But their voices seem a million miles away. Robby barely even notices they’re there. He’s trapped inside his own mind, shackled in the moment. He can’t help but think how his father looks unnatural, not at all like he remembers him, spruced up in makeup to camouflage the massive trauma his father experienced in his final moments. But Robby can see through the artifice, see where the lines of makeup meet the edges of the stitched-up lacerations on his face and neck. It’s an image he can’t dispel from his mind, one that percolates to the forefront of his memories of his father. And that pains him. His father was a good man and a great dad, yet all his thoughts drag him to the image of him lying in that casket. Not to the good times they shared.
“Shit!” The character Robby’s controlling in his shooter game succumbs to an ambush.
As the game’s continuation screen appears on the TV and the number ticks down from thirty, a faint, grainy silhouette emerges embedded in the graphics. How can this be? Played this game a thousand times. What the hell is this? The outline appears to show a girl with long hair, head cast down. Robby leans in closer to the television trying to make it out as the number ticks down. 27…26…25…24. The grainy image gradually moves into the foreground. The number stops ticking at 22. He taps the reset button on the controller, but the console doesn’t respond, and the game freezes.
When Robby lifts his eyes from his controller, his whole-body flinches. The image appears in crisp focus in the foreground. Her long strands of hair collect on the floral pattern nightgown she’s wearing. A bevy of ringlet curls shrouds the little girl’s face, concealing her identity. She stands motionless. Robby’s frenetic fingers fiddle with the buttons on the controller, but nothing happens. The game won’t reset.
His heart jumps as the image on screen lifts her head and meets his eyes. It’s Margo. A grin snakes across her lips sending a shudder through Robby’s body.
“You should’ve gone with your dad, Robby. He was going to take you home. He wants to take you home.”
“You’re not real!”
“I’m real. You know I’m real.” Her demented voice crackles as a blue swirl flashes through her eyes.
Robby’s body hardens, his legs petrified stumps. Every impulse in his mind screams run, but his muscles ignore the signals. Margo extends one of her hands until her fingertips reach the extreme foreground of the TV. Robby’s breathing accelerates to shallow, frantic tugs for air. Her fingertips pass through the television screen and jut out a couple of inches into his room.
“You’re not real. Get out! You’re not real!” His screams drench the room.
“All of their fruit will wither on the vine.” Margo’s voice booms, her wicked smile deepening as her whole hand and wrist emerge from the TV.
Robby dives for the game console and hits the power switch, the low whine of the disk decelerating flitting into his ears. Margo still looms on the TV in the foreground of the solid blue screen. Her arm emerges from the face of the TV above him, encased in a soft blue, phosphorescent glow. He lunges for the power switch on the TV as Margo extends her arm farther outside of the screen toward his own. Robby hits the power a moment before Margo’s hand reaches his. The television blips from the loss of power and she’s gone, leaving only the black, reflective surface of the TV behind.
Tears rain from Robby’s eyes. He sits, legs crisscrossed, with his head hanging over his lap. The words Brady spoke to him leak into his mind. I already know you’re marked. Could it be? Could that really be true? Why? What have I really ever done to anyone? But a name bobs to the surface of his consciousness. Sammy. As he reigns in his breathing, he lifts his head. The TV remains idle-black. He expels a deep breath, letting the tension leave his shoulders. In the reflection of the TV, his room looks quiet behind him. He sees his bed, his dresser, and as his eyes keep moving, he catches a glimpse of the reflection of an adult standing near his doorway.
“Mom, I’m okay.” Robby climbs to his feet. “I just…” He begins as he turns around.
Robby’s mouth hangs open mid-sentence. His eyes balloon. His father looms in his doorway, purged of the warm face Robby remembers. His lips snarl, exposing a glint of teeth, and his nose crinkles as he sharpens his razor gaze on Robby.
“You should’ve listened, Robby. Listened when I told you to come home with me.” The man takes a couple of deliberate steps forward.
Robby scrambles to his feet. He takes several retreating steps until his back thumps against his bedroom wall. His eyes dart in every direction. Nowhere to go.
“This could’ve been so easy. You could’ve just gone to where you belonged.” His dad continues his slow advance.
Robby eyes the paintball rifle on his dresser counter, measuring the distance to it. But his path to it intersects with the thing approaching.
“Now it’s going to be hard. Painful. You’ll feel the pain I felt when—”
Robby darts for the dresser. The creature cuts off his advance. Robby screams as it grabs his shoulder, and its boney fingers dig deep into his flesh. The creature’s menacing face morphs from his dad’s snarling face to a skeletal woman. Black, stringy hair falls around its eyes, which deeply recess into its cavernous face. It throws its other clawed hand into the air and slingshots it forward in a violent motion, ripping through the soft flesh of his belly and plunging deep inside his body.
Robby’s eyes shoot open. He’s screaming and tearing away at his bedsheets, trying to get the creature off him. As his eyes adjust to the darkness, he realizes the crushing pressure in his belly and abdomen is gone, the pain on his shoulder also dissipated. Moisture saturates his body. Blood? His hand frantically searches out his bedside lamp and flicks it on. Sweat covers the entirety of his body, but there’s no blood and no wounds. Only fear.
Chapter 42
Blind Spot
TEE AND I skid to a stop at the bottom of Slippery Hill, and Devin grinds his skateboard into the pavement. Robby’s waiting for us there, dark puffy circles haloing his eyes. His shoulders slump, his body resembling a melting candle as if he wears the weight of some invisible force hell-bent on scrunching him to the earth. He stares straight ahead, face peaked, hollow eyes still and blank as death.
“Man, what happened to you, Robby?” Tee’s verbal joust doesn’t jostle a smile from Robby.
Robby’s solemn eyes meet Tee’s. “Long night.”
I tent my brows at Robby. “Something happen?”
“No. Just a dream. Nothing…really.” Robby’s stoic delivery contradicts his words. I’m leery to press it further.
Devin surveys Robby with lingering eyes. “You sure, man? You look like hell.”
“Look, I’m fine. We need to get on with this.”
“Come on, man.” Tee locks eyes with Robby. “We already followed that dumbbell yesterday.”
“Two hours ain’t enough to know.”
“It’s long enough to know he’s not smart as a fart.”
“Look, we follow him for a couple more hours. We need to be sure. Then we head to Wadlow’s house like we planned.”
I shake my head at Robby.
“We’re just playing with fire.”
“No, man, Robby’s right. We need to know if it’s not him. Then we can scratch him off the list.”
“Dev, you saw it yesterday. The guy’s a moron.” Tee tosses his hands in the air with his words.
I can sense Robby’s growing irritation. We all agreed to the plan the night before, but following Sammy in the shadowy cover of dusk posed little danger of him spotting us. Five minutes of Sammy picking and flicking his own boogers highlighted our reconnaissance mission and fed our doubt, leading us all to believe Sammy’s limited mental capacity precluded his involvement. And now, with the bright illumination of the summer morning uncloaking our cover, Tee and I both have reservations.
“Dammit! We’re doing it!”
Tee flinches at Robby’s forceful tone.
“Dude, chill.”
“No, you chill, Tee. We had a
plan. You agreed to the plan. Brooks, you agreed to the plan. Now quit wasting time and let’s go.”
Tee shrugs his shoulders and shakes his head. “All right, man. You’re right.”
Robby’s sharpened eyes cut to me.
“Okay.” My response falls out, wrapped in a breathy sigh.
Without saying a word, Robby’s on his bike and pedaling. We all follow him. We know where he’s going—Chandler Trace. Whether trying to or not, he’s setting us on a collision course with Sammy Needles.
We find Sammy in a matter of minutes milling about on Chandler Trace. We rush our bikes off the roadway and stash them in the woods, crouching behind some foliage. Sammy rifles through the mailboxes of his neighbors.
“Stupid po’ bitches.” Sammy lets a pile of mail rain through his fingers.
He swings his casted arm and strikes the aluminum mailbox, denting it before yelping in pain. Tee sniggers and shakes his head.
“What a dipshit!”
I hoist a small grin at Tee. “I know, right? What’s wrong with him?”
Devin’s giggling eyes meet ours. “Maybe it’s the pile of shit in his head he’s using for his brain.”
“True!” Tee snickers and gives Devin a fist bump.
“Focus guys. He could be this thing.”
“I’m pretty sure he ain’t, Robby.” Tee’s grin grows wider. “The guy’s got the IQ of a dishwasher.”
“You’re givin’ him way too much cred’, brah. Those things got computer chips now.”
“It could be him. Who else got a reason to come after us? Huh?”
Robby’s question induces the desired effect. I retreat into thought. Sammy. He’s the only one that wants to hurt us. Makes sense. But he ain’t that smart. I shake my head. How? How could he be this thing?
Something seems to grab Sammy’s attention, and he takes a few steps forward. His posture changes like he’s greeting a familiar friend.
Devin draws his head back and furrows his brows. “What’s he doing?”
“I don’t know.” I shake my head. “Weird. It’s like he’s talkin’ to somebody.”
“Yeah, ‘cept there ain’t nobody there,” adds Tee.
“Maybe dude’s schitzo’,” Devin theorizes.
Sammy converses with thin air. He nods his head several times at various moments in acknowledgement of something. A grin sneaks across his face. He gives a final deliberate head nod and does an about-face from the curb. He crosses the street at a deliberate angle. He grabs the handle of a large trash can set out by the curb, dragging it until it blocks the entire adjacent sidewalk. He turns, starts whistling, and strolls away.
“What the hell?” There’s a momentary pause between each of Robby’s words.
Tee shakes his head at Robby. “That was weird.”
A car reverses in the driveway adjacent to the spot where Sammy placed the trash can. The brake lights flicker as it lumbers for the street. At the same time a young boy pedals his bike hard on the sidewalk. He steers into the grass to avoid the trash can on the sidewalk, sending him into the path of the reversing car. As he races into the driveway, the car lurches at him, but a moment before impact, he swerves into the roadway to avoid it. Tee’s eyes grow big.
“Holy shit.”
I lock eyes with Tee. “That was close.”
Devin’s eyes slowly swell. “It’s like he knew!”
The boy on the bike looks back over his shoulder at his near-fatal collision. But milliseconds later, his bike collides with an oncoming pickup truck. The violent collision throws the boy from his bicycle, sending him into an airborne tumble. His body and head smash into the windshield before the powerful jolt of impact tosses him to the roadside. He smacks the pavement with a skull-cracking thud. The pickup truck screeches to a halt, its tires smoking and the stench of singed rubber filling the air.
“Oh my god.” The utterance falls limp from my lips as a breathless whisper.
“Jesus!” Robby screams as he runs from our hiding spot.
The boy lies motionless on the roadway in the shadow of the battered pickup truck, its damaged grill steely jaws, brandishing a row of jagged teeth. A fan belt squeals its displeasure beneath the crumpled hood, and traces of blood fleck the perimeter of two large dents on the front end. The spider-webbed windshield hides the interior cab of the truck. A man staggers out from the driver’s side door of the pickup, a trickle of blood dripping from a small gash above his eyebrow.
I whip my head in the opposite direction. Sammy ambles away. He never even looks back but continues whistling. A cold chill races through my spine as I recognize the tune. It’s the same song I was singing in the shower the night Margo appeared in my bathroom. My stomach collapses. Sammy might be this thing. Probably is this thing! Same song. No way he’s whistling that. Too coincidental. Didn’t even turn around to look back. All that noise. How could that be unless by design?
“Help! Help! Get some help!” Robby wails desperate pleas from his knees beside the fallen boy.
I dash to Robby with the other boys. I gulp gravel at the sight of his body strewn on the curb, blood pouring from his ears and nose, life leaking from his complexion, turning his face funeral parlor pale.
“Get some help!” Robby cries as we peer at him.
“Oh Christ!” The man from pickup truck staggers to the injured boy.
He fumbles for his phone, dials 911, and reports the emergency before crouching by the injured boy.
“Oh Jesus, oh Jesus. What have I done? It’s going to be okay, kid. You hear me? It’s going to be okay. You hang in there.” The man seeks the boy’s hand and clasps it.
Silence ensues. The boy’s labored breathing deteriorates, the rise and fall of his chest growing more rapid and subtle as time passes. Within a minute, sirens wail from the distance.
Devin taps Robby on the shoulder, and Robby climbs to his feet. Devin motions with his eyes to the woods where we stashed our bikes. Robby’s eyes widen.
Devin airs a breathy whisper. “Nothing we can do.”
Tee motions his eyes in the direction of the approaching siren. “Ambulance is coming.”
“We’ll just be in the way,” I add.
Robby’s eyes glisten, and his lips push into a pout. He gives a somber shake of his head. None of us want to get involved in this, answer questions about what we saw, or explain why we decided to follow Sammy in the first place. We ease from the scene to our bikes.
The kneeling driver whips his head in the direction of our retreating footsteps. “Hey. Hey, kids. Wait!”
But we continue our hasty retreat.
Chapter 43
The Promise
AROUND THE SAME time the boys spy on Sammy Needles, Angela brings her car to a stop on the road beside Maduro Park. The engine sputters to a stop as she pulls the key from the ignition.
As she scans the park from her car through the rusting chain-link fence, she’s reminded of why she’s not fond of this place. Time and neglect took what once stood as a playground bustling with children and rendered it desolate. Stands of overgrown deciduous trees encroach from all sides, and the clearing springs tall with waist-high weed growth. The rusted-out, skeletal remains of the swing set still stand in the far corner of the park. But there’s no sign of Brady.
Angela takes a deep breath and exits her car. She traipses through the field to the dilapidated swing set where she agreed to meet Brady. Its corroded steel chains dangle, but the wooden swings they once held have rotted away, likening it to some type of medieval torture device. No wonder kids in town refer to this place as Murder-O Park.
“Angela.”
“Jesus!” Angela jumps.
Brady emerges from the edge of the woods.
“Christ, Brady. You scared the shit out of me.”
“Sorry, didn’t want to be spotted.” Brady’s eyes scan the roadways.
What’s he looking at? Angela’s eyes drift with his. Wants to make sure no one sees him? Shit! Remote location. No witness
es. Angela takes a tentative step back.
“Relax.” Brady shows his open palms. “It’s safer here. Nothing happens here. And it’s private.”
“Why would we need privacy?” Angela’s voice crackles.
“Angela, it’s me. I’m not gonna hurt you. Remember the promise we made?”
“What promise?”
Brady flashes a warm smile and takes a step forward. “It’s been a long time since that day. That’s for sure. But I always kept it.”
“Kept what?”
“You’re serious? You don’t remember?” The crease between Brady’s eyes grows deeper.
“Quit fuckin’ around, Brady. You’re freakin’ me out, again.”
“Oh wow. You are serious.”
“Yeah. And you better be too!” Angela takes a couple of steps forward, nostrils flaring. Her fear retreats as a fiery wave rises from deep within her. Even though she called Brady and asked him to meet her, she won’t allow him to fuck with her head.
“Whoa, whoa. Ang… Calm down.” Brady puts his hands up.
“Don’t tell me what to do. You better start talkin’ or I’m outta here!”
“Okay. No problem. It’s just that…I’m surprised you don’t remember is all.”
“Remember what, Brady?”
“The day. The day in Grief Hollow. The day the tree fort burned down.” Brady studies her eyes for a glimmer of recognition. Nothing comes.
“Yeah. What about it? Why’d you even do it, Brady?”
“You.”
“Wh-at?” Angela’s voice breaks apart like a disintegrating airliner.
“Because of you. I did it because of you. Because that’s what you told me I should do.”
Something triggers in the deep recesses of Angela’s mind. The neurological dam fails all at once, and a flood of suppressed memories rolls into the forefront of Angela’s mind like horrible waves. She sees herself in Grief Hollow the same day Brady and his friends arrive there with their BB guns. Though she’s not sure why, she’s hiding behind a tree while listening to the boys talk about Tent Caterpillars. Without revealing her hiding place, she manages to get Brady’s attention.
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