In the event, we left things as they were and burned the journal. Clearly, if the ground contained remains that could eventually be uncovered, then it was best kept in the family. Sefton turfed over the herb garden, and we let the cottage to his brother-in-law, and then to a cousin. Neither stayed; both moving out soon after arrival, claiming the place was haunted and that they could not stay. Since then we have not even been able to get a local jobber to tend the gardens—word has spread, you see—and they have run wild; the cottage is fast going to ruin, though of course the chapel has remained in use and they keep their path clear. There you have it, gentlemen: the story of the skeletons that literally lurk in our family gardens, if not cupboard.
I had noticed that as Mr. Cummings concluded his narrative, Fr. O’Connor became fidgety and flushed. Now he looked decidedly uncomfortable and exchanged glances with the Rev. Timothy.
“It is embarrassing to say this, Mr. Cummings, and please don’t misunderstand me; I’m not quarrelling with your handling of this matter except in one respect. If they were indeed murdered, then I think you have wronged that couple by doing nothing.” (Rev. Timothy made noises of assent.)
Mr. Cummings looked surprised. “You think we should exhume them, Father?”
“My dear chap, whatever we do, we must at least ensure their rest. See here now, this is no time for sectarian differences; obviously I don’t expect you to share my very real belief in purgatory; but if there is a haunting, and I suppose there must be—from your experiences and from those who won’t stay there—then it’s due to one of two things surely? Either a ‘place memory:’ an emotional crisis recorded at that spot by the couple or your aunt; or else a genuine haunting and their spirits cannot rest. The unusual reason I have found for the latter is lack of proper burial and absolution.”
The old priest leaned forward and patted Mr. Cummings’ hand. “We will go to Longbury, you and I, and when it is dark, we will read the burial service over the ground, after praying for absolution of their sins, eh? If their poor bodies are not there; well, there’s no harm done. If they are buried there, then it may be that we can help them to gain the rest they are seeking.”
Mr. Cummings rose and held out his hand. “Thank you, Father O’Connor. I believe you are right and I should value your company and your help in righting my neglect.”
They duly went, and I can only report what Cummings said subsequently. The cottage has been refurbished and occupied without incident. The Wash House has been demolished and his nephew and family are happily installed.
MRS. HALFBOOGER’S BASEMENT
by Lawrence C. Connolly
Lawrence C. Connolly is another of the new writers in the science fiction/fantasy field who got a start in the pages of the patriarchal Amazing and the late Fantastic during the heroic struggle of former editor Elinor Mavor to keep the companion magazines afloat on a budget that wouldn’t feed a parking meter. Connolly’s fiction has also appeared in Twilight Zone Magazine, and a story he published there previous to “Mrs. Halfbooger’s Basement” was selected by Martin Greenberg for his upcoming anthology, 100 Great Fantasy Short-Short Stories. Connolly, who now lives in Pittsburgh, has worked as a newspaper reporter, print shop manager, folk singer, and studio musician. He is also a poet. When asked for biographical information, Connolly reports: “This is all quite a shock. I really thought I would grow up to be a folk singer. Maybe I would have if I hadn’t given it up a few years ago to write scary stories. My novel will be done any month now—at least, that’s what I keep telling myself.”
It was early summer. It was early night. And Mrs. Halfbooger hadn’t been out of the house in nearly a week, the group of nine-year-old boys noticed.
Buckeye was thinking seriously about going home when Max Swanson got the window open. Lanny Rosenberg looked at Max’s puffed cheeks, then up at the window, then back at Max. “Can’t you do any better?”
Max stopped straining against the window and looked down at Lanny like he was looking at a maggot. “Maybe you can do better, booger face.”
“Maybe I can but don’t want to.”
“Maybe I can come down there and break your nose.” Max was standing on an old 7-Up case that Buckeye had found lying by the creek. Buckeye had picked it up, figuring it was valuable, but Max had taken it from him. Max was one of the bad things that had entered Buckeye’s life since being thrown out of Mother of Christ Elementary School. If it hadn’t been for Max, Thomas Edison Elementary might have been heaven. Most of the new friends he’d met there were pretty wimpy, except for Max.
“Sure don’t look very wide, Max,” said Willy Haynek, standing on his toes to get a look at the open window.
Max gave another push. “I think it’s warped, or something.”
“Can you get through?” asked Lanny.
“What do I look like? A rail?”
“What about Sean?” asked Lanny. “I bet Sean could get through.”
Max smiled. “Hey, yeah.” He looked around. “Hey, Buckeye! What’re you doing over there, Buckeye?”
That was another thing Buckeye didn’t like about Max. Max called him Buckeye like it was something creepy, and it made him feel like a weirdo every time the fat kid said it. He was beginning to wish he’d never told anyone at Edison that his old friends had called him Buckeye.
Not that it mattered. Max went through life looking for things to pick on, and Buckeye, who’d had an accident with a garden rake a few years back, was an easy mark. It’s hard not to be obvious with a left eye that looks like a horse chestnut.
“Hey, Buckeye! You dreaming, or what? Get over here.”
“What?”
“You’re going inside,” said Max.
Buckeye looked at the tight space between window and window sill. The light was bad. The sun had gone down. The round summer moon wasn’t up yet. And there wasn’t much to see—a thin strip of darker shadow in the dusk-grey wall of old Mrs. Halfbooger’s house.
The house was an old thing with peeling wood and sagging gutters. And it leaned—though that wasn’t so noticeable up close. Up close it just looked old—almost as old as Mrs. Halfbooger, who was at least a hundred. You could tell she was a hundred by the way she walked. Mrs. Halfbooger was the stoopingest woman in West Fenton.
The four of them had been watching her nearly three weeks now, sitting across the creek, on a tree-covered hill almost as high as the one Mrs. Halfbooger lived on. They would sit in Lanny’s tree fort, drink Orange Crush, and fight over Buckeye’s telescope.
There wasn’t much to see. Her name was Eva Hofburger. Calling her Halfbooger had started as a joke. No one laughed at the joke anymore, but the name lingered out of habit.
She was fifteen years a widow and all her life lonely. Albert Hofburger had “lived away” for the better part of the marriage. They had no children. And all the boys ever got to see from their across-the-creek tree fort were the comings and goings of an old, empty-eyed woman. Sometimes she would return home carrying packages from Kiddy Mart. Other times she would go out an hour or so before dark and not return until after the boys had gone home…
But these were mysteries too mundane for nine-year-old boys looking to fill an empty summer. They watched her because the tree fort made it handy. They made her a witch because she was old.