by Paul Taylor
One of the people that Dwayne and Mavis had referred to as "the Out-of-towners" was sitting on a bench down by the Richmond River. He had by his side a bread bag full of shredded, stale bread which he was tossing onto the ground in front of him at intervals.
The man knew what the woman from the motel and others about the town had been saying about him and his companions, they had ears everywhere. It didn't bother him. For now he was content to let them think what they liked. There was nothing to connect any of the missing children with him or the others and as long as it stayed that way they would be safe. And by the time the town realised what was going on, it would be too late.
The sun was high back up in the trees away from Allan and down here beneath the shade of the trees he should have cast no shadow, and yet somehow he did. A thick inkblot of shadow like an oil stain lay upon the ground.
As the pigeon pecked about Allan's pants cuff it inadvertently came too close to the shadow. With a sudden striking movement, like a King Brown snake, Allan's shadow snapped out and twisted itself about the pigeon. The pigeon gave one brief squawk before the shadow clasped convulsively and squeezed the life from it in a puff of feathers. The pigeon's colour faded and it began a rapid decomposition. Its feathers fell out and its skin became grey and pallid, shrivelling until the bones poked through. Flesh and bones decayed and crumbled into a fine coating of grey powder that sifted about the shadow.
An instant later even that was gone and the shadow settled back into place at its master's feet.
CHAPTER NINE