Derek Landy - Desolation

They got out, went walking. Kelly zipped up her jacket while Two ran in excited circles. On the east side of the park there was a small building that housed the public restrooms. Facing the park, it was a pristine example of a public utility that was kept up to snuff. But the interesting stuff was all across the back in layers of names and promises and oaths and declarations.

Kelly was a quick study, but even so her ability to decipher the messages hidden in graffiti could only take her so far. Ronnie was better at it, and Linda was better still, but Warrick was the master. He was the one who’d told them all about it, after all. Graffiti was the cave painting of the modern world, he’d told Kelly after she’d taken her first trip in the van.

That had been her recruitment, she supposed. Once she was part of the group, one of the gang, he felt comfortable telling her his secrets. A town’s history, its true history, he said, could be found in the scrawls and crude pictures hidden from the prying eyes of the disapproving authorities, those to whom whitewashing a wall was the same as whitewashing a mind. They could paint over the truth as many times as they wanted, but the truth could always be scrawled anew.

Kelly found declarations of love and accusations of infidelity, she found boasts of conquests, of prowess and of physical exploits, and she found pictures of genitalia that were suspect in their accuracy.

“Look at this,” said Linda, pointing to a drawing of a thin man with a wide, smiling mouth, too big for his head. There was an artistry to it, some genuine talent, but there was something else – something about that smile that unnerved Kelly. Linda took a picture of it with her phone.

“Got something else,” Ronnie said. “A name – Donnie Welker. Says here the Narrow Man got him in 2003.”

Linda hurried over, documenting the message.

They found five more references to the Narrow Man, and then Warrick said, “Found it.”

They crowded round him. On the wall, almost at the corner and faded, yet isolated from the other scrawls, almost as if nobody dared paint over it, was a short rhyme.

The Narrow Man, the Narrow Man,

He’ll sniff you out, you know he can.

Counting, counting, one, two, three,

Your name he’ll call, his face you’ll see.

Tap at your window, tap at your door,

You can hide no longer, run no more.

The Narrow Man, the Narrow Man,

He’ll drag you to hell, fast as he can.

“He’s here, all right,” said Ronnie.

“Look at this,” said Kelly, waving to a group of kids hanging out in the trees behind them. “We have an audience.”

Two bounded over. A few of the kids backed away, but most of them made a fuss over the dumb dog as he licked their hands and rolled on to his back so they’d scratch his belly.

Kelly and the others walked over.

“Hi there,” she said. The kids regarded her warily. “Could you do us a favour? Me and my friends were wondering what that Narrow Man thing is all about. We’ve heard of him, we’re kind of geeks for this sort of crap, but we’ve never seen anything so concentrated as this.”

Some of the kids, the ones who were wary of the dog, glanced at each other and walked away.

One of the other kids who stayed gave a shrug. “So what’s the favour?”

“Actually, less of a favour, more of a … job, really.” Kelly took out a crumpled ten-dollar bill. “What can you tell us about him?”

“He’s a story,” said the kid.

“What kind of story?” Ronnie asked.

“Creepy bedtime story.”

“He’s the boogeyman,” said a girl.

“Yeah, that’s it,” the boy said. “The boogeyman. Comes out and snatches away naughty boys and girls.”

“What about the rhyme?” asked Linda.

“Just something we used to say. Something fun.”

Warrick took a treat from his pocket, tossed it to Two. “He ever snatch away anyone you know?”

“Are you stupid or something?” the boy asked. “He’s a story. He’s not real.”

Warrick jerked his thumb over his shoulder. “I think whoever drew that picture thought he was real.”

“My cousin drew that,” said a smaller kid at the back, “and you don’t know what you’re talking about. It’s a nursery rhyme. Just something kids used to say.”

“What about the counting, counting, one, two, three thing?” Ronnie asked. “What’s that mean?”

The kids looked at each other uneasily, until Ronnie produced another ten.

The first kid tracked it like a heat-seeker. “Everyone in town votes,” he said. “If you misbehave, parents and teachers and whatever will write your name on a piece of paper and put it into the box in the square. They do it to scare the younger kids into doing what they’re told.”

Kelly frowned. “And what are they voting for?”

Not to be outdone, the girl spoke up. “The Narrow Man comes for whoever gets the most votes. Or he’s supposed to, anyway. But everyone knows the votes are never counted.”

“That’s pretty messed up,” said Warrick.

“It’s a crock of shit,” the girl said, shrugging. “Like everything else people do here.”

“What’s the festival that’s happening on Wednesday?” Kelly asked.

The kids clammed up. Warrick sighed, and gave each of them a ten.

“We don’t talk about it,” said the first kid.

“So what is it?”

“We don’t talk about it.”

“But … dude, I gave you another ten.”

“So?”

They turned to go.

“Wait,” said Ronnie. “What’s your cousin’s name, the one who drew the picture? Maybe we can talk to him.”

“Doubt it,” said the small kid, “but whatever. Give me a twenty, stop your dog from humping my leg, and I’ll tell you.”

AMBER SPENT MONDAY MORNING in Fast Danny’s. Brenda served her breakfast, then juice, then coffee, and then two hot chocolates, and Amber sat at her corner table with her earphones plugged into the iPad, using the cafe’s Wi-Fi to watch all of the In The Dark Places episodes she’d missed while on the run.

She’d hesitated before pressing play on the first one. Her life in the last five weeks had become stranger and much more fantastical than anything she’d ever seen on a TV screen. She’d witnessed true horror. She’d been subjected to true violence. She herself had killed. She herself had eaten human flesh. She had interacted with beings who existed beyond death, who traded in souls and powers beyond imagining, and she was pretty sure she was being stalked by a vampire. What effect could a dumb TV show have on her now?

As it turned out, an astonishing one.

Watching Dark Places was like going home – but instead of the home she’d always known, that cold place of silence and secrets, it was her other home, the home she had made for herself inside the world of the stories she loved. She knew everything about the actors, knew their birth dates and their pets’ names, but as each episode began the actors vanished and their characters appeared, and Amber forgot about the horrors biting at her heels and lost herself in the stories unfolding before her. She interacted with Brenda when she had to, ignored the curious looks of the people who frequented the cafe, and sipped her hot chocolate. The only part of her, the only part, that she did not relax was the part that was keeping her body from shifting into its demon form. That remained vigilant.

When she’d finished watching the final episode of the season – it had ended on a cliffhanger, of course it had ended on a cliffhanger – she took out the earbuds and sat back, absorbing the drama. The cafe was almost full by now, with people eyeing her table covetously.