Spindle Lane. Mark Reefe

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      Apprentice House Press

      Loyola University Maryland

      4501 N. Charles Street

      Baltimore, MD 21210

      410.617.5265

      www.ApprenticeHouse.com

      [email protected]

      This book is dedicated to the S-Section Crew.

      No one would believe the real story,

      so I had to make this one up.

      “A dreamer is one who can only find his way by moonlight, and his punishment is that he sees the dawn before the rest of the world.”

      - Oscar Wilde

      Chapter 1

      June 2, 1978

      It was a risky move, but the sun was almost touching the horizon, and I was less than thirty minutes away from being grounded for the rest of my sorry excuse for a life. I exhaled and with one bold gulp downed what remained of my Slurpee. Icy claws tickled my temples as a cherry flavored avalanche rushed down my throat. Raising a hand to my head, I grimaced in anticipation of the brain freeze sure to follow. A couple of seconds passed before I started counting off in my head. At ten elephant I stopped. Nothing. Nada. No ice pick through the eye or alien hatchling bursting out of my forehead. Guess I dodged a bullet on that one.

      Tossing the empty cup in the trash can outside the 7-Eleven, I planted a foot on the pedal of my silver and blue Team Murray BMX—or the Blue Beast as I cleverly dubbed it—and pushed off. I weaved and whizzed between rows of parked cars and shopping carts, negotiating the Hilltop Plaza parking lot with the skill of an F-15 fighter pilot. School had only been out for a day, but the taste of newfound freedom was oh-so-sweet, and I had tons of stuff planned for the summer. Crashing at Paul’s house was numero uno on the list. We’d kick off the night’s festivities with an Atari marathon fueled by a steady diet of Devil Dogs and root beer, and then maybe, just maybe, I’d sneak in a little Dungeons and Dragons action—if I could convince my friend he wasn’t too cool to give it a try. Of course, none of that was going to happen if I got grounded for staying out too late. The rules of the Dwyer household were few, but they were enforced without mercy. Rule number one: home before the streetlights came on unless you were dead, dying, or over at a friend’s house. Unfortunately, I was none of those.

      I slowed for a second to get my timing right before pushing it hard across 450. Once on the other side, I stopped at the entrance to the White Marsh Bike Trail and weighed my options. The path was beyond a doubt the quickest way home and most likely my only shot at avoiding Mom’s wrath given the time. The trees standing guard at its entrance stretched wiry branches out and away from the forest toward the open air and sun. Like giant, gnarled fingers they reached forward as if trying to lure me into their grasp so they could tear my body limb from limb. I’d have to be faster than greased lightning. No way in hell I was going to be stuck on the trail when darkness fell.

      Taking a deep breath, I plunged beneath a blanket of oak and maple and steered my bike down the paved lane at speeds that pushed the limits of my reflexes. Drinking in the cool, musty air, I looked at the shaded world surrounding me and shivered. I began humming Shout It Out Loud to keep my imagination from getting the better of me, as it often did in the presence of twisting shadows and smothering gloom. Whenever I got a bit twitchy, Kiss always calmed the nerves and steadied my hands—plus the song had a bitchin’ beat. Down the winding, leaf-covered path I cruised, keeping a constant lookout for bikers, pedestrians, stray wolves, goblins, and hungry trolls.

      A little more than halfway through my shortcut, movement caught the corner of my eye. To my left something large dove behind a cluster of ferns and poplars. Out of instinct, I slammed on the brakes and skidded to a halt. I listened. After a few seconds of eerie silence, the bushes stirred.

      “Who’s СКАЧАТЬ