Haunted Secrets: Tales of Jimmy Hsu Special Edition

Summer Camp

By Ron Ripley

Someone told Jimmy Hsu’s parents that summer camp was a good idea, and they believed it.

Jimmy suspected it was Father Michael at St. Patrick’s Church. His suspicion increased when it had turned out the summer camp he was going to attend was in Hudson, New Hampshire, at the Presentation of Mary Academy.

Jimmy didn’t argue with his parents when they had told him about the camp. He didn’t pretend to like the idea either. His mother noticed that he wasn’t pleased.

Jimmy’s father, apparently ignorant of his son’s discomfort around others and with the great outdoors, left the room. His mother remained behind.

“This doesn’t please you,” she stated in Cantonese.

“It does not,” Jimmy agreed.

“Why?”

He forced himself to think before answering. It was difficult, and it was something he and the special education teacher had worked on quite a bit. “Because I don’t want to be outside.”

She raised an eyebrow, waiting.

“And other children don’t understand me. It will be a long week. I will have no place to be alone.”

His mother nodded. “This will not be a bad thing.”

Jimmy didn’t respond.

“Do you want us to send you to Hong Kong for the summer?” his mother asked.

Jimmy shook his head. He knew there were relatives there who would be happy to see him and to help him stay abreast of customs, but it was too different. He struggled enough when it came to navigating the town of Anger. Jimmy couldn’t imagine how difficult it would be in a city the size of Hong Kong.

“Well, this is the next best thing,” his mother said, switching to English. “You need to go out more, Jimmy, not less. Last summer you spent far too much time indoors. I will not have it again.”

Jimmy suspected his parents wanted what they euphemistically referred to as “grown-up time.” Why they didn’t state their desire for carnal relations outright, he couldn’t understand. He filed the thought away. Maybe there will be someone I can ask at camp.

Aloud, he asked, “When do I have to leave?”

“Monday,” his mother answered.

He blinked, surprised. “Tomorrow?”

She nodded.

He tilted his head to one side. “Why so soon?”

“We didn’t want you to have too much time to think about it. I will help you pack tonight, then your father and I will drive you to the camp in the morning.”

Jimmy accepted the statement, got to his feet, and left the room. It was nearly time for him to go to bed, and since he had no choice in the matter of his trip, there was no further need to discuss it.

The morning came far sooner than he wanted it to.

By seven, he had eaten his breakfast and was dressed, standing by the door as his parents spoke with each other in the kitchen. Their voices were low, and the words were difficult to understand. They were speaking Mandarin rather than Cantonese, and his knowledge of the language was not strong enough for him to pick out more than one or two words.

Finally, they finished their conversation, and in a short time, they were all in the car. His bag was on the backseat beside him, and in his hands, he held a new book his father had purchased for him on Friday. It was a large, old volume on fairytales and folklore in New England. His parents kept track of his browsing history on the computer, and since he never bothered to use any sort of incognito program, they knew how much folklore he researched. They thought he read the information for pleasure.

What would they think, he wondered, looking out the window, if I told them I knew all the information was true? At least most of it? What of the creatures in the woods, and the ghosts in the cemeteries and the houses?

Home Sick

By Ron Ripley

Jimmy Hsu knew how to hide.

He had been picked on most of the time in elementary school because of his high- functioning autism, and there were some days in middle school when he didn’t think it was worth getting on the bus. Jimmy always did, of course. His mother would have been too upset to learn he was being picked on, and his father would have gone down to the school and gotten into a fight.

Jimmy didn’t want either of those events to occur.

So, he went to school.

Most days.

Some days, though, he knew it would be too difficult. Some days, boys like Carlton Erskine made it too hard.

Jimmy had known Carlton since kindergarten. Carlton had picked on him since kindergarten. Only once, in second grade, had Jimmy told his parents about how miserable Carlton made him, and he instantly regretted it. That moment in his history informed him as to how his parents would react if they were to learn Carlton was still picking on him.

Jimmy didn’t want that.

All this passed through his mind as he lay in bed, the old-fashioned thermometer in his mouth, placed under his tongue. His mother sat on the bed beside him, dutifully counting the seconds until she could remove the thermometer and see what his temperature was.

Jimmy wasn’t feeling well, and he hoped it was the beginning of a cold and not the threat Carlton had delivered on the bus the previous day.

“Open up,” Jimmy’s mother said in Cantonese.

He did so and his mother removed the thermometer. She frowned and Jimmy waited. The frown was unreadable, as were most of his mother’s expressions.

“You have a fever of one hundred,” she informed him, and set the thermometer down on the bed table. “I am going to give you a fever reducer. Do you need me to stay home with you today?”

Jimmy knew a smile was required, although he was never certain as to why his mother enjoyed such emotions. Still, he smiled and shook his head. “No, thank you.”

She frowned again. “Are you sure?”

Jimmy nodded.

“I will leave food for you, if you become hungry,” she told him. After a moment’s hesitation, she leaned forward and kissed him on the forehead. “Try and sleep. It will be best for you.”

“I will try.”

He forced himself to smile again as his mother left the room.

Jimmy lay in bed and listened as she spoke with his father. There was no argument about whether Jimmy should stay home. His father deferred to his mother in all things when it came to raising and caring for him. He suspected it was due to his paternal grandmother who raised Jimmy’s father alone in Hong Kong.

Closing his eyes, Jimmy yawned, opened them, and realized he had fallen asleep at some point. His clock, in the shape of Lloyd from the Lego Ninjago series, showed it was eleven fifty-two. He wasn’t certain how he had managed to sleep several hours without noticing, but he suspected some of it was due to the fever he felt working through him.

There was sweat on his brow, and his bedclothes were damp with it as well. He sat up and had to remain still for a moment, his head pulsing. Jimmy was thirsty, and without any further hesitation, he stood up and stumbled into the bathroom. He filled his cup and drank it quickly, then winced at the way the water seemed to churn in his stomach.

He remained in the bathroom for a short time, uncertain whether he would throw up.

When he felt it was safe to venture out, he did so by taking short steps and making certain he wouldn’t be too far from the bathroom if he had to rush back.

Reaching his room, Jimmy held onto the doorjamb and waited. When he didn’t faint or become weaker, he decided to try the stairs. His feet tread softly on the hall carpeting. Once he stood at the top of the stairs, he gazed down them and realized he couldn’t navigate them safely in an upright position, so he sat down and slid down on his behind, doing so carefully, moving onto one stair at a time.

At the landing for the first floor, he shakily got to his feet and refused to look back up the stairs. With one hand on the wall for support, he walked into the kitchen and stopped, closing his eyes and enjoying the warmth of the sun as it streamed in through the window over the sink. As he stood there, he heard a faint laugh, a sound that made him shudder.

Gwen Speaks
By Ron Ripley

Jimmy Hsu knew ghosts were real.

He had seen them. He had spoken with them. Jimmy had even been hunted by them. They were, as far as Jimmy was concerned, another aspect of life in Anger, New Hampshire.

Nothing more and nothing less.

The fact that there was a rumor of a ghost on South Boston Road was interesting, but it was not disturbing.

“Jimmy.”

He looked over at his mother. “Yes?”

“Why are you standing there?”

He blinked and considered the question. After a moment, he replied, “I was thinking of where I would like to go for a walk.”

She raised an eyebrow and waited for him to continue.

He swallowed nervously, disliking the unpleasant way he felt when his mother appeared to question his motives.

“I would like to walk along South Boston Road,” he told her.

“Why?”

“Because there is a rumor of a ghost there.”

She smiled, and a look of relief flashed across her face. While his mother believed in ghosts, she did not believe American ghosts were a threat. The ghosts of Asia, the world she had left behind, they were dangerous.

American ghosts were not the same. They would not eat her son. She did not believe that they would harm him.

Jimmy had no intention of telling her otherwise.

“What will you do if you find one?” she asked.

“I will speak with it,” he admitted.

“Will you be going alone?”

He nodded.

She hesitated, as if unsure as to whether she should continue with her questioning, and for a moment, Jimmy hoped that she would stop.

She did not. Indeed, he knew she could not.

She was his mother.

“How far on the road will you go?”

He closed his eyes and brought up the image of the map in his mind, his photographic memory placing the spot perfectly. Without opening his eyes, he stated, “I will be traveling two-point-one miles along the northeast axis of the road. It is said that the ghost lingers near a ditch in the road.”

He opened his eyes and saw his mother peering at him.

“How many books are in there?” she asked softly.

Jimmy blinked. “In my mind’s library?”

She nodded.

“It may take me a few minutes to go through the titles,” he informed her.

She shook her head. “No. Give me an estimate.”

He winced at the word, but he did as he was told. “Somewhere in the range of two thousand.”

His mother chuckled. “It is impressive.”

“I only do what must be done,” he responded, confused at her statement. “All the books must be stored and cataloged properly for retrieval.”

“I know.” She sighed. “Yes, you may go and look for your ghost. But you will be home in three hours, by one o’clock this afternoon. That gives you plenty of time to walk to the spot, investigate, and return home.”

He nodded.

“Good. Go and be safe. Promise?”

“Yes, I promise, Mother.”

Jimmy bent down, picked up his knapsack, and put it on. It was slightly heavier, packed with a small foldable shovel, additional iron nails, and several bags of salt, each of which was located in the exterior pouches of his knapsack.

Jimmy forced himself to smile, knowing that it made his mother happy, and then he left the house. Within a few minutes, he settled into a steady, comfortable pace, and he cataloged the world around him as he walked toward the spot on South Boston Road.

Without meaning to, Jimmy found himself counting his steps. After nearly a mile of silent introspection, he discovered the reason for his focus.

The possibility of a ghost is not what is causing me discomfort, he rationalized. It is the possibility of what the ghost represents.