The smell of bleach and burning oil. A square, windowless room, a single kerosene lamp on one side casting flickering orange light about. Next to the lamp, a sleeping bag, unfolded, but nobody inside it. Nobody in this room, period. No chairs or furniture or anything except—except something near the back— A spear. Protruding from the floor, a long narrow missile with a sharp top— “No,” I say. “No.” Hot tears blurring my vision, running down my cheeks into my mouth.
I step into the room, my words echoing between my ears, the walls moving, the room spinning, the cries, the horrific, ghoulish screams from all directions filling my head, my legs unsteady as I move forward— —as I move toward the other end of this square room— —because somehow I know, some internal compass is directing me, some force is moving me toward a door at the other end of the room, a door I can’t see but that I know, somehow I know is there.
Everything slowing down, like I’m moving through quicksand, but I must reach the door, I have to reach it for some reason, but my legs are suddenly numb, up is down, down is up, the floor is suddenly rising up to meet my face with a violent smack, sending shock waves through my skull, jarring the roots of my teeth.
The revolver bounces out of my hand on impact with the floor.
Everything fuzz and fog, but I can’t let go now, can’t let go now.
The flashlight underneath me—I fell on it—but the gun …
I need the gun.
My head lifting off the floor, searing pain over my right eye, nausea rising to the surface; I’m woozy and disoriented. Patting the floor around me. Forcing myself to my knees, light flickering in and out from the glow of the kerosene lamp, the gash over my eye making me pay a severe price every time I whip my head from one side to the other, but I need the gun— Words screaming at me, but I can’t make them out, so loud that I can’t hear them, echoing through my head with such force that I can’t understand them, what is he saying, what is he— Come with me
Footsteps, coming from the other side of the room, near the door I can’t see, footsteps, someone’s coming— Come with me
Come with me
The gun, I need the gun—
Where is that gun?
The click of a doorknob, the groan of a door opening.
And Aiden Willis walks in.
113
AIDEN, THE SCARECROW hair sticking out from his baseball cap turned backward, his features lit up with the flickering orange light, holding something in his hand, a thermos, closing the door behind him.
I hold my breath, hold my body still, searching for the gun only with my eyes.
There. I spot it. Justin’s revolver, over by the wall.
“Oh—” Aiden jumps upon seeing me on the floor to his left. The thermos falls from his hand, clanging and bouncing on the ground. He falls against the wall and struggles to keep his balance.
I slide my body toward the far wall and grab the revolver, cock the hammer.
“What—how—what do you—”
I grip the gun with both hands, trembling so fiercely that I couldn’t possibly aim properly.
My insides on fire, my head ringing, nausea and bile at my throat, oxygen coming in tiny, thirsty gulps— The door opens
Bright light streaming in, and a boy, a boy with scarecrow hair
With some reserve energy I didn’t know existed, as if I’m watching someone else perform the task, I rise to my knees and aim the gun toward Aiden.
Aiden’s eyes go wide; he looks ghoulish in the intermittent orange light, pinned against the wall, watching me.
Lightning, thunder between my ears.
Come with me
Come with me
The gun so unsteady in my hand, rising and falling, swaying back and forth.
Aiden watching me, watching the gun bob up and down, back and forth.
Tears filling my eyes again, my chest heaving, my throat so full I can’t speak— Come with me
Sobbing and shaking, the gun moving all over the place—
Aiden watching me, watching the gun.
Come with me
The gun dropping to my side. I can’t do it. I know it and Aiden knows it.
Aiden pushes himself off the wall, straightens himself.
Looks at me, just for a single moment, those darting eyes making contact with mine.
Come with me
Then he walks toward me. No sudden movement, just slowly approaching me.
Come with me
The boy with the scarecrow hair
Aiden places a hand over my gun hand, then carefully removes the revolver from it.
I look up at him, on my knees, helpless.
He uncocks the revolver, points it upward, pops open the cylinder, and empties all six rounds from the chamber into his cupped hand. He locks the cylinder back in place and hands the unloaded gun back to me.
“Aiden, wait,” I manage, my throat full, my words garbled.
Then Aiden Willis disappears through the door from which he entered.
“Please, wait,” I say as I get to my feet, the synapses not firing properly, but I manage to stumble and stagger toward the door.
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