Green George
The boys sat round the campfire, huddled deep in their hoods, fingers spread out to catch the warmth of the flickering flames. With only a week left 'til school, they'd been desperate to go off on their yearly summer campout. One thing after another, parents, summer jobs, vacations, had prevented the traditional trip, but it had finally come together yesterday afternoon. Eight boys, all around their tenth birthday, with one tent that added up to total freedom.
The woods on the edge of town weren't deep, and it hadn't taken long for the boys to traipse out to their preferred spot, leaving the sounds of the highway behind, deadened by the dense foliage. They'd set up camp by Crooked Creek, lit their fire and indulged in a final round of cowboys. The game had been fun, but there remained an air of melancholy, perhaps due to the fact that they would soon be heading to senior school, such games fading into the past.
They'd settled to cook beans and sausages on the fire, relishing the rare treat of baked potatoes brought by one of the more thoughtful lads, and then waited. Someone always started, usually the oldest boy, and breath was held until the ritual words were spoken. As twilight deepened into full night, James, oldest by three months, spoke up.
"Anyone know a good ghost story?"
With a collective sigh of satisfaction, the boys began relating tales, old and reliable alongside new and untested. The boys were old enough to make fun of such tales, but when the youngest member of the group, Jimmy, spoke up; they found themselves drawing closer to the fire, the protective circle shrinking closer, seeking safety in numbers.
"Have you heard the story of Green George?" Jimmy asked and everyone nodded or murmured a reverential 'yes'.
Their answers weren't urging Jimmy to tell another story, but the cue for him to continue. It always seemed to be the youngest member of any group that told the sorry tale of George. Perhaps it was an unconscious passing of the baton from one group to the next, ensuring the tale survived. Whatever it was, it didn't concern the boys and they huddled even closer as Jimmy began the well-worn narrative.
"One hundred years ago this month," Jimmy intoned in the time-honored fashion of tellers of ghostly tales everywhere, "George Jones went out to work with his father. George's dad felled trees in this forest, which was much bigger then. Whilst his dad was chopping down trees, George, who was ten that day..."
Jimmy paused to allow the sympathetic nods and murmurs to die down before continuing.
"...decided to try out his new fishing pole. He wandered over to Crooked Creek. People say it was somewhere close to this very spot." More appreciative shudders ran through the group, "George spent the next hour fishing, but didn't have much luck so he wasn't too upset when he heard his dad calling him back for his lunch.
George started through the trees, but he realized he'd taken a wrong turning. Somewhere along the way, trying to follow his dad's voice, George turned deeper into the woods instead of back to the edge where his dad was waiting. He must have realized how badly off he was when he reached Miller's pond.
The pond was still, covered with nasty green slime and George worked his way around the edge carefully." Jimmy dropped out of bard mode for a second to explain to his captivated audience, "Cops found his boot-prints, ya see." Jimmy continued, his voice lowering appropriately, "George's dad had been calling for him for ages, and he finally decided to go fetch the boy. There was no sign of George at the creek, but George's dad spotted some broken branches on a bush and managed to follow George's trail as far as Miller's Pond.
What happened to George after that was a mystery. When he couldn't find his son, George's dad went back to town and got some men to help him search, but they never found him. George's dad used to come up the woods every day after that, always searching for his son. They say," Jimmy employed a suitable pause, "he died a broken man two years later.
Anyway, about fifty years ago, the woods were being cut back; making room for the new houses up by the school, and when the workers cleared the woods round back of Miller's Pond, there was an accident. One of the men fell down a hole, and he's supposed to have screamed himself insane. You see, he'd landed on George's bones. They say the man's foot went right through George's skull and that's what sent him crazy, ended up in a madhouse.
When they brought George's bones up, they glowed bright green, and that's why he's called Green George. He was buried next to his dad in Belmont Cemetery. You can still see his grave, and once a year, on the anniversary of his death, people see him walking round the town and through the woods, glowing green, just like his bones. Legend says, if you encounter Green George on the night of his death, he'll chase you through the woods and drown you in Miller's Pond, which is sixty feet deep. "
Jimmy sat back, pleased with the absolute silence around him, the saucer eyes of his listening friends and the total lack of comments about glowing moss and green paint. He'd held them spellbound, a talent that would serve him well because, although he didn't know it yet, Jimmy would be a writer one day.
The spell broke as a twig snapped somewhere in the woods behind them. A couple of the boys shrieked and all of them shot to their feet, clutching at each other. A pale green glow was floating amongst the dense tree trunks on the far side of the creek, accompanied by a low whimper. None of the boys, not even James, who was counted the bravest amongst them, waited to come face to face with Green George. They took off running and didn't look back.
Jimmy's dad, closely followed by James' uncle, watched the boys run, making sure they were well clear before stepping onto the banks of the creek. Jimmy's dad tucked the glowing plastic skeleton back into his rucksack and James' uncle turned off the tape-recorder in his hand. They grinned at each other and started back to town.
"Should keep 'em clear of Miller's Pond for another year." Jimmy's dad commented.
"Aye, nothing like a haunting to keep folk clear of places you don't want 'em going. Who's turn is it next year?"
"Dunno, we'll after to ask Reverend. He keeps the book updated."
"Did your missus get round to speaking to the new folks that moved in?"
"Aye, she warned 'em about the pond and told 'em how we keep the kids away. Seemed to like the idea, something about keeping up old traditions. Ready?"
James' uncle nodded and the pair turned into the cemetery, picking their way through the neat rows by torchlight, until they reached George's grave. The Reverend Arnold startled them, coming out of the night like a revenant rather than a reverend, but they hushed and stood with bowed heads as he read the traditional words over the child's grave.
"To those who watch over the souls of children gone too soon, care for this lost innocent, George Jones, and help him find peace. For as long as his name is remembered, he will remind us to watch over our children, and we will never forget him."
In the stillness that followed, all three men looked up and away from the graveyard, hearing faint laughter and catching the impression of two pale figures, father and son walking back to the woods, fading into the trees.