the tests he had scored A’s on. Those didn’t need to be lumped in to the Tradition.

Myles didn’t look twice at his papers. He opened the three-ring-binder and cracked the rings apart. He worked the papers off of the rings and put them on his shoulder. All of the homework from the Fall of 1999 and Spring of 2000 in one hand. Over seven months of work on one shoulder.

Pretty opened three different binders and pulled out different sections of paper according to the subject. He turned them into one lump, a perfect block of pulped and then dried tree. Then he put the binders back and kicked his backpack onto its side.

The Astronomy Club stood tall and looked at each other. Langley looked strange without his gray hoodie and buzzed head. Too hot for hoodies. Myles looked to Pretty to see what would happen next. The Leader, ‘Pretty’ Beau Lewis, looked at his followers and nodded, waiting for them to say something.

“We recognize the Leader of the Astronomy Club to be the one to begin the Tradition.” Langley said. 

Pretty nodded once more and then turned to the edge of the bridge. “Alright.” He looked over the edge and dropped his gaze down the twenty feet he stood above the water. Then he stepped back to the railing protecting him from the traffic. With two running steps, papers raised over his head, he chunked the whole lump off of the bridge, as free as a student in the summer. For a moment, the papers stayed together, but after a few turns, pages began to float and then flutter off the main group. They didn’t fly as far as they looked like they would, nosediving toward the water below.

PLASH. The water said as it parted and closed over a whole novel’s worth of paper.

Pretty whooped once, loud and short. Myles did the same after him, but Langley said “You did it all wrong! You let it all stay together and gave it no air time and you didn’t spin it.”

The Leader looked Langley in the eye. “Alright chumbo, let’s see how it’s done.” Pretty gestured to the open spot of bridge next to him. Langley stepped up, shoulders back, and removed his hood. He looked down at the papers in his hands. There was a lot of information and work in there. Maybe he shouldn’t do this.

“Do it, pussy. What does the Bug of the Astronomy Club got?” Pretty said.

It was different now that he was the one holding the loaded gun, but did that make him a pussy? That was the only thought he needed. “This is how a non-pussy does it, O Leader of the Astronomy Club.”

“You gonna throw it, bitch?” Pretty spat in a high pitch.

Langley didn’t hear the question, but he answered all the same. He had stepped to the railing and kept the papers far away. Yep, there was water down there; might even flood sometime soon. He stepped back from the side of the bridge and left room to gain speed. Then he ran at the railing, holding his own papers low and frisbeeing the papers with a centrifugal force to be reckoned with. Papers opened up like a cloud and chattered all throughout the air above the water like respectful seagulls. A quieter plish sounded unseen down in the water. The core of papers that mostly separated had made it to the bottom.

Now all of the Astronomy Club cheered loud and long at that toss. Beautiful! What a throw! What a mess! Myles would have a hell of a time trying to top that.

They relished the last of the settling paper before asking Myles to step up. Then Pretty tapped the Sage on his back and sent him forward. Myles was nervous. Nobody could top what Langley had just done. “Alright,” he said as Langley left, opening the stage.

One more stack. Into the river. Not so hard? Nah, not hard at all. He took a deep breath. Why was he nervous? Myles took a gander over the railing, the only thing protecting him from the fall he was about to deliver to this stack of accursed papers.

Accursed papers. That shed a new light to the situation. These papers? They belonged down there. Myles’ Nikes stepped back to the railing protecting him from traffic and he ran forward, all the frustration these papers had caused him being delivered into this throw.

That was when Gregory Fucking Barnes pulled around the corner in his Fucking 1998 Fucking Bentley Fucking Continental Fucking Coupe Fucker Fuck and saw Myles chucking a huge Fucking lump of Fucking Paper off of Beck’s Fucking Bridge into Beck’s Fucking Creek. Which was when ‘Pretty’ Beau Lewis, Archibald Langley and Myles Willis, caught in the act, realizing just how illegal what they were doing was, said in panicked unison:

“Fuck.”

They whisked their backpacks, much lighter now, onto their backs, scrambled to their bikes, papers cheering at the scene midair all the way to the water, and mounted without looking back.

“What’re you fuckin’ kids doing? Hey, you stand back here now, you damned kids! Get BACK HERE,” Gregory Barnes yelled through his open passenger door window. He’d almost ended that sentence with ‘privates.’ He had served two tours in ‘Nam, worked his way to a Staff Sergeant where he hovered for six years before quitting. Upon his return, he didn’t take lightly to men (let alone kids) ignoring his orders. He’d returned to the states a hero, earned a degree in Electrical Engineering from Penn State, and got a job that could afford him a Fucking Bentley Fucking Continental Fucking Coupe Fucker Fuck he could roll around in and catch kids doing illegal shenanighans.

At that moment, all Gregory could do was jerk to a stop on his fresh Michelin Tires and watch the kids duck into the woods on their bikes (damn kids know the woods; I’ll never catch them.) He vowed to get back at the kids, but in the right way; this was a job for Winton’s Finest.

He blew a breath of air and let the disgust float away. He’d leave that here at the bridge, but he’d take the matters home and call the police. Oh, yes he would. He didn’t know who those kids were, but the law is the law. Gregory put his murmuring car into gear again and drove off. His drive wasn’t going to be spoiled by that little incident; he was bothered that they didn’t listen, the little shits.

When Gregory Barnes returned home and put his Bentley in the garage, he walked inside, kissed his wife, and spun 9-1-1 on his red rotary phone. As the lady on the other end picked up, he could only grin inwardly. Little shits. This is what happens when you’re irresponsible and troublesome.

“Nine-one-one, what is your emergency?”

When Gregory Barnes made his call to the police, the Astronomy Club was playing their own invention of hopscotch at Myles house (which involved pelting each other with beanbags and tennis balls). They thought little about the Tradition for the rest of the day. They’d gone to see if they could catch the train before it thundered through Winton and watch it roll heavily by the quarry. Then they’d gone to each a late lunch at Langley’s and played on their bikes and in the clearing behind their house all day all the way until fireflies appeared in the tree shadows. That was when Pretty went home and Langley ate salad and breaded talapia (but mostly just the tilapia) at the Willis’s. Myles watched Space Jam with Mabel and then went to bed.

Myles was at the Langley’s front door at nine the next morning. He hoped his friend was awake at this point. Mrs. Justice Rose Langley answered. 

“Is Langley still asleep?” Langley liked to sleep in a lot, so Myles could imagine that the Bug was still unconscious. Usually, he was in his hoodie when he slept.

“You can go wake him up if you’d like. I’ve had no luck this morning,” she said,

He was probably up playing on his Gameboy. Myles thanked her for letting him in and crept up the stairs to Langley’s room. Their house smelled so… housey. Home. It smelled like a home which was different from a house. It smelled like carpet and books and stuff that all conglomerated to make a wonderful perfume only fit for this area. His Nikes made no sound on the carpeted staircase that curved up to the second level. Langley only had his two older brothers, Stan and Peter. Stan Langley and Peter Langley. Each brother had their own room. Langley’s was furthest from the bathroom and smallest in size. It had an 8.5” by 11” paper sign taped on it that said in hand-drawn letters: 

No girls allowed (that means you too, Stan)

The door was open a few inches. Myles bumped it open without it squeaking. Too easy to sneak up on you, Langley. Myles opened the door and looked around the room. There were a lot of clothes lining the walls on the ground. Myles had no desire to look at Langley’s whitie-tighties. This wasn’t the first time he’d woken Langley up. He needed to do the ol’ steal-the-blanket trick, but slowly.

Langley was in the hoodie, but didn’t have any blankets on him. He moved a lot in his sleep apparently and now his mouth was gaping open and his nose was upturned in a way that made him snore like you were listening to cars pass on a highway. Neeeow. Neeeow. Neeeow.

Myles noticed Langley’s gameboy was next to him and was still on, but the orange light told him the device was about to die. Pokemon Red. Myles picked up the game to see how far Langley had gotten: Route 6, hardly anywhere, and his starter, Bulbasaur, was ten levels ahead of the rest of the bug pokemon he had. Myles saved the progress and put it down on the bed again and sighed. He looked back in frustration at the hooded sleeper.

Then the Sage had an idea and left Langley’s room. Let the hoodie-wearer snore away. The Sage reappeared a minute later with an ice cube in his hand. He walked slowly and quietly to the slumberer and slipped the ice cube into Langley’s mouth.

Langley’s eyes shot open and he rolled to his side gasping and choking. He spat and coughed for ten seconds, his eyes tearing up and body heaving with panic.

Myles’ knees weakened with laughter and he fell over. Laughing laughing laughing.

Langley continued choking which only made Myles laugh harder.

“You,” COUGH “Piece of,” COUGH “shit.” COUGHCOUGHCOUGH.

Myles only laughed all the more.

“I swallowed it, asshole,” Langley said, leaning over the side of his bed, choking and smiling slightly to himself. “Hurt like a bitch.”

Myles rolled to his knees and stood up. “Good to see you awake. It’d suck if you were asleep this long into the first day of summer.”

Langley wiped the tears from his eyes. “What time is it?”

“Like nine. I saved your Pokemon progress.”

“Mmh. What’s Pretty doing right now?”

“We’re going to his house whenever this morning,” Myles said. “He might be waiting for us right now. His mom probably wants us out of the house so we’re gonna go to Deedle Dee or something. You got money? We need to get a soda.”

Langley nodded to the last question. “Like fifteen bucks now.”

“Get a couple of those bucks in your pocket and then get your asshole on a bike seat. I’m waiting outside.”

Myles went outside and looped around the Langleys’ driveway until he saw their garage open and let out a different house-smell; this one was slightly oilier and more like a car after it was cleaned and detailed. Langley emerged, bike underfoot, and rolled toward his friend. He clicked the garage door opener’s Enter button and the entire door closed behind him. 

The Astronomers coasted toward Winton in the gentle summer air that was slowly turning from ‘morning cool’ to ‘late morning heat’. 

They skidded to a stop outside Pretty’s house. The house always looked neat, though it was worn. Pretty’s mom wanted to keep it neat and safe for her other kids. The Lewis kids learned early on when things started getting stolen from their front yard how much it paid to keep things tidy. 

“Shorter skidmark has to ring the doorbell,” Myles proposed. The Sage’s skidmark on the short gravel driveway was longer. Langley rang the doorbell.

As Langley approached the front door, Pretty walked his bike around the side of the house. “Where have you ladies been? It’s like three daylight hours since the first full day of summer.”

“Yeah, ask this lazy ass.” Myles pointing to Langley. “We going to Deedle Dee?”

“Who’s a lazy ass, ya clumsy ox,” Langley said. He pulled that insult from Dumbo.

“Yeah,” Pretty said, “but first, my mom made us something.” Pretty was wearing his backpack and took it off his shoulder. “My mom heard we were in a club and wanted us to have nametags.”

Langley and Myles looked at each other. Pretty’s mom was a seamstress which meant these nametags could be super fancy. The Astronomers dropped their bikes onto the gravel and ran toward Pretty.

The Leader pulled three little pieces of nylon cloth out of his backpack. Each was attached to a metal ring that could be clipped to a backpack or a keychain. One green, one blue, and one yellow. Myles grabbed at the green one. Langley reached for the blue one, but Pretty held onto that one. “Leader gets the blue one. You can have yellow.”

Langley reluctantly took it. “Alright.”

Myles inspected the nylon. On one side there was embroidered lettering.

The Astronomy Club. And a little hot-air balloon. One of the old-fashioned ones with strings all over it and fancy decals on the side. “She made these?” The Sage asked.

“Yep. They’re waterproof too.” Pretty beamed, looking at his own. “She said she was glad I was in a ‘wholesome club’; her words. And she said she’s making a few more for when we initiate more members.”

“Wait, why the balloon?” Myles asked.

“Glad you asked,” Pretty said. “She was looking into constellations and couldn’t find a symbol simple enough to embroider easily. So she started looking into different constellations and found out about the Balloon, which they don’t actually use in real constellations anymore, but she found it easiest to embroider quickly. Maybe if we go stargazing sometime,” (“Only going if there are Pringles,” Langley interjected.) “We should try to find it,” Pretty finished. “It’d be cool.”

Myles agreed.

“Did she find out about the papers?” Langley accelerated the agenda.

Pretty shook his head and looked at his other members. Obviously, their parents hadn’t found out either.

“Well,” Said Pretty after a communal feeling of guilt passed through them, “I announce us official members of the Astronomy Club, with these nametags to make it official.” And all three Official Astronomy Club Members pedaled onto Jasper Street and made their way to Deedle Dee Diner.

The first day of summer was the same morning Deputy Baker walked into the police station and immediately walked out.

Murl Baker had been on Winton’s force since 1978 (the first day was okay, but the first patrol was a mess which made him consider quitting for months.) Over twenty years. And often he was asked to look into menial problems spread across the City of Winton. Pumpkins-getting-smashed and cars-getting-chalked kind of business.

The people were paying him and for what? Well, that was up to him; no job was considered too small. Not even making sure every closet in the Jenkin’s household on 12th street didn’t have any monsters in it after eight-year-old Olivia Jenkins called about them. Though it was a technical breaking of the law, there were certain leniencies in a localized police force. Baker had kids of his own and knew that the danger felt real enough to the kid.

This morning, when he walked into the station and was stopped on the way through the door by Sheriff Thorbae. “Got a job for you before you sit down.” Baker turned on his heel (“On it, chief,”) right out the door. It was his job.

“Maybe you wanna hear the task first?” Thorbae asked and Baker spun back. Weird how autopilot comes and goes.

“That’d be a good idea,” Baker said. It was still early in the day. His hair was down to the scalp and grew himself a handlebar mustache for the time being. A cop was the only person who didn’t look like a rapist with one of those. Wild west, duel-at-high-noon kind of mustache.

“Beck’s Bridge. Know what went down out there?”

Baker didn’t. 

“Some kids threw some paper into the creek. Greg Barnes let us know about it last night and said he caught them in the act. Thought it could wait until the next day since we’ve been working so hard on other stuff. The damn construction zone fines and complaints.” 

Not only that, crime had spiked by a whopping two solid reports in the Crichton Estates out toward the quarry and significantly more calls about suspicious activity with teenagers in those areas. Parties being broken up. The Crackhouse (with a capital ‘C’) resting on 14th street was getting more restless than usual.

“I can check it out, no problem. Beck’s Bridge? Up Greenwold?” Baker asked over his shoulder as he approached the door. He’d figure out what kids did it and get it cleaned up.

“Yeah,” Thorbae said. “The big one.”

Off to Beck’s Bridge to see about some paper. He rolled through the neighborhood and even passed what looked like Deputy Jamison (son of the old sketch-artist who retired four years ago) on patrol. That car needs to be cleaned, was all Baker thought as he watched his coworker roll past Jasper Street on 12th. All of the popular buildings were on Jasper and Main. From where Baker drove past, he saw the barber shop, Deedle Dee Diner, and the Library while the conjoined Highschool and Middleschool building was on his left just two blocks from the station. Since the police station was so close to the school, the town religiously followed the school speed limits.

Nobody was on Greenwold when Baker parked his car just before the bridge. He stepped out of his car and shut the door as the smell and sound of a rippling creek filled his nore and ears. Walked toward the bridge to see the damage. Nothing on the right side. He walked to the opposite side.

Soggy papers clumped around the banks and edges of the creek for as far as he could see. One big lump of papers was caught on a log only a few yards downstream. 

“Jeepers creepers, laughers and weepers,” Baker breathed. He looked at the right and left banks and decided the left would be easier to climb down. Maybe the papers would tell him who did it. Kids? Last day of school? Didn’t take much thinking to realize this was probably homework they were having their little revenge on.

Three kids. So I’m looking for three names?

He walked to the edge of the stream and picked up several previously soaked papers stapled together. Well, there was one name in the top right corner.

Archibald Langley (call me Langley)

“Hm.” Baker kept it with him. He looked at the debris nearby. Lots were caught in branches dipping into the chortling brook. He leaned out and grabbed a couple of the other papers in the water. One of the three that he grabbed fell apart and floated downstream. One of the papers had the same name. Archibald Langley.

He sighed. Walked down the creek some more and tried those papers.

Beau Lewis.

“Oho, found you, Mr. Lewis.” This looked like Middleschool work, so highschoolers were ruled out.

“Who are you, third kid?” Baker continued down the stream, absently browsing the damn papers. They’ll have a fantastic time cleaning this mess. Why did they need to cause him this trouble? Why couldn’t they be like his own son, Marshall? Neat and scheduled. Marshall might even be their age or even know them.

None of the papers downstream on the left side of the bank were giving him a third name. Time to try the right side. He turned back, and as he did that, a page on the opposite bank caught his attention.

It was a crayon drawing: black and gray with hints of white and a little red in parts. Little old for crayons? Maybe not, but it reminded Baker of something. Something that happened back when he was just beginning on the force. If he had his glasses, maybe his nearsightedness would be less of a problem, but from here, it almost looked like…

He jogged back to the bridge and made his way to the bank on that side. He started looking through the papers on this bank. He forgot about looking for a third kid. Where was that paper he had just seen?

Police sketches. I still have a lot of them don’t I? In the attic? Sheriff wanted to throw those away, and stop feeding into the make-believe, but I kept ‘em. What we heard that night, Yale saw it too. Yale. Haven’t thought of that ol’ sock in a second. Huge black teeth, no eyes. Bony head, big arms. But this crayon drawing he’d just seen…

Baker was searching intently now, looking for the damn drawing. Caught in a low-hanging willow branch that stroked the water like a romantic finger. There’s the picture.

He leaned down and slowly pulled it from the water so it wouldn’t tear. 

As he brought it into view: Huge black teeth, obsidian daggers, longer than the head itself. Muscled arms, as big as melons. Blood drawn tastefully in red dripped in streaks of crayon down to the bottom of the page.

Shit, Baker thought. “Holy moly.” This was real. What was this creature? The resemblance was almost identical! There wasn’t a way to forget about what happened in 1978 on Bushkill Avenue. In fact, some of the details stood out too well. And here was one of those ostentatious details: this beast from the sketches. The one those teenagers claimed attacked them years ago in a house that didn’t exist.

But what if it does?

Be reasonable. And in all of his reasonability, Baker decided to keep the drawing. And after he decided this, he found the third name in the top right of the page:

Myles Willis.

“Three boys, three names. Looks like I’m paying you a visit today,” The officer murmured and carefully carried the papers back to his police car.

One call to the middle school and he received three addresses and three phone numbers.

Two more phone calls and he was informed that the three boys hung out a lot and had just left for the Deedle Dee Diner on Jasper Street, the one he’d passed only a couple hours before. Mrs. Lewis had asked if their son was in trouble. ‘As long as he picks up the litter he left, he’s in no trouble I’m concerned about,’ Baker had answered.

One short drive and he left his car parked in the Diner’s parking lot and walked in.

He took a look around the place and, not to scare the kids, walked to the front counter. “Howdy,” Officer Baker said.

“Hi,” Said the kid behind the counter. His nametag read Patrick. “What can I get for you?”

“Just a medium cup. Soda fountain.” Baker tossed three dollars on the counter. “Keep it.”

“Hey, thanks,” Patrick said and pulled a medium cup out from underneath the counter.

Thup, went the empty cup as it was laid on the counter. Baker carried it over to the soda fountain, gave it a small amount of ice, and then brimmed it with coca-cola. He stopped and waited for the bubbles to settle. Then he filled it again. As the bubbles popped, he gave the dining area a gander. The boys in the corner booth were chatting respectfully and quietly. They seemed to be sharing a single drink. Baker looked at his own. Gave it one last little waterfall-burst of cola and lidded the cup without that satisfying pop. He grabbed a straw and walked toward the booth in the back, stopping at the boys. They all silenced and looked up at him. One of them was wearing a grey hoodie, one had nice, black, curly hair, and the other looked like he was expecting this as he sat back and put his fists on the table like he was ready for the cuffs.

“Morning fellas.”

“Good morning, officer,” The curly-haired one said.

“I don’t want to waste your summers asking too much about your activities, but usually the fun kids have around here don’t get the cops involved… Usually. Can I sit with you?” He asked with sincerity. If they didn’t want him sitting there, he’d stand, but he’d say the same thing he was about to say.

“Yeah,” Curly-hair said.

Baker sat. “I bought this mainly to seem like I had a purpose bigger than talking to you, so if you want a free medium coke, have at it.” He placed it in the international waters of the table. “Now, do you know anything about these?” And the officer produced the three papers with their names on them.

One was math homework, the other was a first page to a short, double-spaced essay. The third was the black crayon-drawn monster. They had that blued tint that water makes on the paper when it interacts with the bleach.

The silence that followed seemed more incriminating than the papers. It was as quiet as a desert night; the silence of red-handedness.

“You uh, know anything about these?” Baker asked again through his handlebar mustache.

The one who seemed like he was bracing himself spoke: “It was part of a tradition.”

“You’re saying these papers belonged to you three?”

The two other boys looked at Curly who nodded and then they all nodded.

“Okay,” Baker said, nodding with them. “You fellas made that easier. And you also made one hell of a mess. Littering is a crime, yeah?”

The boys nodded, eyes riveted on the cop.

“Now, since you were so quick to confess, I think you didn’t mean to really harm anything in this tradition of yours. You were just having some fun. Nothing wrong with that. And I’ll tell you what, if you get it all cleaned up before the end of today, we’ll pretend none of this ever happened and nothing’s going on any records or anything. Sound good?”

The boys nodded. They knew they didn’t really have a choice and also knew their situation could have been a lot worse. Baker sat back in his chair and the boys all simultaneously exhaled the breaths they were holding.

“Not so bad, huh? One more question…” Baker was looking at the damn black-and-red crayon drawing. He tapped it, hoping the question wouldn’t be too strange. “What’s this? Which one of you is ‘Myles’?”

The kid right next to him raised his hand. “That’s me. And the drawing…” Myles hesitated and just sighed. Shook his head.

“If it sounds crazy, that’s okay.” Baker was the one holding his breath now.

Myles, for the first time, looked Baker right in the eye. He knows something, doesn’t he?

“It’s a monster I saw in a dream,” Myles said.

Baker’s breath audibly quickened. The other two kids looked confused. Why did that bother him? He acted like it was a real problem.

“Really? What happened in the dream?”

“What do you mean?”

Officer Baker knew it’d be strange to press for information about some kid’s dream. “Nothing, just curious. Remember, fellas: I’ll be taking a stroll down Beck’s Bridge later to see how well you guys cleaned up.” He put both hands on the table and rose. “Have a good summer.” And left the boys to their two medium cokes.

The Astronomers biked back to Pretty’s house and snatched one trash bag from under the kitchen sink. Then they headed to the creek. From Deedle Dee Diner and the creek, they’d been complaining about how they got caught and how next year would be different if there was a Tradition next year. They started cleaning up paper on the left side first. It was easier to access and it looked like there were more papers here anyway.

They didn’t talk much at first, but then Langley asked a question:

“What was that thing that you drew, Myles? And why did you draw it and why was the cop asking about it?”

Myles sighed. The Astronomy Club knew everything about him, but not about the dreams. “I saw that thing in a dream a few times.” He kept picking up papers.

Pretty found that strange. “Alright, so you saw this in a dream and decided to draw it. Why?”

“Man, I don’t know,” Myles said. Thinking about it made him scared, so he did his best not to think or talk about it, aside from when he drew it. “Maybe it’s the same monster that bit off Mariah’s finger.”

“Oh, boy, I hope it eats my ass next,” Langley said.

Myles and Pretty started giggling uncontrollably until Pretty said. “Any reason why the cop found it so interesting?”

“I don’t know. Maybe because it was the thing that they thought killed all of those kids at the Bushkill Massacre at one point,” Myles said. He didn’t really realize what he had said until after. And it just seemed right. That was what happened.

“Someone thought that a monster killed all of those kids?” Langley said, scoffing.

“Yeah.” Myles’ short answer ended the conversation.

They continued picking up paper until the bag was about to break under the weight of the wet mass inside.

Later that evening, Baker made his way to the bridge, off-duty. He was wearing a white button-down with rolled up sleeves. His gut used to be a case of chiseled abdominals, but now it resembled a slowly-swelling pancake: flat for now, but threatening to inflate if he wasn’t careful. The kids had cleaned up the creek nicely. Looked brand new. Even the water seemed happier, bubbling over rocks like it was fresh from a spring.

Baker headed home to dinner. Turkish meatballs, spinach salad and lemonade (made by his wonderful children, Tyler (fifteen years old), Marshall (twelve years old) and Trinity (nine years old). They greeted him at the door to tell him about the day’s events.

The first day of summer was mostly slept through by Tyler; he’d had an eventful night last night filled with fireworks and apparently a bit of parkour.

Marshall spent his day at the Municipal Park near the stream with his younger sister and their Mother. Trinity had caught her first water-strider and Marshall had built a crude bridge out of twigs, rocks and pine needles and didn’t know what to do with himself now. But usually his father had interesting things to talk about from the police force. He loved to hear what his dad would say about things that needed to be fixed, or why the prison system was horrible. Problems could be interesting especially when they were around a dinner table and not in a classroom. He wished his school asked and discussed questions like these.

“Marshall, do you know Beau Lewis… the Langleys… I forget the other kid. Wilson?” Baker asked. Those boys he’d talked to were about Marshall’s age.

“Yeah, I know Beau. He hangs out with Langley and Myles. Myles Willis.” Marshall welcomed his father with a hug.

“That’s the name,” Baker said, snapping his fingers. “Willis.”

“They’re the Astronomy Club apparently. Why’d you want to know about them?” Marshall asked.

Baker considered how to answer his son. Because when I first joined the force, a whole slew of highschoolers were slaughtered in the woods and the witnesses said it was a big, hulking monster who was responsible. And I saw a drawing or it today.

“Bushkill Massacre,” Baker said. He’d told his children about that event years ago. He didn’t enjoy talking about it, but it was an important part of history. It was the reason the locals here had lived here either since the beginning of time, or about twenty years ago when over two-hundred people decided to move away.

Marshall knew what his father was talking about. “What’s that got to do with those guys?”

Baker realized he’d backed himself into a bit of a corner. “Uh,”

Marshall remembered the last time they’d talked about the Bushkill Massacre, when Marshall was about eight or nine. He remembered his father saying a lot of the files and reports, the notes and sketches from that event were almost burned by the sheriff of that time, before he quit. Important documents, lost. So Officer Baker had taken them into his own possession and legally had to give them up if he ever lost his badge, but for now they were in the attic awaiting further orders.

The attic. Marshall had thought about going through those files a long time ago. He’d wanted to explore the attic, but hadn’t found a compelling enough reason. But here was one right now: what did the Bushkill Massacre have to do with his classmates?

“Well,” Baker started and brushed his mustache with his fingers. “The Willis kid lives on that street now. And I found some of his school papers littered in Beck’s Creek. It just reminded me of that event.” Not the police sketches resembling some alien with muscles big enough to beat Rocky in one round. Not the mangled bodies like an ax-murderer and a homicidal maniac with a chainsaw agreed on a collaborative project to shred some highschoolers in the middle of the woods. Not because different people gave almost exact accounts and descriptions of what happened and nobody believed them. Not because the Willis kid is living on that same street that all of those people died and is now drawing pictures of the same monster we drew up all those years ago. Nosirreebob.

“Oh,” Marshall said. He wanted to get into the attic now, but it would have to be tomorrow. Tyler would be gone. Trinity and Mom were going to the Library to drop all the books off and get new ones. Usually, Marshall would go, but he had enough books to hold him over until next time. He’d probably go outside and bike somewhere. The sun‘ll do me good, he thought and grinned. He sounded like his mom.

I might see some dead people in those files. There was something alluring about that thought which made him feel mature. These were serious things he would be able to see, things that weren’t for little kids. And anything that put him further from a little kid felt like a step in the right direction. Yeah, it felt a little messed up, but before God he wasn’t crazy. Just curious.

Marshall Baker had waited until all the members of his family had left the house to open the attic. It was a foreign place like a separate dimension of his house you could travel to if you took a ladder up. The attic was up in the hallway and had a cord with a ring hanging several feet above his head. He could almost reach it if he jumped, but he knew that wasn’t the safe way to open the attic. He reluctantly hauled a chair out of Tyler’s room and was able to reach the ring when he stood on the chair. The ladder’s first stage of unraveling came down like a chunk. Then he carefully unfolded it into an accessible steep staircase.

He walked up the ladder carefully and popped his head up into the attic’s darkness. He felt around in the air for the light’s string. Found it. Tugged it. Clink.

Boxes and dust. The whole expanse had settled well. It was resting, peaceful. Boxes, decorations, his dad’s old telescope, a lot of the books they didn’t read anymore for some reason, and his mom’s ‘hope chest’ that she kept even after she got married; her wedding dress was in there along with aged photos that looked like they were dipped in coffee and sundried. All of the sleds and snow stuff and shovels were all in the other attic above the garage. Marshall was sure the files on the Bushkill Massacre would be up here if they were in either attic.

Marshall shoved some of the dusty boxes aside and inspected the stacks of lidded boxes behind that. A lot of them were homeowner’s papers, but the box on top that was different from all the other’s was labeled Bushkill, May 18th, 1978.

Bingo, sir. That’s five in a row, come and collect your prize up front!

Marshall pulled the box to the floor and removed the lid. There were all the files you’d find in official documents all stacked neatly inside. Most of them were stuffed with papers, sketches, reports, documentation, statements, and photos. Old polaroids and big photos that were developed in a darkroom. The ones that got dipped in water and then the image surfaced on the paper. He opened up the file and was met with a mess of photos taken in the dark with the flash.

Bodies with chests torn open, guts spilling out. “Oh,” Marshall said as he stomached the images. He’d only seen two dead bodies in his life and he hadn’t known the people who inhabited them. Both were neatly laid in caskets, eyes closed, flowers in their white hands or in a corsage on their chest, gently lying down. But these images scarred him: bright red for some of the images, but others had been developed in black and white because they were for the newspapers. Nosy reporters. These bodies were freshly slain, a field of restless corpses. Teenagers that were full of life not a few hours before these images were taken. That was what unsettled Marshall.

He moved the photos carefully and looked deeper into the stack of files. What if I visited it? Wouldn’t that be interesting? In the name of exploration he would see this historic site.

He found some official statements. Some of them were on microtapes. Longer statements were recorded at the station, but these on paper were handwritten and in broken sentences. Fragments to carry over the essence of the message.

Marshall deducted the words into coherent phrases and sentences. 

There was a house and a monster. This happened several hundred feet into the woods. Or miles? Shrieks were heard and Brent Butterfield was throwing a big party in the house. Then the shrieks and the party broke up and everyone scattered.

“Whoa,” Marshall said. His dad never mentioned a House. Marshall flipped to the next page. It was a sketch of a house. Old-timey thing with a pointed roof, boarded windows, and a bony countenance. Eerie; so this is the house?

Why did he never hear about a house? And was it out there now? Was it important? And what was the monster?

Marshall flipped to the next page. Another statement. This one had a great deal to do about the monster.

It was dark and muscled. Heavy. Solid and had no eyes. Just a bony head. And BIG teeth. Made for prying and slicing, ripping, but not chewing. Too big to even close its mouth.

Marshall wanted to see a sketch of this. He flipped the page. The description of this animal made it sound like something from a monster movie. Unreal. That was what it sounded like. The next paper had another statement, but Marshall didn’t read it. He flipped to more of the sketches.

And there it was. Unlike what Marshall imagined. This beast looked awesome. “Sick.” There was a date up in the corner. May 18th, 1978. And names. Sketch artist: Harold Jamison and Interviewee: Chase Thrush. Along with some other information.

Marshall felt he needed to go and see this house, like it pertained to him. Like a photographer calling his name next for the school yearbook. Marshall Baker, your turn to check out the house, please. We’re waiting. With a thrilling shudder, he closed the file, photos, statements, sketches and all, and kept it out as he placed the box back where it was. He was going to see that house. It was raining today; that’d make a humid day tomorrow. Better go early tomorrow then. Once again, before God, he wasn’t loony, he was curious. And pretty fucking bored.