Ken Douglas - Nightwitch

“ Wanna help?”

“ Yeah,” Brad said.

“ Take this and follow me,” Arty tossed the shotgun to Brad. He didn’t have to look back to know that Brad was running right behind him, holding the shotgun out in front of himself, like a soldier, as they jogged down the path. Brad was a bully, but Arty never thought he was a chicken.

He was able to move faster without the weight of the heavy gun. He used his hands to whisk aside branches, as he slipped and slid down the hill. Once, he fell on his backside, but he was able to push himself up without tumbling, and all the time he heard Brad chugging away behind. Arty used his hands and arms as much for balance as for obstacle clearance. Brad had no choice but to take the flinging branches in the face, but he kept on, without falling, without faltering and without complaining.

At the bottom of the hill they burst out of the woods, running three abreast across the baseball diamond, Arty in the middle, Brad to his right, Ray to his left. Arty saw the police car as they crossed center field. Its lights were flashing. It stopped and Arty saw someone get out.

“ It’s your dad,” Arty said, between breaths.

“ Yeah,” Ray answered.

“ Tell him about the clearing. They need help.”

“ All right.” Ray peeled off to the right to talk to his father as Brad and Arty turned left. Arty had never run so fast for so long. Every step was a shockwave to his system. He hoped Carolina was all right. He didn’t think the Nightwitch would be after her now that Arty was going for the skin, and she would know. As soon as it got back to the clearing and saw him gone, it would know and it would come.

“ Where we going?” Brad asked.

“ Carolina’s,” Arty said.

They turned on Fremont Avenue, running down the center of the street as one, their feet hitting the pavement in unison. Arty snatched a look at Brad and noticed the determined set of his jaw and the white knuckles holding on to the shotgun. Sweat was dripping down the side of Brad’s face and Arty felt again the sweat dripping down his own back.

The boys started drawing strength from each other as they passed Big and Tiny’s Mini Market and turned right again. Two blocks to go, then a left and halfway down the block and they would be there. Arty started to pick up the pace and like a mind reader, Brad responded.

Slap, slap, slap, their driving feet echoed thorough the night. One block gone and the rain started. A gullywomping, gutterfilling downpour mingled with driving pellets of November hail that stung when they scored, but still the boys ran on, splash, splash, splash through the blinding, driving rain.

And, still moving as one, they hung the left onto Lark Lane and sprinted toward the dark area in the center of the block. The streetlights were still out. Did they get here first? Would he have time to find the skin? Or were they too late? Was it waiting? Were they going to die?

“ Here.” Arty stopped in the center of the street in front of Carolina’s house. They were panting like dying race horses, dripping wet and fighting the chilling cold.

Arty tried to wipe some of the water from his eyes, as he moved from the street, to the sidewalk, to the center of Carolina’s front lawn. The rain started to fall even harder, with a thunderous din that made it hard to see and harder to hear. He looked at the bushes covering the place between the houses, the place he’d seen the wolf with that bag. The place where the crate under the window disappeared from. The place with the bushes way in back, by the fence. The place where he hoped to find the skin of the witch that can’t die.

Arty moved his face close to Brad’s, so he could be heard above the rain and he looked into his dark eyes and saw a flicker of fear. Brad had seen the Nightwitch in action up at the clearing, but he was here, standing beside him, panting and gasping for breath in the rain, when most people would be long gone.

“ I gotta go in there,” Arty said, pointing to the area between the two houses.

Brad nodded.

“ If it beat us here, then it’s inside waiting and I’m a goner, so when I go in there you count to ten, and if I don’t yell out that it’s okay, you take off out of here.”

Brad nodded again.

“ If I yell out it’s okay, then you gotta cover me. It’s gonna wanna get in there and get me, and you gotta stop it, okay?”

Brad nodded twice.

“ You only got five shots.”

“ Yeah, I know,” Brad said.

“ All right,” Arty said. He turned to the area between the house and crouched down onto his knees to crawl through the bushes.

“ Hey, Farty Arty,” Brad called out from the center of the lawn, and Arty turned. Brad was smiling, holding the shotgun with his right hand and giving him the thumbs up sign with his left. “I’ll keep it out,” he said through the rain. “You can count on me.”

And for the first time, he wasn’t ashamed of being called Farty Arty. In fact, the way Brad said it, he kind of liked it. It wasn’t a name to put him down anymore, now it was a nickname and it had character.

“ Start counting now,” he yelled back, returning the thumbs up sign, before he started crawling in under the bushes. And he started counting himself.

One, one thousand, and he was under the bushes, heart racing, head down.

Two, one thousand, and he was through the bushes, in the dark area between the houses.

Three, one thousand, and he was pushing himself to his feet, straining his eyes to try and see in the dark.

Four, one thousand, and he was holding his breath, expecting the wolf’s strong jaws to rip into him any second.

Five, one thousand, and he was still holding his breath as he stuck his hands out in front of himself and tried to feel his way toward the wall.

Six, one thousand, and he was at the wall, feeling along it, moving toward the bushes at the back by the fence.

Seven, one thousand, and he stopped, using his ears, looking for a sound that would tell him the Nightwitch was there.

Eight, one thousand, and he exhaled and inhaled the cool night air.

Nine, one thousand, and he shivered from the cold, quivered with anticipation, and trembled with fear.

Ten, one thousand, and he yelled out, “It’s okay.” Then he dropped to his knees in front of the bushes in the back by the fence.

“ Nothing’s getting in there, Arty,” Brad yelled out and Arty started feeling around for the skin.

The rain stopped as quickly as it had started, leaving the neighborhood covered with that fresh smelling clean taste that usually makes you feel good after a rain has finished. But Brad didn’t notice the crisp feeling as he stood in the middle of the lawn, shotgun at the ready, eyes scanning in the dark.

He shuffled his feet and took a right hand off the shotgun and tried to wring some of the wet out of his hair, and wipe some of the water from his forehead, but the wet on his forehead was sweat mingled with the sweet rainwater, and it came right back. He put his hand back on the gun, wrapping his index finger around the trigger, and rotated his head a hundred and eighty degrees.

With the end of the rain came a slight wind and the clouds above parted, allowing sufficient moonlight for Brad to see both corners of the street from his post on the lawn. The cool breeze dried the sweat from his forehead, but it delivered an icy chill to the rest of his body. His teeth chattered with the cold. His fingers started to go numb against the cold shotgun and his shoes made squishy sounds as he shuffled back and forth.

He looked up and saw a shooting star. He’d seen them before, when he was hunting with his father, but this one was different. It curved from its expected straight path and came shooting toward the far corner of the block. For a second it looked like it might hit earth and explode, but ten feet from the ground, it changed direction and shot over the street, moving as fast as any car.