All Hallows’ Eve (by Joefan1)

The warm rays of the afternoon sun shone softly on the three boys dangling their fishing lines in the slow-moving water.

The smallest of the three glanced at his friends. “You ever hear of All Hallows’ Eve?” he asked.

“All Hallows’ Eve. No, never heard of it,” the tallest one replied.

The third boy shook his head. “What is it?”

“It’s a holiday they celebrate back East in October. The people prowl about dressed in costumes and telling ghost stories.” Little Joe Cartwright’s voice became low and ominous. “Some of them even believe that on All Hallows’ Eve, dead bodies can…” A strong pull at the end of his line jerked his attention away from his friends and back to his fishing pole. He tightened his grip.

“Wow, that’s a big one,” Tuck shouted, watching a large spotted trout thrash around at the end of his friend’s line.

“Careful you don’t lose it,” Mitch cautioned.

Joe nodded and carefully, slowly, worked the trout, pulling it closer and closer to the shore. When he judged it to be close enough, he pulled hard on the line: plop, the fish flew out of the water, Joe’s fanny hit the ground, and his friends burst into laughter.

Joe grinned and held up his catch. “You ever see a fish this big?” he crowed, dangling his prize in front of his friends.

Mitch and Tuck shook their heads, marvelling, in turn, over the large trout.

“Wait ’till Pa sees the size of it,” Joe bragged, adding the immense trout to his string.

“Uhh, Joe,” Tuck began as he cast his line back into the water. “What was that you were saying about the dead?”

“Oh, yeah.” Joe turned his attention back to All Hallows’ Eve.  “Adam said,” he began in a low conspiratorial tone, “that some of the people back east believe that the dead can leave their graves and come back to haunt the living on All Hallows’ Eve.”

“Ah, your brother just made that up,” Mitch protested. “Dead people can’t come out of their graves.”

Joe grinned, and his face got that look on it—the one that meant he was up to something, the one that meant trouble.  “That’s what I’m gonna find out,” he announced.

“What are you gonna do?” Mitch demanded.

He signalled his friends to come closer. “On All Hallows’ Eve …”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Joe lay, hands behind his head, listening to the chimes of the grandfather clock, echoing through the house. He frowned. ‘What was keeping his father?’ Both his brothers had gone to bed a while ago—he could already hear Hoss snoring. But his father still hadn’t come up the stairs.

Time passed. Joe fretted. ‘Maybe his father had come up, and he’d missed him,’ he mused. He listened intently for any sound that his father was still downstairs—nothing. He eased himself out of bed and padded along the wall, stopping just before the staircase. He peeked around the corner and quickly stepped back. His father was sitting in his favourite chair, reading a book. Joe slid down the wall, pulled his knees up to his chin, and plotted—he had to somehow get his father to come upstairs to bed. He forgot to listen.

Clomp, clomp, clomp. He jumped up, flew back to his room, and hopped into bed. He pulled the covers over him and evened out his breathing, as best he could.

His door opened. Soft footsteps entered the room and crossed the floor to his bed.

“Joseph, were you just in the hall?” a stern voice demanded.

Joe lay still, feigning sleep. Minutes passed. Joe kept ‘sleeping.’

“Sorry, son, I thought I heard you running down the hall,” a soft voice whispered, and a gentle hand brushed the curls off his forehead. “Pleasant dreams.”

Footsteps crossed the floor, and a soft thud sounded as his door closed. Moments later a second thud, the sound of his father’s door closing, echoed down the hall. Joe hopped out of bed. He edged his way down to the great room and minutes later slipped out to the barn.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Why do you have soot and ashes all over your face? Tuck asked.

“It’s a disguise,” Joe responded, “so the ghosts will think I’m one of them.” 

“That’s just plain dumb,” Mitch jeered. “There’s no such thing as ghosts.”

“Of course not,” Joe agreed. “But just in case Old Adam is right and I’m wrong.” He shrugged and patted his saddle bags, then looked questioningly at his friends. They shook their heads.

“Let’s go then,” Joe suggested and put his pony into a trot, Mitch and Tuck following right behind him. The trio rode up to the graveyard and stopped just outside the iron gate. They peered into the dark, eerie grounds, their eyes darting over the crumbling tombstones and the unearthly shadows.

“Uh, Joe,” Tuck croaked, “can I, ummm?”

“Help yourself,” Joe said, dismounting and tying his pony to the hitching rail. “It’s in the saddle bags.”

“You going in there on foot?” Mitch queried.

“Be quieter if I walk,” Joe replied, looking out over the markers.

“That big headstone, the one behind that old mesquite tree, looks like a good spot to hide behind and watch,” he suggested.

Mitch and Tuck, faces now covered in soot, nodded, and the three ghost hunters stepped through the gate, moving cautiously and peering into every dark shape and every sinister shadow as they inched their way towards their hiding spot.

Suddenly, a loud rustling sound echoed through the air. The boys stopped mid-step, and three sets of eyes searched the grounds—nothing.

“HOO, HOO.”

The startled boys ran the rest of the way to the monument and flopped down behind it. They sat still, hearts pounding, listening.

“HOO, HOO.” It came again.

“It’s coming  from the mesquite tree,” Tuck whispered.

They turned towards the large tree and peered into its branches. Two large eyes of a great horned owl stared back at them.

The thirteen-year-olds gawked at each other for several moments and began to laugh.

“Whooooo,” Tuck wailed.

“Whooooo,” Joe and Mitch joined in.

“HOO,” the owl responded, causing the boys to erupt into laughter again.

They stood and called back to the owl, “Whooooo.”

A loud screech reverberated through the air. They ducked back down behind the headstone.

“What was that?” Tuck whispered.

“It’s moving,” Mitch squeaked.

“It’s heading towards the gate,” Joe added and peeked around the marker just in time to see Old Charlie tearing out of the cemetery.

“It’s Old Charlie, and he’s dropped something. Looks like a bottle,” he whispered.

“I bet it’s whisky,” Mitch added.

All three boys stood and stared at the bottle lying on the ground, all thoughts of ghosts fleeing their minds. Their faces broke into wide grins, and they raced across the graveyard.

“It’s almost half full,” Mitch announced, holding up the bottle. He glanced at his two friends. “You ever taste whisky?”

Joe and Tuck shook their heads, eyes glued to the bottle.

Mitch twirled the bottle around in his hand, being careful not to spill any of the liquor. He brought it close to his nose and sniffed. “Doesn’t smell too bad,” he announced and took a sip. His face screwed up, and he handed the bottle to Joe.

Joe eyed the half-full bottle of amber liquid in his hand and chewed the side of his bottom lip. He looked back at his friend, read the dare in his eyes, and took a large gulp. Sputtering and coughing, he passed the bottle to Tuck. 

By the third round the virgin drinkers were smiling and almost liking the taste. By the eighth round they were too pie-eyed to keep hold of the bottle. It fell to the ground, and the last ounce dribbled out.

“No ghossts, no whisky to drink,” Joe mumbled.

“Yup, no ghosts, no whisky to dwink,” Mitch repeated.

“Go home,” Tuck chimed in, looking at his two friends for approval. 

Joe and Mitch nodded solemnly.

Tuck smiled. He tilted his head and stared into the distance. “Which way’s home?” he asked.

Joe pursed his lips and looked about, scouring the area. He grinned and pointed at his pony. “Star knows.

“Yup, horses know,” Mitch and Tuck chorused, and the trio staggered to their mounts.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Clang! Clang!

“Sh, not so loud,” Joe reproached the reverberating bell and staggered up to the door. He fumbled with the lock—it wouldn’t open. He scowled, turned around, and stumbled off the stoop.

“Oops,” he shouted, hitting the ground. He sat staring at the ranch house, almost thinking. A smile spread across his face. Open window,’ he thought. “Yup, Joe’s window is open.”

He tottered over to the house and hoisted himself (after a few tries) up onto the roof and began weaving his way towards his bedroom window.  He slipped, landing on his fanny.

“Yahoo!” he hollered as he careened off the roof—straight into Hoss’s arms. He grinned at his big brother. “Wanna slides offtheroof with me?”

“No, Joseph,” Hoss said, holding back a smile and lowering his little brother to his feet.

“You su…”

“JOSEPH!”

Joe spun around and lost his footing.

Ben stared at his youngest son, dumbstruck. “You’re drunk!  And what’s that white stuff all over your face?”

“Disguise, so the ghoss won’tknowme.” “Ghosts?” Adam inquired.

. “Yup, in the graveyard. All Hallows’ Eve.”

“Did you see one?” Hoss asked, helping Joe to his feet.

. “Nope, Noo ghossts in the graveyard, just old Charlie.” He started giggling. “Old Charlie dwopped his bottle of whisky, and we had an itty-bitty taste.”

“An itty-bitty taste,” Ben retorted.

“Yep, just an itty bitty-taste,” Joe repeated, shoving his hand an inch from his father’s face, thumb and index finger a smidgen apart.

Ben took a deep breath and pinched the bridge of his nose.  “Jospeh,” he said, “wash that soot off your face and then go to bed. I’ll deal with you tomorrow.”

“Yess, sir,” Joe replied and weaved his way into the house followed by two amused brothers and a not-so-amused father.   

‘Tomorrow,’ Ben reflected, ‘he was going to have one very sick boy with a massive headache on his hands. It was going to be a very long day.’