The Child Thief

Soon, the voices began to fade. The mist settled down, returned to a state of placid, endless gray. And not long after that he smelled the sea again, felt a breeze, heard the lapping of waves. Finally the mist thinned and Nick could just make out a shadowy bank against a starless night sky.

NICK STUMBLED TO his knees and planted both hands on the wet beach, clutching the sand to steady himself. He took in a deep gulp of air, like a surfacing swimmer, and tried not to scream, tried not to think about them. What the hell had that been? He clenched his eyes shut but there was no hiding from what he’d seen. “What was that?” Nick said in a harsh whisper and looked up at Peter.

Peter wore a grin from ear to ear. “You did great!”

Nick glared at Peter. “WHAT THE HELL WAS THAT?”

“The Mist,” Peter said, as though nothing could be more obvious or natural.

Nick waited for more, but Peter just stood there wearing that stupid grin.

Nick glanced over his shoulder, back into the swirling mist, wondering if it would follow, would come after him. “Those things. What were those things? What were those fucking things out there?”

“Mist spirits.”

“Mist spirits?”

“Yep, the Sluagh.”

Nick realized this was going nowhere. He pushed to his feet and clenched his fist. He wanted to punch the pointy-eared kid, wanted to beat that smug little smile into his face, had never wanted to hit someone more in his life.

Peter took a step back, looking perplexed.

“YOU TRICKED ME!” Nick shouted. “You jerk-ass! You knew about that crap and didn’t tell me.”

“Not true,” Peter stated like a trial lawyer. “I specifically asked if you were ready to enter the Mist. And you said—” Peter mimicked Nick’s voice—“ I go willingly.’”

Nick glared at Peter. “You know what I mean. You didn’t tell me about all that crap out there. About those things!”

“And what, spoil the surprise?”

“Stop being a fucking wiseass!” Nick cried. “I saw a dead boy out there. Why are there dead people out there?”

Peter’s face clouded and he looked away.

“If I’d fallen behind, would I still be out there? Wandering around, screaming your name until I died?”

“Yes.”

Nick stared at Peter, stunned, a forgotten word still on his lips. He turned his back on the boy, eyeing the mist, watching it the way you’d watch a dog you know will bite.

“I had to stay the course,” Peter said. “I did what I could for you. But if I’d wavered, if I’d hesitated, or strayed from the path…all would’ve been lost.

“And Nick, you really did do well. The Mist isn’t an easy path to walk.”

Nick whirled. “FUCK YOU! FUCK YOU!”

Peter’s jaw tightened. “It’s a good idea to keep your voice down or the Flesh-eaters will hear.” He peered intently down the shoreline.

Nick followed Peter’s gaze. Flesh-eaters? He studied the jagged shadows and twisted terrain lining the beach. It didn’t look like anyplace he’d ever seen. He shuddered; just why had the pointy- eared boy brought him here? “Peter, where are we? Really?”

Peter’s playful smile returned, and his voice fairly danced with mischief. “Oh, there’s lots to see. Lots to do. Adventure awaits. Follow me and I’ll show you.”

Nick shook his head. “No, Peter, I’m not about—”

“Shhh!” Peter jabbed a finger to his lips, his face suddenly hard, squinting into the dark. “The Flesh-eaters, they’re coming. Time to go.”

Nick crossed his arms. “I’m not going anywhere with you.”

Peter shrugged, turned, and headed quickly up the beach toward the woods.

Nick stood alone, staring down the dark shore. “Bullshit,” he whispered. “It’s all bull—” He caught movement far down the beach, several hunched shapes picking their way toward him. “Oh shit.” He glanced at the mist, at its swirling tendrils. “Fuck.” He kicked the sand and, to his horror, found himself hustling up the beach after the pointy-eared boy.

PETER PUT A finger to his lips. This time, Nick didn’t have to be told twice. He got quiet, dead quiet, barely daring to breathe as they pushed their way up the muddy path and into the trees.

The woods were still and silent, no creaking insects, no croaking frogs, as though the very land was dead. The heavy silence amplified their every step as the mud sucked at their feet. They plodded onward, snaking their way around weedy bogs, sinkholes, and across a few shallow, slow-running creeks. The air was heavy with the smell of stagnant water, mud, mold, and decay. The overcast sky provided only a faint greenish glow to help Nick stumble his way over the roots, rocks, and brambles. He could just make out the tortured shapes of the trees looming above them, their leafless branches—like tormented hands—seemed to be reaching for him as they passed. Nick did his best to avoid touching the trees, as their bark felt soft, yielding, more like flesh than bark.

A low bellow rolled out from the woods ahead of them. Peter ducked down against the twisted trunk of a fallen tree and Nick slipped up next to him. Both boys peered through the tangle of roots searching the shadows ahead. From somewhere behind them came another bellow. “Barghest,” Peter whispered and slid out his long knife.

Barghest? Nick thought. Okay, great. Flesh-eaters, now barghest. What the hell’s a barghest?

In a clearing, not twenty yards up the trail, Nick spotted a pair of orange, glowing eyes. A dark, hunched shape about the size of a wolf crept out of the shadows. It crawled on all fours, stood up on its hind legs, and began to sniff the air. From behind them came the slapping of feet tracking through mud. The sound grew steadily closer. Nick allowed himself to slowly turn his head and saw another set of eyes moving their way. He instinctively pressed himself further into the overhanging roots and ground his teeth as he fought the urge to cut and run. The dark shape moved past them, sliding by so close that Nick could’ve reached out and touched it, so close that he could actually smell it—a musty smell like an old, wet carpet.

The shape joined with the other in the clearing and a moment later a third arrived. One by one all three of them turned their orange eyes toward Nick. Cold mud oozed between Nick’s fingers as he clutched the wet earth, afraid to even blink.

Somewhere far away another howl echoed across the swamp, almost human. All three of the shapes tilted back their heads and answered, and Nick felt the sound in his very bones. He struggled to control his breathing. Every ounce of him wanted to run, wanted to get as far away from that sound as he could. He felt Peter’s hand on his shoulder—strong and steady.

Finally the three shapes shuffled away.

Peter waited a long time before he stood up, and they continued down the trail.

PETER HEARD THE gurgling of Goggie Creek and let out a silent sigh of relief. The Flesh-eaters would never dare follow them this far.

He crouched on the bank and put his hands in the fast-moving water. “This water’s safe to drink,” Peter said, and began slurping down large handfuls. He splashed his face, glad to wash away the residue of the city. He hated the city, hated all the concrete, the noise, the stink of exhaust and garbage, but worse than all that, the city was full of men-kind—men-kind and all their cruelty and brutality.

He glanced at Nick. The kid was holding up pretty good. He’d done well in the Mist. Peter had been sure he’d lost him, and yet the boy had found him on his own. Peter couldn’t remember any other child doing that. This boy showed spunk, showed promise. Just the kind of child the Devils are looking for, Peter thought. This one just might live awhile.