Spindle Lane. Mark Reefe

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      I’d been skittish enough when I first entered the forest. Now I was one boo away from dropping a brownie in my shorts. “I know you’re out there! I can hear you, dude! If that’s you, Steve, it’s not funny!”

      Still zip.

      My eyes dropped to the layer of dead leaves and twigs littering the forest floor. In the rapidly fading twilight, I noticed a path cleared in the dirt. Starting near a shallow puddle at my feet, it ran a half dozen yards and ended where the noise had come from. I imagined some hapless hiker ambushed and dragged off into the darkness by a hidden thing, a furred and twisted horror with razor-sharp claws and bloody fangs. A sudden stillness descended, drowning out all the sounds of nature. In the deafening quiet of this sinister landscape, a low-pitched huffing emerged. Something was breathing—no, panting—in the soggy underbrush in front of me. With greedy eyes it stared at me. The hairs standing on the back of my neck told me so.

      Time to split.

      Making full use of the measly hundred and twenty pounds God gave me, I spurred the Blue Beast into action. A snapping of sticks and thrashing of leaves erupted from behind as something large crashed through the greenery. Hugging each curve and twist of the trail, I hauled my scrawny butt out of there like the Devil himself was chasing me. The bush monster’s thumping and grunting grew louder as my would-be assassin quickly narrowed the distance between us to just a few feet. Twice I almost wiped out while skidding around sharp bends. A stuttered screech came from close by, echoing off the hills and surrounding trees. It was invasive, burrowing under my skin like a tick and digging until it struck bone.

      I opened my mouth to yell but stopped. I might have been on the verge of becoming dog chow, but I wasn’t planning on going out like some thumb-sucking middle schooler. Clenching my teeth, I concentrated on the narrow stretch of trail in front of me. Up ahead I heard the rush of traffic coming from Stonybrook Drive. Less than a hundred yards away was the exit and my freedom. I doubled down, furiously pumping my legs and pushing beyond my limits. A gust of wind tickled my ears as something large whooshed within inches of my head. Almost there. Another howl of anger bounced through the canyons of the trail as I raced to safety. Doing my best impersonation of Evel Knievel, I launched from the path and rocketed across both lanes, only stopping when I was safe on the other side of the street. Luckily no traffic had been coming, or I really would have been dog chow.

      Wheezing in the humid air to douse the fire in my lungs, I looked back and for a few seconds swore I could see a pair of glowing embers hovering in the pitch black. Between breaths I whispered, “Suck it.”

      The flicker of streetlights drew my attention as they switched on one-by-one.

      “Crap!”

      Having narrowly escaped both death and stained underwear, I almost forgot the purpose behind my risky move. I rolled down Stonybrook, letting gravity do most of the work. What the hell was that thing? A bear? Not likely. The suburbs of Bowie, Maryland weren’t exactly the great outdoors. Maybe a giant dog or just some jackasses with nothing better to do than try and scare the crap out of a kid. Still, the sound it made wasn’t something I thought a human voice could replicate.

      The greater the distance I put between myself and the trail, the less I thought about my near-death encounter and the more I worried about being grounded. Banking a right onto Spindle Lane, I started the climb up to my house. In the distance Mom was calling out for dinner. I was going to make it.

      The smell of oil mixed with paint thinner welcomed me as I glided past our station wagon and into the garage. It wasn’t until I opened the door to the house that I felt something wet and sticky on my hand.

      Mom called from upstairs. “Chris, is that you?”

      “Yes, Mom.”

      “We’re having pork chops tonight! Be sure to wash up!”

      I looked at my hand. From pinky to wrist, a scarlet streak was smeared across my skin. Ketchup? Nope. The hot dog I wolfed down outside the 7-Eleven only had mustard on it. Plus, it didn’t smell like ketchup. I touched the liquid with my other hand and rubbed it between my fingers. It was greasy. For reasons I couldn’t explain, my stomach knotted up into a giant pretzel. Remembering my hand had brushed against the bike’s front tire as I hopped off, I rushed back into the garage and flicked on the light. I knelt down and touched the wheel. Pulling away, I saw a slimy red path cut across my fingers. The words, “What the fuuu…,” slipped from my mouth and died as I realized the puddle on the bike trail hadn’t been filled with water.

      It was filled with blood.

      Chapter 2

      It had been a rough night. Pumped up from my narrow escape, it took forever to fall asleep. When my eyes finally shut, a parade of nightmares quickly followed, marching through my head one after another. Funniest thing, I couldn’t remember a darn one of them come morning. That was a bit strange for me.

      “Give me room for my legs!”

      As if getting no sleep wasn’t bad enough, it appeared the chances of sneaking in a little mid-morning nap wasn’t in the cards either. On the opposite end of the couch from where I stretched in my semi-comatose state lay my six-year-old sister. With a button nose and chubby little cheeks, Katie could pass for cute when she wasn’t being a royal pain in the butt. People said she looked like me when I was her age, but I sure didn’t see it.

      I stifled a yawn. “All right, stinky. Here, put your legs in front. I’ll tuck mine into the cushion behind you.”

      “I’m not stinky!” she muttered while doing as instructed.

      I closed my eyes, fading in and out only half-listening to Scooby’s All-Star Laff-A-Lympics on the television. I remained in that state until our rattling screen door brought me back to the land of the living.

      Rolling off the couch, I flopped onto the shag carpet.

      Another round of knocks at the door.

      “I’m coming! I’m coming! Keep your shirt on, doofus!”

      I wasn’t some crazy person cruising for a bruising for insulting one of our neighbors. It was ten-thirty. That meant Paul Perret was knocking on the door. Every Saturday for as far back as I could remember, Paul showed up on the porch between ten and ten-thirty, except for that one time he got explosive diarrhea from a stomach flu and the other when he was grounded for a week. My best bro was as reliable as the finest Swiss watch.

      I couldn’t help but laugh at the sight of him. My friend had a beach towel over his shoulders, goggles around his neck, and was sporting a bathing suit that ballooned way out below his belly button and extended down to a pair of knobby knees. “Either you’re shrinking or that suit is waaay too big for you.”

      A grimace broke on Paul’s thin face, and his blue eyes grew wide. “Yeah, couldn’t find my trunks, so I borrowed one of Perry’s.”

      “He let you?”

       Paul’s smile spread, exposing a set of choppers Bugs Bunny would have been jealous of. “Nope, he was sleeping when I split.”

      I pushed open the screen door. “Steve’s out too. Sometimes he hibernates until noon. So, won’t Perry pound you when he finds out you took his suit?”

      Paul hunched his narrow shoulders as he entered. “Meh, he’ll pound me anyway, so I might as well СКАЧАТЬ