The Crossroads by Chris Grabenstein Page A

had been terrified when the lightning bolt struck his tree, afraid it was God calling in the loan on his soul, demanding payment in full and interest past due.
    When the tree split, he figured he was a goner, that it was time to move on, time to finally leave this limbo where he had been held prisoner for nearly fifty years.
    But it seems he isn’t heading downstairs for fire, brimstone, and pokes from the devil’s pitchfork. Not just yet, anyway.
    The stump. The roots. They sink deep into the earth. They hold him here. He doesn’t have to let go or move on.
    He glances up toward the second-story window of the house behind him.
    The boy’s bedroom.
    I’ll be back for you later, four-eyes. Never did like nerds who wore glasses. Counting the seconds between the lightning and the thunder? What a baby.
    He has killed children before.
    He looks forward to doing it again.

“That was pretty incredible, hunh?”
    â€œYeah.”
    â€œZipper wasn’t afraid when the tree came down?”
    â€œNah.” Zipper was on top of Zack’s bedspread, curled up against his legs. Zack was tucked in under the covers. “We’re both fine, Dad.”
    â€œGood. I’ll call those tree men first thing tomorrow. Get the backyard cleaned up.”
    â€œCool.”
    â€œGood night, Zack.”
    His father flicked off the light. Closed the bedroom door.
    Zack didn’t dare mention the shadow man he had seen because his father would assume he was making up another story with what his mother used to call his overactive imagination. The way she said it? She meant Zack was a liar.

He has a fierce hunger for a cheeseburger, fries, and a thick chocolate shake.
    But the Burger Barn is gone. Something called Chuck E. Cheese has taken its place.
    He wants that cheeseburger bad. Hasn’t had one in fifty years.
    He jams the Thunderbird into reverse and peels wheels.
    No one sees his car. No one hears it. They sense only a slight movement of wind, feel a cold swirl of air.
    He makes a hard left turn and heads toward the river.
    I’ll go down to the factory,
he thinks.
Follow somebody on lunch break. Find a cheeseburger.
    He has no concept of time. It is four a.m. Nobody will be going to lunch, especially no employees of the Spratling Clockworks Factory, which shuttered its doors in 1983.
    He pulls into a crumbling parking lot outside an enormous redbrick building—an empty shell three stories tall with arched windows. The giant Spratling Stands the Test of Time sign is rusty and faded.
    He had started working for Julius Spratling in 1951. He pushed a broom, cleaned up trash, and flirted with the factory girls—many of whom he took out back to his secret love nest.
    The machine shop. It was his passion pit—even after he was married.
    In the east, the sun begins to rise. Somehow he understands he has to leave. When dawn comes, he’ll be gone. But he knows he will return come nightfall. He senses it.
    He has work to do, unfinished business.
    He also has time.
    If that lightning bolt couldn’t send me to hell, what on earth can?

“We’ll chop it up into firewood, mulch the crown.”
    Tony Mandica had brought a crew of six tree men with him to the Jennings house early Saturday morning.
    â€œWould you guys like some coffee?” Judy asked.
    â€œYou got a bathroom we can use later?”
    â€œUh, sure. Right off the kitchen.”
    â€œIn that case, pour me a big ’un!”
    Judy smiled. Poured coffee into paper cups. Four of the new home’s five bathrooms were still operational. The one off Zack’s bedroom was a mess. Good thing the plumber was coming that afternoon, too.
    â€œIs your father here?” Judy asked Mandica.
    â€œYeah. Probably someplace shady taking a nap. I swear, if his name wasn’t already on the truck, I’d fire him!”
    â€œDo you think he’d like some coffee?”
    â€œNever saw him turn down a free