1959: Revelation

Sliding off the threadbare bench seat of the rusty truck, I drop down to the ground. Directly into a muddy puddle, which blends into the dark gravel of the road, in the fading evening light.  The pointy, dainty, footwear I have on is not meant for this terrain.

Shaking the brown muck off my tan leather heel, the only pair my family owns, I take in the establishment in front of me, with apprehension. 

The most prominent feature is a bright orange cloth banner, with “Fear Factory” hand painted in bulbous black letters.  I’m not sure if the shaky definition of the text is meant to evoke anxiety, or is simply a product of poor brush technique.

With night approaching, supplemental illumination is provided by a long string of large, white, bulbs, mounted along the eaves of the barn’s roof.  One lengthy section is dark, likely on account of an electrical short in this portion of the chain. 

These are clearly repurposed Christmas lights, a common practice here, where incomes are low, and resources limited.  My own parents currently have their decorative strand strung up in a similar manner via staples, around the collection of pallets which comprise the deck of our shanty home.  Later this winter, this cord will be brought inside, and wrapped around our artificial Christmas tree.

Sandwiched here at the corner of Alabama, Tennessee, and Mississippi, life is hard.  In this rural area, with sparse roads, and few amenities, I hardly notice when I cross state lines. Right now, I’m pretty sure I’m in Mississippi, on a welcome adventure with a member of the varsity football team.  Not from my high school, of course.

He’s cute, old enough to drive, and has his own means of transportation.  There are limited options for entertainment out here in the boondocks, so I didn’t require much convincing.  Especially considering his muscular physique.

With our segregated schools, I’m just happy to enjoy time with any boy other than the 5 brothers I’ve grown up with, in a two-bedroom house, a generous term for our dilapidated shed.  There isn’t a lot of interaction between blacks and whites in these parts.  As a result, I’m trying to be on my best behavior.  And wearing my best outfit.  Hence the muddy high heel.

Still, I find the idea of a haunted house absurd.  At my age, having just turned 15, I’m savvy enough to realize that the various characters which parents make up for their children’s entertainment are not real.  The Tooth Fairy.  Santa Claus.  Ghosts.  I wonder what visage they plan to conjure up here.

Considering the disrepair of the clapboard siding, and the general lean of the building, the hastily applied decorations are akin to slapping lipstick on a pig.  A quaint saying, but something that actually happens down here in the Tennessee River Valley.  There are some interesting folks living in these parts.

I’m guessing the scariest activity of the evening will be entering this structure, which looks like it could topple over at any moment. 

Trailing behind my boy toy, who is shorter than me, despite being a starting linebacker, I approach the old barn with a mix of apprehension and intrigue.  Us ladies tend to mature quicker than our male counterparts, both physically and mentally.

I’m wearing my finest dress, one of only two that I own.  It’s goldenrod yellow, and the closest outfit I have to the orange shade which personifies this Halloween holiday.  Plus, I like how the vivid color radiates, contrasting my dark skin, and accentuating my ever-evolving curves.  Granted, none of those subtle elements of beauty matter in this dim light.

Reaching what I assume is the entrance, my date empties his denim pockets, depositing an array of dingy coins into the tall mason jar.  The first few metal discs rattle around in the empty glass, with the collection of pennies, nickels, and dimes, finally covering the bottom, thereby dampening the tinny sound.  That assorted haul should cover our 50 cent per person entry fee, as denoted by scrawling hand, on an index card, which is pinned underneath the clear vessel. 

Apparently, this operation is utilizing the honor system.   Makes sense, considering it’s the same method we use to purchase sweet corn, eggs, and fire wood, in these parts.

Following a janky, painted, red arrow, lit by an ancient oil lantern, which could easily send the entire place up in flames if it tipped over, we move forward.

15 minutes later, I’m decidedly underwhelmed.  This curated exhibition has been quite boring thus far.  In fact, curated is a very generous term. 

The first station, laid out in a long space which used to house chickens, based on the lingering smell, and abundance of feathers, is quite predictable.  Various metal tubs, covered by a black cloth, with slots cut in the top. 

Reaching in blindly, I’m able to quickly identify the various “human cadaver” remains: grapes coated in oil, dry pieces of knobby wood with the bark stripped off, overcooked spaghetti in ice cold water, abstractly cubed Jell-O, which is undoubtably staining my recently manicured fingernails.

All my earlier feelings of apprehension have dissipated, though I still glance skyward from time to time, making sure the rotting, arched, roof isn’t about to collapse down on us.  At the end of this first challenge, my right hand is sticky and discolored.  My mind is clean and clear.  Very spooky indeed.

The fact that we’re the only visitors to this establishment, on Halloween night, should have been a harbinger of the product’s quality.  However, my counterpart and I are too old to dress up in goofy costumes, and too young to sneak into the local dive bar, or at least the same saloon, considering our racial misalignment. 

As rebel teenagers in the most boring southern town on earth, our destination this evening is obligatory.  Hopefully, the proprietors can drum up more entertainment than a few old tubs of food.  Otherwise, we’ll just have to make out in the truck, then head home.  Which would be fine with me.

Moving into the back of the barn, the ambient light transitions from dim to bleak.  I perceive, from both the building’s external shape, and the hint of breeze in the air, that this is a large, loosely enclosed, space.  However, with the poor visibility, my depth perception is unable to establish any walls, beside the door we just passed through to enter this expansive chamber.

My date moves forward, producing a bandana seemingly out of nowhere, from beneath his tight-fitting shirt. 

“No eyes,” he says, pointing towards a piece of paper, light by a dim candle, on the packed dirt, which I missed upon my entrance to the space.  Fortunately, this flame is sufficiently distanced from the dry hay which seems prevalent throughout this barn.

As my partner approaches, my eyes fixate on his taunt frame; tense, powerful, muscles moving under thin, cotton, fabric.  I yield to my inhibitions.  If this is a trick, I welcome the excitement. This adventure has been decidedly dull thus far.

Standing tall and stoic, I accept the warm cloth as it engulfs my face, throwing my eyes into complete darkness.  With a gentle slap on my dress clad butt, I’m sent on my way.

It was difficult to navigate before, but now I’m essentially blind, wandering aimlessly.  At least the exhilaration level is kicking up a notch.  I can feel my heart beating, rapid and strong.  Goosebumps materialize on my exposed arms.  It’s unclear if these are generated due to the brisk evening wind, or an instinctual fight or flight reaction.

Maybe I should have brought my white lace shawl.  It’s been unseasonably warm for fall in the Southeast these past few weeks, so I left this covering in the truck.  Based on the chills I’m experiencing, I’m starting to reconsider this decision.  Too late to turn back now.

Without vision, I’ll have to rely on my other senses. My ears perk up, on account of a piercing shriek, which I chalk up to a startled crow fleeing from the rafters above.  Good riddance. 

Unscathed, I move forward, running my left hand along what I assume is the wall of the barn.  It’s rough boards, intermittently placed, impart several tiny splinters into the delicate flesh of my palm.  I flinch instinctively in pain, but press on.

Eventually, I meet a new obstacle, this one directly in front of me.  Probing hesitantly with my arms; I determine the barrier is flexible.  Definitely not a solid exterior wall.  Pushing onward, the front of my body feels a slight resistance, wispy touches on my legs, torso, and arms.  Likely a bedsheet, sliced up to create a more natural feel.  Still, the odd reside left by the fabric on my bare skin sparks my intrigue.

Passing through this minor encumbrance, I pause to take in the situation, blinded as I am. Based on the increased whistle of the wind, it feels like I’m now back outside, or at least in an expansive, open, section of the barn. 

Within seconds, a pungent aroma hits my nose.  I’ve smelled manure many times at my grandparent’s farm, and my brothers fart constantly in the tight quarters at home, but this is different.  More pungent.  More tactile.  More repulsive.  I can almost taste it.

Scrunching up my nose to keep out the nauseating odor, I shuffle forward on the uneven ground, which has transitioned from packed earth to soft soil.  After a few feet, the pointed toe of my delicate shoe hits something.  The object yields slightly to my soft kick.  Definitely not a wall, but there’s something obstructing my path.

I bend down carefully, trying to avoid having my light-colored dress meet the inevitably dirty ground.  My right hand eventually finds something.  The mass in front of me is unexpectedly soft, and squishy.  It’s not dissimilar to the tubs at the beginning of this charade, but more complex in texture, as if all the bins were combined into one jumbled mess.  Very curious.

Suddenly, a blinding light hits my retinas, piercing through even the thick, coarse, cloth of the blindfold.  The colors flash, white, then red, then blue, is a strobing pattern. 

Blood pulsing in my veins, I’m unable to stand the tension any more.  I tear off the eye covering, and jerk my head around wildly, searching for the boy who brought me to this creepy place.

It takes me a minute to resolve the situation, as my watery, blurred, eyes slowly adjust to normal functioning again.  This visual assessment explains much of my sensory interactions over the past few minutes.

I correctly predicted now being outside.  The exterior wall of the barn on my left has faded away.  The entire back of the structure is rotted away, leaving the roof cantilevered out precariously above me. Plastic sheeting, hung off the unstable rafters in slit sections, explains the flimsy barrier I passed through.

Looking down, I see my now muddy high heel has stubbed itself into an inanimate object.  Now inanimate, that is.

The organic mass in front of me is nearly unrecognizable.  Still, there are a few identifying features.  Most stark and obvious is a toothy grim, reflecting in the moonlight; this shimmering orb has apparently taken over the sky while I lingered inside.  Its ghostly white glow reveals thin, boney, appendages, several positioned at disjointed, awkward, angles.  And long, tangled, locks for hair, potentially dirty blonde in life, but now just plain dirty.

My mesmerized gaze moves to the clothing the girl is wearing.  Tall black leather boots, tattered jean shorts, and a stretchy white tank top.  All articles are streaked with what I initially assume to be the same mud which covers most of this back yard.  However, upon closed inspection, the splotches are a dark burgundy, as opposed to the drab brown of the soil. 

Most terrifying is the torso of body, below the short belly shirt.  Here a large gash has exposed the innards, a jumbled mess of tissue, muscle, and bone.  This is the cavity that I blindly stuck my hand in just seconds ago, as confirmed by the wet slime which covers my carefully painted fingernails. 

The shriek of a bird comes again, as if mocking me.  In the tree high above my position is not a crow, as I assumed, but instead a larger black mass.  A hulking vulture.   

Looking around the corner of the dilapidated building, the source of the flashing lights also becomes remarkably clear.  The strobing pulse of a police car’s rooftop light bar.  The colorful rays bounce off the cracked glass of the barn’s windows. 

Headed towards me is a policeman, a tall, muscular, individual, with a buzz cut.  An intimidating figure.

In one hand, he holds a night stick in a neutral position, not menacing, but not relaxed.  In the other hand is a piece of cloth.  As he moves nearer, I realize it’s an article of clothing. A fine lace shawl.  Though once bright white, it now has several of the same dark blemishes as the poor girl’s body, the shredded plastic tarp, and, looking down, now my yellow dress.

I look past the officer to the gravel road.  The rusty pick-up truck is no longer there.  I drop my head, focusing at the muddy ground, as opposed to the adjacent corpse.  As a black girl out here in the country on Halloween night with a white corpse, and all manner of incriminating evidence, there’s no way I’m going to explain my way out of this situation.

1979: Restriction

This trailer is a dump.  However, it’s all I can afford.  Being on modified house arrest, with an unfavorable resumé at best, my employment options are decidedly limited.

I settle in on the dingy couch with my TV dinner, lukewarm fried chicken, lumpy mashed potatoes, and shriveled corn kernels.  This swill is a tiny step up from my prison days.  I often find it hard to muster up an appetite for food, after working in the industry all day.  But I need to eat something.

Looking around my shabby surroundings, my mind inevitably drifts back a few decades, as it always does when I’m not actively forcing the fateful memories away.   

The corpse turned out to be a cheerleader, just starting her senior year, who lived on the good side of the tracks, with aspirations of attending college at Vanderbilt.  A tragedy, and true sob story, which united the affluent portion of the community in anger.  Against the poor black minority residents.  Specifically, myself.

Even I will admit, there was no shortage of evidence implicating me at the scene.  My distinct heel prints in the soft mud next to the body.  My dress, and hands, stained dark with the girl’s blood.  My shawl, similarly soiled, was somehow found out by the road, which suggested transport of the body, and potentially even premeditation.  To this day, I’m still not sure how my framer pulled that off, though he did have several minutes while I was wandering around the barn in blindfolded oblivion.

Most importantly, my physical presence at the remote location when the officer arrived, apparently following up on an anonymous tip which was phoned in a few hours earlier.  I wonder who could have made that call?

The trial was quick, the result inevitable.  The tires on the truck of the boy who planted me at the scene were non-descript, a common size and tread in the rural Southeast.  The outcome came down to the honest word of a 17-year-old high school football star, whose father was well-known businessman in the area, against the hysterical rantings of a black girl, who lived in a shack down by the river.

Though there was no clear motive, it was easy for the prosecution to make one up.  Revenge.  Jealousy. Disillusionment.  Sure, any of those feelings would be easy for the majority white jury to latch onto.  A jury of my peers indeed.

I can still hear the judge’s voice ringing through the courtroom as he called out the 2nd degree murder verdict, and the 20-year sentence that came with it.

Due to my age, not yet 16 when I was found guilty, I initially went to a low security juvenile facility in Memphis.  However, my behavior there was not stellar, on account of my anger regarding the whole event.

As a punishment for my failure to shape up, I was transferred to the more serious Tennessee Prison for Women outside of Nashville, when it opened in 1966.  Housing a variety of offenders, my single murder rap sheet was simply a middle of the pack past.

It was a tough 9 years, but I navigated the various politics which are inevitable when a bunch of scheming female criminals are put together in a confined space, with few activities to occupy their body or mind.  However, on account of not getting into any more trouble than most, my sentence was shorted, and I was released to half a decade of parole.

That encumbrance is finally winding down, with less than 6 months to go.  Every day, I think back to how I ended up in this dire situation, a combination of unfortunate timing, bad luck, and poor representation.  The past 5 years have not been pleasant.  In fact, some days I wish I was back in prison; at least there a meal and a bed were always available.

The very public trial and resulting verdict, not only effected my life, but that of my entire family.  My father lost his job at the Pickwick Landing Dam hydroelectric plant, and my mother was constantly accosted any time she ventured into town to do errands.  Both my parents passed away before I got out of prison, well before their 50th years on earth.  Life is hard in the Deep South.

I’m still in touch with two on my brothers, one of whom visited me regularly at the jail.  This monthly socialization was the lone beacon of light which got me through the hard times.  After being let out, I lived with him for the first few months, before I was able to find my footing again in the real world.

Since then, I’ve bounced around various shelters and homes, finally landing this trailer, the only structure I can afford on my fast-food restaurant worker salary.  Everything in this place, my clothes, my furniture, my hair, smells like the fryer oil.  And cigarettes.  Another terrible habit I picked up in prison, which I have been unable to kick.  I definitely don’t have any disposable income to feed this addiction, yet it persists.

As I push the soggy food around on the disposable plate, rather than eating it, the doorbell rings.

How is a woman supposed to get any down time around these slums?  Slamming the plastic tray down on the flimsy particleboard coffee table, I rise, fuming.  I still have trouble controlling my temper, even 20 years after the unfortunate series of events.

I made the obligatory nightly phone call to my parole office half an hour ago, so that shouldn’t be the issue.

I open the trailer door so aggressively that the mesh screen separates from the frame, hanging loose on rusty hinges.  I’m renting this place, so could care less.

The steamy heat of the evening hits me immediately.  I can’t afford an air conditioner, or the electricity to power it, but at least keeping the place sealed repels the mosquitoes. 

Adjusting to the blast of humidity on my face, my eyes take over as the dominant perceptive function.  Peering out the grimy screen, I’m initially confused.  There’s no one outside, at least not at my level.  My gaze tracks lower and left, towards where the button which caused the disturbance.  Considering all the crap that doesn’t work in this dump, how is this buzzer still functional?

Peering back at me are a menagerie of children.  Or superheroes, based on their garb.

Catwoman and Batman, their signature black masks and caps revealing their personas, with dark t-shirts and shorts against dark skin completing these menial costumes.  Next to them is Shera, easily recognizable, as she is one of the idols of my own troubled youth. 

But it’s the last small visage that touches a nerve.  A scrawny lad in torn overalls, and a threadbare flannel shirt.  Despite the fading light, I can see all his clothing, as well as his straw hat, and oversized shoes, are covered with dark splotches.  Red, oily, stains.  Blood.     

I’ve seen my fair share of pranks in juvey, but this is a new one.  Instinctively, I recoil, assuming there is some further trick or scheme coming.

The lanky farmer zombie, clearly the leader of the group, moves forward.

Just as I’m about to reach for the rusty golf club I keep next to the door for protection, I decide to take one more look at the surroundings before engaging.  I’ve scrapped with many trailer trash gangs in my day, and won’t hesitate to defend myself, but for some reason this situation feels different.

The pair of mammal-based saviors of humanity are holding small, black plastic, garbage bags, which were previously hidden against their noire outfits.  The warrior princess, who’s intimidating cardboard sword caught my attention earlier, also carries a clear Tupperware disc.  Full of cupcakes. 

The former creepy farmer’s pose is the most telling.  His intimidating approach with an unidentifiable, heavy, round, object, melts into an unassuming, friendly, shape.  A bright orange pumpkin.   

My reserved guard slowly mellows.

Leaning forward, the boy offers up the gourd.  As he presents it to me, I notice the pumpkin is not virgin, but carved.

The confusion finally resolves, multiple clues condensing to a single focal point, on this humid fall evening at the end of October.  It’s Halloween.

For the past two decades since that fateful day, I have completely ignored the existence of this children’s classic.  While I could have still been classified as a girl when I was arrested, there are no fond memories of trick-or-treating adventures, in homemade costumes, to reference in my memory banks.

All I can think about on this holiday, or any day really, is that poor high school girl, lying on her back in the mud.  Murdered.

But now, there’s a new generation of kids appearing here at my home.  Life goes on, one generation giving way to the next.     

The adolescent farmer sets the crafted jack-o-lantern down on my crumbling stoop, and Shera offers up a cupcake, which I begrudgingly accept.  I don’t have anything to give these children in return, except for a vote of encouragement on their costume creativity.  As my lips take up the arched curvature of happiness, I realize how long it’s been since I’ve smiled.  

Maybe there is still some good in this world.  I can’t live an existence of remorse and self-loathing forever.  I need to get my life back, no matter the cost.  If one Halloween evening can throw my entire world into turmoil, then who’s to say a single day in the future can’t be used as a catalyst to right this ship.

 1999: Redemption

I watch as the rusty, wood panel, station wagon bumps slowly along the pothole-filled road, eventually coming to a stop at the edge of the original driveway, which has now become overrun with grass and weeds. 

Three children pile out from the rear bench seat.  In the fading dusk, it’s hard to get a good look at the driver, aside from a general sense of a bulky frame, capped by a bald head, which glints in the interior dome bulb.  The car’s headlights turn off as the operator puts the vehicle in park.  Seconds later, the telltale dark grey smoke, and associated harsh aroma, of a cigarette wafts up from the open window.  At least I’ve finally kicked that disgusting habit.

My gaze turns to the kids, who are rapidly approaching me, thus allowing more insight into their features.  The oldest and youngest are both boys, one a teenager, the other seemingly still working the baby fat off his flabby, pale, cheeks.  Both are stocky, bordering on obese; this physique makes their motion more of a waddle than a walk. 

The middle child is a female.  Though almost as tall as the larger boy, she’s rail thin, with bodily features which show she’s caught somewhere between a girl and a woman.  Her skin is caramel colored, which catches me by surprise for a second, before my calculating mind processes this fact as inevitable.  That confirms any lingering suspicions about infidelity.  I wouldn’t expect anything less from her father.   

The children approach my position, taking in the surroundings as they move forward. 

Several carved pumpkins, illuminated with tea candles, lead the way to my stationary, standing, position.  Above me, I know there’s a plastic banner, black background with “Horror House” text in thin, jagged, white, letters.  This is the spookiest looking font they had in their limited repertoire at the hardware store, where I had it printed.  Hopefully, the signage appears legitimate enough to convince these young’uns.

The older of the chubby boys in the first to reach me, despite his clumsy gait.  In lieu of verbal communication, I simply hold up my wrinkled, black, hand, extending all 5 boney fingers.  The sequence of expressions which flash across this child’s pudgy face is priceless: starting with confusion, then slowly transitioning to revelation, which prompts further thought, ending in capitulated worry. 

The wheels are turning pretty slowly up in that brain.  Apparently, the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.

By now, his siblings have caught up, their eager looks flitting back and forth between their brother and me, clad entirely in dark, loose-fitting, fabric.  The boy digs a hand into the pocket of his worn blue jeans, thrashing around awkwardly, and eventually extracts a crumpled green wad.  Flattening the paper between his thick palms, he extends the currency sheepishly.  It’s a $10 bill.

Time for a little showmanship.  I point to each child in order, extending a shaking finger, as if I’m counting.  Holding up three digits close to the boy’s face, I wait for a response.  He simply shrugs, and extends the 10 dollars out further.  Apparently, he’s tapped out.

With seeming exacerbation, I snatch the note, and motion aggressively towards the barn door with my extended arm, the extra folds of fabric billowing out like a bat wing.  The frame of the opening is covered with a string of orange twinkle lights, powered by AA batteries, again courtesy of the local hardware shop.  The three youths shuffle off quickly towards it, happy to separate themselves from the creepy old witch lady.

The heavy wooden door slides on rusty wheels, requiring all three kids combined weight to open it, and squeaking loudly in protest throughout the process.  The darkness beyond prompts hesitation, as I figured it might.  I move towards the opening, simultaneously extracting a small flashlight from a hidden back pouch of my flowing, black, dress. 

Holding the cylinder in front of my chest, pointed upward, I press the button to illuminate the lamp.  The bright light shoots out vertically, casting long shadows on the recesses of my wrinkled face, while most of the rays dissipate skywards.

I nod my head from left to right, with a slow, methodic cadence, the tall pointy black hat I’m wearing bobbing to and fro.  The meaning is eventually realized, by the girl.  At least she still has a few functioning brain cells.  She leans on the door, but it doesn’t start to move until her skeptical brothers join in on the task.

Through the narrowing gap, I pass the flashlight to the youngest child.  We’ll see how long he gets to command the power.

As soon as the barn access closes, with a loud thud, my entire posture and demeanor change.  Stepping forward rapidly, I flip the sturdy metal plate over onto the lopped ring. Taking the witch’s cap off, I extract the padlock which is taped to the inside of the fabric. 

Confident the barricade is secure, I discard the hat, and rush all the way around to the back of the barn, where an old wooden ladder is leaning against the weather board and batten siding.  Within a minute, despite my aging frame, I’ve climbed to the desired perch.

I timed this operation out earlier today, and feel like I just executed the procedure even faster than my trials.

Ever since I realized my sister-in-law, married to the only sibling I’m still in contact with, had an old farm in her family, I’ve been scheming up this plan.  The property turned out to be in the extreme northwest corner of Alabama, where the Tennessee River briefly defines the state’s border with Mississippi.  My initial drive-by revealed a dilapidated structure, on minimal acreage, miles from any town.  Perfect for my intended purposes. 

The lower floor of the small barn is divided into two rooms.  The front third, which was formerly used for equipment storage, is completely walled off from the rear portion, which served as the stable ages ago.

The second floor, apparently designed as a hayloft, has a low, sloping, ceiling, mimicking the gambrel roof, and most importantly, covers the entire footprint of the building.  However, the floor of this upper area is spotty at best. 

As a result, I’ve decided to only walk on the wide, hand-hewn, beam, which runs the full length of the loft.  This structural feature is much sturdier than the rotting, sporadic, floorboards, and its central placement also provides the tallest ceiling clearance. 

Knowing I would be moving around up here in relative darkness, earlier today, I strung a stout hemp rope, fairly taut at waist height, above the beam.  This line now serves as both a guide for direction, and aid for stability, as I work my way from the moonlight square of the rear loft opening, to the darker front section of the attic.

While the missing floorboards increase the danger up here, they offer the means of observation that I desire.  Reaching my spy perch over the forward section of the barn, I peer thought an accommodating gap, confident my dark skin, and darker outfit, will help avoid detection. 

The trio of children have not made it far.  Just as I hoped.  Between the poor visibility, and the unfamiliar space, they are moving at a glacial pace; exploring their surroundings in a tight cluster.  Also, as anticipated, the eldest had taken control of the flashlight.

The first act, laid out in this room, is meant to help the children relax, and let down their guard, albeit briefly.  It mimics my own original haunted house experience: holes cut in a black sheet, which provides access to hidden plastic tubs of items meant to instill maximum creepiness.  Considering how deeply that fateful evening is seared into my mind, the effect wasn’t hard to replicate. 

The three children I’m watching aren’t here by accident.  I’ve spent years determining the location, and researching the trajectory, of these kids.  The oldest is 15, the same age I was when my life fell apart.  The youngest is 7, naïve and malleable.

The connection between these 3 adolescents is that they all have the same father.  A person who was extremely influential, albeit detrimentaly, to my own existence.  Figures, for his 3rd marriage, he chose a woman over a decade his junior.  I have no idea how many offspring he actually has; these were just the easiest ones to track down locally.  

Luring them in required some cleverly placed mailbox flyers, though I was always skeptical that they would actually show up this evening.  It turns out lady luck is with me.  For once.

Below, the kids are sticking their arms in blindly, emitting various exclamations of surprise and disgust, as they explore the tubs.  Watching closely, my body feels the same tingling sensations it did during that memorable fall night four decades ago.  Hopefully, the events which transpire this evening will prove much more fruitful.

10 minutes later, the children have become bored with their probing, and start wandering around the space, looking for additional entertainment activities.  Eventually, they find the narrow door leading to the back of the barn, the larger stable space. 

To entice them, I’ve scrawled, “ENTER AT YOUR OWN RISK!”, in bright silver paint marker, on the rough wood.  There’s some indistinguishable chatter within the group, then the girl grips the wobbly knob, and gives it a turn.  The door swings inward silently, on freshly oiled hinges.

They are taking the plunge.  Time for the fun to begin.

Moving stealthily, I work back along the beam towards the ladder.  I need to get in position for the next phase of this scheme.  The main attraction.

I’ve spent the past week getting the barn organized for this stunt.  Fortunately, I was able to utilize all of the junk already on this abandoned property.  There was no shortage of rotting boards, rusty machinery, and moldy hay bales, to work with.  Starting with the existing barriers which defined the four stalls, I moved other objects around to create an impromptu, random, maze. 

It was hard work for a 55-year-old, with a frail frame, but I was well motivated.

Several times during the assembly process, I ascended the ladder, using the convenient bird’s eye view, to predict how a child would travel through this makeshift labyrinth. 

Where I couldn’t find a sufficient salvaged item, I hung one of the many canvas drop cloths I purchased, using twine wrapped around the magnitude of nails, hooks, and staples protruding from the walls of this shoddily constructed building.

The final touch was the fun part.  Taking a can of red paint, complete with metallic reflective flake, I splattered it sporadically on the floor, the walls, the obstacles, and even the ceiling, using a coated rag, rather than an actual brush. 

The painting process was exhilarating, and the results striking.  In the daylight, the stable looked like a slaughterhouse.  At night, under limited, focused, light, I’m sure the experience will be compelling.  Time to find out. 

My elevated location provides me with a perfect observation point.  There are plenty of open gaps on both sides of the beam, so traversing allows me to monitor the progress of the crew through the gauntlet.

The door my prey just passed through is along one of the exterior walls, the furthest possible distance from my central viewing position.  Still, I can see the bob of the flashlight bouncing off the walls, moving slowly forward.  I know they are navigating along a hallway, created by tattered blue tarps, which narrows to a choke point at the back corner of the barn.

Time for some sensory stimulation. 

During my years of boredom in the prison library, I spent countless hours learning how human perception works. The research was initially meant to help understand, and heal, my own traumatic experience as a teenager.  My main learning proved to be that the brain is a complex and unique organ, with each person absorbing and processing stimuli differently. 

It took me two decades to overcome my fear of all things Halloween related, now I’ve spent the last 20 years plotting my revenge.  In this case, I’m trying to achieve a sensation of sheer terror, regardless of how these young, simple, minds operate.  

Reaching down, I press play on an old school discman, acquired from the local thrift store.  Immediately, random bird noises, selected from a CD I found at the county library, are piped into the space below, emanating from a few well-spaced speakers, connected via the old electronic device’s auxiliary port.

The response below is rapid, the flashlight beam tracking an owl, raven, or hawk, in various corners of the large room.  So far, so good.

Next comes the tactile engagement.  I initiate two large fans, usually reserved as a replacement for air conditioning at my small, perpetually steamy, home.  Behind both are cheap foam coolers full of ice, with the tops off, allowing cold air to be draw into circulation.  Reaching out with either arm, I can toss tiny plastic confetti particulates into each fan, providing additional physical stimulation. 

Inundated with snowy precipitation from above, the children have now moved to the center of the room.  This means they’ve navigated a large wheelbarrow on its side, a pyramid of mushy straw, and two firmly gated dead ends, constructed from vertically oriented pallets. 

Finally, odors are infused into the cave.  Granted, the barn didn’t smell great before, but the two plastic buckets of literal shit, manure dug up from the pile out back, then thinned to a slurry with liquid fish fertilizer, will kick the atmosphere up a notch.  It’s a decidedly rank concoction; an aroma that’s impossible to place, even as it sears the nostrils.

It takes a second after I toss each deposit off the beam for the pungent odor to rise. However, on the barn floor below, activity is much more chaotic, no doubt a combination of the surprise, splashing, and stench.

Lastly, and most climactically, comes the light show.  This is my most carefully constructed item.  A powerful LED shop light is hung from the rafters by a chain. Attached to the lens is a radial filter, made from cardboard and colored tissue paper. 

I spin the filter, press the button to engage the powerful bulb, then give the suspended illumination a mighty shove.  Slashing strobes of white, red, and blue, rein down from the heavens.  After a few minutes, the random, swinging, path will naturally mellow.

However, right now, the increased illumination allows the red, sloppy, streaks to be revealed to all barn occupants.  As the children on the ground floor fixate on the raw, uninhabited, environment that they have been deposited into, I focus on their reaction, rather than the barn’s decorations.  I can see the fright on each individual’s face.

No one else is up here in the loft to see my reaction.  But I can feel a massive smile taking shape, based on my stretched cheeks, and my silent, internal, chuckling.

I can’t bring myself to cause physical harm to children, even if they are the offspring of my arch enemy, who ruined my life.  However, I have no qualms about emotionally scaring them beyond repair.  I deserve at least that satisfaction, as a means of revenge.

Gratified, I carefully descend the ladder back to the safety of the muddy earth.  Instead of returning to the front of the lot, I instead walk away from the road, towards the now fully moonlight field.  My escape plan is located this way.

Traversing the back yard, I angle towards the snarled hedgerow of brambles and shrubs. Pushing through this thick barrier, I use the half-moon, and a low hum, to navigate.  In front of me is the rusty bed of a pick-up truck, atop which sits rumbling generator, covered by a wool moving blanket, to disguise both sound and sight. 

I spend an enjoyable 5 minutes, feet swinging off the truck bed, sans tailgate, the engine pulsing my legs, and the beer warming my belly.  Content, I reach back and flip the switch to power down the generator, thus turning off the various features of my funhouse.

I unplug the thick extension cord, and toss the end into the weeds, along with my beer bottle.   

Climbing up into the cab of my beat-up truck, I put the transmission in neutral, leaving the lights off, and let the vehicle coast gently down the sloping, rutted, track, typically reserved for tractors.  A few hundred feet later, the trail flattens as it passes through a tree line, which marks the property border. 

Convinced I’m far enough away that the noise and light won’t be detected, I fire up the ancient diesel engine, and slowly traverse the edge of the neighbor’s field, the headlights bouncing due to the rugged trail.

I have no idea how long it will take the kid’s father to get worried, and come looking for his brood.  Based on my limited knowledge of his character, any empathetic actions may take a while.  Or maybe the frightened children will find a loose section of siding they can escape through.  The rotting barn is by no means a secure fortress.

This entire process feels like satisfying redemption.  I should probably feel bad for these young children, but they need to learn some day.  Today may as well be that day.  What goes around, comes around.

I don’t owe these young troublemakers anything.  In fact, they owe me.  At least their daddy does.  10 years at a minimum.  But I’ll settle for 10 minutes.  Of pure, unadulterated, terror.