by John August
“The tricky thing is keeping your paces even,” Wu had said in his initial instructions. “Once you start thinking about them, they always get longer or shorter. So you have to be able to count your steps without really being aware of them. It’s harder than you’d think.”
Arlo started by kicking a line in the snow with his heel. Then he started walking—pacing—ten steps up the driveway. He turned around and walked back. Perhaps because of the slope, he made it to the line in only nine steps.
So he tried again. And again. Sometimes, ten paces took him too far. Other times, not far enough.
The key, he discovered, was not looking at your feet, but focusing on the angle of your legs. Arlo imagined them as a pair of scissors, making sure he was opening them the same amount each time.
After he had reached the starting line on exactly ten paces a few times in a row, he tried again blindfolded. In some ways, this was easier, because there was nothing else to focus on but the angle of his legs. He got it right the first try, his left heel landing exactly on the starting line.
He took another break. This time he had a can of soda with his peanut butter sandwich. It was almost three o’clock. He’d spent nearly five hours pacing around the same stretch of driveway.
Now it was time to put all the skills together.
He started with the triangle, which Wu said was the easiest. In order to complete it, he would need to make two sharp turns and then end up at exactly the place he’d started.
After first lining up the compass arrow with the pointer, Arlo pulled the blindfold down over his eyes. Then he started walking ten paces forward. He quickly left the flat section of driveway, trudging through snow up over his knees. Despite the shifting terrain, he felt he was doing a good job keeping his paces.
Now for the tricky part: the turn. In order to make a triangle, he needed to pivot 120 degrees. To do that, he held the compass in his palm and started twisting the dial. With each tiny movement, it clicked. Wu said he had to go twelve clicks to the right. He counted carefully, holding his breath. He felt like a safecracker trying to break into an invisible vault.
Once he was pretty sure he had gone twelve clicks, he started to slowly turn his body, feeling the compass for the tiny vibration indicating north. That was the trick—north was always north, so once you lined it up again, you knew you were facing the right direction.
It took almost a minute before Arlo sensed he had aligned the compass. He took another ten paces forward. He was relieved when he felt the packed snow of the driveway—at least he was headed in the right direction. He accidentally started to take an eleventh step, but caught himself in time.
Once again, he twisted the dial twelve clicks to the right, then tried to find north. But something was different this time.
North wasn’t where it was supposed to be.
Thinking maybe he had spun in the wrong direction, Arlo slowly turned in a full circle. He kept waiting to feel the tiny vibration.
Then the compass started humming. He could feel it quiver in his hand like an electric toothbrush, much stronger than ever before.
This didn’t feel like north. This was something altogether new.
He nearly took off the blindfold but decided to keep trying. He turned a little to the left, a little to the right. The source of the hum was definitely a single direction. Arlo tried to picture which way he was facing. Given where he started, he was most likely pointing away from the house, towards the road.
Then he heard a dog barking. It was frantic. Ferocious.
Arlo pulled down the blindfold, squinting in the light. He was indeed facing the road. Cooper was barking at the forest, which wasn’t so unusual. Except, Arlo realized, I shouldn’t be able to hear him. The ghostly dog’s bark was loud and clear in the cold air.
Closing the compass, Arlo took a few steps forward. The dog glanced back at him, then continued barking at the forest. Its tail was down. A ridge of fur stood up along its spine.
“What is it?” Arlo asked.
The dog couldn’t answer. It didn’t need to.
Something was coming out of the woods—a dark shape moving quickly through the trees. Arlo recognized it by its gait, even before it reached the sunlight.
It was a massive black horse.
But not an ordinary horse. Ordinary horses don’t have horns like a ram, or glowing red eyes, or flames curling out of their nostrils. This horse had all of those things, and it was charging directly at him.
Arlo knew he needed to run, but his feet didn’t respond. He was frozen with fear. He could only stare.
He could hear its hoofbeats in the snow.
Its mouth opened, revealing double rows of sharp teeth. Then its mouth opened even further, splitting a seam along its jaw, two petals of razory flesh. Arlo wondered if it could swallow him whole.
The horse was nearly upon him when it suddenly fell, crashing sideways into the snow. Cooper had pounced on it, ripping at its throat. The two mystical beasts were fighting savagely, snapping and scraping at each other. Arlo wanted to watch, but he knew he had to run.
His feet finally agreed.
He sprinted for the front door, slipping a few times along the way. He had just reached the porch when he heard a sickening yelp and knew that Cooper had lost the fight.
Arlo fumbled with the front door, but he finally got it open. He stepped through and slammed it behind him. He turned the lock and backed away.
Two seconds later, a massive weight slammed into the door. The hinges strained, but held. It slammed again. And again. The beast was using its horns as a battering ram, but not making any progress.
Then the banging stopped. Arlo could hear hooves clattering on the wooden porch. He wasn’t sure what the horse could be doing. Pacing, maybe? Arlo started slowly backing up the staircase.
Suddenly, the door blew open, ripping off its hinges. The horse had kicked it with its hind legs like a mule.
The beast twisted back around, spotting its prey.
Arlo scrambled up the stairs, heading for his room. He could hear the horse following him, but it was having trouble. It was too big for the staircase. Each step was a struggle for the creature, its hooves sliding across the treads.
Shutting the door to his room, Arlo pushed in the little button on the doorknob to lock it. He knew the latch was nearly pointless, designed to keep someone from accidentally walking in rather than fend off a determined supernatural beast. Jaycee’s room has a proper lock, one that could actually …
The clattering on the stairs had stopped. The horse had reached the upstairs hallway. Arlo could hear its hooves, muffled by the carpet. Pum pum pum pum. Its fur scraped against the walls as it walked. Glass broke. Arlo assumed it was a light fixture knocked off the ceiling.
Then the hooves stopped. The creature was right outside the door. Arlo could hear it breathing. And he could smell it, too: fireworks and rotten eggs.
It seemed to know Arlo was inside. Maybe it could smell him, too.
Arlo turned to the window. It was frozen shut. He banged on the frame with the heel of his hand, trying to loosen it.
The horse slammed against the door. The impact wasn’t nearly as loud or as strong as it had been downstairs. It can’t ram the door, Arlo realized. It doesn’t even have room to turn around. The best the horse could do was smack the door with the sides of its horns. Arlo had some time.
He finally got the window open, shoving the sash all the way up. The blast of cold air invigorated him. He had been sweating in his parka.
The horse gave up banging on the door. But it was still there. Arlo could hear it moving and breathing. The beast was trying to make another plan. But what could it really do? It couldn’t turn around, and even backing down the hallway would be difficult.
Then Arlo noticed light spilling under the door.
It began as a faint glow, but steadily grew brighter, as if a dimmer switch were slowly being turned up. Then a shaft of white light blasted through the old, unu
sed keyhole. More light seeped around the edges of the door.
Whatever was happening in the hallway, it was much brighter than the sun outside.
Arlo retrieved his escape rope from the bottom drawer. As he tied it to the radiator—using two half hitches—he saw the shadows on the wall start to move. They slowly climbed the wallpaper to the ceiling, where they began to pool together. Arlo watched as the inky darkness rippled like an upside-down puddle. This was not good.
Checking that his knot was tight, he tossed the coil of rope out the window. He had just started to climb out when suddenly—
The horse descended headfirst from the darkness above, crashing down on Arlo’s bed. Its coat was glossy and wet. Spotting the boy, its mouth flared open, exposing a hundred jagged teeth.
Arlo half jumped, half fell out of the window. Grabbing the rope tight, he caught his weight but nearly pulled his arms out of their sockets. His face smashed against the side of the house. His legs flailed, trying to find the rope.
He looked up. The beast reached its head out of the window with a guttural scream. It craned its long neck, snapping at him.
Panicked, Arlo let go of the rope and fell.
The prickly bush underneath his window broke his fall. Covered in snow, it crumpled down to absorb the impact. His parka protected him from the thorns.
Lying on his back, Arlo blinked, surprised to find himself unhurt. He stared up at his window, where the beast was still futilely reaching at him. It howled in frustration. It was far too large to fit through the opening.
Arlo struggled to get to his feet. He looked back up to the window. The horse was no longer there—but a bright light was beginning to glow.
Arlo knew he needed to go. But where?
He could run down the road, but the nearest house was half a mile away, and the horse was faster.
The forest was closer. Maybe he could climb a tree. But the snow was deep; it would slow him down. And the woods were where the beast came from.
Arlo’s best bet was to hide in the house, maybe the basement. Unless—
The workshop. Arlo hadn’t seen his uncle all day, but he hadn’t seen him leave, either. His truck was still parked in the driveway, with snow on the windshield. He was probably out there working on the big order for Jackson Hole.
But what if he wasn’t? To get to the workshop, Arlo would have to run all the way around the house. If he got there and it was locked, he would have no place to hide.
He looked up at the window again. The light was gone. The beast was no longer trapped in his room. Where was it? Arlo couldn’t begin to understand its shadow magic. But he was certain it was somewhere. And it was coming. Arlo had to make a choice.
He chose the workshop.
He ran. Nearing the driveway, he tripped. It surprised him more than it hurt. He picked himself up and kept running.
Turning the corner, he saw what he feared most: the workshop door was shut. Padlocked.
He stopped in his tracks, looking for another option. The laundry room door was usually kept locked because the latch didn’t work right. The woodpile offered him no real protection. And even if he got to Uncle Wade’s truck, he didn’t have keys to drive it.
Then he heard a splintering crash coming from the second story of the house. His eyes went up to the unfinished section, where he saw movement under the blue tarps.
Suddenly, the beast leaped through the plastic. Arlo saw it all in slow motion, the horse falling through the air. It landed in a gallop, cutting a wide circle to head straight at him.
With no better option, Arlo kept running for the workshop. As he got closer, he saw the padlock was actually open, dangling from the hasp. It was unlocked after all. Even if Uncle Wade wasn’t there, he could get inside.
Arlo yanked on the door, trying to slide it open. It was much, much heavier than he expected, moving only a few inches at a time. But that’s all he needed. He squeezed through the gap and started rolling the door shut.
The gap grew narrower and narrower. He could hear the beast’s hooves. It was screaming in fury.
The door shut with a satisfying thud. Arlo had made it inside.
He stepped back, catching his breath.
As his eyes adjusted to the darkness, Arlo Finch wondered if he had been better off outside.
21
THE WORKSHOP
NAMES ARE FUNNY THINGS. They can evoke an idea about the nature of an object that may have no relation to the item itself.
For example, Arlo’s first bicycle was a Zephyr Fireball Maxx. He had picked it out at the store with his father, and insisted on keeping it in his room rather than the garage. The bike was sleek and fast, built for speed. That summer, he spent every afternoon racing down the dead-end street near their house in Philadelphia. He imagined himself winning the Tour de France on it one day.
It wasn’t until he went back to school in September that he saw an identical bike locked next to his on the rack. It had the same tires, same frame, same everything. Except it had a different name: the Mountaineer. This was a slow but sturdy trail bike, designed for rocky paths and steep slopes.
Yet it was the exact same bike. Only the name had changed.
Uncle Wade had called the building out back his “workshop.” The name had made Arlo think of Santa’s workshop, or the show on public television where the man with suspenders made drawers with dovetail joints. In his mind, Arlo had pictured his uncle working at long tables with various taxidermy animals in different stages of assembly: a half-stuffed eagle over here, a rabbit being glued over there. He imagined the workshop to be cluttered but comfortable, perhaps even cozy, much like the house.
This was incorrect, a misconception based on the term workshop.
If Arlo had named this place, he would have called it “the scary dark terror shed.” Because that would have been accurate.
To his left, a wall held rusty blades of every conceivable shape and length. Some looked like they had been taken from various machines: shredders, plows, lawn mowers. Others seemed to have no purpose other than being terrifying. The blades hung from hooks in neat lines stretching up to the ceiling, where more pieces dangled from wires overhead.
To his right, a lopsided cabinet held hundreds of disassembled dolls. They seemed to be sorted into categories—heads, legs, torsos, arms—but the individual pieces were packed randomly on overflowing shelves. Dirty doll faces stared at Arlo with unblinking eyes.
Straight ahead, he could see dim light coming through dirty plastic sheeting draped from the ceiling. It seemed to serve as an entrance to the back of the shed.
Everything about this space was so unsettling that he almost forgot about the monster trying to kill him. Almost.
“Uncle Wade!? Are you out here?” Arlo could see his breath in the narrow crack of light spilling through the door.
There was no answer.
If his uncle was here, he was on the other side of the plastic sheeting. Psyching himself up, Arlo carefully pushed it aside, revealing a larger room beyond. A wave of warm air hit his face.
His uncle was sitting on a stool with his back to him, giant headphones over his ears. He was busy working on something, picking up and setting down tools and brushes. A curl of smoke rose from a soldering iron. An electric heater glowed at his feet.
“Uncle Wade?”
Still no answer. Arlo could hear the music spilling out of the headphones: loud heavy metal, all thrashing drums and distorted guitars.
But there was another sound, too, one that reminded Arlo of the wooden xylophone from third-grade music class. His gaze drifted up to the rafters, where five dark wooden boards with Chinese writing hung from wires. A circular hammer swung wildly in the middle, striking the boards, each of which played a different note. It was like a wind chime. Except there was no wind. Arlo had no idea what was making the hammer swing so erratically.
“Uncle Wade!” This time he really shouted. Still no answer. The music in his uncle’s headphones was simpl
y too loud. Seeing no other option, Arlo finally tapped him on the arm.
Uncle Wade was so startled he fell off his stool, crashing into a series of cardboard boxes. He finally landed on his back next to a stuffed beaver holding a toothbrush.
“Sorry!” Arlo offered his hand to help him up. Uncle Wade refused it, pushing himself to his knees.
“You know you’re not supposed to come out here. That’s the one rule.”
“I know, but…”
“No buts, no exceptions.” Wade stood up, untangling himself from the headphone cord. “This is my sanctuary. This is where I do my art!”
“I know! It’s just…”
With a tsh-tsh, Wade shushed him, listening. He looked up to the wooden boards dangling above them, suddenly concerned. “How long has it been doing that?”
“I don’t know,” said Arlo. “What is it?”
“It’s an alarm. Something’s here that shouldn’t be.” He pushed past Arlo, headed for the front room.
“I know! That’s why—”
Wade was already through the plastic sheeting. Arlo didn’t want to follow him. But he didn’t want to be alone, either. He caught up to his uncle just as he was starting to slide the heavy door open.
“No, no! Don’t! It’s out there!” Arlo blocked the handle, trying to stop him. “It’s a monster. It came out of the woods.” His uncle relented, listening as Arlo continued. “I was out front, practicing with the compass. Your compass. And then it started to vibrate.”
“That’s what it’s supposed to do. That’s north.”
“It wasn’t north. It was something else. And then this thing—like a horse, but not a horse—came charging out of the forest. Cooper tried to stop it, but—” Arlo suddenly realized he hadn’t heard the dog’s bark since the first encounter. “I think it killed him.”
“Cooper’s already dead. You know that. He’s a ghost dog.”
“But he was fighting the monster. I saw it.”
Uncle Wade’s eyebrows scrunched together, his expression skeptical but not dismissive. He nodded. “All right. Let’s take a look.” Grabbing a shovel as a weapon, he slid the door open before Arlo could stop him.