Hidebehind

Twelve

"What are you doing out here, son?"

Grandpa seemed himself, and I was so happy to see him, so I practically blubbered, "Jay was here, or I thought he was! But when I turned around, he was gone, and I kept thinking I saw him, but every time I turned he wasn't there, and—"

"Calm down, Robert. Just take it easy." Grandpa took his hand off my left shoulder and patted my right shoulder with his other.

I listened to my breathing. Grandpa didn't say anything for a minute; he just let me get my bearings.

"Where are you going?" I asked him.

He shrugged, like it was no big deal, nothing too interesting, to be walking all alone through the middle of the woods. "Luther's house."

My memory ran in circles trying to figure out what he was talking about, and I wondered momentarily if he was getting his thoughts mixed up again. "Who's Luther?"

"My father—your Great Grandpa. Oh, he died a long time ago, Robert. You never met him."

Great Grandma had said something about an old house; it was flooded. Now that I recalled that, though, I was confused about how that was possible.

"Come on; come with me. It's not much farther," said Grandpa, and rather than ask him questions, I decided just to follow him.

We walked in silence, retracing the steps Grandpa had taken ahead of me before running back to see why I was freaking out. Even though he was with me, I felt prickles on my skin. Something weird had just happened back there; I'd definitely thought I'd seen someone. Unless Jay had played some type of joke on me, it must have been my eyes and ears playing tricks. As weirded out as I was, though, being with Grandpa in his normal state made me feel a hundred times better. I just tried to quit thinking about what had happened, and that became easier when we came to Luther's house.

It was huge—at least twice the size of Great Grandma's. It was three stories and white, but it was so covered with dirt and mold that a lot of places on it were green-gray and covered with plants and grime. The windows were all dark; some were broken, and the porch on front was caved in. It was a huge old mess, and it looked like it had been sitting, rotting in the woods for years.

"Luther—my father—always wanted a bigger home than what we had," Grandpa said, "and he wanted it to feel like it was far away. He built this house here probably fifty years ago, but he died before it could be finished."

"It's kind of scary," I said quietly.

Grandpa laughed. "Funny thing is, it always has been. Even when it looked prettier."

I just stared at the ruined thing. My imagination saw lots of rats and spiders crawling all around its insides, dust and dirt covering the floors, empty rooms sad that no one inhabited them.

"Come on around back. I'll show you why your Great Grandma wanted you to stay away."

I wasn't sure I wanted to go around back. I was starting to think more seriously about what I'd just experienced alone on the path a few moments ago, but I followed Grandpa anyway, because it was better than staying by myself.

We sloshed through leaves and weeds, and I was jealous that Grandpa was wearing pants; my legs were so itchy.

At the back of the house was a stairwell that went down into the ground, to what I assume was the basement, but down toward where the stairs met the basement, water had collected, rising so high that only the top couple feet of the door could be seen; it looked like the steps just vanished.

I stared at the dark, murky water. Leaves and branches and bits of indistinguishable stuff floated in it. I imagined walking down the stairs, into the water, letting it cover my feet, my ankles, up to my knees, and then all the way up my chest. Maybe it was even deep enough to cover my head. If I opened the basement door, I'd have to swim into that black water, with all the snakes and tangled plants and whatever other hidden, slurping things might be there. The thought made me feel strange, like my stomach had bottomed out, and I instinctively stepped back.

"Sad, isn't it?"

I nodded, but Grandpa didn't see, as I was behind him.

"None of us ever lived in it. Nobody has."

"Why?"

Grandpa sighed. "It was unlivable. Foundation's shot. Basement flooded halfway through, but he tried to make it work for a while—tried so hard. And then he just sort of stopped. Stopped coming out here, stopped caring. After he was gone, nobody else cared as much as he did. Place was condemned. We all forgot about it."

"Even Great Grandma?"

"Yep. She's got so much land she can't get around to see it all. She's not been back here since my dad died."

"What happened . . . to Luther? My Great Grandpa?"

Grandpa didn't answer me at first. Then, almost as if he were reluctant to, he said, "I said he died, and he did. We found him out here by the house, right over by that overgrown fence—see it?" Grandpa pointed, and I looked, but I couldn't even see a fence for all the tangled weeds. "I must have been close to your age."

We stood there together for a few moments. Nothing had to be said. It was creepy. That was all. After a while, I noticed the trees had darkened. It was time to go back. I mentioned it to Grandpa, and he put a hand on my shoulder. We turned and started down the path on which we'd arrived. I was more than happy to leave Luther's house far behind. I sort of wished I'd never seen it—I hoped I'd never have to again.

The trees seemed to be wrapping their fingers around us; they were bonier than when I'd come in. I felt a hand close around mine and looked down to see Grandpa had taken hold of it. We weren't around anybody, so I let him. It felt good, anyhow, to know he was there.