Young Writers Society

I almost wish Silas had punched Jackson. He's such a brat, he deserves it. Apparently, Silas would have, but Papa stepped in, and tried to calm everyone down.

Papa's always trying to fix things.

He lectured Jackson. I don't know what he said, I only heard Jackson yell. Then he stormed off. But only to his room. I wonder if Papa regretted stepping in at the church. Maybe Jackson would have learned that sometimes he needs to keep his mouth shut. -

There was a creak.

I raised my head, and looked at the door. Over Kiley's soft breathing, I heard footsteps. The squeak of an old floorboard.

I reached for my phone, facedown on my blanket, and pressed the home button. 11:43 PM.

Papa had turned all the lights off and sent everyone to bed nearly two hours ago. But it appeared I wasn't the only one who couldn't sleep. My curiousity was awakened.

I set down my journal, and turned off Kiley's lamp on her dresser, then held my breath.

Another squeak.

You couldn't get away with nothing in this house.

I slowly slid to the door, careful to open it. The hinges were annoyingly indecisive; sometimes they would scream in protest, somtimes they were silent. Thank God they appeared to be sleeping now.

I left the door open just enough for me to peek out into the hallway. It wasn't as dark as I had supposed. The pale light of the moon glowing through the windows in the front rooms revealed a shadow at the front door. I squinted.

Jackson?

He opened the door, and I saw a glimpse of checkered shoes and ruffled hair. That was definitely Jackson. I almost called out, demanded to know what he was doing, walking around so late at night. But then he was gone. The door shut behind him.

I frowned.

There was a part of me that would not be satisfied until I found out where he was going.

-----

Where the end of the driveway met the road, I could see him, turning to the right. Another shadow among the trees, if not for the light he swung in one hand.

I stepped down the porch steps, and hurried after him. The moon splattered it's light on the road, but I watched where I walked, anyway. Jackson couldn't know I was following him. He would try to make me go back, or simply go back himself.

Then I would never know what he was up to.

Save for my own footsteps sounding lightly in my ears, the woods were silent. It was as if Night had come and froze everything in it's path. No wind blew, no creatures stirred. Everything was cold, and still, and calm. I pulled my hood over my head, and buried my hands deep in the pockets of my sweater.

Jackson wasn't walking very fast, just sort of ambling along. As if he typically strolled through forests at midnight. Something about that irked me.

Did he?

Maybe he simply decided to take a walk, I thought. Cool down. But no. No, that wasn't right. Nothing about Jackson's demeanor displayed anger. He didn't even seem irritated. 

If anything, he appeared happy. Happier, at least, than I had seen him all day.

Time ticked on, he walked on, and I followed. My nose and cheekbones were beginning to numb. I hunched my shoulders, and resisted the urge to call out, tell him to go back to the house. Whatever he was doing out here was pointless.

Wasn't it?

His light flashed around a second, revealing another road branching off the main one. And a building.

I looked closer. 

It was the church.

We had almost walked a mile. I thought for a second he would stop here, maybe go inside, but he passed it.

I noticed his pace had quickened.

Not a minute later, his light flashed up from the road, ahead again, and I saw that the road narrowed at what looked like an entrance. An entrance to what? I could only see little white slabs sticking up out the ground.

What the heck. 

A chill scampered up my arms, and down to the pit of my stomach.

It was a cemetery.

Jackson didn't hesitate. He plowed straight ahead, right under the iron entry, only pausing to look at each row of gravestones he passed. Eventually, he stopped at one row, and began to walk down it, shining his light on all the tombstones he passed.

I crept up behind him, a few rows away, holding my breath, treading as noiseless as possible. The grass was short and prickly, and bristled at my steps. I hunkered down, keeping my eyes on him.

My tongue burned with questions. What was he doing? What was he even looking for?

Then, he suddenly stopped, and sat down. His flashlight shone on the gravestone before him. It was short and square, and that was all I saw of it before a voice cried out, "Who's there?!"