Ghosts of the Past
by Laird Long

Charlie scooped up the giant pumpkin and gently tossed it into the back of the open trailer. He banged his massive arms with his huge hands, more from reflex than for warmth, like he used to do before a big boxing match. That much he remembered. Ten years ago, a savage beating had parked him in a state hospital for eleven months. The beating had left his heavily-concussed brain with little memory of the past. But at six foot six, two-seventy, he had quickly regained all of his former strength. 'Not much for brains, but goddamn for strong!', is how is baba from the old country put it. 
Charlie brushed dead leaves from his thick wool coat and let his eyes roam over the hushed, snow-crusted countryside. It was the middle of October, and thin blue smoke hung in the air. The air was crisp and chill, and the gentle breeze carried a veiled, but friendly, threat of winter. In the brilliance of the afternoon sun he could clearly make out his neighbor over a mile away in his own field. Orrie was working on his broken-down tractor, trying to pull one more year from the rusting hulk. Orrie still owed him a hundred bucks from the Super Bowl - Charlie had gone Bears, while Orrie had crapped out on the Pats. Charlie was no homer when it came to money. 
Charlie grunted contentedly, horked out a sticky yellow gob, and bent down for another pumpkin. His mind held the thought of a hot cup of coffee and a cool wedge of pie - his wife always had something good waiting for him when he took his afternoon break. A rogue gust of cold air suddenly shoved him backwards, but he shrugged it off. 
One hour later, a long black Cadillac with out-of-state license plates steamed down the dirt road alongside Charlie's property. It was moving fast. It stirred up a whirlwind of dust, and, in Charlie's dented skull, a cloud of cobwebbed memories. He watched it thunder by like an unstoppable doomsday machine, and then, not fully knowing why, he ran for the freshly-painted, white frame house he called home. He anchored his huge body in the middle of the long driveway and his grim face signaled 'Stop!'. The Caddie surged to a halt, its front bumper bouncing softly off of Charlie's knees. 
Four city men in funeral suits piled out of the car and fanned out in a skirmish line in front of Charlie. Three of the men gripped shotguns. The fourth spoke. "Long time, Paulie. Ten long years," he said. He was short, fat, and oily. His stumpy, brown teeth clenched a stumpy cigar, and his hands were buried deep in his coat pockets. 
"Don't know what you're talkin' about," Charlie said, truthfully. 
The pissed-on fireplug of a man coughed out a laugh and spat it into the dirt. "Yeah, yeah, I heard about the amnesia act." The dead cigar dropped from his mouth. The other men casually raised their weapons on cue. "We heard you didn't squawk. Couldn't. But the old man don't take no chances. So, after ten years of witness protection bullshit, here we are - you know, to finish the job." The fat man gulped down some fresh air and broke into a coughing spasm; he was used to swallowing his air in chunks. He looked back at the scarecrow guarding the pumpkin patch, at the gently rolling hills beyond. "Quite a life you've carved out for yourself," he smirked. 
"Life is where you find it," Charlie replied calmly. 
The fat man nodded slowly, solemnly. "And death," he whispered. 
"Drop your guns now!" The voice seemed to thunder from the heavens. 
The men spun around as a group at the sound, but they didn't drop their guns. The animatronic scarecrow, with cameras for eyes and a speaker for a mouth, stared down at them. It flailed its arms wildly. Charlie and Orrie had put in ten months building the thing, but the kids and the customers loved it. It was operated by remote from Charlie's workshop in the house. 
As the men gaped in astonishment at the cavorting scarecrow, Charlie's memory dredged up a few more things from his murky past. He went into action. He grabbed the man closest to him - a little guy with a scared, pimply face. He crushed the punk in his thick arms and fired the kid's shotgun using a sausage-sized finger stuffed into the trigger guard over the little guy's broken digit. The gun boomed and one of the goons split open at the back. Shards of cloth and flesh flew into the air in a red mist. Charlie fired another blast. The gob in the longshoreman coat did a jig, folded up, and plowed the ground with the side of his head. 
The fat man ripped his hands out of his pockets and blazed away with a pair of .45's. The little guy caught in Charlie's love embrace jerked around a couple of times as the bullets tore up his insides and then noodled. Charlie shoved the body aside. The fat man ran for the field. Charlie opened up with the shotgun again. Fatso flew through the air and smashed to rest at the base of the scarecrow. The scarecrow went limp as Charlie's wife raced out of the house and down the driveway towards him. Her arms were outstretched and her face was soaked with tears of terror. 
Charlie turned to meet her. The scarecrow looked on blindly as the fat man rolled over, squeezed off one more shot, and then went cold. The heavy bullet tore through Charlie's thick neck. The only other witness to a certain prominent Teamster's disappearance toppled over and died in his wife's arms. He had forgotten one of the rules he used to live by: when your man is down, plant him; one more bullet - the final nail in the coffin. So the ghosts of the past stay buried. 
The End