The Haunted House | October 19, 2022

As you’ll see in the news, the Williston Herald is running a kid’s ghost story contest. When I read it, I thought, “I want to write a ghost story.” The last time I wrote a short fiction piece so many of you lovely people sent me the nicest notes and I’m like a gremlin when it comes compliments (and food) – feed me and I won’t leave you alone. So, in the spirit of Halloween and contests that I’m too old to do, here you go.

The Haunted House

by Amanda Kosior

“Don’t go over to that house, Coop, you hear me?” Natalie Schanz’s sunshine smile had darkened to a thin grey line. Around her feet, the autumn leaves swirled. “Pretend like it’s not even there.”

Coop looked at his mother, who had only moments before been laughing with her childhood friend. Her mother gave him the look that said that he shouldn’t even think about it.

“Don’t even think about it,” Laura Rooney said.

Natalie’s son, Sawyer, shifted his weight to the other side of his bicycle, and stared at the ground.

Coop was pretty sure he was going to like his new house. He was pretty sure he was going to like his new school, and his new neighborhood, and his new town, and North Dakota in general, because they were all like his house, school, neighborhood, and town in Wisconsin – only now they were closer to his grandma and grandpa. He was pretty sure he was going to like living across the street from Sawyer, because Sawyer was also eleven, played hockey, and rode a bike. But he wasn’t sure what to think about that old, rundown house at the end of the block.

“Sawyer will show you all the good places you can go; won’t you, buddy?” Natalie’s smile returned.

Sawyer nodded, his eyes still downward.

“I see they still haven’t done anything about The Olson’s,” Laura had said to Natalie five minutes earlier when she had brought over a meat tray and Sawyer to welcome the Rooneys to the neighborhood. Laura had tilted her head to the house – which had probably been bright purple once, although now the few flecks of remaining paint were more of a dusty violet – and, as she did, the rickety screen door flapped open and closed a few times.

“They put up a ‘No Trespassing’ sign a couple of times, but you know how it is,” Natalie had said. “Ardie Jean set up that trust to pay the taxes and keep the lawn and sidewalk clear, so it just goes on and on.”

“Still?” Laura had scoffed. “She died, what, fifty years ago?”

“At least. My dad said it was haunted when he was a kid.”

That’s when Laura and Natalie had remembered that their boys were standing there.

“Don’t go over to that house, Coop, you hear me?” Natalie said.

Later that afternoon, after the moving van left and the pizza man called, Cooper took his dog, Gunner, for a walk. He thought about going left, towards the park, because that’s where his mom told him to go; but instead he casually strolled to the right, in the direction of The Olson’s.

Earlier, the street had been busier with cars and neighbors but now it was just Coop, Gunner, and the wind – which pushed him along until he found himself in front of the place he had been warned not to think about. He studied it.

Cooper had assumed all haunted houses would look like something a person would find at Disney World, with a big spire and a gargoyle or two. This was just a regular old falling-down house. The porch tilted so low forward that the weeds had started to wind up the siding and most of the boards covering the windows were long gone. But still, slap a coat of paint on it and it wouldn’t be too far off from their old home in Wisconsin. In fact, he was pretty sure his mom had that exact same planter by the door, except this one had pieces of broken glass where the flowers should have been.

Gunner pulled on the leash, bored with the normalcy of this forbidden abode.

“Bye, house,” Cooper said.

The front porch light came on.

Cooper stared at the light.

“Must be a prank,” he said to Gunner, trying not to be scared. He also tried not to be frozen in place. Neither seemed to work.

“Stay away from this place, buddy,” a voice called out behind him, and Cooper jumped out of his skin. He flipped around, grateful that he was at least able to move again.

The voice belonged to a mom pushing a baby in a stroller. The baby chewed on the ear of a stuffed elephant, holding it out to Cooper as they approached.

“It’s probably about suppertime, isn’t it?” She asked, patting him gently on the shoulder. “You’d better get home.”

He nodded, and flipped Gunner’s leash. She stood in front of The Olson’s until he turned into his driveway.

Cooper didn’t sleep a wink all night. He got up twice to peek out the window. In the darkness, The Olson’s front porch light burned brightly.

The light was still on the next morning when Sawyer rode up on his bike. Together, the boys turned away, towards the park.

They rode until they ran out of runway at the baseball field, where they joined a game of 500 already in progress. They played until lunchtime, when they, with a few new friends in tow, rode back to Sawyer’s for hot dogs. For the rest of the day, they rode and played and played and rode until one of the kids – a boy named Jack – said, “I’m hungry,” and, without discussion, all of the boys turned down the road one block behind Cooper’s street.

They parked their bikes behind some tall bushes, and army-crawled to the back door of The Olson’s House. The back porch light was also on.

“What are we doing?” Coop whispered. His voice shook, and he played it off with a cough.

“Shh,” Sawyer said.

A moment passed, and then the back door to the house creaked open.

“C’mon,” Jack whispered, and Sawyer grabbed Cooper’s arm, dragging him forward. The boys ran up the stairs, through the door, and into the kitchen.

The condition of the kitchen mirrored the outside of the house. Cobwebs hung off of every surface, from the dented ice box to the shredded polka-dotted window curtains. Inside the doorless oven, a squirrel chirped.

“Hello, Mrs. Olson,” Jack called.

Once again, Cooper found himself unable to move. He wished he had listened to Natalie. He wished he had listened to that lady with the baby. He wished they hadn’t moved out of Wisconsin. He wished and wished, but those wishes still didn’t stop the fact that a real-life ghost was floating right up to him.

Except, Cooper realized, his legs loosening up a bit – like the house, this ghost wasn’t very…ghosty. She was see-through, to be sure; but more of a pinky see-through. She wore an apron embroidered with hearts and had tied a little bow on the top of her fluffy hair. Cooper sniffed, and realized the air smelled like chocolate chip cookies, which were his favorite.

“Hello, boys!” The ghost said in a twinkly, twittery voice. “Sit down, sit down, I baked too many cookies!”

The boys sat down at the table, which Cooper noticed was not only completely devoid of dust, but polished clean and covered in a lace tablecloth. Mrs. Olson puttered about the countertop, and when she turned around she was holding a platter of actual, non-transparent chocolate chip cookies.

She held the platter out to Cooper. He took one and bit into it. It was warm and gooey and perfect.

“Now who are you?” She said, as she pushed the platter to Cooper to make him take a second.

He told her his name the best he could with a mouthful of cookie.

“Cooper Rooney,” she said, tapping her finger on her lips to indicate she was thinking. “Cooper Rooney. I don’t know any Rooneys. Are you from around here?”

“No,” Cooper said. “But my mom’s family is. My grandma’s name is Ginny Thompson.”

“Ginny Thompson!” Mrs. Cooper threw her head back and laughed. “So you’re Laura’s boy?”

Cooper nodded.

“She loved chocolate chip cookies, too,” Mrs. Olson said, handing him another one before giving the other boys three cookies of their own.

“You can’t tell your mom about this,” Jack said, shoveling two cookies in simultaneously. And then, in his best mom voice, “Too much sugar.”

Sawyer nodded. “Always ruinin’ supper,” he sang, and the boys laughed.

Okay, in all honesty, I don’t know where the photo above came from. I didn’t take it. I had it on my phone picture roll with all sorts of other photos that I downloaded that I thought were funny, like this one:

I was going to get a stock photo of a spooky house and saw these skeletons and thought they were much better. If it’s your photo or your skeletons and you want me to take it down, please message me (and I’m sorry).

Obviously, this week’s news has a writing contest. It also has sauerkraut and a perfect game. Read on.

Know a middle schooler or high schooler who loves to write ghost stories? The Williston Herald is hosting a spooky writing contest! (Williston Herald)

Medora and Garrison have been named tw o of the coziest towns in America by MyDatingAdviser.com. (KX Net)

Once again, Wishek’s Sauerkraut Days are a stinky, delicious success. (KFYR TV)

Speaking of Wishek, here is a story of two random acts of kindness by teenagers Dominic Sayler and Gavin Wolf. (KFYR TV)

This is the non-obituary obituary for Arthur’s Joanne Iwen. (Fargo Forum)

Congratulations to eleven-year-old Tatum Lee of Bismarck, who bowled a perfect 300 game! (KFYR TV)

For the 42nd year, Williston is Tree City USA. (Williston Herald)

Let’s Be (Official) Pals!

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Friends for Life | Levity Brevity, April 12, 2022

The Apple Tree | March 9, 2022

Last week, the New York Post put up a graphic that identified North Dakota as “the best state at solving Wordle.” I’m not sure my participation is helping those numbers, but I absolutely love Wordle because I love WORDS. I’m sure you’re thinking, “Oh man you are so deep I hope they have a Nobel Prize for deepness because you would win it” – but listen, some people like sports and other people like collecting decorative spoons and I like words.

I like the look of words; such as how “murmur” is flat and unassuming but is filled with lines that roll up and down. I like the sound of words; “truth,” for example, is spoken in a short staccato at the front of your mouth, while “lies” slides slowly from the back. I like how words can be broken apart and pieced back together to make new words, such as how “icicle” and “dream” make up “dreamsicle” and all of those things are different but can be married into the same family and therefore related.

(That feeling you’re experiencing right now is what happens when your entire body does a massive eyeroll.)

Words need to be used, so I take them out for a spin through writing exercises. There are roughly an infinite number of ways to do a writing exercise, but my preference is to pick out a single word and see what story it wants to tell. So, I play Wordle because it’s supplying me with an endless stream of possible words for writin’. Here’s a poor example of Wordle performance, but good example of finding some great words:

I feel like I could spend two weeks on those five words alone. “’I’ll write myself a note so I don’t forget,’ she said; both of them knowing full well she wouldn’t.” “The pride paused momentarily behind the blue line. With a tap of the goalie stick, they emerged; moving as one on a hunt for the net.” (Meh, that one is pretty terrible.) I mean, BRINE alone is worth the day. “He packed the cooler tight with his personal brine of Coors Light, beef jerky, and clementines, and loaded up the fishing boat for a long, slow pickling in the summer sun.”

Anyways, I recently used the word APPLE and thought I’d share the story with you. Please don’t tell me if you think it sucks.

—

THE APPLE TREE

Try as he might to convince everyone otherwise, Ronald Moen sure did love his apple trees. In fact, he loved them so much that Jerry figured he’d better mention it, just so there wasn’t any trouble.

“Oh, yeah, they’re real delicious,” Jerry said, using his watering can to gesture to the Moen’s front steps – which, because it was now August, was decorated in an acre’s worth of handpainted wooden sunflowers. “Ron and Melba keep a basket of them on the porch for anyone who wants some. They’ll give you a whole bagful if you ask…you know, so…” The egg salad sandwich he had for lunch flipped in Jerry’s stomach at the thought of being unneighborly to these nice young folks. “You don’t need to worry about those trees. If a branch or the cherries are bothering you, you tell Ron and he’ll take care of it, to be sure,” he nodded. “You don’t need to worry about those trees.”

Mark – who had the same baby face of all the other Tollefsrud boys; Jerry’d have to rib Bob Tollefsrud a bit about it the next time they were at the VFW – grinned. “As soon as I saw those apple trees, I knew we were going to buy the house. I had apple trees in my backyard growing up, too.”

“Oh, yeah?” Same look of mischief, too; whole family of scamps. Jerry wiped a leather-tanned hand over his forehead. “Well, like I said, Ron and Melba keep a basket on the porch, so…”

It was at that moment that the Moen’s garage door opened and Ron came lumbering out.

“’Lo!” he bellowed, sucking in his Santa Claus belly so he could slide a small axe into the waistband of his toolbelt. “Ronald Moen, how you be.”

They exchanged the usual introductions – who knew whose cousins, how it sure was a hot time to move but winter was right around the corner so no complaining allowed, if Mark’s kids and Ron’s grandkids were excited about school, that sort of thing – and then Mark said,

“I was telling Jerry here how much I like your apple trees. I’m going to go get one of my own this afternoon.”

“You’re gonna need more than one so they can fertilize each other,” Ron boomed. Across the street, Jerry’s old, nearly-deaf dog lifted his head because Ron’s voice could awaken the dead. “My mother-in-law gave us them two as a housewarming gift. Gave us saplings because she loves finding work for me to do. Yep, they are a lot of work. A lot a-dang work.”

“I don’t –” Mark started.

“They get real buggy, you know. Plus, we didn’t have a fence when we were first married and the deer were always after ‘em. A lot of work. You hunt, don’t ya?”

“Yes.”

“Me, too. I had to miss the goose opener a while back because them apples were dropping like a rainstorm. We donated thirty pounds to the food bank that weekend. It was in the paper.”

“I think my aunt said something about that.”

“Who’s your aunt, Glennie? Yeah, she makes a pretty good apple pie. Melba does, too. She said she brought one over to your wife last night.” He rubbed his belly. “That’s why I keep those dang trees, so she can make apple pie. Lotta work. You should get yourself a couple of maples instead. Real easy, and they have that nice bright color. That’s a maple right there. Couldn’t get one in the back, though, because I didn’t want to shade them apple trees too much.”

“Maples are nice,” Mark said. “I’ll see what my wife wants to do after I get that apple planted.”

“Two trees,” Ronald said, and Jerry’s dog barked. “You need two to produce fruit.”

“Yours are close enough,” Mark kept on grinning.

Jerry’s egg salad sandwich turned over again.

“My what now?” Ron said, after a pause.

“Your apple trees,” Mark said. “I don’t need two trees, because yours will fertilize mine. They need to be closer than fifty feet, and the one is right on the edge of the fence.”

Ronald put one hand on his belly, and the other on the head of the axe. “Well, they need to bloom at the same time.” His voice no longer rumbling over the sunny sidewalks.

“Oh, that’s no big deal,” Mark said. “The Garden Center has some young apple trees that’ll fit the bill.”

“The Garden Center,” Ron murmured.

“Yessir. I’d love to have you guys over for a beer later this week. Maybe you can give me some pointers on how to take care of it.”

“Will do,” Jerry said. Ronald rubbed his belly.

“Speaking of the Garden Center, I’d better get after it,” Mark said. “Great to meet you guys. We’re really happy to be here.”

Jerry nodded and Ron nodded and Mark nodded and Jerry’s dog went back to sleep.

Ronald didn’t see Mark plant the apple tree, but Jerry did. Jerry saw everything from the rocking bench on his front porch. He watched Mark return with the young apple tree, the top wrapped loosely in the striped bag of the Garden Center. He watched Ron help Melba into their own vehicle, his voice echoing across the block about his desire to surprise her with a supper out. They returned during the few minutes Jerry’s wife convinced him to spend inside eating his own supper.

Ron was out in the garage when Jerry returned to the porch. Jerry waved a beer in his direction, and Ronald crossed the street and settled himself onto the top step.

“New neighbors,” Jerry said.

Ron took a drink. “S’pose we need them so we don’t have to keep looking at each other’s old mugs.”

“Funny thing about the apple tree.”

Ron snorted. “Lotta work.”

They sat together for a long while, until the only lights in the neighborhood belonged to the street and the two of them.

“Well,” Ron said, hitting his knee, “’Bout that time.”

Jerry went inside but he didn’t go upstairs. Instead, he stood by the window. Across the street, Ron closed the garage door.

Jerry’s dog sensed movement first, and Jerry squinted, trying to make sense of the dark. Finally, Ronald’s belly took a shape of its own. It stretched and shifted until it became a man lugging a large package wrapped in striped plastic over to the Tollefsrud’s front steps. Ron set the tree – a second tree, identical to the one Mark had planted earlier that evening – by the door, and adjusted the ribbon Melba had tied to the front. Next to the tree he set a grocery bag filled with apples.

Jerry nodded, and headed off to bed.

—

The photo above was taken at an apple orchard somewhere in Minnesota (it was two years ago and my memory stinks). This week’s news has a boatful of water samples and a lead dog. Read on.

One of the lovely readers of North Dakota Nice was a member of the organizing group who put together “Voices for Ukraine” – an event in Grand Forks where community members were able to talk about their experiences and connections in Ukraine. (KNOX Radio)

Grand Forks’ Madison Eklund is taking a four-month sabbatical from her job as a postal worker in order to embark on a solo – she is one of less than 10 people to take this trip, and the first to do it alone – 1,600-mile canoe trip from St. Paul to the York Factory in Canada…and she’ll be collecting water samples along the way for the state of North Dakota. (Grand Forks Herald)

This article is a brief look at the North Dakotans who were deemed worthy of “Ripley’s Believe It or Not” – including a man who bagged a fox with a treasure trove of money, and the World Champion Miniature Writer. (Fargo Forum)

North Dakota’s mobile food pantry is on the move, heading to Center, Hazen, and Beulah next week. (KX Net)

Congratulations to Cavalier’s Eva Robinson, who took 14^th place in the Jr. Iditarod sled dog race – and to her lead dog, Frost, for receiving the Blue Harness Award! (Grand Forks Herald)