Haint

                                                                      Haint
                                                                        By
                                                                    CrazyJay

         Long ago there was a town called Locust.  It was a small town spread out in a circle surrounded by farming fields and dry prairie.  The people of the town did what people do; they worked their work and lived their lives.  Most folks carried on like normal was supposed to.  And then there was Jeremiah Sloan. 
         Jeremiah loved to run and play in the streets and alleys and backyards of Locust.  Now this wouldn’t be abnormal for your average child, but Jeremiah was thirty-seven.  He grew up to the age of eight and never matured more than that afterward.  Some folks called him touched, some called him blessed and some, those with sharp tongues and hateful minds, called him stupid.  Jeremiah didn’t know about all the talk for he was just fine running and playing and laughing at everything or nothing at all.
         Jeremiah, tall and skinny in patched-up clothes made for his deceased father, lived with his aging mother in a clapboard house at the end of a winding lane.  Melodina Sloan cared for her special boy as best she could.  She encouraged his playfulness and kept him warm with hugs and homemade turnip stew.  The half-blind woman sung her son to sleep each night and awoke him each morn with a kiss on his waxy forehead. 
         She dressed him in her late husband’s clothes as she couldn’t afford new ones for her growing boy.  He grew and grew until he was the age of thirty and then grew some more until he was nearly seven and half feet tall.  He towered over the townsfolk when he stood upright; but most of the time he was bent over crooked at the spine as he hopped and played in the hanging laundry of his neighbors or bounded over fences around the playground.  His long arms jutted out of his buttoned sleeves; his large, long hands spent most of their time clapping or blowing kisses or grabbing this or that keep the merriment going.
         Jeremiah, with his goofy grin and hee-haw laugh, was ignored or overlooked by most of the townspeople.  He was just a nuisance that bothered only the sheets blowing in the wind or the cats trying to nap in the yard.  He was looked at as playful pest by most and kept at a distance for sanity’s sake.  Everyone mostly lived their lives and worked their work with Jeremiah running around giggling in the background.
         Everyone was fine with the way things were, everyone but the Balkersons. 
         Grumpy old Harvey Balkerson had two sons meaner than rattlesnake spit:  Lucas and Ronald.  Their mother ran off long ago to save her nerves from the ornery men of their house.  The patriarch Harvey was a large hitting and cussing and drinking man and his sons were bigger and dumber.  They loved mischief much like simple Jeremiah Sloan did, but their playfulness was hurtful and hateful.  They loved whipping dogs with hickory sticks or throwing rocks at children or smashing windows in parked autocars.  At twenty and twenty-two they loved to drink homemade wine and smash their empty jars in neighbors‘ yards.  Their meanness knew no bounds but their muddled brains saw all their mischief as good clean fun.  And their ignorant daddy saw no wrong in what his stupid children did or what damage they caused; as long as it was done to others‘ property, where was the harm?  Most folks were afraid of the Balkersons because they were big, dumb bullies. The town kept simple Jeremiah Sloan in the background but kept the terrorizing Balkersons in clear view because turning their backs on that lot meant trouble.
         And the Balkerson boys hated Jeremiah for sure.  They saw him as a dummy that went around having fun without a care in the world.  They hated him because his fun never ceased; he was always smiling and laughing and carrying on carefree in their town.  It angered them to see someone so happy when they themselves were never happy.  They tried many times to catch Jeremiah in a prank or a trap:  cover him up in paint or trip him in a mudhole.  But each trick only backfired and left the grimacing Balkerson boys covered in filth or bee-stings or bruises.  They’d return home bloodied or muddied; which always angered their already mad father and the whipping belt soon followed.
         Simple Jeremiah always saw the obese Lucas and Ronald as playmates of sorts.  He knew when they were around a game was being played.  He laughed and skipped and hopped as the two miscreants threw cans of paint or rocks or whatever was available at the skinny man-child.  Jeremiah pointed when they missed and cackled through jagged teeth as they tripped over their own boots chasing after him.  He always won the game the Balkersons played.
         One evening, after a severe beating by their father over torn pants and bruised skulls, the Balkerson boys plotted the ultimate revenge on Jeremiah Sloan.  They would get him once and for all the following night:  Hallowe’en night.
         Jeremiah loved Hallowe’en.  It was his night to play and run and scare the little children in the town.  The kids would see him coming in whatever costume his mother had sewn for him and run screaming and laughing as he tried to tag them.  They liked Jeremiah even though he was tall and weird.  He was their playmate no matter what their parents said about him.
         In years past Jeremiah had been a scarecrow and a wolf-man and a spaceman and even a caveman.  Some years he’d beeen a vampire or a mummy or a couple of times he was a green martian.  But his mother had a special surprise for him.  She had stitched together many of her favorite flour sacks turned inside-out.  For the coming Hallowe’en her boy was going to be a grand spook:  a regular haint from beyond the spirit world.  She showed Jeremiah his costume and after some explaining he understood and then hooted and did a flip.  He was so excited and happy to haunt the streets of Locust.
         He dressed in his costume right after breakfast on Hallowe’en morning.  He wore it the entire day around the house;  The loose-fitting cloth covered his long body from head to toe.  The white panels with brown stitching made him look like a crooked quilt but to him he was the spookiest ghost to ever walk the cemetery.  His mask was a single flour sack turned to the white side with two dark holes for him to see through.  On top was a flowing point that hung down the back of his head like a flag of truce from a battle long ago.  He had robe-like sleeves that hung past his hands and dangled at his sides and the gown portion of the suit covered him all the way to his big booted feet. 
         He was the best giggling ghost his momma ever did see.  She smiled at him as he skipped through the house and clapped when he yelled boo at all the mirrors on the walls.  She was happy to see her boy having fun but told him he couldn’t go outside until it was night because that’s when haints did most of their spooking.  Jeremiah danced around and then sat at the window waiting for the sun to go to sleep.

         As the sun was setting, Lucas Balkerson carried a bucket of kindling and his brother carried a can of petrol.  The two of them had minds full of malice.

         Hallowe’en night came and the children of the town went out into the streets of Locust in their sheets and capes and ribbons and painted faces.  They laughed and giggled as they collected treats from the good people of the town.  The village was so small that the little, festive monsters visited each and every house in the circle - except the Balkersons, a house where rocks (and sometimes bruises) were given instead of candies - and then made their way to the home of their absent playmate, Jeremiah Sloan.
         The lane to the Sloan shack was usually dimly lit and parents brought lanterns to light the way.  But that Hallowe’en there was a pale orange light illuminating the path;  a glow that grew brighter the closer the group of trick-or-treaters got to the house at the end of the road.  Soon the light was blinding and children started to scream as they and their parents saw a large fire burning and smoking where the Sloan house once stood.
         The local fire patrol was soon called to the scene but before any effort was made to douse the blaze the house had collapsed upon itself in a blackened heap.  The townsfolk, those who hadn’t escorted their little ones away from the horrific display, watched as the fire was battled by the heroic men of the fire station.  Sadly, their water ran out before the flames were extinguished and all had to watch as the home was reduced to a smoldering pile of ash.
         The local newspaper reporter arrived early the next morning and interviewed whatever stragglers and officials were still nosing around.  The house and all it contained were destroyed in the fire.  Cause unkown.  No bodies had been recovered but given the extent of the damage and duration of the fire, both the coroner and the fire chief agreed that this was not unusual.  Folks volunteered and searched the surrounding area for Old Lady Sloan and her addle-brained son but no one found the two and they were pronounced dead.
         A small obituary was printed in the newspaper and a box of ashes from the house were buried at the cemetery.  Folks donated for a simple stone that read “Melodina and Jeremiah Sloan” and the date of their demise.  A few paid their respects at the burial and bowed their heads as the preacher read from the gospels.   
         Lucas and Ronald Balkerson shared a jar of wine under a pine tree as they watched from a distance when the box of ash was covered over.
         Afterward the townspeople went back to working their work and living their lives.
         One year passed.

         Another Hallowe’en came to Locust and the children made ready to trick for their treats.  Pumpkins were carved and sent to sit watch on porches and stairways.  Faces were painted or otherwise covered.  Costumes were draped and tied and altered as needed.  Buckets and sacks were emptied only to be hopefully filled.  The sun set and the brigade of decorated darlings set to the streets for a night of merriment.

         Old man Balkerson spent the day like any other and drank himself into a noisy nap, farting in his worn-out chair in front of the fireplace.  His oafish boys drank whatever he had left in his jug.  They belched their names, piddled on the fire logs and then laughed raucously at their own stupidity.  After a game of punching each other in the arm became boring, they went out into the dusk to make mischief; and hoped in their black hearts to make many children cry as they ate their stolen candy.

         On a vacant lot where the grass wouldn’t sprout, an orange glow grew brighter and brighter.

         The children of Locust made their way around the circle of town.  They laughed and ran and skipped, being careful not to spill their parcels of sweets.  Their parents chatted amongst themselves, catching up on gossip as they lit the way with their lanterns.  The moon rose quickly and smiled down on the folks of the small, simple burg.

         Lucas and Ronald waited and watched as the group of townsfolk escorted their little ones around the village streets.  The Balkerson brats knew where the final stop would be:  the winding road of the old Sloan place.  They grinned and  joked of the previous year’s revenge.  They had taught that dummy and his old cow momma a lesson that they’d never forgot.  Never ever.  And if anyone else thought of crossing them, well they’d get them the same if not worst.  They laughed stupidly and then hushed one another as the crowd drew near.

         The children became silent as they approached the winding road.  Their parents, almost in unison, told their young not to go any farther; to pay respects and move on toward their awaiting homes.  Each child stood in place and remembered their fallen playmate.  They smiled within and felt peace at the memory of fun times of years past.
         The parents made to guide their herd toward town when the Balkerson brothers stepped out from behind a nearby sycamore. 
         Each child screamed in fright and each parent gasped in turn for they knew trouble was in front to them.  No tricks for treats did these two bring; the Balkersons only had minds made of hate and pain.
         The stoutest men in the group marched forward to have their say and hopefully bluff the bullies into leaving in peace.  But as the bulky brothers stepped up, grinning menacingly with thick clubs in their fat hands, the adults knew peace was not happening.  It was best to just give the brothers what they wanted, to keep harm from happening to anyone.  The parents guessed the toll for safe passage and made to hand over the children’s sweet loot.
         Just before grown hands grasped buckets and sacks from little hands, the children began to giggle.  At first it was titters and then sniggers and then pointing and deep belly laughs.  The parents quizzically looked at their young and then to where their small fingers pointed.
         The dumb Balkerson brothers did not like the laughter or the pointing at all.  Especially if that pointing and laughing was at their expense.  They cussed and swung their sticks and made all kinds of growls as they stomped their feet in cross-eyed anger.
         The children - and soon their parents - however, were not even looking at the big brutes before them.  Their attention was drawn to what was behind the bullying pair. 
         For behind the Balkersons, was a faintly glowing but familiar form: a seven-and-a-half-foot-tall costumed giggler name Jeremiah Sloan.  He stood almost transparent as he mocked the fat bullies, mimicking their every move; pretending to stomp as he waved an imaginary stick.  He did cartwheels in his white, hand-stitched robe and pulled his mask back to stick his tongue out of his grinning, but wispy face.  As the children laughed so did he, heartily, and that’s what finally caught the stupid Balkerson brothers’ attention.
         They turned and Jeremiah’s ghost quickly pulled his mask back on.  He raised his arm and said simply, “Boo!”
         The kids and parents laughed at this but the brothers only stared wide-eyed and raised their clubs to defend themselves.  They shook where they stood and both ignoramuses peed the rest of their wine out into their overalls.
         Jeremiah the Haint pointed and laughed and the children did the same, louder than ever.
         Lucas and Ronald felt their wetness and shame and then let the fear take over.  They dropped their clubs and ran screaming into the darkness.
         Jeremiah laughed and clapped his hands through his droopy sleeves.  He did another cartwheel and then waved to all his friends.  They waved back as the haint slowly faded from view and disappeared like an early morning fog.
         Soon the parents collected their group and headed back to their homes.  Not one of the them spoke of what they saw - or shared with any one else who wasn’t their what took place that night. 
         Later, as sleep finally crept into their bones, each family huddled together in one bed and held one another until the dreams came.  They slept soundly and safely and the children had little smiles on their sweet faces as the night progressed to day.

         That is not, as is said, the end of the tale.  For as the Balkerson brothers ran screaming through woods and into creeks and over hillocks to get to their house, Jeremiah the Haint followed close behind.
         His spirit laughed and giggled and jumped and skipped as he made his way on the trail behind his fleeing murderers.  His ethereal glow grew from a faint, peaceful aura to a bright orange light to a licking, burning flame; the same flame he and his dear mother died by.  As the ignorant Balkersons crashed through their home’s back door, Jermiah was on their heels as a burning apparition.

         Old Harvey Balkerson was thrown from his chair by the loud boom of his brood bursting through the rear entrance.  He grabbed his cane and cursed his crying, sniveling boys as they tripped over one another and fell in a heap at their father’s feet.  Before he had a chance to rap each lummox on the skull and ask what the noise was about, he saw the meaning of their dismay.
         A ghost of gleaming fire moved into the sitting room. It stepped easily off the floor to float an arm’s-length away from squat Mr. Balkerson and his sons that laid cowering at his feet.
         Harvey choked on his words and felt his heart weaken and burst as he stood wobbling on his cane.  The boys soiled themselves further; making them truly dirty pigs wallowing in their own filth.  Their minds could not agree with what they were seeing and so became insane almost the instant before Jeremiah embraced them all and consumed them with his flame; a flame that had been given to him and his dear mother a year prior.

         The Balkerson house crashed in upon itself and became smoldering ash well before dawn.  Not one of townsfolk’s peaceful slumber was interrupted by what took place.  Locust continued being Locust as a serious debt was repaid.
         Jeremiah the Haint escorted the newly-dead Balkerson clan (the ghostly trio, still dumb as in life, followed obediently) to the edge of the Abyss, where clawing, scratching demons laughed as they dragged the cursed souls into the Eternal Fire below. 

         Before Jeremiah Sloan returned to the peaceful light where his dear mother waited, he sifted through the remains of the Balkerson homestead in  hope finding some prize to share with the living.  It didn’t take long before he found what he was looking for.
         As dawn crept upon the land, Jeremiah the Haint flew around the circle of town - occasionally chasing a cat or jumping fence like old times - and left a shining surprise in each bucket and sack of the sleeping children.
         As Jeremiah faded and the new day started, he waved and blew kisses to the village of Locust and then disappeared completely; returning quietly to that wonderful place at his mother‘s side.

         When the town’s children awoke, they remembered nothing but that their containers of goodies still awaited their inspection.  Each child went to where they had laid their package - right before gentle sleep took them - and inspected the joys within.
         Imagine what a glorious surprise when each little one found a shining ingot of pure gold amongst their sweets and treats.  This they shared, of course, with their doting parents, who also delighted in such a precious - and curious -find.

         The dry prairie town of Locust became prosperous afterward.  Its happy citizens worked their glorious work and lived their carefree lives.  They made, among other improvements to their village, a beautiful rose garden on the spot of the old Sloan place - with a maze of flowers the children could laugh and play in. 
         The ground where the worthless Balkersons once lived, however, was forgotten.  The path to the site was left to grow over and become erased.  What remained of the house -  darkened timbers and muddy soot - was left for the thorny weeds to propagate and call their own.
         
                                                                    The End