Chapter Text
Clark is lying on his bed, just about to go to sleep. It hasn’t even been five minutes since he blew out the light on his bedside table and tucked himself in, but suddenly there are knocks on his door. Bam-bam-bam. Three times in quick succession. He sits up, half-expecting Ma or Pa to open the door and come in, back early from their trip to the city, but that’s impossible. They’re not due back for three days.
He is eleven-years-old, alone in a creaking, old house, and there is someone knocking on his bedroom door. His first thought is that it’s a ghost. He overheard Mrs. Johnson when she visited last month to ask if they wanted any of the puppies her old Lab just gave birth to. She was nervous all throughout the ten minutes she sat on their sofa, wringing her hands together and nearly spilling her coffee when she deigned to take a sip.
When she was finally going out the door after poorly-made excuses, she paused.
“Have you had your house blessed?” she asked. “Father Thomas is a friend of the family, and I happen to know he doesn’t charge for blessings. I must insist that you consult with him.”
The only response she got was a raised eyebrow from Ma and a pointed, “Good day, Mrs. Johnson.” Clark didn’t think much of it, until now, that is. Suddenly, he can’t help but wonder what she saw or felt that day that made her so twitchy.
But, no. Ma and Pa have always said that there is more to be feared from the living than the dead, no matter how many stories of zombies and ghosts Clark brings home from his trips to the library or his nights sleeping over at Pete’s. Lana tells the scariest story about the well a little ways away from the butcher, says that there’s a kid twenty-something years ago working for the butcher who fell into the well and now he haunts it. Clark was terrified of it until his Pa took him there, looked down into the well himself, and told Clark that if there really was a ghost there, then he would have been pulled into it, wouldn’t he?
So Clark ignores the sinking feeling in his stomach, ignores the way his hair stands on end. He knows he doesn’t have good chances of fighting off an intruder no matter how brave he is, so he grabs one of his heavier schoolbooks from his desk and tiptoes right back to bed. All the lights in the house are closed and before Clark went to bed, he’d already been in his room, rereading the mystery novel Ma and Pa gave him for his birthday. Whoever it was that knocked on his door, they probably don’t know he’s here. They’re probably knocking on all the doors and Clark is fine. He is going to be fine and soon, the intruder will give up and he’ll go away and Clark will be able to go to the police.
Except the doorknob turns and the door creaks open ever so slowly, sending Clark’s heart into a frenzy. He clutches his book, knuckles white, eyes trained on the sliver of the hallway he can see behind the door, slowly widening but still so empty. Images flash in his mind one after another—a masked man wielding an axe, a giant black mass looming over him, a headless priest with both arms outstretched, reaching for him.
In the end, reality is so much worse than whatever Clark could have ever imagined, because reality is right there coming for him. He hears them before he sees them, raspy voices that feel like they’re whispering straight into Clark’s ears. Even when Clark covers his ears, he can still hear them calling, Clark, Clark, Clark.
And finally, he sees them—two figures dressed in all black. Clark doesn't have the nerve to look at them for long, but he sees enough to know that they're not right . Their mouths are wide open, unmoving despite the whispers in Clark’s ears, and their eyes are hollow, dark as the night. They reach out to him, as if they mean to take him with them.
And Clark—Clark doesn’t know what to do beyond try to control his breathing and try to hear anything other than his blood rushing in his ears. When he feels cold fingers grasp his shoulder, he doesn't know what to do except scream. He screams and screams until his throat feels like it’s bleeding. He screams until he can’t scream anymore.
When he finally stops, he doesn’t feel the cold anymore, but he doesn’t dare open his eyes. Sleep is a long time coming.
Two days later, Ma comes home alone. She sits him down before Clark can even open his mouth to ask her how their trip was, or where dad is, or what she thinks he saw the other night. She tells him Pa died in his sleep the night before.
And Clark—Clark does not know what to do except cry.
It’s almost like a dam was broken that night.
Lana is pulled out of class one day, and when she comes back, her eyes are red-rimmed and she’s only there to give their teacher an excuse slip and get her things. Her old Nana’s sick with influenza, confined to her bed with no future ahead of her except death. When he and Pete visit, Clark sees a tall, thin figure sitting next to Lana’s Nana, its long, wiry fingers buried in her hair. She dies hours after she says her goodbyes to Lana, much like when Pa died a day after the two figures knocked on Clark’s bedroom door.
Then, when he goes to the city with Pete one summer, there is a small black blob that hangs onto their innkeeper’s neck. It makes Clark worry, because Mrs. Barnaby is pregnant, due for labor within the week. Pete’s uncle who works for a big-time automobile company is supposed to take Pete and Clark on a tour of the city, but Clark makes excuses, finds a way to help out around the inn because he doesn’t want Mrs. Barnaby or her baby to die when they’re only just starting out with their family.
In the end, Clark is the only person with Mrs. Barnaby when her water breaks. He’s the one who runs to get Mr. Barnaby, the one who stays and holds Mrs. Barnaby’s hand while her husband runs to get the doctor. In the end, no one dies. Mrs. Barnaby delivers a healthy baby girl and after that, the black mass that used to hang onto her is nowhere to be found.
Clark learns that Mr. and Mrs. Barnaby’s first child, a small and sickly boy called Georgie, died before he was even a year old, two years before lovely little Grace was conceived, and he realizes that in this case, the black figure wasn’t an omen of death but a loved one, guarding the ones they left behind. There are ghosts choosing to stay, ghosts choosing to come back, and Clark finds that he likes the thought. He likes the thought that if he were to die, he can still look after Ma.
Still, he wonders, what if Mrs. Barnaby had suffered a miscarriage? Or what if they never thought to have a child again after their son died? How long would Georgie have lingered, unable to rest? Clark despairs to think of the souls that linger, the souls that never know peace.
The afterlife is supposed to be a relief to the dying, a consolation to the ones left behind. Clark doesn’t have to worry if Pa’s alright, if he’s made his way into his next life, because he doesn’t see the shadow of Pa’s broad shoulders anywhere. Other people, the ones being followed by their ghosts—they may not know they’re being haunted, being guarded, but it doesn’t change the fact that they are and that Clark has the ability to help them. So he does.
He helps.