Fred

It seems like the old barn doesn't have a place in time anymore, as if it belongs to nature and the past. The timber my Uncle built the barn from has weathered and turned gray over the years. At the street, a steel gate runs between two rotting fence posts. The broken lock lets it squeak in the light breeze, and red flakes of rust look like blood on the damp ground. A sagging chicken coop stands behind the barn, and a once lovely house graces the west field. Maple and sumac trees surround the buildings and have littered the ground over time. The scent of ancient roses and lilacs fill the air; wildflowers and grasses have pretty much taken over all they can. Surprisingly, a single Marigold plant blooms beside the broken barn door. Someone almost had to plant it as they are not perennials, or perhaps a passing bird dropped some seeds. It strikes me as odd, though, because Marigolds were my Aunt Grace's favorite flower. Today there is a slight drizzle in the air, and the cloud layer gives everything a gunmetal gray backdrop adding to the sense of desolation. Something about the place cries loneliness.

I love to explore old homesteads any chance I get, but this place is special to me. I spent a lot of time on this farm when I was a little girl. Aunt Grace and Uncle Claude farmed the land after Claude built the home as a wedding gift for Grace in 1925. My siblings and I often played in this old barn, unbeknownst to my Aunt. She was always afraid we would break a bone swinging on the ropes that took the hay into the loft. Now, here I am, over 60 years later, trying to get up nerve enough to go into the once-friendly old building.

I stop to pick the Marigolds before entering the barn. Inside, the quiet fills the dark stables and winds up the ladder to the empty hayloft. Tangled cobwebs fill every corner; some hang down and stir like ghostly fingers at the slightest movement. Broken boards litter the floor, mice, bats, and whatever chitter in the walls and basement. The weak light filtering through the cracks and dust gives the place an eerie greenish glow. I spot a couple of piles of what looks to be new lumber and a box of nails scattered across the floor. Abandoned tools laying here and there indicate someone once intended to repair the place but left in a hurry. A chill runs up my back, and the hair on my arms stands on end. I can feel it somehow; something about this place isn't right.

Horse stalls loom to the right of me, and the hayloft rises out of the gloom on my left. If I remember, there is a door leading to the basement straight ahead and on my right. Yep, there it is, just as I recall. I shine my small flashlight down the steps into total darkness. The windows below must be boarded over. Fear and common sense say maybe I ought to forget this silly notion and leave. No one ever accused me of having any sense, though, so I take a deep breath and start down the steps.

At the bottom of the stairs, I shine my light to the right and see the old stanchions where my Aunt and Uncle once milked their Jersey cows. How often I stood here and watched them milk until Aunt Grace would spray me with milk and I would run giggling back up to the barn floor. On the North end of the basement is a high pen made of steel bars where my Uncle kept Fred the bull. Uncle and Aunt never allowed any of us young ones to go near the animal. While Fred seemed gentle, my Uncle said a bull was an unpredictable critter and could turn on a person in a second; often killing or hurting one badly. I that particular instance, fear overrode my lack of common sense, and I kept my distance from old Fred.

I notice the complete silence down here. Even the rustle and chattering of the rodents have stopped. Again, my instinct is telling me to get the hell out of here, and as usual, I don't listen. I take a couple of steps further to observe the area better and notice a greenish glow over Fred's pen. I thought it was strange, but perhaps some light is getting in somewhere. Curiosity gets the best of me, and I know I have to take a look at Fred's old pen.

As I get closer, the green light appears to glow brighter, and I hear an odd sound, like the breathing of some large animal. The green light starts to shift and swirl, and a shape takes form in the middle of the pen. At this point, I think I must be dreaming; things like this don't happen in real life. Then, to my horror, I recognize the ghostly shape; it's good old Fred, and he looks thoroughly pissed off. He probably doesn't appreciate me disturbing his eternal rest.

Finally, my good sense kicks in, and I run for the basement steps as fast as my old body will allow. Behind me, a bellow of pure rage gives me the incentive I need to make it to the barn floor. I slam the basement door shut and pray it will stop a ghost bull. The roaring and bellowing seem to come from all directions until I fear my head will explode.

I make the door and slip through into the rapidly dimming light outside. Leaning against the barn wall, I can only pray my shaking legs will carry me to my car. It's strangely quiet now, so maybe Fred has returned to his otherworldly home; I certainly hope so. I give a huge sigh of relief and look up to see...Fred! The bull is standing about twenty feet from me and, he doesn't appear to be in a good mood. Fred's eyes are red, and foam is dripping from his muzzle. Definitely, not friendly. Without thinking, I throw my flashlight at the animal, but it really sets him off. Fred shakes his head and paws the ground, throwing clumps of grass and dirt over his back. He is one ticked-off beast. I try easing away, and the bull comes at me full speed. I scream and throw the only thing I have left, the Marigolds. To my surprise, Fred slides to a halt and lowers his nose to the flowers; the rage disappears like someone turned off a switch.

I take advantage of the situation and sprint, or more appropriately, shuffle quickly towards my car. I lock the doors and start the engine with every intent of departing pronto. I'm just grateful to be still alive. I know no one will believe me when I mention this, so I probably never will. I can't resist one last look to see if Fred is still there, but he has vanished as if he never was. I don't know if the Marigolds reminded Fred of his former kind owners or if the whole thing was my imagination. I guess I will never know. A single Marigold lays on the seat of my car. It must have stuck to my clothes when I threw them.