The Test of Courage

Everyone at St. Stephen’s Primary School knew about the church behind the school.

It was old, wooden, and always looked like it was watching you. The paint had faded, the boards creaked in the breeze, and the windows were so dusty you could barely see inside.

But it wasn’t the way the church looked that made it scary.

It was what lived under it.

“Baccoos,” the big kids would whisper, their eyes wide. “Tiny spirits. Mischievous. Fast. Dangerous if you don’t leave them alone.”

I was in Grade Two at the time, still in the small school. Every day at break time, we’d run around the yard, play catch, climb trees—but nobody dared go too close to the church. That was baccoo territory.

Still, we were curious. Kids always are.

One hot afternoon, while the sun baked the zinc roof and the teachers took a break in the staff room, my friend Jayden whispered, “Let’s do it.”

“Do what?” I asked, already suspicious.

He grinned. “Let’s pelt a brick under the church.”

My stomach did a small flip. We’d heard the stories—how bricks pelted under the church would come flying back out, and how you’d hear tiny footsteps but never see anyone there.

Nobody had ever seen a baccoo and stayed calm enough to explain what it looked like. Some said it had one big eye. Others said it wore a red cap and smoked a pipe.

But all of us believed the same thing: you don’t mess with a baccoo.

Still… curiosity is stronger than fear sometimes.

Jayden picked up a small brick from near the mango tree. “I’ll throw it first,” he said bravely.

I followed him to the edge of the schoolyard. We crept up to the church, staying behind a hibiscus bush. Jayden squatted low, aimed, and rolled the brick under the church’s steps.

Nothing happened.

We held our breath.

Five seconds. Ten. Still nothing.

I was about to say maybe the stories were just made up when— thunk!

The same brick rolled right back out. Fast.

Jayden jumped so high, he nearly lost his slippers.

We bolted back to the others, screaming, “It come back! It come back!”

Of course, no teacher believed us. They said it was probably just the slope of the ground or a gust of wind. But we knew. And by the next day, the whole class knew too.

After that, the baccoo church became a daily test of courage. Every breaktime, someone would sneak close and try to roll something under—stones, pencils, even a bottle cap once. Sometimes

it came back. Sometimes it didn’t. But when it did, the whole schoolyard would erupt with screams and laughter.

Still, we kept our distance. We didn’t want to make the baccoo angry.

One day, when I was just weeks away from graduating to the big school up the road—near the burial ground but far from the baccoo church—I decided I had to try it myself.

I waited until lunch break when the yard was quiet. My friends were busy with hopscotch. I picked up a smooth stone and walked to the church by myself.

The air felt still.

I knelt, heart thudding, and whispered, “I’m not trying to trouble you. I just want to know if you’re real.”

I rolled the stone under the steps.

Silence.

Then—clink—the stone rolled back out and stopped right in front of me.

But this time, something was different.

I thought I heard a giggle. Faint and fast, like a child hiding behind a curtain.

I didn’t run. I picked up the stone, smiled, and whispered, “Thank you.”

Then I turned and walked back to class.

From that day on, I stopped being afraid of the church. I still didn’t go too close, but I didn’t tremble when I walked by. I knew now—maybe the baccoos weren’t trying to scare us.

Maybe they were just playing too.

And guess what?

The day I moved to the big school, I looked back at that old church and waved.

I could’ve sworn something under the steps waved back.