Free Dead Reflections by Carol Weekes Page A

she said. “I’m a bit scared, but you’ll be there. And your parents, right?”
    “Yeah.”
    “It should be okay then. I’ll come over tomorrow morning.”
    “Okay. I’ll see you then.”
    He got on his bike and rode away, feeling excitement at having made a friend, but unease over her stories. Before he left the vicinity of her house, he looked over his shoulder and saw Gina’s mother standing behind a set of sheer curtains, watching him go.

 
Chapter 13
    Cory rode his bike over to the barn. It was empty, his father back inside the house. He glimpsed at the old wooden ladder leading up to the barn’s loft. Its rails were thick, but uneven. A person would have to grip the sides and hang on as they rose up to the loft that sat at least eight feet above the barn floor. Miss one rung and it would be easy to slip, your hands coming loose in a moment of panic.
    He set his bike against the wall and approached the ladder. He reached out with one hand to touch it. The wood felt warm, dry, and splintery in spots. Cory gave the ladder a shake. It didn’t budge; it was anchored to the barn floor, and thick bolts secured it to the edge of the loft. He saw chunks of hay spilling over the loft and sunlight trailing through a dusty window. Cory pushed himself onto the first rung. He didn’t think his parents would care if he explored here. The rung felt solid; he jumped a little, still feeling safe. It held firm. He relaxed and brought his opposite foot up to the second rung, then the third. Now four feet up from the barn floor, his stomach turned at the prospect of falling. Distance winked at him, the floor cool and dark, promising that, should he plummet, he’d be guaranteed a good bruising, if not a sprain or broken bone. Six more rungs waited. He took another step up and wondered where on this ladder the man had slipped. Cory stared at the floor, looking for any signs of old dried blood.
    Finally, he reached the edge of the loft and peeked over, his mouth open with anticipation, wondering what he might find up here: the face of the dead man waiting for him, grinning his dead skull grin, asking him if he, Cory, might like a game of checkers? He thought of Jeffrey again and wondered if the man could somehow sneak into his parents’ house?
    “Stupid,” he said. “Her stories are getting to you.” Gina. He hauled himself to the loft and stepped away from the edge. The barn’s ceiling sat several feet above his head. He walked to the milky window and peered out. He could see fields and woods from a new angle here. Bales of dusty hay leaned against the far corner. It could be a neat place. He turned to walk back to the ladder and stopped, a scream formed in his throat.
    A thin man, balding, his skull and flesh broken along the left side from cheekbone to temple, brain matter and blood leaking down that side of his face, observed him.
    “Hello, Cory,” the man said. “It’s a long way down.” Then he blinked out of sight.
    Cory felt the scream lodge against his tongue, thick and salty, refusing to budge. He couldn’t breathe. When he did finally open his mouth, all that came out of him was a loud ‘puh’ noise, the release of held oxygen, his fright so extreme that he could barely inhale. He stared at the top of the ladder, afraid to go near it and peek over the edge, lest the bleeding dead man pop up again from below like some decomposing Jack-in-the-box. His thoughts rolled over. He couldn’t stay here. He had to look. He had to see what might be there.
    “Mister?” he called out to the man. It’s a long way down. Would he have seen the guy if Gina had never mentioned anything about death and ghosts to him? He must have imagined it, but it had looked very, very real.
    Silence; warm, pressing as humidity built with the day. Cory counted to three, then forced himself to walk to the edge of the loft and peer at the barn floor almost ten feet below, waiting for the dead man to be sprawled there, arms and legs