Brian Keene - Ghost Walk

“What was that?”

Rhonda Garrett squeezed Sam Freeman’s hand. She halted, glancing back through the forest. Sam cocked his head and listened.

“Sounds like Mr. Ripple,” Sam said.

“He’s probably looking for us. Maybe we should go back.”

“Screw that,” Sam argued. “When we go back, if he says anything, we’ll tell him we had to go piss.”

“In the woods?”

“Why not?”

“Poison ivy, for one thing.”

“It’s October. There’s no poison ivy now.”

Sam tugged her hand, leading her forward. Rhonda halted again, reluctant.

“I don’t know, Sam. We could get in trouble. I don’t need anymore drama from my mom. She’s still tripping about catching us in the hot tub.”

“She’s just mad because you’re getting some and she’s not.”

Rhonda gasped. “That’s terrible!”

“It’s true. Your mom would be a lot nicer if she’d just get laid. When was the last time she went out on a date?”

“I don’t remember. Probably years.”

“Well, there you go.”

“It wasn’t just the hot tub,” Rhonda whispered. “I think she suspects.”

“No way. She can’t. We were careful.”

“I know, but I still think—”

Sam interrupted her. “I thought we weren’t going to talk about that. We need to move on. It’s a nice day. No need to bring ourselves down.”

Rhonda’s bottom lip quivered. Her eyes grew watery. Feeling guilty, Sam tried to change the subject.

“Maybe we should fix her up with somebody,” he suggested.

“How about Mr. Porter?”

Sam grimaced. “The shop teacher? He’s like seventy and shit.”

“He’s nice.”

“He’s old. And he scratches his ass.”

“Oh, he does not.”

“Straight up. He sticks his hand down the back of his pants when he thinks nobody is looking. Then he scratches his ass and sniffs his finger.”

“That’s disgusting!”

“That’s Mr. Porter.”

Rhonda laughed. “Well, then who would you suggest?”

“How about a little mother–daughter action.”

Rhonda slapped his shoulder. “You’re disgusting.”

“I can’t help it. Your mom’s a MILF.”

Rhonda pulled away. “I’m going back. You can stay here.”

Sam grabbed her arm. “I was just playing. I’m sorry.”

“It’s not funny. That’s my mother you’re talking about.”

Sam pulled Rhonda closer and kissed the top of her head. Her hair smelled like strawberry-scented shampoo. His lips grazed her forehead, then dipped to her ear. He nuzzled her neck. Rhonda sighed.

“I’m sorry,” he repeated. “Let me make it up to you?”

“Not here. Let’s go a little further. This close to the trail, I won’t be able to relax.”

“Okay. We’ll go where they can’t find us.”

He led her deeper into the forest. The trees were close together and the air grew colder. They could see their breath like smoke. They walked hand in hand, not talking, comfortable in their shared silence. Sam wondered what Rhonda was thinking about and decided it was probably how much trouble they’d be in if they were gone too long. She always worried about getting into trouble. Rhonda wondered what Sam was thinking about and decided it was probably sex. He was usually preoccupied with it.

Though neither of them knew it, they were actually thinking about the same thing.

Their baby.

Sam and Rhonda had known each other since the sixth grade. They’d been dating since the ninth. Their relationship was surprisingly free of all the usual teen angst. But seven months ago they’d faced their first big hurdle when Rhonda missed her period. They’d been careful. Sam always wore a rubber. But despite that, Rhonda got pregnant. After coping with the initial shock and dread, the two agreed to keep it a secret from their families.

Rhonda was terrified of what her mother would say. Her mother, twice divorced, had gotten pregnant with Rhonda at seventeen and never missed an opportunity to remind her daughter what a mistake that had been. Also, Rhonda wanted to go to college. How could she juggle that with the demands of being a parent?

Sam was frightened of the responsibility it would bring. Sure, he loved Rhonda. He always had. But he wasn’t ready to get married yet. Although he hadn’t told her, after graduation, he wanted to join the Marines and go to Iraq or Afghanistan. She’d have enough problems with that without adding a baby to the situation.

The abortion was a mutual decision, if not an easy one. Pennsylvania law stated that women under the age of eighteen needed permission from a parent before having an abortion. No way would Rhonda’s mother ever agree to such a thing, and the only contact she had with her father was the monthly child support checks. Her stepfather had moved to North Carolina after her mother divorced him. Parental consent was out. And Pennsylvania required women to go through a “state-mandated information session”—basically, they tried to talk you out of getting an abortion. She didn’t need that drama.

After Rhonda confided in her best friend April, they came up with a solution. Washington, D.C., had no parental notification or consent laws, and it was only a three and a half hour drive from York County. Sam went online and bought fake IDs for them both, stating that they resided in the District of Columbia. Then, on a rainy Tuesday, they called in sick to school and made the drive.

They’d been haunted by it ever since.

Both were thinking about it when a man stepped out from behind a tree and pointed a rifle at them.

“Don’t scream,” he rasped. “Don’t make a sound. Move and I’ll blow your fucking brains out the backs of your heads.”

Rhonda’s grip tightened. She squeezed Sam’s hand, grinding his fingers together.

“What do you want?” Sam asked, trying to hide his panic.

The man grinned. “ You .”

The entity inside Richard Henry had many names, yet none of them were its true name. To speak that aloud was to invite certain death and destruction. It, along with its twelve brothers, was one of the oldest things in the universe. Indeed, it had been old before this universe was even created. It was not a demon, though many throughout history had mistakenly thought it as such. Nor was it a god, though it had occasionally been worshipped as one over the centuries.

Since well before the dawn of humanity, it had taken different forms, used different faces—a satyr, a pillar of fire, a small child, a storm cloud, a black goat, a giant serpent, and others. Anything that mankind feared, anything that haunted them, this being could replicate. Each guise had a different name attributed to it. Verminus. Nuada. Lud. Shub-Niggurath. Pahad, who hungers. Lilitu, the cold one. The Mesopotamians knew it as Lamashtu. Cain’s tribe called it Nud. Another clan, forgotten by history, called it Othel. To some civilizations, it was the Father of Pan. To others, the Living Darkness. One obscure sect had believed it to be the sire of Kali. The Celts figured out its real name, mistakenly thought it a benevolent deity, and had paid the price for that tragic error. The Romans had also known its real name, but refused to speak it out loud, instead referencing it only in their texts. Humanity had since mistakenly believed that the Romans didn’t know its real name either. The Greeks had believed that merely acknowledging its existence could lead to madness. To avoid the risk of speaking its name, many cultures struck all references to it from their histories and grimoires. Others simply called it He Who Shall Not Be Named.

Its real form was a shapeless, shifting darkness—the absence of light made solid.

Its real name was Nodens.

Nodens’ temples could be found everywhere across the universe. On distant planets unknown by mankind, like the twin moons of distant Yhe and the fungal gardens of Yaksh. In the deserted tunnels beneath Mars and in the center of Jupiter’s Great Red Spot. On frozen, barren Io and several hurtling asteroids. And on Earth, in the ruins of Mesopotamia, Babylon, Rome, and Persia, and more recent diggings in Oregon, Hawaii, Peru, Kenya, the Yian-Ho province in China, and the Welsh counties of Gloucestershire and Monmouthshire.