Written by Christopher Van Dyke –

“I think he left us,” I said, hopping from foot to foot. The wind curled around our legs and lifted the hood of my younger brother’s jacket, flapping it about like a flaccid appendage.

“Naw,” said Todd without so much as turning my way, “It’s just taking him awhile to find a way in.”

The dark angles and sharp corners of Winton Manor sat squarely in front of us. So grand and rich even in its dilapidated state, the face of the massive home stared us down in our thin, ill-fitting clothes. It seemed to sneer.

Winton Manor rested within walking distance of the one stoplight in the tiny town I still considered home. A leftover memento of someone’s (A Winton I would guess) misguided notion that my hometown might actually support such grandeur. It was an imposing structure in a town rife with mediocrity. It may be that the guy just wanted a really big house. Either way, at that moment, we stood ready to break into it.

We were near the end of a week-long visit and by the weekend we would have to fly back to Oregon. Though we had lived west for almost two years, this little town still felt like where I belonged. It was home, despite three thousand miles, my mother’s misguided determination, a low rent boyfriend, and a German Shepard named Reno with hip issues.

With no idea how long I would be standing there waiting, I reflected on the Manor. It had been empty for as long as any child’s memory I had ever come across. That, coupled with the fact that all our parents forbade us to even cross its lawn, was all the proof I needed that it was haunted.

Before our move west, numerous afternoons had been spent sitting in my cousin’s back yard as our best friend John shared stories about the manor. Tales passed to him by one of his many older brothers. Inside our fort, a slap-dash structure made of lumber propped against the chain link fence that split their back yards, he captivated us.

Though privy to information from three adventurous older brothers, John tended to choose from his brother Stan’s catalog. Stan’s stories always seemed to have the most meat. It may have been Stan’s mastery of “pop wheelies” or his recent habit of calling girls “chicks,” but some magical combination made him seem very mature to me. This, seemingly, was all the credibility I needed to swallow those stories whole.

Crammed cross-legged, knees touching and tiny butts planted firmly in the dirt, my cousin Scott, John, and I would first appraise our fortress for chinks large enough to allow the outside world in. Only after much debate that nothing more needed to be drug from the tumbledown barn we pilfered our building materials from, would John begin.

“So, Stan told me he snuck out late so he could be there right at midnight and…”
“Midnight?! How did he stay up until midnight?” I asked completely floored by the thought.
“He’s ten!” John said with more than a touch of incredulity in his voice. “That’s what ten-year-old’s get to do.”
Whoah!” both Scott and I exclaimed as we turned to each other wide-eyed.
Having no older brothers made knowing the scope of possible future shenanigans difficult. This lack of guidance made social blunders with John impossible to avoid sometimes.

“So anyway, he was there at midnight and was in the back part of the yard. Ya know that part with all the big creepy bushes?” We both nodded. “Well, he said he was crawling through there on his belly so no one would see him…”
“Who is gonna see him?” Scott interrupted.
Good point, I thought to myself, nodding in agreement.

I had learned early on to follow Scott’s lead on many issues. Just that week he had further solidified his reputation as someone crafty when he pulled off a very successful “smell my finger” maneuver on his mother. Though he paid a heavy price, his reward included my steadfast loyalty that stands to this day.

“Whatever’s in there!” John stated hotly. “Do you guys wanna know what happened or not?” Though smaller than both of us and generally slick with a glistening glob of truly magnificent snot, John was no one to mess with and we both knew it.

“Yes, yes, yes!” we exclaimed in unison with exaggerated nods and promises to just listen.
“Alright,” he said, eyeing us skeptically as if wondering if we were worthy of the information. We squirmed under his steely gaze as he took his time appraising our sincerity. Breaking eye contact to swipe at his upper lip, leaving a shiny snail trail the length of his forearm in the process, he continued.

“So, he’s in the bushes crawling closer and closer to the manor when he hears this really…loud….howl. Aooooooooooooooooo!!!!” he parodied the unholy noise as our tiny pocket of the world vibrated with his strong and clear voice.

I shuddered as a cold chill raced down my spine. Though I sat safely tucked inside our little haven, baking under the noonday sun, I had to fight the urge to run. Steadfast, I allowed all this delicious horror to wash over me, bathing me in second hand adventure. I could almost feel the wet grass on my own belly as I imagined Stan lying there shaking after hearing such a horrid sound. How his breath must have caught short, his eyes darting about in the pressing darkness wondering what could possibly be in that backyard with him.

As if in answer to my imaginings, John stated with all the authority he could muster, “He said he knew it was a werewolf.” With a slow sweep of his head he looked each of us dead in the eye, daring a challenge.

“Really! No way! Did he see it?!” The words tumbled out of us, unable to keep our vow of silence in the face of such news.

A single raised eyebrow from John stopped us dead. “If the werewolf saw him,” John drew the words out slowly, with exaggerated facial expressions, as if talking to the Clarkson twins. (A pair so dull a popular neighborhood pass time involved riling up the Clarksons, then convincing them the only solution was fighting it out between themselves. It was akin to throwing crawdads in a mason jar and shaking them…but much more satisfying.)
“He would be torn to pieces…and then eaten…and then pooped out …and then be a ghost.”

Scott and I turned and looked at each other, mouths agape, not sure if we should be offended or wildly amused. Seconds later we broke into gales of laughter at the idea of Stan being pooped out. The thought of a red haired, pumpkin-faced turd cruising the streets on his bike and catcalling all the girls was just too much.

“A poop ghost!” Scott yelled out. His comedic timing served to drag us into increasing whoops of laughter. Pinching our noses and waving our hands as if fending off a very potent fart soon followed.

Now standing in front of the manor, I had mixed emotions thinking back on these stories. I generally took comfort from that time in my life but these old tales left me feeling creeped out. I no longer believed in werewolves, but that did not make standing right where I had once imagined one a butt-load of fun. I found myself wishing Scott were here. Thinking that a good laugh would help the cause, prompted me to try to wring some fun from Todd.

Adopting my best game show voice, I turned and said, “For a million dollars! Ya think our trailer would fit on that front porch?”
“I dunno,” he said quickly and with very little interest. I watched as his shadow that snaked up the steps shrug with as little enthusiasm as his voice had displayed.

“Come on,” I said taking on my normal voice, “Do you think it would fit? I mean look at it. It’s huge and our trailer sucks. Ya know, small and stuff. I bet if it were sitting right!”…

“That’s dumb,” said Todd, interrupting me. “How can I guess? How can you know? How are we gonna ever know?” He shot all this out quickly giving me no time to answer.

As soon as he finished I stated “I don’t know!” feeling the rush of rejection make me hot and angry. “It’s just a stupid game. Better than standing here like morons waiting…and I do think he left us, dork!”

I stared straight ahead feeling more angry than I knew I should. Of course, that was the way things went with Todd and I now. It could be something little, like him not playing along in a game, or something he had nothing to do with, like my being bullied at school. Regardless of the source, the end result was me simmering in a low grade state of pissiness that tended to be aimed directly at him.

Fuming, I glimpsed a freakishly long version of his arm lash out at me. Broken into angles by the steps, I watched as my brother’s shadow planted a punch squarely on my taller, thinner, and wispier shadow’s shoulder. Being more solid than I, the punch rocked me on my feet. Reeling, I just managed to keep from stepping off the flagstone and into the tall, unkempt grass. Turning towards him, while rubbing my shoulder, I took a quick step in his direction and whisper shouted, “Hey, you little jerk!”

Todd turned on me, holding his ground, and proclaimed, “HE DID NOT LEAVE US HERE!” Each word got louder and more forceful, as if trying to convince a crowd and not just me.

“Quiet down!” I hissed just as another gust of wind scurried up his back, fingered his hood and flipped it over his shoulder. It sat there flapping at me like a big tongue blowing raspberries. Taking inspiration, I lunged for the offending hood and yanked hard, pulling it and half of his coat over his head. In one decisive, and majorly dicky move, I managed to turn what was supposed to be a covert operation into a minor circus act.

Surprised by my attack and knowing I had the advantage, Todd stepped toward me and swung both arms wildly trying to land another punch. Muffled grunts and bursts of “Leggo!” and “Stop it!’ wafted from the pinched opening of his coat as he flailed about to little affect.

I knew from my run ins with bullies, there were few positions that could wreck a kid’s day faster. Bent in half and being drug around while thinking, “My butt crack must be showing!” does nothing for one’s social standing. Include the smell of hot garbage swirling about the shell of your jacket, which is of course your own nasty-a*s breath, and you are almost there. Finally, add that it always seemed to happen when the cutest girl in the class is around to witness it. Playground trauma in its purest form.

Though lacking any pretty 5th graders to see his rosy a*s cheeks, I was sure that Todd’s tooth brush stayed dry as often as mine. I knew that if nothing else, his atmosphere would sour quickly. Holding him like a sack of dirty laundry with legs, I spun him in erratic circles about the flagstone. I was happily trading concerns of stealth for the unadulterated joy of sibling torture.

In full glory of my coup and drunk on power I laughed loudly as I let our orbit expand, allowing his backside to drift through the dry husk of some very scratchy looking shrubbery.

“Hey! Oww! AAAARRRRGGGHHHHH!” he yelped out. This really should have been enough of a victory for me but was not. Lately I found I was fueled by way too much mean to have a good bearing on when enough was enough with Todd.

After two solid tours through the brittle and dusty shrubs, either through exhaustion or a change in tactics, Todd’s upper body suddenly went limp. The act of relaxing his arms, which was all that ever held him captive, allowed his escape. He popped from the bottom of his coat as if it were a saggy cannon and he the hot, sweaty and very pissed cannon ball. I, of course, was the trigger man.

My forced gyrations along with the surprise of suddenly being set free sent him reeling backwards, past the edge of the flagstone and into the tall, clingy grass. Stumbling and pinwheeling his arms he lost the battle to stay up and landed hard on his bottom. Being a fickle mistress, the momentum that freed him continued her push and carried his legs up over his head. It was as if his butt was intent on star gazing. Since his pants were a size too big for him it almost got the chance.

Adding to my victory I yelled out “There’s your crack! I see your butt crack!” and danced about pointing and jeering.

“Jerk!” he yelled as he unfolded himself. Leaping to his feet while tugging his waistband home he started towards me.

Trembling with rage, sweat trickling down his forehead, his curly hair plastered to one side of his head and sticking about wildly on the other, he stormed the flagstone. It was rare to get Todd really pissed, though when the right buttons were pushed it was quite spectacular. Generally sweet and gentile, when antagonized to the point that Todd’s eyes turned red it was not uncommon for him to tip into berserker territory. When he was in this state, I really didn’t have a prayer. Looking at him now, I knew the best tactic revolved heavily around retreat.

Turning to take cover behind one of the bushes I had just skillfully used to cause Todd’s backside minor trauma, I heard a sharp “Hey!” from the shadows. A shot across our bow that stopped our momentum cold.

It was a call that I knew well. This sharp and distinctive shout was one used for decades by my grandfather to gather his sheep down from the upper fields. A bark filled with so much authority it could freeze a playground full of frolicking children. It was a sound that those who were meant to follow it, found very difficult to ignore.

We stood in silence as our father stepped from the shadows near the corner of the house. He emerged with his long hair wild and bristling, seeming to glow in the cold light of the moon. Then, as if hearing the crack of our own personal starting gun, we began trying to tie blame to the other for the last few minutes.

Standing there glaring, he said, “Guys! What are you doing!?!” Cutting all our excuses short.

I sensed retribution marching towards me as a rush of adrenaline raced through my body. Casting my eyes at the ground I could not even get satisfaction from Todd digging dead leaves from his underwear. Like my grandpa’s sheep we trundled towards our father, heads bowed, waiting to find out how much trouble we might be in.

As Todd crossed the stretch of unshorn grass to get where my dad stood, he looked up at him and asked just what I had been thinking, “Does this mean we can’t go in the house?”

Dad laughed. “No. Come on. I unlocked the back door instead.