The Crossroads

Billy pulled his pickup truck into the parking lot of the old folks’ home a little before midnight.

The guy with the slicked-back hair wasn’t with him. He didn’t cruise along behind Billy’s truck in the phantom Thunderbird. He didn’t even show himself.

He didn’t have to do any of that anymore.

He and Billy had become one. Some kind of transference had taken place, and Clint Eberhart’s soul was able to slide into Billy’s body to take full control of everything the plumber said or did.

Billy stepped out of his truck and made his way to the bushes outside his grandmother’s bedroom window.

“Mee Maw?” Billy rapped his knuckles against the window. He could see her bed on the far side of the room, as far from the window as possible.

“Mee Maw?” Billy tapped louder. His thumb ring pinged sharply against the glass. “Open the window.”

He sensed movement underneath the blankets. Saw her small white head turn on the pillow. She was only half-awake but staring straight at him. He held up a box of oatmeal pies.

“I brung you Little Debbies, Mee Maw,” he said. “A whole dozen!”

His grandmother beamed. “Billy? Is that you?”

“Yes, ma’am, Mee Maw!” His smile looked more like a leer.

“Such a dear, sweet boy.”

Mee Maw slowly crawled out of bed, found her slippers, and shuffled to the window.

“Well done, Billy boy,” said the voice inside Billy’s head. “Well done.”

Mary O’Claire sat perched on her bed, nibbling a spongy oatmeal pie.

She smelled the familiar scent.

Brylcreem.

“Who are you?” she muttered to her grandson.

“Me? Why, I’m your grandson. Billy O’Claire.” The young man, who didn’t sound at all like Billy tonight, sat in an orange vinyl chair next to her bed.

“You’re not my grandson!”

“Yes, I am. I’m Billy! Your grown-up grandbaby.”

“No. You may look like Billy, but that’s not who you really are!”

“Is that so?” The evil spirit inside Billy’s body made his wicked grin grow wider. “Well, then, who do you think I am?”

Mary trembled. “You’re him.”

“Him who?”

Mary put one hand to her chest. She felt her ribs tighten and squeeze most of the air out of her lungs. She knew who was sitting in the room with her.

“You’re my husband,” she gasped. “Clint Eberhart. I can see his evil in your eyes.”

“Well, well, well. You’re pretty sharp for a dried-up old biddy,” said Billy, speaking the words the dark spirit of Clint Eberhart dictated. “I’m surprised you’re still alive. And don’t call me your husband. I dumped you a long time ago. Remember?”

“We weren’t divorced….”

“Oh? Then why’d you change your name back to O’Claire?”

“After what you did, I couldn’t stand being called Mary Eberhart!”

“Cut the gas, doll. I don’t need to hear your noise.”

“You’re evil, Clint. Pure evil!”

“Yeah? Well, I could’ve been evil and rich, but you had to butt in and ruin everything!”

“I told Sheriff Jennings the truth!” Mary whispered. “There were children on that bus, Clint. Children!”

“So? You ask me, you’re the one who killed ’em all! If you hadn’t called Mr. Spratling, nobody would’ve died!”

Mary could hear her heart pounding. It sounded like it had moved up to her skull. It sounded like it might explode.

“Sheriff Jennings knew everything, Clint. I finally told him—after he shot my son.”

“Son? Wait—let me guess. You married some other sap?”

“I never remarried, Clint. My son was your son.”

“That’s impossible!”

“The night you died, I was six months pregnant.”

“No, you weren’t! I never had no son!”

“Yes, you did. You just never met him.”

“You’re lying!”

“No, Clint. Lying is a sin.”

“Really? The nuns teach you that?”

Mary nodded.

“So how come you never told me about this baby?”

“Because you abandoned me, Clint. When you and Mr. Spratling cut your deal!” Mary shook her head. “No wonder my boy went bad. Like father, like son!”

“Shut up, you old hag!”

“No!” It was Billy. The real Billy. Fighting back. He wanted to hear more. Learn about his father. His grandmother could sense that he was struggling to regain control of his body.

She smiled gently. “Are you in there, Billy? If so, remember that I love you. No matter what.”

“Shut up!” Eberhart was back. “No more talking!”

Eberhart’s spirit made Billy’s body rise from the chair. Made him stretch out his arms and moan so fiercely that it shook the windowpanes and knocked a drinking glass off the bedside table.

“Die, old woman!” he roared. “Die like you should’ve died fifty years ago on that bus!”

Then Clint Eberhart allowed his real body to materialize inside the room. He became a mushrooming cloud of red-hot rage hovering over Mary O’Claire. He moved his ghostly hands toward the old woman’s throat as if he would strangle her.

It was enough to scare Mary O’Claire to death.