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Mikey is in the backyard, sitting under the peach tree. Frank is sick with the flu, again, and Mom said he couldn't go play with him, despite the promises and protests Mikey has been reciting the whole weekend like a litany to convince his mother. No was no, and that's how he ends up here, boredly flipping through the pages of a Horror Stories copy he's stolen from Gerard's bedroom. He's far too young to be reading pulp magazines like these, but he cares more about the illustration rather than the story itself. Seeing the impossible creatures with a hundred eyes peering out from the ruins of marvelous cities is the best part. His eyes itch a little as he flips a page to see Mr. Wyatt, the protagonist of this volume, a strong man, posing dramatically with his shirt ripped for some reason he doesn't understand, shielding his girlfriend from a slimy creature's tentacles, the gross tendrils trying to reach her silky dress. He thinks about how the world would be if the monsters won. He imagines his little neighborhood swallowed up by a huge fungus or a fleet of sleek ships that look like silver teaspoons, scooping up the houses, the people, the mailmen and the dogs. He wouldn't have to go to school if that happened, or stare at the fence, waiting for Frank to get well so they can play knights and dragons. A few houses down the street, at the Morris yard, their dog Spot is barking like crazy. The breeze rustles the pages, threatening to snatch them from his childish hands. Carefully, he closes the magazine and presses it against his legs, smoothing the slightly curled edges the best he can. Gerard will kill him if even the tiniest speck of dust gets on his precious magazine.
The peaches are still green and inedible, and Mikey watches the small fruits sway in the cool afternoon breeze, the tree's leaves dancing above his face. The sun blinds him in quick bursts. He can hear Ray laughing inside the house, and then Gerard's voice telling him some funny anecdote. Mikey hugs his knees. He wishes he had more friends to have fun with when Frank isn't around, or join his brother's inner circle, but Mom and Dad say he's still too young to play with Gerard and Ray, who are both eleven. That still feels young in Mikey's head, but he's younger in comparison, too fragile, his mother says. He pouts, feeling the tears fill up his eyes again, as they did yesterday when Mom said he had to stay home. He's not fragile, he tells himself, roughly rubbing his eyes. He can run almost as fast as Ray and get better grades than Gerard when he was his age. It's just that they don't take him seriously.
A snap behind him makes him peek over his shoulder. The breeze has died down and the street is too quiet. Ray and Gerard are also silent in the house, Sport isn't barking anymore and a chill, like an ice cube, slides down his back, like when he hears those weird footsteps in the attic in the middle of the night. He clutches the magazine closer to his chest, looking all around, but there's no one in the yard. The peach tree branches rustle violently, even without the wind, and a green fruit falls a few inches from his shoe with a dull crunch. Mikey lets out a little yelp, startled, before embarrassment hits. He's not some scared cat, he reminds himself, but how does one explain a green peach falling right next to you? "Gee, it's not funny!" he shouts towards the house, but his brother doesn't answer. Of course he doesn't, he's in his room. It's impossible that the peach is his fault. Mikey is alone.
He should go back into the house, because that's the logical thing to do. But the logic of Mikey's eight-year-old brain is now more interested in the sound of firm footsteps crunching on the pavement on the other side of the fence. The fence, painted white just a week ago by Dad, stands two heads taller than he is, hiding the street from him, even if he tries standing on tiptoes. Not that he plans to, with the rustle of something big and slow making its way closer and closer. The rhythm sounds human, he thinks, like an adult's. The footsteps pause near the fence, right behind it. Mikey shrinks against the tree, not daring to try and peek again. If he stays like this, he won't be noticed. The short hairs on the back of his neck rise. The person outside hasn't spoken. It's not a neighbor or the mailman, then. He can go back to the house and admit his cowardice to Gerard, but he dismisses the idea immediately. He isn't scared of anything. He's brave, like Mr. Wyatt.
It whistles. The thing-person behind the fence whistles a mournful, off-key tune, and the hinges of the small gate creak as it opens, evaporating all the courage the boy has gathered. Mikey squeezes his eyes shut, curling even closer against the peach tree trunk, his hands grabbing fists of grass. The footsteps resume, careful and slow, drawing closer to his hiding place. No. Mr. Wyatt wouldn't hide. Mr. Wyatt would face the enemy with his fist raised if he had to. Mikey takes a deep breath and forces himself to jump to his feet as the intruder circles the tree.
"Gotcha!" Mikey screams in a pitched voice, swinging his arms wildly, not landing a single hit.
He finds himself staring not at a monster, or a thief, but a pair of dirty boots, covered in dark sand. Looking up, he realizes it's a man. He can't see his face clearly, with the leaves' shadow obscuring it, but he's there, of that he has no doubt. It's a person. A man. Tall, maybe even taller than Dad, dressed in a green uniform, like a soldier's, quite dirty and shabby, with more of that weird sand. There seems to be a medal pinned to his chest, but he can't make out what kind. The stranger stands there, like a statue, as if he's been standing there for a long, long time. He has glasses too, Mikey notices when he looks at the man closely, thin oval-framed glasses. Mikey swallows hard, taking a little step back, still clutching his magazine. He isn't supposed to talk to strangers, much less let one enter the yard or worse, the house, but this one entered on his own, and isn’t so scary now that they're face to face. Sort of, since Mikey's face reaches a little above the man's elbow.
"Um… hello?" he says very quietly, cautiously. If anything happens, he'll run and scream as loud as he can and hopefully, Ray will come to save him. Gerard will maybe follow Ray, but he's a chicken sometimes. But the stranger doesn't answer. He just stares at him with tired eyes, the only thing from his face that Mikey can see clearly. Mikey squints to get a better look of him. The man is slumped forward, a hand pressed against his stomach. With sudden concern, Mikey realizes the man is hurt.
The man doesn't shake or lose balance, but there is a dark stain spreading quickly across the olive-green fabric of his uniform jacket. Its color, a deep, muddy crimson, isn't what Mikey imagines when someone bleeds like that. His scratches and the wounds he's seen in pamphlets of first-aid in school are always a bright and vivid red. This is different, far scarier than what he's seen on Horror Stories. For a second, Mikey believes he sees a thin trail of blood leaking through the man's fingers, droplets falling to the grass at their feet.
"You're bleeding," Mikey murmurs, stating the obvious. He points, since Mom's not here to scold him for that, at the stain. The man glances down at his abdomen, as if he's just now noticing it too, but remains silent, almost indifferent. He presses harder on the wound, and Mikey sees more blood seeping between the man's fingers. He's breathing heavily, despite his silence, his shoulder rising and falling in strange spasms, as if he's in pain. Mikey shudders, taking another step back, toward the house. Mom was sewing something in the living room when he left for the yard. He'll be safe if he goes to her and leaves the man alone. It’s only a few feet.
"Mommy—" he starts to say, but stops. The soldier looks at him with a pleading expression. The sun hits his face fully now, and Mikey sees how young he is. He's not a child like him or Gerard, but neither is he a man like Dad either. He's somewhere in between, like Ray's older brother, the one who works at the bakery and always gives him cookies. But it's his gaze, so strange, that makes him look so much older. Will it feel like that to be so in pain? Mikey shifts nervously. "You should sit down," he says, trying to mimic the serious tone his parents use when he's hurt. "Or I can get my Mom. She has bandages and medicine, so it doesn’t hurt anymore. She'll put a Band-Aid on it, like this." He points to his own knee, where a white bandage covers the scrape he got only a week ago when he fell off the swing.
The soldier's lips twitch, almost smiling at the childish command. He sways slightly where he stands, his free hand brushing against the peach tree's bark for support. Despite the blood on his palm, his touch leaves no mark on the wood. That makes no sense to Mikey, any stain should be visible, but the man's hand seems to glide against the rough bark rather than lean his weight on it. Mikey frowns, his curiosity momentarily overriding his fear.
"How…?" Mikey mutters.
The man looks up at the peach tree, then at the house. His eyes trace the yard, slowly, looking intently at the kitchen window and the swing Dad built last summer for them, the hose wrapped like a snake near Mom's potted plants, the fence still pristine white, as if he's trying to remember something. His expression is now sad, some form of calm sadness, too old for a man so young. Mikey looks at him, feeling his mouth go dry.
"You've been here before?" He asks the man.
The soldier looks back at him. His lips tremble, but no word comes out, only the heavy, weak sound of his labored breathing. He looks back down at the wound, pulling his hand away. The bleeding has stopped, it seems, leaving only the dark splotch behind.
"Does it hurt?" Mikey asks.
The soldier takes so long to answer that Mikey starts thinking he will simply stay quiet again. When he does, his voice comes out like a weak croak, raspy, like a voice sounds after coughing a lot. "A little," he murmurs, covering the wound with his hand. "It's not something a little kid like you should see."
Mikey makes a face, his brows knitting together to look more serious and stubborn. "I'm not a little kid, I'm eight years old. And I've seen blood," he adds, although his scratches feel suddenly small in comparison to this soldier's pain. "I'm not scared, because I'm brave, like Mr. Wyatt." He points to the wound again. "Really, you should let my Mom take a look at that. She's very good at healing things. My big brother Gerard almost chopped his whole finger off once. Dad got really scared and he almost fainted! But Mom fixed it right away, so maybe she can fix you too."
The man sighs deeply, giving Mikey a tired smile. He shakes his head, slowly. "No… I don't think she can fix this."
Mikey pouts. "Of course she can. She can heal everything!" He takes a step toward the house, offering the man a hand.
The man doesn't follow him. Instead, he leans back against the peach tree, closing his eyes. He sinks slowly, his uniform making no sound as he sits on the grass, his head resting against the trunk. In Mikey's head, he looks like his teddy bear when it falls off the bed. The man looks at the house again. Now that the breeze is back, the white curtains flutter in the open window. His expression changes for a moment, not quite sadness… perhaps nostalgia? It's a weird word, adults use it a lot, and also people in books when they talk about things that are gone forever. The man has the same face Dad makes when he talks about Grandpa.
"What’s your name?" Mikey asks, coyly stepping close again.
The man swallows hard. He looks at Mikey with that same weird expression. "Michael."
Mikey gasps. "That's my name too!"
The man's eyes flutter open, taking in the mussed hair, the small freckles that had shown up from spending too much time in the sun, the hurt knee. He sighs again before closing his eyes.
Mikey takes a few steps more, until he's just a couple of feet away. Now he can really see his face. There are deep eyebags and a small scar on his chin. His hair, a dark brown, is damp, sticking to his pale forehead. His nose is straight, his lips are thin. But there is something… something off, in the way he tightens his jaw, pursing his lips. Mikey tilts his head.
"You look a little bit like me," Mikey says. "Are we… are we family? Are you my cousin?"
The man takes his time again. His eyes open, taking a look at Mikey's magazine. He lets out a little huff, amused. "Something like that," he whispers. He reaches a hand, not to touch Mikey, but to vaguely gesture at the house, his fingers stained with blood. "It's a beautiful home. The curtains… I remember…"
Mikey frowns, his heart squeezing. This man talks about the house like he knows it, but he doesn't seem to know the people in it. He doesn't ask about the parents, or why a boy would be here alone, talking to a bleeding stranger without an adult. Mikey sits on the grass beside the man, putting Gerard's magazine aside. "Is this your house?" He asks.
"It was," the man answers, looking back at him with those strange eyes.
It's a funny answer. Mikey shakes his head. "No, it's not," he says. "Mom said that Dad built it when they got married, and Dad's still here. He's inside, eating a sandwich. It can't be your house." He looks at the man’s boots, caked in sand. "This is… my house."
The man doesn't argue. He doesn't laugh or tell Mikey he's mistaken, he just looks up at the green fruits swaying as the breeze picks up again. "I haven't eaten a peach in a while," he whispers. His tone makes Mikey reach a hand and pat him on the shoulder for comfort, but the blood-soaked uniform still makes him hesitate.
"They aren't ripe yet," Mikey says, "Dad says that if you eat one when they're like this, your stomach hurts for a whole week. I don't think it lasts that long, but I like them better when they're orange and taste like candy."
The man chuckles weakly, the sound becoming a faint cough. "Oh, yeah. They're much better when they're orange." He slumps his head back against the tree with a wince. For a moment, he looks like he might just fall asleep right there on the grass with that wound on his stomach. Mikey watches him, wondering if he's really a ghost. He remembers that tale Gerard told him about a soldier who got lost in the woods by the church, looking for his own home, but it had been just a story to make Mikey scared about the dying oak near the cemetery.
"Say, if your name is Michael, do people call you Mikey too?" he asks innocently.
The man inhales deeply. His lips purse for a second before he finally shakes his head. "No… not anymore."
"Why not?" Mikey asks, getting closer. "Is it because you're a grown up?"
"Something like that," the man answers. He turns to Mikey again, lifting a hand. His palm, stained red, hovers an inch away from Mikey's cheek, but he doesn't get to touch him. His fingers tremble as he pulls his hand back. "You grow out of things, eventually. Nicknames, toys…"
"I'm never growing out of my toys," Mikey interrupts, crossing his arms. "And I'll make sure people call me Mikey until I'm a hundred years old."
The soldier smiles a little wider now, the skin around his eyes crinkling. "I hope you do." He looks down at the magazine with curiosity, taking in the pictures of the hundred-eyed monster. "Mr. Wyatt, huh? I used to like his stories."
Mikey beams, pleased that this man, as weird as he is, knows who the magazine hero is. "He's so cool! He fights monsters with his bare hands!" He mimics a punch into the air before showing the man the cover. "It's actually my brother's. He can be a big mean sometimes, but lets me read his stuff when I'm good."
The soldier's gaze goes back to the house, lingering on the white curtains. "Sounds like a lucky life," he mutters. "A house to go back to. Parents that heal things. A brother." He lets out a shaky breath, his face tense with pain as he clutches his stomach harder this time. His skin has gone paler, almost grayish, like a fish's belly. "Sorry for… for bothering you. I just wanted to see it one last time… to see if it was still here…"
Mikey reaches a hand and grabs the man's wrist, gently. The skin is cold, colder than snow, but the soldier doesn't flinch. "You can stay here for the afternoon," Mikey offers, feeling a sense of urgency in his stomach. "There's lemonade in the refrigerator and Ray brought chocolate chip cookies! Mom probably put them away in the pantry… but she'll give you one. A-and we can call a doctor, there's a telephone in the living room!" He starts to pull at the man's arm, trying to coax him back into a standing position.
The soldier doesn't move. He feels heavy, like a stone, anchored to the root of the peach tree. His arm is limp in Mikey's grip. He looks up at Mikey, and behind his oval glasses, his eyes are glassy with tears. He smiles sadly. "I can't go inside," he says, even weaker than before. "Not like this. It… it wouldn't be right."
But Mikey shakes his head. "No, no! You're hurt!" he insists, tugging harder. His small loafers slip in the grass. "If you stay here, the ants will bite you or you'll get sick!" He thinks of Frank, lying in his bed with the flu, sneezing and coughing, and he doesn't want this man to be sick too. He wants him to have a glass of lemonade and a cookie. To feel welcome. "Please," he begs, almost sobbing now. "Mom will know what to do…"
Mom's voice calls from inside the house. "Mikey! Your snack is ready!"
Mikey turns his head immediately. "Coming!" But he looks back to the soldier again. "Come on, she's calling! She'll probably give you some snacks too."
The soldier looks at the house once more. The wind picks up again, dragging the leaves around his boots, but he doesn't seem to notice the chill. He reaches out and this time he gently pats the back of Mikey's hand. "There's still time," he whispers.
Mikey doesn't know what that means. There doesn't seem to be time for anything when you're bleeding like that. He gives one last, desperate tug on the soldier's wrist, but the man doesn't budge. His hand slips away from Mikey's, falling limp against the grass. He doesn't look at Mikey anymore. His gaze has returned to the window, watching the curtains sway in the breeze.
"Michael James Way!" Mom calls again, now in that tone that means she won't be calling a third time.
"Coming!" Mikey yells back. He takes a step towards the house, but the sudden silence behind him makes him pause. It has only been a second, but he gets goosebumps again. When he turns around, expecting to see the soldier still sitting under the peach tree, perhaps having fallen asleep from the pain, the grass is empty. There is no one there. Only the branches rustle and murmur with the breeze. Spot is barking again. There are no footsteps leading to the fence and the door remains closed, its latch undisturbed. Mikey turns around all over, looking at every corner of the backyard. He peeks behind the peach tree and even jumps to see the street behind the fence. Nothing.
"Mister?" he calls meekly.
He looks down, where he has dropped the Horror Stories magazine. The peach is still there and right by the tree, barely visible in the grass, two boot-prints are pressed deep into the soil, large and full of sand. Mikey crouches by them, touching one with a shaky fingertip. The sand is damp and cold, very, very cold.
"Michael?" Mom calls again, this time closer to the yard door. She'll scold him if he doesn't go in right now.
Mikey wipes his hand in his shorts. He picks up the magazine and runs towards the house. Before crossing the threshold, he turns around one last time.
The backyard looks exactly the same. The green peaches dangle from the branches like tiny Christmas ornaments. The fence shines blindly white in the afternoon sun. But as he holds the doorknob in his hand, something moves behind the fence. For a brief moment, Mikey sees a tall shadow, a man's silhouette, standing perfectly still by the gate. It seems to stare at him, silent. Mikey blinks and the shadow is gone.
After waiting a little more, Mikey steps inside and the door closes behind him.