The Orchard by Charles L. Grant

like I’d killed him myself, staying to the shadows, ducking behind poles and trees and even hedges when a car went by, turning around whenever I saw someone walking toward me.
    By the time I ran out of wind and my legs had started to scream, it was twilight.
    Soft colors, soft breeze.
    And I was in the orchard.
     
    I’m not a coward, you know. I know when to fight and when to back off. But when I looked around and realized where I was, I couldn’t stop myself from wishing my mother was here.
    Most of the trees were dead. Gnarled, tall, without the grace of a tombstone to lend them some purpose. Their rows were ragged, their trunks bent and angled, and the shadows they cast were like no shadows I’ve ever seen. They were cold, and the air around touched with the feel of a ghost or a bad dream. The grass grew, but not high; there were weeds without blossoms; the rocks were small, the stones sharp; and the dead leaves blown in here from the woods to the north were always brittle, and bladed, even after it rained.
    I didn’t like it here, didn’t know why I’d come when I should have been with Mary, or Aunt May, or even Uncle Gil.
    Anyone who could tell me what the hell was going on.
    Twilight deepened to dusk.
    I turned to leave, holding my stomach and deciding that maybe I should be in the hospital. The doctors there would know what was wrong with me; they would listen to my problems and they’d cure me, really cure me. They’d take me apart and put me back together, and when I got out I’d be just as good as new.
    The thought made me smile, and with one hand out to push away the branches, I took one step, and saw Mary’s tomb.
    It was lying in a clear space, like an aisle between rows of trees, and when it registered that I wasn’t seeing things, that I wasn’t losing my mind, I started to lose my temper, to search for a name to put blame to for playing this sick joke as I ran over and dropped beside it, leaning close because the light was going fast and I wanted to be sure it hadn’t been hurt.
    “Jesus,” I said.
    “Jesus!” I shouted, and jumped to my feet, fists ready, teeth bared, daring the goddamned bastards to come out of hiding and face me like men.
    The pastels faded and shaded to black.
    Something moved.
    I froze, even though I wasn’t sure I’d heard anything, a hand out over Mary as if to protect her.
    Then it moved again, just off to my left.
    I looked up at the twisted branches and they were hands reaching for my scalp; I backed away from the boles that were scaled black on the sides as if marked by a great fire; I stumped over a rock half buried in the ground and told myself that if I didn’t stop it, I was going to scare myself to death.
    A twig snapped.
    A foot scuffed through dead leaves.
    I turned quickly, breath ice in my throat, and saw nothing, saw no one, not even my shadow.
    “Who the hell is it?” I demanded, amazed that my voice didn’t crack. “Is this your idea of a joke? Is it? Well, it ain’t goddamned funny!”
    Far behind me, on the highway, a truck sounded its horn.
    A soft voice in front, a whispering, words I couldn’t make out.
    “All right, knock it off. You think it’s funny? You know Stick is dead? Huh? Do you bastards know Stick is dead?”
    Something flew overhead, low and banking sharply, and I ducked, lifted a shoulder, and waved a frantic hand to drive it away. It came by again, wings short and chopping the air, dropping me to one knee while I tried to move backward. A third time, and it was gone, black into black, leaving me panting and feeling incredibly stupid.
    “Idiot,” I muttered as I struggled to stand. It was only a bat, after a bug I couldn’t see. Feeling like a class-A jerk, I dusted my jeans off, rolled my shoulders, and moved over to Mary to see how I was going to get the tomb back home. I figured they must have used a truck; they must have broken the lock on the shed and carried her out in a pickup.
    But I didn’t know anyone who