2015TR

TUSCARORA REVIEW 2016

2016 TUSCARORA REVIEW

will somehow make a decision easier. Children are naturally curious. It amazes me

that he pays no attention to the local specters and gains no attention from them.

He impulsively grabs unsalted sourdough pretzel sticks and silently pays with a

five-dollar dill as wrinkled as Mrs. Stewart’s face leering at me from behind him.

Prize in hand, he runs out, a clunk of elbow against the door and shoes slapping

across the street. He didn’t even look both ways. He has glasses specifically so he

can see and ignored all the danger. It’s like I said, kids aren’t right in the head at all.

I continue work in thoughts of concern for that stranger. I can’t help but let

out a cackle, startling all the ghosts in

the process and making them zoom to

levitate five feet higher, when I realize

he knew my name because he read my

nametag. My name is Enoch Apperson.

Enoch is Biblical, like locusts with the

faces of women, the teeth of lions,

the wings of a thousand marching horses

and scorpion stingers. This is to say

it’s Biblical, but nobody recognizes it

as Biblical.

My drive home is longer than it should

be. My drives are supposed to be a time

to vent and lose stress. A crash caused me to sit and wait in a line of traffic born

from the joyous fun of rubbernecking, something everyone in front of me felt was

needed. Big deal, a Honda hit a buggy. It happens. Should I lose part of my life

because you idiots decide to satiate curiosity? Children are naturally curious. They

are learning. Adults should be done with it. It’s practically the trial for manhood,

being able to deal with the unknown as the known. It’s just about the only lesson

my father got around to teaching me.

He had a mesmerizing deep voice and bushy beard. He was reading me a

bedtime story as someone with fatherly love ought to.

“We can help, we can help! They ALL helped the duck who got stuck in the

muck.” His fingers twiddled at the corner, teasing for the next page.

“And he got out, right?” I asked, the trusting chirp of innocence.

RIIIIP

“The end. It’s best you don’t know more,” he rumbled.

“But Pop, there’s more!” I was sitting up. I needed to know about the duck. He

closed his eyes and sighed. He gently pushed me down and tucked me in.

“Goodnight, Enoch.” I got a kiss on the forehead and a cold shoulder. He

crumpled the pages as he left the room.

None of the books in my home library had final pages. The black-hearted man

had even torn the important promises in all four Gospels out of the house Bible.

My mom kept the tradition going. She forbade any final book in a series in the

house. I swear she intentionally had me take out the trash to miss, with malicious

timing, the ending of any show I was watching. By the time I was moved out and

able to freely access the unknown conclusions, my curiosity and lust for wholeness

were dead. I understood the lesson: don’t wonder about the lives of ghosts you

see. I think my father saw them too. Some family legacy to fall into.

I get home with nothing but time to waste until Saturday. I had a bad dream

last night; that means some ghost spent the night nearby. It’s likely an older ghost

aged longer than the person it haunted as those ghosts tend to be vagabonds

wandering place to place without anything recognizable from their living life.

I open my pantry door and marvel at my arsenal of GDWs: ghost defense

weaponry. In all honesty, it’s actually a stockpile of various brands of table salt

and a bright-yellow super soaker named BLASTO, fully loaded with imported

seawater. Ghosts cannot handle salt in large doses. The salt on pretzels is why

they tend to linger at work. An overdose makes them burst; I think it might have

something to do with the salt of the earth resonating with their unearthly souls.

If a ghost is residing nearby I’ll play it safe. BLASTO gets a temporary home on

my nightstand.

My phone buzzes.

COMPTROLLER STIX: hey man pls tell me you r free 2nite

He knows I hate it when he uses the wrong “you’re.”

Bzzzzz!

COMPTROLLER STIX: SParkleslsss!!!!!

He also knows I love a good American firework display.

One soup, 0.41 gallons of gas, fourteen saltines, and 6.7 hours later, I arrive

at the home of Ellis Stiks. He inherited the small farm when he was only sixteen.

In the six years following his uncle’s death the acres have turned into grass and

weeds. His inheritance stands two stories tall, a blue facing staring north, slanted

eyes from broken shutters, red lips from poorly chosen paint, and holds a lonely

white porch in a hand of brambles. I knock on the stupid red door half a dozen

times before Ellis opens it.

He stands at a mighty five foot five. He’s wearing that hat again, a black

cap with

I INTERCOURSE

plastered on the front. His fearsome might is

exacerbated by his slim build, pale skin, and stupid greeting grin.

“What can I do ya for, Sir?” Calling me Sir like he wants to play a game; stupid

grin staring at me like the snickers from tourists reading his hat.

“Very little, I’m afraid. I’ll need to speak to the man of the house. Is your father

home?” His grin bleeds out and I get a light punch on the shoulder.

“Too far, man. You’re a shitty friend.” We both know he doesn’t mean it but

it is kinda true. I haven’t told him about ghosts. I haven’t ever let my guard down

around him. I think he’s predictable—but not trustworthy. I avoid telling him about

anything that actually impacts me. Maybe that’s why we’re still friends.

We fritter the evening away. Pointless conversation, a beer each, and

anticipation for tonight’s show. Illegal fireworks always seem a burst brighter. As

dusk establishes, we set up in the east field. We’ve decided to go a bit before

dark because of the looming leer of new clouds. I hate rainstorms. I’d have

known it would rain tonight if I had paid any attention to the news. It’s not my

fault it was boring, drilling into my headache this morning. It’s that damn ghost’s

fault. Then I see it. The horizon. A cloud looks down on me like Big Brother. Its

“

He stands at a mighty

five foot five. He’s

wearing that hat again,

a black cap with

I INTERCOURSE

plastered on the front.

”