IS

It wasn’t until I stumbled onto the solid path that I finally looked back to see what, if anything, was behind me. I raised my phone, but the light was gone. My phone, and the small bit of security that it gave, was dead to me now. I slid it back into my front pocket and stood still, trying to adjust my eyes to the darkness before moving down my Yellow Brick Road. Only I wasn’t off to see the Wizard—I was trying my best just to avoid his pasty ass, and get mine back home!

Just then, a strong breeze blew past me. I was able to see a faint trickle of moonlight peer through the trees and down onto the path. Nature’s night light was back. The breeze felt good, but with it came a faint and familiar stench as well. It was the nauseating, rotting stench that I knew to be his calling card; a smell that always preceded him, and seemed to adequately suit his appearance. Only, I had no desire to see his appearance again.

I swiftly began to move down the path, away from the river, and towards the humanity that I badly missed. The moon would leave and reappear inadvertently with the movement of clouds passing through, as my head continued to throb and my stomach turned, painfully progressing even further down the path, and closer to getting myself out of the unfortunate predicament I had gotten myself into… again!

When, up ahead, maybe twenty yards or so, I saw what looked to be a small fox sitting patiently on the path. I stopped moving and watched him for several seconds, when he began an eerie bark. A sound I recognized. A sound I had heard many late nights, or early mornings, in the field behind our house. If you closed your eyes, you would swear it sounded like a woman in distress. I slowly and cautiously crouched on the path for the moment to admire him—when a predator of much greater size pounced on him from nowhere, rolling and fighting. Its cry was silenced to the sickening sound of tearing flesh and snapping bones.

I began to move backwards once the moonlight reappeared, and I was able to see the predator’s identity. The stench was now horrific as he continued to bite and tear at his prey, smiling his blood soaked smile in my direction, as if looking for some sort of approval to the show he had put on for me. As I sprinted down the path in the same direction I had just came, I could hear the sound of a fox cry in the distance behind me. All I could focus on at that moment was making it to the river. I had no real plan as to what I would do once I reached it, but I only knew I had to. As the distant cries became louder, I desperately tried to form some sort of a plan in my mind, while still in a heated run. Either I would jump as far as I could, and then swim the rest of the way across, or I would jump in and travel down with the current. Either way, it was a crap shoot, and I could only hope for the best. My lungs were starting to burn by the time I got within a hundred yards or so from the river, but I couldn’t stop now, I had to push through the pain–-just as I always do, just as he was probably expecting me to.

The clouds must have moved on, as I had the moon’s rays bleeding through the trees, and still lighting the way for me now that I was close enough to hear the rush of water just ahead. Every injury I had suffered over the past few days were now screaming at me as I heard one last bark, or cry, just before pushing off the bank and vaulting though the air, crashing down into the cold, moving current of water around me. When I first went under, I felt a safe security of distance between myself and the horror I was escaping from. A sense that, if I was able to stay there, everything would be okay.

I just held my breath with closed eyes and let the undertow be in command. My body passed through small debris and over smooth algae covered rocks. My decision was obvious and unpretentious, as I was now at the mercy of a powerful flowing embodiment, existing in a quiet dreamlike state below the surface, until my body could hold out no longer from taking in what it so desperately needed. My head surfaced and I gasped for air, frantically looking around while choking on the water I accidently took in with it.

The moon was now full and unblemished as my eyes explored both sides of the river, waiting and watching for anything. The air was quiet and uneventful as well, with not so much as a cry, a scream, and certainly not my own voice. In fact, I quietly prayed that the next time I heard my voice, it would be from my own lips. Surely that wasn’t asking too much… was it?

At first I wasn’t sure how far the river had taken me. Nothing looked familiar by the moonlight alone, and I couldn’t quite get my bearings—that is, until I saw the old Hoffman barn come into view. For as long as I could remember, this ancient and dilapidated building had been the center of urban legends and numerous accounts of superstitions, too many to recall.

I guessed that I must have traveled a quarter mile or so as I struggled to get myself over to the side of the river that at one time long ago had hosted a large dock for the convenience of waterway travelers. I grabbed on to one of the two remaining posts that had managed to survive many years past the dock’s destruction.

Rumor had it that a distraught and crazed woman, with the help of her eldest son, had returned back to the Hoffman property one night after the investigation of her younger son’s disappearance had been closed for lack of evidence connecting his disappearance to old man Hoffman and his barn. I guess she felt that destroying the dock would detour anyone further from stopping there, leaving him to his despicable and lonely life.

Even as a child, I was well aware of the legend of old man Hoffman. Everyone who knew him labeled him to be an evil man who hated children, a malevolent and wretched old soul who, in his younger days, had lost everything, including his wife at the hands of a few meddlesome young boys who had been playing with fire on his property. His barn was the only thing that survived the fire, which was where he continued to live right up until the day he died back in ’82.

He and his wife had, for whatever reason, never raised any children of their own. Stories told us that after her death he cursed the existence of them, claiming he would kill anyone, especially any children, who were caught on his property. They say his ghost still remains there today, guarding what is his from intruders.

But alas, this was merely one of the legends of the old Hoffman barn, the one I was told by my cousin, Danny. As I ventured up the embankment to get a closer and clearer view of what was left of the decrepit old structure, I was amazed that after all these years it still stood strong in the night, in defiance to anyone and everyone who wanted it torn down, not long after the old man’s death.

Closing my eyes, I could see myself and Danny as children, standing before the barn as he taunted me to go inside on a dare. Being that I was only nine, I remember feeling not only scared, but a strong feeling of sadness as well. This didn’t bother Danny as he continued to egg me on, making me feel inferior until I would eventually agree to do as he asked.

Danny wasn’t my favorite cousin. In fact, after he moved to Arizona with my aunt and uncle a year later, I hadn’t spoken to him in almost twenty years. But that day, as I slowly opened the side entrance door to the barn and walked inside, I will never forget the feeling I suffered in the pit of my stomach. Was I scared? Of course I was—I was nine! But even more so than that, I was overwhelmed with a dominating sense of sorrow. The sadness washed through me and watered my eyes. I glanced over to an old beaten-down bed frame at one corner, feeling the loneliness he must have felt. There were no pictures on the walls, and no obstacles of sentiment existing to remind him of better days gone by, at least not then. My guess is—there never were. A hardened soul like his probably shut off the world entirely, making him an angry recluse to a society that had continued to move on without him. That was what I felt as I stood center of the room. That was what I remember most.

I finished climbing the embankment and moved closer to the barn, which was much more frightening with only the glow of the moon to show me the way. Then all at once I stopped, reached deep into the front pocket of my wet and heavy jeans, and pulled out my cell phone, which had now become predominately a storage device for water. “Perfect!” I yelled, as I had to stop myself short of throwing it into the river.

I pushed it back into my jeans again, as I refocused my attention on the creepy old monument that had stood the test of time. Off in the distance behind me, somewhere further down the river, I heard a fox cry—distant enough that I would have at least a few minutes to visit an old friend. I moved for the door; the very same door I had entered through twenty seven years ago. And again, I felt sadness, as if the emotion had stayed there, waiting for me all these years, knowing that someday I would return.

There would be no guessing if the door was locked, since nothing more than a hole remained where there used to be a knob and lock set. Before I pushed it open to go inside, I looked up to what was left of a beautiful paneled French type window that was now missing most of its glass, surrendering the interior of the barn to outside elements. Just as the rest of the barn, small traces of paint still remained upon the weather torn and splintered frame.

I pressed against the feeble door, and was greeted by the squeak of rusted hinges; an unsettling and unexpected greeting, but a greeting nonetheless. I was hoping the moon would give me enough light through the window. My anxiety was kicked up a notch by the sound of yet another fox’s cry, still distant, but unrelenting to my nerves as I entered the musty space. The door swung closed behind me.

My attention was quickly drawn to the only focal point of the space. Sectioned beams of light filtered through the ancient paneled window frame, spilling onto a limited area of the wood planked flooring before me. Everything else around that area was outcast, consisting of dark shapes and my imagination. It took only seconds to feel my presence acknowledged, when out of the darkness across the room, a dim light blinked on.

It was the light to an old radio that most likely hadn’t been played in a very long time. I was only aware that it in fact was a radio when the song, “I Got You Babe” by Sonny and Cher filled the quiet darkness with a disturbing atmosphere that backed me up to the wall just below the window behind me, knocking over something that had been propped against it. The object fell with a loud metallic sound, as a gold aluminum softball bat rolled out into the moon’s rays at the center of the room, finally coming to a stop just at the light’s far edge.

“Fuck me!” I whispered to myself, when the radio fell silent, and I just stood there, dripping in quiet disbelief. I began to shake uncontrollably; partly with the cool air that was affecting my wet body, and also the result of the intensity of the moment. Slowly, I turned around and rose up on my toes, giving me just enough height to see up and over the bottom seal of the window.

My eyes widened and I held my breath at the sight of his white statuesque figure standing on the river bank, staring in my direction—staring at me. How fitting that I was in a barn, as this was beginning to look like my OK Corral! The characters had changed somewhat from the original story, but the epitome of a confrontation, just the same.

I looked back to my old gold friend again on the floor, which somehow had been transformed into whole again. This would have to be my defense once more and why not, when it was so effective the first time? My conscience was scolding me at my decision for having stopped here in the first place. I moved for the only weapon in sight. When I bent over to pick it up, I noticed my signature of blood, now dry and hard about the handle, solidifying the fact that this was indeed my bat.

But I watched him snap it in half like a toothpick, I thought to myself. And how the hell did it get all the way out here—and why? More unanswered questions I would have to add to the list of many. But for the moment, nothing was as important as the fact that he was just the other side of that door, possibly ready to bolt through at any second.

I picked up the bat and held it upright with both hands, giving myself a false sense of primal courage once again. And then I waited. And then waited some more.

I began to feel somewhat foolish, standing as if I were waiting for the right pitch to come my way. A small puddle of water began to form on the floor around my feet.

“Come on, you white son-of-a-bitch!” I finally screamed. I continued to shake, and my eyes traveled back and forth between the door and the window. The song started to play again, and as I turned in the direction of its origin, something passed in front of the window behind me, briefly blocking out the moonlight. The song gradually became louder, and then louder still until my nerves had been pushed to the very edge. Once more I screamed a warrior cry of battle and ran through the darkness towards the music, violently hammering at the box until nothing was left but my insane aggression, still pounding at the pieces, as my heart raced and my scream faltered to physical exhaustion.

What came next caught me off guard and opened a whole new spectrum of surprise, when the large chain and padlock that secured the two mammoth doors at the front of the barn exploded, releasing their bondage. They slowly and simultaneously began to swing outward, allowing the moon’s ambiance to gently fill the enormous space around me, bringing all the shadowy shapes to life before my eyes.

And then there was him. Just as the doors had reached their full extent, he slowly and cautiously began to move in my direction. At one point, when I made a move towards the side door, he stopped, raised his hands out in front of him and tilted his head, as if he was cautiously trying not to push the boundaries of a scared animal.

I stopped in my tracks before reaching the door, partly because I felt there would be no escaping him this time, but mostly, I think, it was because I was possibly as intrigued as he was. We both stood still with maybe twenty feet between us for what seemed like forever. He then blinked his large black eyes and smiled at me.

Somehow, this time, I didn’t feel overwhelmed with threat. Nothing had changed in his sinister appearance, but there seemed to be something different about him to me now. I was able to see past the physical fear and deeper inside to what I was too afraid to acknowledge before—that maybe as frightening as he appeared, I would now have to give other facets of possibilities a chance. At this point I had nothing to lose. I felt that with everything that I had been through up to this point…

…and then my train of thought was interrupted by the sound of Alley’s voice screaming in my head.

“Run Dad! Run now!”

My skin began to crawl with fearful indecision, as he continued to slowly approach me.

“Stop!” I yelled.

He not only did as I asked, but also began a slow retreat away from me, taking with him all of the answers I so desperately craved.

“Wait!” I yelled once more. He then stopped at the threshold of the two gargantuan doors and reared his head to me.

“I don’t understand. Who are you?” I asked.

“I am who I am to you,” he answered across the room—in my own voice, moving his repulsive stench towards me.

“That’s close enough!” I said, tightening my grip on the bat’s handle.

“I displease you,” he said, as the smile faded from his face.

“You disgust me!” I replied.

With that remark, he turned his eyes to the ground and tried to formulate a response. He looked concerned for not having an immediate reply, when he finally looked back to me and asked, “I should leave you?”

“I want answers, damn it!” I yelled. “Who the hell are you?”

“Your mind is not ready, Joshua,” he calmly replied.

“What does that mean? Why are you here, and how do you know who I am?” I replied, feeling as if I were missing insight to some point of grandeur.

“I have always been here,” he said, as he lifted his hands to speak again. “Joshua, look around you, look closely around you.”

With that comment, I began to explore the room as he’d asked. To my left, on an old wooden crate was a dated James Bond action figure similar to the one I had lost when I was seven. I remember crying myself to sleep over it. And right next to that was an authentic Swiss Army knife. I had gotten one just like it for my twelfth birthday. I could remember spending hours looking for it in a field after I had accidently dropped it while hiking with friends, one hot summer afternoon.

But it wasn’t until I looked around to find what was hanging from a single nail on a post that brought about an anxious feeling in my chest of nervous acceptance. It was an old baseball mitt, with the initials ‘J.S.’ written in dark green marker at the base of the thumb. Fairly neatly, too—at least as neat as what could be expected from a nine year old boy. I had left it outside one night, never to see it again… until now. I lifted it off the nail, and slid my left hand into its antique leathery smoothness.

“But how?” I started to ask, as I turned around to find myself alone. He had disappeared once again, leaving me to myself and several years of things I had lost, or that had disappeared throughout my childhood.

Maybe he was right. Maybe my mind wasn’t ready to accept any of this. But, I would still need answers regardless, if I was to keep hold of my sanity, the very same sanity I was sure to have lost so many experiences ago.

So amazing how truly resilient the human mind and body can be, I thought to myself. I was living proof of that. As I pulled off the glove and then knelt down to tie the waterlogged laces of my right shoe, the shadow of a figure fell across the floor in front of me. A figure now standing at the large entrance way.

I raised my line of sight to address him. “I thought you left?” I blurted out. He only tilted his head from one side to the other, curiously unresponsive to my question.

“What’s the matter–-cat got your tongue?” I again yelled out, as I began to feel even more uncomfortable than before, if that were at all possible. I cautiously reached for the bat that I had laid on the floor next to me, and slowly rose to my feet.

His face and body were shadowed with the moonlight at his back, and I began to feel a familiar sense of urgency creep through me as I raised the bat higher into the air with both hands tightly clamped around its handle.

His body language seemed to pick up on my gesture as an angry threat. He gradually began to move towards me, incautious and unwavering with each step that brought him closer, until I had practically backed myself up to the rear wall.

“What’s going on?” I yelled out, when he eventually moved into the light beams cast from the old window frame, and I could see his pale, blood stained face.

Something was all wrong—different. Even the putrid scent he emitted seemed somehow different to me. He turned his face directly into the moon’s rays, closing his eyes to bask in all its reverence.

I made the tiniest of attempts to move, and he turned to me and screamed a horrifying decibel of shrieking terror, taking on the facial similarities of an enraged white baboon. Then–-just as quick as the change of a human emotion, he turned away, and returned his white grimacing face to me again, dressed now with his eerie signature smile. But what of the smell? My nose still burned, and my stomach still turned, but to me there was definite change in the air.

My back stayed glued to the rear wall as I held the bat out in front of me, desperate for separation from this nightmare that was now only ten feet away. I was proud of what courage I had actually found within myself, when all at once, his smile changed again to a look of concern.

He turned to the open doors behind him, as if he were listening for something outside. And then he brought an extended index finger upward and across both lips. With one last discerning glance my way, he was gone—across the room, through the opening, and into the vast open spaces of night.

I slid down the wall, coming to rest on the wet seat of my jeans, hyperventilating with the event just passed. Even with everything that had happened since the night of the storm, I still found it difficult to process this.

“What the fuck just happened!” I yelled out, my voice echoing across the large, ancient room. Still holding tightly onto the bat, I glanced to my left and found myself staring into the eyes of a clown that was maybe three feet tall, sitting up with its back to the wall as well.

As a child of maybe five or six, I’m sure this doll was something I would have looked to for comfort and security; something I would have held dearly in the slumber of my warm bed. But now, the semblance it took on made me quiver. I sat there gazing at what looked to be a miniature, painted up version of what I had just encountered.

I reached out and pushed him over with the end of my bat.