Fiction

1838


            Some people swore the house was haunted. I guess that rolls off the tongue a lot easier than saying, “We let someone die there once.”

            The day Gary McCauley moved back into our little neighborhood was the day we all decided to permanently change his livin arrangements. It wasn’t our place to decide whether he was wrongly accused or just in the wrong place at the wrong time; it was our place to protect our kids.  What happened at that schoolhouse called that into question.  He may not have killed those girls but he surely helped rape em. He knew why they were goin to that school house; he knew. Were we supposed to let him just come back here and live among us like nothing happened? No, it wasn’t goin down like that, not on Plainfield.

            “All it would take is a spark,” Ed Frezetti said when we all met at his barn.  Nobody did the plannin; nobody set a date, but we was all in on it. The day 1838 blew up, taking McCauley straight to hell, nobody tried to stop it.  The fire captain says it was burnin at least an hour before they got the call.  They could tell that by the condition of the house. As they hauled the charred remains of McCauley out of that damned hell hole, you could smell the blood of them sweet little girls.  We all was watchin. They never tore down that house completely, kind of a monument to our little girls’ sacrifice I suppose.

McCauley died; we died. Nothing was ever the same after that

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