The Crossroads by Chris Grabenstein

tree.

“Sharon?”
    Gerda Spratling stumbled around her bedchamber.
    â€œSharon? Where are you, girl?”
    Miss Spratling found a small silver bell and shook it violently.
    â€œSharon!” She jangled the bell even harder.
    Sharon slid open the panel doors.
    The storm had torn down the power lines to Spratling Manor. The only illumination came from lightning flashing through the casement windows.
    â€œIs everything all right, ma’am?”
    Sharon carried a fluttering candle that sent shadows skipping across the cavernous room. The candlelight made everything in the creepy old house even creepier—especially Miss Spratling.
    â€œSharon, dearie, have I ever told you about Clint Eberhart?” A girlish smile crept across the old woman’s wrinkled lips. “Oh, he was the most. The absolute most. Thick, wavy hair. Such a dreamboat. Clint doesn’t think I’m ugly….”
    â€œCan I bring you anything, ma’am?”
    Thunder cracked. Glass rattled.
    â€œBring me champagne!”
    Sharon tried to figure out what they sold at the gas station that might pass for champagne. Maybe ginger ale.
    â€œNo. Never mind. Clint will bring the bubbly! Daddy promised.”
    â€œYes, ma’am. If you require nothing further…”
    â€œOnly that you be happy for me!”
    Sharon backed away. Inched toward the door.
    â€œOh, Daddy!” Miss Spratling screamed. “You have made me the happiest little girl in the whole wide world!”

Boom! Another blast of thunder rocked the bedroom. Zipper whimpered.
    â€œHey, Zip—did you know that sound travels eleven thousand feet per second? And there are five thousand, two hundred and eighty feet per mile.”
    Lightning flashed.
    â€œOne Mississippi, two Mississippi, three Mississippi, four Mississippi, five—”
    Thunder exploded.
    â€œOkay, see? That lightning was less than a mile away, ’cause for every four point seven seconds between—”
    The sky flared white. Thunder roared instantaneously with the flash. Then Zack heard an explosion—like a wooden crate being blown to bits by a stack of dynamite.
    The lightning must’ve hit something in the backyard!
    Zack and Zipper raced to the window.
    Wet oak leaves pressed against the glass and slid down like slow green hands.
    The big oak near the highway was tearing itself apart. Lightning must’ve hit it. One half of the huge tree crashed down behind the house. Dead branches snapped off it like crisp icicles. The other half slammed across the highway, blocking the crossroads with a barricade of branches.
    Zack and Zipper pressed their noses against the window.
    â€œWow. Awesome.”
    Zack sensed movement. On the far side of the fallen tree.
    He wasn’t sure, but he thought he saw the shadow of a man walking through the woods. A man with a big swoop of combed-back hair.
    â€œZack?” his dad called from downstairs.
    He turned to answer. “Yeah?”
    â€œYou guys okay?”
    â€œYeah. We’re fine.”
    When he looked out the window again, the man was gone.

It feels good to be back inside a body—the same nineteen-year-old body he died in.
    He still wears the boots, blue jeans, and black leather jacket he wore on the final night of his life. His hair is still full and thick, still combed straight back with a wavy doo-wop flip, still glued in place by glistening Brylcreem.
    Wherever he goes, he leaves behind the minty scent of his oily hair cream.
    He walks away from the oak tree and down to the road.
    His flip-top Ford Thunderbird glimmers in the moonlight. The chrome grillwork on the convertible sparkles. There’s no hint of where the front end crumpled and slammed the V-8 engine back into the driver’s seat to crush his legs.
    He hops in. Grips the steering wheel. Listens to the bent-eight engine purr and roar. He is ready to peel wheels and raise hell.
    Raise some before he has to go there.
    He