Brom - The Child Thief

“Oh God,” he cried. I can’t do this. Not any longer . He needed to run, he didn’t care where to, he just had to run.

If you run you will die, came the familiar voice. Calm but stern, it was his voice, his inner self, the boy that had been through his share of hard times and had managed to keep it together. And how had he done that? How had he dealt with watching them shovel dirt onto his father’s casket? How had he dealt with hearing his mother cry herself to sleep night after night? How had he put up with the bullshit at school—the endless taunts and bullying, and Marko fucking with him every day? He’d simply withdrawn deep within himself, pretended as though all the bad things were happening to someone else and that he was just along for the ride. And this had always got him through. It didn’t make it okay. It didn’t make the hurt any less painful later, but it got him through. And right now he just needed to get through.

So Nick went there now, to his safe place, and watched the show from afar. And from afar it was clear that the mist was all noise and bluster, merely trying to scare him, confuse him, drive him from the path.

Nick looked through the mist, locked his eyes on Peter’s back, kept them there, and plodded onward—steady.

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 TOhis 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 Afinger 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.