Kevin Lucia's Blog, page 12

Text and Subtext 22: Uncle Sam

Unless a creator comes out and says, “I meant this when I created this piece of art,” it will always be up in the air as to whether or not there’s thematic intenion in a work of literature or cinema.

However, as Stephen King contends in the “Text and Subtext” section of Danse Macabe (hense the title of my Monday Morning Movie Reviews), any kind of story - no matter how shallow - will have some kind of subtext, especially if there’s even the slightest bit of character development. It’s not always intention; it’s often just by-product.

I’m not sure which is the case in Uncle Sam, but I was struck by how surprisingly relevant it was. That, and chock-full of 90s horror-cheese.

The plot of Uncle Sam is fairly simple: a macho soldier/abusive husband dies by friendly-fire in a Middle Eastern conflict (Desert Storm? Maybe; maybe not). When his body is shipped back to the states, because his son - who idolizes him as a war hero and a “real man” - wants him to come back so badly, he does. On 4th of July, no less. To take out every non-patriotic sissy he can.

The movie’s commentary on the sharp contrast between the glorfication of war and the reality of war, and what really makes a “man” is pretty on-the-nose. The iconic Issac Hayes shows us a solid counterpoint to “Uncle Sam’s” toxic masculinity (before the term become vogue) in a man who understands the grim realities of war, and knows that killing doesn’t make someone a hero.

Even more - touchingly? For like a minute, anyway - he admits that as a young soldier, he himself bought into the “glory of war” rhetoric, filling the heads of young and impressionable soldiers wit fancies of the same.

However, this is a schlocky 90s horror film, with all the schlocky trimmings. Regardless, it wasn’t hard to see the relevance of its themes to today’s world. Watch it on Tubi today.

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Payment Tiers Open

Hello, all! At long last, I’ve opened the payment tiers on my Substack. First, before I say anything else, let me reassure you, the following will remain free, always:

Monday Morning Movie Reviews

Wednesday Writing Update

Friday Free Fiction

Second - why open payment tiers? I’ll be blatantly honest: I’m 49, turning 50 this year. I love teaching, but the Education climate has changed dramatically. I would love to quit teaching and focus on writing and working for Cemetery Dance full-time, and do what I love every day, all day. This is simply one step in that direction. However, while I may remind those on social media about my paid benefits occasionally, this will be the only time I ask you to subscribe to a paid tier.

Third - I learned from my Patreon mistake. The only writing you’ll get for cash is installments of HOW A CHRISTIAN FELL IN LOVE WITH THE HORROR GENRE. All the other tiers will pay for physical ARCs of all my releases in a calendar year, and privately produced limited editions of all my books in that calendar year. Who’s making those books?

Fourth - Me. Will these books be on the same level as Cemetery Dance and Thunderstorm? No, but they’ll be priced accordingly and will offer perks not available in any other edition. The first book currently in production, and in the proofing stage, is an Arcane Delights Illustrated Limited Edition of THE HORROR AT PLEASANT BROOK, by Gavin Patchett.

Thanks for your continued support and readership, regardless!

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ZooTown #8

*

Speaking very carefully and gently, Father Ward asked, "How did your mother die? If you don't mind me asking, that is."

"Don't mind at all, Father. She died about ten years ago, when you were probably still serving as a chaplain in the Army. Anyway, from what little Dad told me when I got older, Mom was killed by a hit and run driver when she was crossing Main Street, doing some shopping. Guess she checked both ways, careful as could be, and soon as she stepped off the curb, some guy in an old pickup truck came screaming around the corner. Didn't hit her head on, I guess; but clipped her hard enough to smash her face into one of the street lamps. Wasn't enough to kill her outright, but by the time she got to the hospital, wasn't much the doctors could do. Bled too much on her brain, Dad told me. She died a few hours after."

Father Ward breathed in, compassion and sorrow clenching his throat slightly. Any death, even that of a stranger, was unpalatable. "My condolences, son. I imagine it's been very hard for you and your Father. My Dad also lost his mother at a young age. He was never overly emotional about it, but every now and then when he talked about it - especially when I was older - I could hear the longing in his voice. The wish that he could've gotten to know her."

The boy sighed. "Yeah. I get that. I mean, I don't remember much about her at all. I've never even really cried about her. But I've always wondered what she was like. What type of person she was. And, I'm sorry I'll never get to know her.

“Also, growing up in school, when other kids’ Moms sent in cupcakes and things for their birthdays, or showed up at school with those things to surprise them? I never had that. I'm not much of a singer and of course in elementary school you sang in all those concerts whether you wanted to or not, but everyone else's parents or mothers, especially, showed up to watch. I had no one. It didn't make me feel sad, really. Just different. Kinda left out, y'know?"

Father Ward sat forward, and though he felt a deep grieving inside, he forced himself to ask in a neutral tone, "Your father never attended these events?"

"Nah. He wasn't much for concerts and plays and such. Not even the sports I played. He's always too busy preparing for his sermons, or organizing Prayer or Bible Study, or something like that."

"And...do you resent that?"

A pause.

The boy shifted on the cushioned bench. Another sigh, and then, "I dunno. Not really, I guess. He's running a church all by himself. I get that. Plus...I sometimes wonder if maybe he works all the time so he won't think about Mom. It's hard to tell, and I’m totally guessing here because I've obviously never talked to him about this, but I don't think...I don't think Dad's the same guy Mom married."

"Grief has a way of changing a person," Father Ward said, choosing his words carefully. "It can reveal new reserves in one's self, lead to a strengthening of spirit, even wisdom. It can also make one forever wary and afraid of the world, forcing them into seclusion, for fear of getting hurt again. Or, even worse, it can harden one's heart, inure them against feelings and emotions, also for the same reason: A misguided attempt to protect one's self from ever being hurt again."

"Yeah," the shadowed profile on the other side of the grate nodded. "I think that's what happened. I sometimes sneak into Dad's photo albums - he keeps them in his study - when he's not home. Mom looks so alive, so happy, so...what's the word; I heard it in English class the other day and it fit perfect...

“VIBRANT, that's it. I hope this doesn't sound weird, Father...but she looks like the kinda girl I might sorta like. Someone who just wants to grab life and live." A pause, and then in a slightly worried voice, "That doesn't make me a sick weirdo or anything, does it? I'm not saying I think my Mom was hot, or..."

Father Ward chuckled. "Don't worry, son. It's not strange or weird at all, and you're not a 'sicko' either. Actually, that's a very mature realization at your age. Most of us spend our wilding years chasing after people who are the complete opposite of our parents, only to, in the end when we settle down, find ourselves drawn to qualities in potential spouses we recognize as exemplified in our parents. So that's not weird at all."

The young man sighed, laughing. "Well, that's a relief. Still nothing I'd ever tell the guys, though. Would never live that down, let me tell you. The jokes would be endless. And nasty, too."

"If the 'guys' are anything like they were when I was your age, I'm sure." Father Ward paused, a thought occurring to him. "In those early pictures of your parents...what did your Father look like? Again, if you don't mind my asking."

"Not at all, Father." A pause, as if the boy was gathering his thoughts, and then he said, "You know, I don't think my Dad was ever a barrel of laughs. Even in those pictures, his smile was reserved and small. But...there was something in his eyes that matched Mom's. Something alive. Some spark I've never seen as long as I've known him."

"Your mother's death killed something inside of him," Father Ward murmured thoughtfully. "It killed that spark, he never quite recovered, and now he's buried himself in his duties - and, perhaps his war on Halloween and all things pagan - in an effort to insulate himself from his pain."

Silence.

And it came to Father Ward what he'd just blurted out, and he felt a hot flash of shame and worry. "Please forgive me, son. I spoke completely out of turn. I never should've said that, and of course I have no idea what your father has gone through or how he's dealt with such a horrible loss..."

"No. No, it's okay, Father." To Father Ward's great relief, the boy's voice sounded lighter, as if he'd been relieved of a great burden. "I agree with you. In fact...honestly? You took the words right out of my mouth. Said what I've always wanted to say, but have never had the guts to say to anyone. I think you're totally right. Mom's death killed whatever spark there was in Dad, and he's not the same guy. Maybe never will be, ever again." A pause. "Honestly, it's the one thing that's always stopped me from lashing out at him, even when I'm the most pissed. The realization that I have no idea what he's lost."

Several seconds of silence stretched into a minute or two, and Father Ward sat patiently, content to wait. Another minute, and then the boy said, "Thing is, I don't think - even though I don't remember her - Mom would've ever wanted to this for him and me. She would've hated to see him like this. Don't ask me how I know that, I just do. But I can't tell him that, you know. I just can't."

"And your Father's hate of Halloween? May I be so bold as to ask WHEN your Mother died?"

"A week before Halloween, Father."

"One week before Halloween. The same date you heard the strange singing at the stage at Raedker Park."

The boy released a breath. "Yeah, Father.

"Yeah."

*

Yeah, that is weird, isn't it, Father? Me first hearing that strangely familiar singing on the same date my Mom was killed by a hit and run driver. Of course, I didn't realize that right away, or understand what it meant, either, so we'll get to that in a bit.

Anyway, Brian didn't have too much more to say about the amphitheater stage being haunted. Just that over the last ten years, rumor had it that if you hung out there late at night around Halloween, you might hear some girl singing, but nobody would be there. Nobody ever felt too scared or nothing - I certainly didn't feel scared when I'd heard it - it just sounded eerie, especially when you went onto the stage looking for whomever was singing and found nobody.

We talked about other stuff after, on our way to the gas station and back to church, but all the time, Brian's ghost story kept nagging my brain. So maybe I'd heard the Raedeker Park ghost? But what about my dream of those buildings in the woods? Did it mean anything, have some connection to the singing...or was it just my sleeping brain having fun? Again, I chewed the fat with Brian all the way back to church about a whole bunch of stuff, but all the while, down deep, I chewed over that, too.

*

When we got home from church that Sunday night, things were going about as usual. Dad admonished me - in his quiet, even-tempered sort of way - that it was a school night, and though he didn't mind if I read before bed, to make sure I was asleep by nine. He also lectured me lightly, again, about leaving any schoolwork until the last minute. I, of course, was only half-listening, because this was the Sunday night routine. Evening church was over, he was saying "goodnight" and there wasn't anything left to say after that.

I nodded and he nodded back, was turning toward his study, where he spent most his nights (I'm not sure how much my dad sleeps, Father. Sometimes I wake up at midnight and hear his rolling chair squeaking around in his office), when it blurted out of my mouth, without me thinking. "So Brian and I were talking before church. He says people think the amphitheater stage at Raedeker Park is haunted. People hear singing there this time of year, right before Halloween."

Dad stopped.

Didn't move or speak for several seconds, until he finally said softly, his voice raspy, "Foolish superstitions. Ghosts don't exist, son. There are demons which prey on the weak-minded and those lacking faith, and angels, whom - according to Scripture - are bound to work out of sight. That is all. You know better. You should, anyway."

Normally, that would've been it. Like I've been telling you, Father, my dad has this calm, deadening way about him that steals all the fight out of you, even if you're pissed as hell. But I wasn't pissed that night, which was maybe why I didn't give up, for once. "People say they've heard it."

Dad's grave eyes bore into mine. "If there's anything supernatural occurring there," he said, "it would be of Satan. Anyone who has heard singing is either of a hyperactive imagination...or much worse, is the victim of besetting, unclean spirits."

For some reason, I wouldn't let it go. "I heard singing there, Dad. I did. Is that why you don't want me going back?"

Dad stared at me silently, and I think...I think, Father, for the very first time I'd pushed him close to cracking. He looked mad, for just a moment. Hell, Father. He looked...furious.

I continued to push, regardless. "What's happening Halloween night, Dad? Why don't you want me going to the stage at Raedeker Park until after Halloween? What's happening on Halloween?"

A fiery glint flickered in his eyes. There one moment, gone the next. They went cold, and his face went stone, and he stepped closer to me and said in a hard, brittle voice I've never heard before, "There are things you are not meant to experience. You are my son, and you WILL do as you're told. Do you understand?"

The way he said it - in a voice so completely unlike his usual dull, bland voice - knocked the wind right out of my sails. All the fight and snark bled right out of me. I opened my mouth to say something, but really, at that very minute, I couldn't dredge up a single word.

Dad's face softened somewhat, his eyes looking a little gentler. "Guard your heart, son. As God's Word says: 'the heart is deceitful above all things.' Don't be led astray by your whims and imagination. Don't be deceived by your heart, as I was, once. Long ago."

He turned for the hall leading to his study. Something desperate trembled in my gut, and somehow, I managed to blurt out, "Dad. How did Mom die? Really, I mean."

Dad shuffled to a halt. He glanced over his shoulder, but wouldn't meet my gaze. Looking down, he whispered, "She died because I didn't guard my heart. I was led astray by my feelings, and we were both punished because of it.

"Go to bed, son."

And with that, he walked away.

Wednesday Writing Upate

Text and Subtext 21: Body Melt

It’s been a while, but school is over, so here we are with another Tubi Trash recommendation. This one, however is good trash. BIZARRE trash, but good trash.

Body Melt is akin to a lot of other 80/90s cheesy schlock in that’s it’s schlock that’s making an attempt at a social statement of sorts. Like Deathspa, this particular gem - a gooey gem, at that - lampoons the 80s & 90s health and vitamin supplement movement, with a corrupt health and wellness company at the center of the plot, using a small, perfect, utopian Australian suburban town as a testing ground for a new health and body-shaping supplement.

We don’t need to go into the plot, really. It being a horror movie about how a societal fad is taken advantage of by an amoral corporation for monetary gain, you can fill in the blanks: body horror. Gooey, gross, disturbing, gooey (did I already say that?), and sometimes hilarious (see erection explosion) body horror. There’s also this weird and bizarre (but eventually relevant) side-plot about an inbred Australian outback family, too.

Anyway. Get to the gym, eat a salad, pass on the vitamin supplements, and watch Body Melt on Tubi today.

Wednesday Writing Update: Joining the HWA Part 2

StokerCon Reflection #1 - Why I'm Joining the HWA

My novella quartet, October Nights, is currently on sale for .99! Don’t miss out!

★ ★ ★ ★ ★ "These four tales are somewhat interwoven and yet completely stand up on their own. There is a delicate balance of creepiness, dread, surprise, and hope that Kevin Lucia has executed with genius."—Bridget Brenmark, Lovecraft Ezine

★ ★ ★ ★ "Good storytelling, perfect characterization, and captivating narrative style..."—Mario Guslandi, Horror Tree

★ ★ ★ ★ ★ "October Nights is a wonderful collection of long short-stories all linked around the Halloween season in a small American town where there's something unsettling lurking beneath the apple-pie homeliness. For some characters the town offers a chance for redemption, for others damnation. The feeling reminded me of Ray Bradbury at his 'Something Wicked This Way Comes' best."—Charles Christian, Weird Tales Radio

★ ★ ★ ★ ★ "What really impressed me was the cinematic quality of the book. I truly believe this would make an excellent movie or mini-series. These four stories of ghostly goings-on, and the search for redemption, revenge, or the truth were written so vividly, I could picture each character and location perfectly. That's the sign of some bloody good writing!"—Kendell Reviews

★ ★ ★ ★ "One of Lucia's greatest strengths is making his town its own character, and here Clifton Heights feels like it is thrumming with an undercurrent of energy resembling that of a boiler with a broken pressure valve. Another strength is his writing flawed characters we know because (in some instances) we've been there (and hopefully we fare a little better)."—Joseph Falank, author of THE PAINTED LADY

Zootown #7

Recap from last week.

Right before I woke up? In that split second before that image of buildings deep in the woods dissolved? I got the faintest sensation that I was being watched, and not only that...that something was lurking behind those buildings, watching, waiting...

Waiting for me.

*

Father Ward smiled, knowing exactly what the young man had found out there in the woods, but content to let the teen lead him there. "That's a very striking image. Rows of cottages in the woods on either side of a well-worn rutted path. Very mysterious, indeed."

"Right?" The young man chuckled. "All that Sunday afternoon, I couldn't get that image out of my head. And I saw more than cottages, Father. I also saw what looked like long buildings. Almost like warehouses, or something. Of course, when I finally discovered what it was..."

A pause.

A shifting sound, as if the young man was leaning forward, placing his mouth near the grate, and indeed when he spoke next, his voice sounded much nearer, "When I found out what those buildings were, it seemed to make a weird kind of sense why they seemed so familiar. Father...you ever hear of something up in the hills behind Raedeker Park called Zoo Town?"

*

So you have heard about Zoo Town, Father? Okay, cool. D'ya mind holding on to that for a while? Need to get this next bit out.

Anyway, like I said, I couldn't stop thinking about that dream all day after church. Didn't think about it too much during church, of course. I don't really have time. Dad pretty much requires my involvement every Sunday morning. During the service, I'm one of the ushers who collects the offering. During the Sunday School classes afterward, I alway have to attend the Pastor's Studies in Scriptures class, (taught by him, obviously), which is a special kind of torture, seeing as how he and I pretty much disagree about every other verse in the Bible.

However, I learned early on to keep quiet on that score. No point in contradicting him in public. I usually gut out his class quietly, and try not to blush or scream every single time he uses me or some stupid mistake I've made to prove a point in class.

As you can see, Father, I was a little too focused in just making it through another Sunday morning in church to be thinking about the weird dream I'd had the night before.

Soon as church finished, however, and I was in my room trying to finish up that reading I was supposed to do for History class, I couldn't stop turning that dream over and over in my head. Why did the path through the woods seem so familiar? Why did I feel as if I'd been to those buildings before? What was that song, and why did I sorta recognize it?

Also, there had been that faint sense of being of watched in those woods. Stalked, even. What the hell was that all about?

I didn't study much History that afternoon. Luckily, Mr. McDonough's class notes basically cover the same things as the reading. I finally gave up around three in the afternoon, figuring I'd just pay real close attention to the notes this week, to make up for not reading.

After giving up on History, I worked on the few math problems I had left (those were pretty straight-forward), and finished those in about twenty-minutes. After that, I closed my books, stood from my desk and flopped on my back onto my bed. I lay there, staring at the ceiling. Fingers laced behind my head as I tried to recall the dream I'd had. I also wondered why I'd taken that song I thought I'd heard and mixed it into some weird dream about a road running through the woods to an old town.

I suppose the answer is pretty obvious. I thought I'd heard someone singing a familiar song that evening, out at Raedeker Park, so then later that night, I dreamed about it. The the road running through the woods to an old town was just random junk my brain dredged up. Brains do that sometimes, in dreams.

Thing is, Father, I’m not that practical. Like I already said - I love mysteries. That's the biggest source of conflict between Dad and I, after all. I love mysteries, he wants everything explained through Scripture and theology.

That Sunday afternoon, after having endured enough of my father’s practicality in church, I wasn’t in the mood for practical explanations. The more I turned it over in my head, the more I became convinced there was a connection of some kind between the singing I'd heard near at Raedeker Park and that little town in the woods.

I just couldn't quite figure what. Even as I laid there, staring at the ceiling, turning the dream over and over in my head...turning it over and over until, slowly and gradually, I dozed off. I didn't dream at all (that time, anyway), just sort of hovered there in a near-sleep-not-awake state until Dad called me to supper, which was hamburgers. Again. We eat that and hot dogs, spaghetti, fried or broiled fish, and occasionally steak, a lot. Dad’s a pretty good cook, but he kinda sticks to the same several meals, so eating at my house is a little predictable, and sometimes boring.

Anyway, we didn't talk much during dinner. He made the usual inquires into the state of my homework (again implying I was slighting both my teachers AND God by leaving it for the last minute on the Lord's Day), and I gave the same noncommittal semi-lie-kinda-truth answers about how I’d finished most of my work in studyhall Friday afternoon.

I don't feel too guilty about fudging those things, Father. I'm on the Honor Roll and above 90's in all my classes. It's not like I'm slacking or anything, right?

Anyway, we finished up dinner, and went to get changed for evening church. I actually looked forward to evening church every weekend, though not for the reasons my Dad wished I did. For some reason (maybe because he felt bad and wanted to give me some freedom, though that doesn't seem likely) Dad doesn't give me any responsibilities during the Sunday Night service. Our Youth Bible Study group meets on Friday nights, not Sunday, so basically I'm free Sunday nights.

The weird thing is, Father...Dad doesn't keep very close track of me on Sunday nights. Never has. Once I grew out of the nursery, he made me sit in the front pew during the evening service, until I got to be about thirteen. After that, he let me sit where I wanted to...which usually was in the balcony.

And soon as everyone bowed their heads and closed their eyes for the evening service’s opening prayer, I slipped out of the balcony with my best friend Brian, and we walked down to the Quick'n Save on the corner of Henry and Allison Street.

It's become kind of our Sunday night tradition, really. Brian and I sneak out to the Quick’N Save for Cokes and Slim Jims, and then we meander our way back to church, talking about whatever pops into our head.

I hope you don't think less of me, Father, for skipping church…especially my Dad's church. Brian and I talk about some pretty heavy spiritual stuff, sometimes. We both have the same questions about God and the world and all, and it's nice to talk about some of the stuff the Bible says and shoot questions back and forth without having someone shut us down by accusing us of being blasphemous or heretical.

Honestly? I think I've probably gotten more out of my Sunday night talks with Brian than I have out of my Dad's sermons for the past three or four years.

Y’know what’s another weird thing, Father? Dad’s gotta know I'm sneaking out Sunday nights. Has to. Clifton Heights Baptist isn't that big. It's not hard to miss us. Plus, Dad always shops at the Quick'N Save. I figure at some point, the manager, Old Man Kretzmer, must've said something to Dad about seeing the town's preacher kid out and about on Sunday night when he's supposed to be in his father's church. listening to his father's sermon.

But Dad hasn't ever said a thing. Or, at least, he'd never said a thing before this past Sunday. Even then, when he casually brought it up (letting me know that, yeah, he's probably known this whole time), he didn't say Brian and I had to stop. He just casually referred to it like he was asking me what the weather forecast for the next day was.

Anyway, with weirdness I’d been experiencing lately, along with Dad's renewed campaign against the evils of Halloween, you can bet I was busting at the seams when Brian and I finally slipped out onto Henry Street during the opening prayer. Before he could open his mouth, I told him the whole story hearing the mystery singer at Raedeker Park, and then my dream later that night about those buildings in the woods. After I finished my story, he whistled and said, "Wow. Freaky."

"I know, right? Whaddya think about all that?"

Brian shrugged. "Dunno what dreams mean, and I don't know anything about buildings in the woods or whatever. But the singing at Raedeker Park..."

He looked at me, eyebrows raised. "People say the amphitheater is haunted. You didn't know?"

I stopped and gaped at him for several seconds before blurting, "Since when?"

Brian shrugged again. "I dunno. Since forever, I guess. Heard some older kids talking about it in school this week, because it's Halloween next Saturday." (Which, of course, is tonight, Father.) "Apparently you can only hear the singing around Halloween."

We continued on our way. I held my silence for several minutes, trying to process what I'd just been told. Finally, I aske the obvious question. "Whose ghost is it? Like...is there a story about how they died, and why they haunt the ampitheater?"

Brian shook his head. "Dunno. Just heard some seniors talking about it in studyhall this past week. I guess every year a bunch of them get beers and sneak into Raedeker Park at night, right before Halloween, to see if they can hear the singing."

"Huh." I kicked the pavement as we walked, thinking. "I wonder if that's why Dad told me to stay away from there until after Halloween. Hell, he practically forbid me to go the other night."

"Wow. That's not like him. I mean, he lectures you a lot and his curfew is pretty strict and all...but he's never really laid down the law like that before."

Brian paused and then added with a sly grin. "I bet it was because you were hanging out with me, right? Cause I'm a bad old Catholic leading you straight to Baptist hell."

I shook my head. "No, I don't think so. At least, not this time."

"Gee, thanks."

"Y'know what the funny thing is? He didn't even care about you being there at all, I don't think. Not really. Not after I told him I'd thought I heard someone singing. When I told him that, he got all...stiff like. You know how he gets when he's upset about something but doesn't want to show it? That's when he told me to stay away from there, at least until after Halloween."

Brian raised an eyebrow. "That is weird. So maybe he's heard the stories about there being a ghost that haunts the amiptheater. I mean, he is a pastor and all. Probably worried you’ll get possessed, or something."

A light dawned in Brian's eyes, as an idea apparently occurred to him. "Do you think maybe...I dunno, your Dad's got some sort of prayer revival or something like that planned to get rid of the ghost down there? I mean, you've been saying that your Dad's really been on an anti-Halloween kick, lately. Maybe he's got some kind of...prayer intervention planned, or an..."

I snorted. "An exorcism or something? That's a Catholic thing, isn't it?"

Brian scuffed the concrete himself. "I guess. But maybe there's a Baptist version, too. Maybe that's why he doesn't want you around there until after Halloween, either cause he doesn't want you to know about the exorcism or whatever, or maybe because...maybe because he actually believes the amiptheater at Raedeker is haunted, and like I said: He doesn't want you getting caught up in all that bad ju-ju."

I gotta admit, Father...the thought that maybe the amiptheater was really haunted, that maybe there was a ghost there...I'm not gonna lie. I was pretty excited. I don't what Catholics believe about ghosts...but it was just the mystery of it, y'know? Wondering if the stage really was haunted, and if so by who? How did they die, and why were they haunting the ampitheater?

Here's something else, and I don't know how you'll feel about this part, not knowing how you feel about ghosts and all. The idea of my Dad holding a prayer revival there, or actually performing some sort of exorcism (I don’t know how he would've gotten permission to do that from the Town Board, unless he'd just decided to lie to them about it) scared the hell out of me.

Why?

I got the idea, somehow, that if Dad went through with something like that, he was gonna destroy something...unique. Don't know why I thought that, but somewhere deep inside, I was afraid that Dad trying to "cleanse" the ampitheater’’s ghost was going to be the worst possible thing, ever.

"So what's the deal?" We turned the corner off Henry and onto Allison, headed for the Quick'n Save. "Think your Dad's gonna try and cast out some demons Halloween night?"

I sighed. "Have no idea. I know what I wanna do, though."

"What's that?"

I held up my hand and ticked each item off on my fingers. "One: I wanna find out who that ghost is. What's the story and all. Why do folks think a singing ghosts haunts the stage at Raedker Oark, and why around Halloween?

“Two: I'm going to figure out what Dad’s up to. Somehow. Figure it out, and why he's trying it.

"Three: Figure out that dream. It's driving me crazy. It was just too specific, y'know? A bunch of abandoned buildings alongside a road in the middle of the woods?"

Brian spread his hands. "Yeah, but this is the Adirondacks, dude. You know how many little towns sprung up and then died out and were left to rot for one reason or another?"

I pointed at him. "Which really is a point in my favor. That sort of thing has happened a lot over the past 100 years or so. Those buildings in the woods, with a dirt road running down the middle? It's real place, Brian. A real place I'm going to find."

Brian nodded. "Okay. You're crazy mi amigo, but okay. That's only three, though. You got a four and five?"

I nodded. "You bet. These last two have been bouncing around my head for years, but I've always been too scared of Dad to do anything about them. But this year...screw that. Screw Dad. I need to know."

"And these two things are..?"

I counted off my final two fingers. "Four: Find out why Dad hates Halloween so much. It's more than just him being a preacher somehow, I know it. And number five?

"Find out what really happened the day my mother died."

Wednesday Writing Update

ZooTown #6

Recap from Last Week:

Of course, before this week, I had no idea what those sins were. Now, however?

I think I know, Father. I think I know.

*

There was a pause before the young man said, sounding apologetic, "Geez, I'm sorry, Father. I'm rambling off at the mouth here. Hope I'm not wasting your time any."

Father Ward chuckled. "By no means, son. As I said, All Hallow's Eve is usually slow around here. The only thing you're doing is making the time pass more quickly, and making it more interesting."

"It just sounds like I'm complaining about my dad, is all. I'm sure you hear enough of that sort of thing all the time."

In a snap decision, Father Ward decided to abandon his studied impartiality and relate to the young man. If only to reassure him, and keep the conversation alive, which - contrary to the youth's concerns - he found fascinating so far.

"I don't want to make the mistake of sounding condescending, which is what we adults and ministers of the faith so often do, though often unintentionally. And I also don't want to say 'I totally know how you feel' because I don’t know. I can't. I'm not you, so how could I know?

“But I've had a little taste, I believe. As I've mentioned already, though my father was also a Baptist minister like yours, he was very opened minded. He liked mysteries as much as I did. We enjoyed many of those same discussions you can't have with your father.”

"Wow. What made you decide to be a Catholic, Father?"

Father Ward smiled at the warm memory. "I spent the weekend at a Catholic friend's house. That Sunday at mass, I heard for the first time 'the mystery of faith.' The idea appealed greatly to me. The humble admission that while belief in and knowledge of God is important, we simply can’t know everything. That God is, essentially, in large parts, unknowable."

"Huh. 'The mystery of faith.' I like that."

"So did I. So much so, when I graduated high school, I enrolled at Le Moyne College and went on to become not only a priest, but a Jesuit. That did throw Dad's gears for a bit, but eventually he came to accept it."

Father Ward paused. "I believe he was proud of me. For following my faith and my love of mystery."

A regretful sigh, and then, "Wow. Must be nice." Father Ward imagined the young man sagging like a balloon releasing air. "The worst part is, if I did something like that, my Dad wouldn't even be pissed at me. He'd just act like he'd expected I’d end up bad all along."

Father Ward opened his mouth to offer some sort of consolation or comfort, anything to lighten the young man's mood, but the boy rushed on before Father Ward could speak. "Anyway, I totally got off track. I mean, it all sorta connects together - I think - but I'm getting bogged down complaining about my Dad, when's he just not worth it. I'll get back to him and his 'faith' and his...well, his 'sins' later.

“But the thing that really opened this can of worms happened after I went to bed that night, because was the first time I dreamed about Zoo Town..."

*

What's Zoo Town, Father? Well, I'll get to that in a minute. I can tell you I started dreaming about Zoo Town the first night after I heard that singing.

Y'know how some dreams are just so out there, that even as real as they seem, you know they're dreams? Like say you're dreaming of pitching against Babe Ruth or Micky Mantle, or dunking over Wilt Chamberlin, or you're dreaming of making out with the hottest girl on the cheerleading team that you know you have no chance with in real life, but there you are, doing all those things anyway, and real as it seems, deep inside somewhere a little voice is whispering, No way this is happening; it’s gotta be a dream?

Well, this dream wasn't like it that. It was…what’s the word? Subtle. Down-to-earth. The kinda dream that feels so real, when you wake up, you’re not sure if it was a dream, or if you were remembering something which actually happened, or something you actually did.

That's what this dream was like. I woke up Monday morning, and for a minute, I actually had to ask myself: Am I remembering something that actually happened? Or was that a dream?

I don't really remember how the dream started. I was just riding my bike along some sort of access road in the woods. It was worn with lots of ruts. The trees around me were full and green, and it was summer, not Fall like now. The brush was healthy and growing, and so were the leaves on the trees.

But sunlight was still filtering in through the pines, so even though it was nice and shaded, there was this....SHIMMER to everything. I can't explain it any better than that. Enough sunlight was getting through, despite the heavy tree cover, so it was easy to see, and there was a warm feeling there, also.

In the dream I was riding along, mind pretty empty, and I was feeling good. Good, that's the word. Happy and quiet. Which, to be honest, I haven't felt much these days. Especially around Dad. And though the woods was hushed, I could hear the usual things: Birds calling far away, things rustling occasionally in the brush, the clicking of my bike chain and the hush of the bike's tires over pine needles and fallen leaves, and crickets buzzing.

I love that sound, don't you, Father? The crickets? That's when you know it's high summer; when they’re buzzing like that. You know what I heard also, mixing right in with everything?

That singing.

I could hear that girl singing, and even though I couldn't tell any better what the words were, it sounded even more familiar. But this time I didn't feel so intruiged by it, like before. It seemed to fit right in with all the other nature sounds. Like she was meant to be singing right along with all those other sounds.

Here's where the dream gets a little odd, Father. I was just riding along on my bike, all peaceful-like and feeling good and fine, listening to that beautiful voice singing a song I sort of recognized but couldn't quite place, when the path starts going uphill a bit. I'm feeling really good, though. Full of energy, so I stand up on the pedals and lean forward a bit, like you do to pick up some steam, and huff my way up that hill.

As I'm pedaling along and getting closer, that singing is getting louder. The song is getting even more familiar. I can just about pick out words I almost recognize when I crest over that rise...

And then I wake up.

Which figures, right? That's how it always happens with these dreams. Right when you get to the most mysterious part, you wake up. But I remember something, Father, from right before the song ended and I opened my eyes. This image of what was over that hill, flashing before my eyes. Just before I woke up, I thought I saw...what looked like...a village?

Or something. Rows of buildings and cottages on either side of that well-worn and rutted path running through the woods. There one second, gone the next, and then I was blinking my eyes in my bedroom, the sun peaking under the shade on a Sunday morning.

Which, of course, meant church.

I'd be lying, Father, if I didn't admit to wishing I could escape into that mysterious place in the woods forever, so I never had to go sit in my Dad's church ever again...

Except for one little thing. Right before I woke up? In that split second before that image of buildings deep in the woods dissolved? I got the faintest sensation that I was being watched, and not only that...that something was lurking behind those buildings, watching, waiting...

Waiting for me.