I was 15 the last time we went to the church at the end of the road. It was a family tradition, going to that church on Christmas Eve. It didn’t seem special at the time, but I understood later, after we could never go back, just what that night meant to my family. Our one and only family tradition ruined, and with it, the family itself. I was the one who ran his mouth and pissed off the ghosts, but it’s not my fault what happened next. The spirits are the ones who got the cops involved and escalated things.
We left our house around 4:30. We lived on the other side of town, out by the lumber yard. My dad was a pulpwooder, so living out there meant he could be home soon as he dropped off his haul for the day. My dad was about two things -- hard work and family. He was a good man, but he was also the one who made Christmas Eve stressful. He hated crowds. This is why we left early, to get to the church before anyone else.
Nearly everyone in our town went to that church on Christmas Eve. A bunch of tourists went, too. There are only 3 churches in the U.S. where ghosts appear regularly, and our town was the only one where the ghosts appeared on Christmas Eve. The people who went to that church -- and we know, we had some cousins who went there -- had struck a deal with the ghosts a hundred years earlier. The town would light candles and pay their respects for the dead, and the ghosts would appear for anyone who wanted to see them. It was the Christmas Eve candle lighting service to attend if you lived anywhere within driving distance to the church.
This all sounds great, I get it, but I hated that place. I hated going every year, and I hated the way the ghosts came out and put on a show for the locals and tourists. Ghosts on Christmas Eve sounds perfect, right? A frightening Christmas Eve is something I could get behind. But it’s not perfect. Not these ghosts.
I was thinking about all this as we drove to the church. I couldn’t think about anything else. I wanted to be anywhere besides that car, headed to that church. I’m not saying I did, but I might have taken longer getting a shower and getting ready, just on the off chance something happened before I was ready and we wouldn’t have to go. My dad was having a hard time thinking about anything else but the fact that I was the reason we were late. We were both in a mood.
“You just couldn’t get ready any faster, could you?” he said.
“I said I was sorry, Dad.” I wasn’t really sorry, and I’m sure I didn’t sound like I meant it. “We’re still early. Just not as early as you wanted to be.”
“Junior,” said my mom.
I’m named after my dad. Jackson Mathers, Jr. She calls me Jacky when I’m not in trouble. “Junior,” was my signal to be quiet.
“What do you even do in there,” said my dad. “I shower and shave and I’m done. 10 minutes. That’s all that’s needed for us guys. It’s not like you’ve got anyone to get gussied up for.”
That hit me where it hurt, and my dad knew it. I hadn’t any serious girlfriend yet. My mom said I was just a late bloomer. I’m still not sure what that means.
“Well, it’s not like you have any hair to gussy up,” I said, trying to hit him back where it hurt.
“Junior!” said mom.
My dad grumbled something to himself about me being ungrateful. Then he was done talking. I didn’t have anything else to say either. Mom always said we were too much alike. Both so stubborn. I didn’t see it then. I’ve come around to accepting it now that I’m older. My mom and my little sister sat there quietly, too, as the road passed underneath us and the trees went passing by.
Everyone around town called it the church at the end of the road because it was at the end of a long road out of town that was called “Church Road.” When people started to ask directions, “go to the church at the end of Church Road” was too confusing. It just became “the church at the end of the road.” Then, “Church Road” just became “the road.” It was the only road that lead to anywhere special in town, so “the road” made sense after a while.
The only other road was the state highway that ran east and west, but it nearly by-passed town anyway. If you were coming and going from the town, you took the state highway. If you were in town looking for anything, it was probably the church at the end of the road.
The road was long with nothing on it much except the occasional double-wide trailer or cow pasture. And lots of woods. Tree after tree after tree, for mile after mile. So boring, just like the Christmas Eve ghost service.
When we arrived, my dad couldn’t help himself again.
“Go, go, go,” he said, as he jumped from the car. “We can still make it.”
“Dadddddddd,” my little sister said, opening the car door in sync with her words, like a giant, bored yawn.
“Don’t you start too,” said Dad.
We were moving quickly toward to the front of church. I couldn’t see any sign of a line forming. There were other people like us spilling out from their cars, getting there too early and starting toward the front of the church.
“Perfect,” said my dad. “We made it.”
“Congratulations,” said a girl about my age. “You’re the first ones here. Welcome to the church at the end of the road! Need tickets? Or all ready to go?”
My dad looked to my mom, kind of hopeless and unsure.
“Yes. Yes, of course, Jack,” said my mom. “Don’t be silly. I wouldn’t forget the tickets.”
Mom handed the tickets to the girl.
She looked them over, like she was supposed to, but not really like she cared. She was cute, and I hadn’t seen it before. She probably went to the other county school.
“Right this way,” and she waved us into the line at the front door.
My dad grinned. He was happy about the night seeming to work out, and then he said, “What about her, son?” And he nudge his elbow into my ribs.
I was embarrassed and ducked my head. My dad talked entirely too loud. I decided to pretend like this moment wasn’t happening.
The girl walked in with us and started to tour blurb they always said:
“The church at the end of the road is the world’s only Christmas Eve candle lighting service and ghost show.”
“The world’s only?” I said. “Maybe in the U.S. but world-wide seems a stretch.”
“Junior,” said my mom. “That’s enough.”
The girl at the front of the church laughed and said my name like she was mimicking my mom. “Ok, Junior, right this way.”
“Whatever,” I said and crossed my arms as we filed into the church. We had the front row as other people pushed in behind us. It was standing room only. The church always squeezed in as many as could fit. A new show every 20 minutes, rinse and repeat with new tourists all Christmas Eve.
The girl who called me “Junior” stood at the front of church, like our tour guide. She was smiling and happy to be there. I couldn’t believe she called me that and having to sit there looking at her made it worse. I felt like she was staring at me, mocking me even more.
Then my mom said, “I think she might like you.” Clearly, we saw that smile differently. She was clearly mocking me.
As the crowd pushed in, the room felt tighter, and we were pushed closer and closer to the front. My dad was thrilled. “Great seats!” he said.
“We’re standing up,” I said.
Then, my mother, through grit teeth and eerily quiet, right in my ear, said, “Junior!”
I looked down, ashamed that she called me Junior like that again. In front of all those people from town, the tourists, and the cute girl helping at the church. When I looked up, she seemed to be looking right at me, smiling. She had a weird too-happy-for-this-boring-night smile. I wanted to punch her face. She was still going through her into speech for the night. I don’t know what all she said. Welcome to the church at the end of the road. They say that a lot. Blah, blah, blah. On and on. It couldn’t have lasted but a moment, but it seemed like forever. Her creepy smile was on display on her face, mocking me the whole time, and then she said, “Please welcome our guests of honor this evening.”
The girl waved her hand toward the front of the church like a magician directing an audience’s attention to the middle of the stage. But she was still staring at me, smiling. And all I could hear was her and my mom calling me Junior.
The ghosts appeared. There were four of them. One of them also said, “Welcome to the church at the end of the road.” Even the ghosts were in on the shtick. I was fuming at this point, and then another of the ghosts started going on about lighting our candles to pay our respects to the dead. As he was saying all that, the ghosts started to rise a little into the air. One of them leaned forward, held her hand down low toward us, and a flame appeared in her hand.
I had seen this all before. My family had been coming to this church for as long as I could remember. Maybe it’s cool the first time, but after the fifteenth time, it gets old. And the girl was still looking at me smiling, reminding me how much she despised me.
We all started to shuffle in place a bit in the church. The next step would be to walk forward, light our candle, and bow our heads as a preacher popped out from somewhere at the back of the church and say a prayer about the dead and Christmas and New Year’s and on and on. The preacher’s prayer took up most of the 20 minutes inside.
Clearly a lot of us in the church had been here before, the way we all started shuffling in place, anticipating the move forward to light our candles. We were all playing our part in this boring ritual, and it was all I could take. I looked up and saw that girl at the front smiling still, and it all just felt fake. Like a show that I never asked to be part of.
When the ghost talking said something about “respect those of us who have gone before you,” I looked around at the crowd and nice and loud so everyone could hear me said, “Like anyone here respects you. I’m more afraid of my dad and mom than these ghosts.”
I laughed at myself and winked at the crowd. If it was all just a boring show, I was going to join in and make it funny at least. The crowd behind me grimaced like they might actually be afraid and when I turned around, two of the ghosts swished away and leaving only the one ghost who started talking and the girl ghost with flames in her hands.
The one who was doing most of the talking had gotten bigger, like he bowed up over us in the crowd, and the girl with the flame in her hand was now fully engulfed in flame.
“How dare you speak to us like that, boy,” said the big muscle ghost. He was starting to look a little frightening, I can admit that. But I wasn’t feeling the whole night still.
“Or what?” I said. “What are you going to do to me, stop putting on a Christmas Eve show? Great! I’d rather be home opening presents.”
The flaming ghost ignited even more, if that was possible.
My dad said, “Didn’t you listen to the rules? We’ve been here every year for the last 10 years. You know better.”
“What? Can’t ghosts take a joke,” I said.
The muscle ghost said, “I’ll show you what we do to insolent little boys like you who don’t respect their elders.” He raised his fists into the air above his head, and his fists grew five times larger, like giant mallets on the end of his arms. He shouted “be quiet boy” and slammed his fists down on top of me.
The fists made a sound when they hit the floor, but they passed right through me. Or I passed through them. I’m not sure. These are ghosts with no bodily form we’re talking about.
Then the church went quiet. Everyone was staring at me.
The smiling girl was still smiling at me, too, but she looked terrified at the same time. Her terrified smile was fixed on me, like a knife jabbing into my face. The whole crowd had backed as far away from me and my family as they could manage in that small church. My parents and my sister had even stepped back from me.
Everyone had turned against me. The ghosts were threatening me, and clearly they wanted me gone. Ghosts fists don’t hurt, no matter how hard someone swings them at you, but the punch that landed on me was all those people and my parents staring at me in fear and disappointment. I felt so alone.
The muscle ghost and the flaming ghost were hovering above me, but I just couldn’t back down at this point. At least the night wasn’t boring like all the other Christmas Eve services we had been to.
“Ok, this was fun,” I said, and started walking toward the door to leave. “This is how a ghosty Christmas Eve should be. Let’s do it again next year.”
“Enough!” said the muscle ghost, and he waved his giant ghostly hands in the air. The doors slammed shut in unison with his han movement. Someone near the doors jumped for the exit. The doors wouldn’t open. We were trapped.
It’s all a blur in my memory after that. The flaming ghost started throwing ghost flames at the walls of the church. The church looked like it was on fire, but it wasn’t really burning. Like the ghost fists, the flames couldn’t really hurt us. It was scary, though, and people started freaking out. Most of the crowd was screaming, trying to get out, but we were trapped. The last thing I remember is the creepy, cute, smiling girl on her phone calling the police.
“Help us,” she said. “We’re being held hostage by ghosts.’
And then I blacked out.
I woke up in the hospital. The nurse told me I had passed out due to shock. My mom filled me in on what happened at the church after that.
Apparently, the police stormed the church because it was a hostage situation. The ghosts weren’t backing down. The cops were trying to help everyone out of the church, rushing people to safety away from scene. People were yelling. Even the ghosts were shouting and making all kinds of noise.
In the chaos, one of the officers fired on the ghosts. He later said he was trying to distract the ghosts to help the crowd escape. He said he knew he couldn’t shoot a ghost. But like mom said, it was chaos in there. The officer thought he was just firing into the ghosts, but the preacher had been hiding behind the podium. Remember, he was supposed to pop out at some point and say the long prayer to end the service, but when the chaos broke out, he just hid in place.
The preacher for the church was shot. He later died at the hospital, two beds down from me in the ER.
That was the last Christmas Eve that anyone went to the church at the end of the road. The ghosts fled after the cops stormed the place and everyone escaped. They never returned. The church itself just faded away over time. They never could get another pastor, what with the last one they had being killed in a shoot out with ghosts. One by one the church members, even our cousins, started going to church somewhere else.
My family and I never really did much for Christmas after that. My mom and sister and I made the best of it, and we still talk occasionally today. My dad and I didn’t talk much ever again after that. After I left home at 18, our family just never found a reason to get together much after that. It’s made me kind of miss that silly, boring Christmas Eve ghost show.
I think about it a lot today, what I could have done differently. If I had it to do all over again, I would play along. I would get ready quickly and get there even earlier. My dad would like that. I would make the best of it and just play along. I might even ask the smiling girl for her name and number. Who knows what might have come from that. Maybe my dad was right. Maybe she did like me. We could have dated, gotten married, and had kids of our own. That would have been nice. Me and my new family, along with my parents and my sister, spending every Christmas Eve for the rest of our lives going to the church at the end of the road.