Dares

 

Dares

Noel Laflin

10-26-22

 

When I was ten and Kris was twelve we discovered that the iron gate to one of the old private mausoleums in the cemetery behind our street was unlocked, and just calling out to curious children to go ahead, be bold, and take a forbidden step within.

 

Dares were made and mutually accepted; I drew the short straw and went in first.

 

I raced to the back, slapped my hand on the cold marble wall and ran back out to warm late-day sunshine, breathing hard.

 

Piece of cake, I boasted.

 

While my friend dithered as to when to take his turn, I spied a small stick on the grass, bent down, fake tying a shoelace, and pocked it.

 

Kris, not wanting to be outdone by one two years his junior, finally made his move and stepped inside the old crypt. I made an even quicker move by closing the door behind him and hastily cramming the small stick through the metal loops where a padlock should have been.

 

Then I made a mad dash across the cemetery, aiming for the fence that would set me free from the yelling that echoed from the small, temporary cell in which my friend currently resided.

 

I nearly made it over the fence before having my legs grabbed from behind and being thrown back down on the ground.

 

Kris was fast not only in prison breaks, but fast in running, too.

 

I think I laughed, although he did not - as he pelted me with furious insults, curses, and slaps, but no major hitting - at least not too much hitting, as I am still here to tell the tale some sixty years later and not a permanent resident of our old haunt.