To twelve-year-old Christopher “Kit” McNeil, summer was the greatest

time of the year. It was even better than Christmas. Sure, there was a lot of

buildup to Christmas Eve and the anticipation of Christmas morning, but it

was just a single day. On December 26, everything pretty much went back

to normal. By New Year’s the tree, brown and shedding needles, lay beside

the road like an accident victim no one had bothered to help. Cardboard

boxes held together with masking tape were stuffed with lights, tinsel, and

ornaments, and stored away in the attic.

But summer was different. It lasted three whole months. The days

stretched together, filled with bike riding, and ice cubes made from cherry

Kool-Aid, and the unmistakable tang of chlorine from the town pool. Most

families took vacations during that time.

Other people’s families. Not Kit’s. Too expensive, his father always

said.

His friend Troy Wallace’s family did though. Sometimes he’d bring Kit

a T-shirt from St. Louis or a bottle of sand from Destin, Florida.

If summer held one drawback for Kit, it was being stuck in Black Rock

without Troy. Kit had few friends, and when Troy was away on vacation, he

felt lost. That week seemed to drag on forever. He slept in when he could,

mowed the lawn when his father ordered him to, and rode his bicycle to no

place in particular. At night Kit watched reruns on television with his mom

or sat by his open window putting together plastic model kits. He drew a

red star on the calendar to mark Troy’s return.

Which had been four days ago.

Tonight was the first time in over three weeks that Kit had gotten to

sleep over at his friend’s house. Kit didn’t like having Troy over to his

house, because he never knew what kind of mood his father would be in.

Albert McNeil had made it clear he didn’t care to have any more kids

around.

Troy’s mother had taken them to Moviehound Video & Tanning in

Black Rock Plaza to pick out two movies. “Only two to make it fair,” Mrs.

Wallace always said. “One for Kit and one for Troy.” On the way home

she’d picked up a pizza for them at DiVeccio’s Italian Kitchen. After the

double feature of Terror Train—Kit’s choice—and Alligator (which was the

best Troy could find after his mother nixed The Gates of Hell), they had

gone out to the green Coleman tent set up in the backyard. They’d walked

around the neighborhood after Troy’s parents went to sleep and had only

just gotten back into the tent when Mrs. Wallace called to them.

“Kit? Troy? Are you boys awake?”

The boys heard the back door close and footsteps cross the yard. They

pushed the flaps aside and watched her approach in her housecoat. She

stopped in front of them.

“Kit, your mother is on the phone. She needs to talk to you,” Mrs.

Wallace said in a concerned tone.

“Huh? What for?” Kit asked.

Her mouth pinched and she motioned him out of the tent. “I-it’s

important.”

In the kitchen, the receiver lay on the counter, the white spiral cord

coiled like an albino serpent.

“Hello?” Kit said.

“Hey, it’s Mom. I— Hold on.”

Kit heard her talking softly to his father in the background. “Mom?

What’s going on?”

“Honey, I need to come and get you. We’ve got to go to Murfreesboro.

Your uncle Arnold . . . H-he’s been in an accident. We’ve got to go.”

“Right now?” Kit asked. Selfishness flared in him. He didn’t want to

leave. As far as the boys were concerned, the night was just getting started.

Kit still wanted to go bike riding around town in the early morning hours

like they’d planned. He didn’t want to go to Murfreesboro for something

that didn’t sound all that urgent to him.

“Can I just stay here with Troy?”

Kit’s mother cleared her throat. “Mrs. Wallace was kind enough to offer,

but no, you need to be with us. It’s . . . it doesn’t sound good.”

“Please, Mom?” he pleaded.

“No, this is something we have to do as a family. I’ll be over to get you

in a few minutes. I’ve got a lot to do in a short amount of time, so be

ready.”

“But I’ve got my bike over here.”

“You can get it when we get back.”

“Lemme just ride it home. I can be there in ten minutes.” He twirled the

phone cord around his finger.

“I will come get you.”

“I can ride home while you’re doing all the other stuff you said you had

to do.”

There was silence on the other end of the line, followed by more

muffled voices in the background. “Okay, fine. But I want you on your way

as soon as you hang up. You’ve got ten minutes.”

Kit accepted the minor victory. “Okay.”

“Be careful. I love you.”

“Love you too, Mom.”

He handed the receiver to Mrs. Wallace. Troy followed Kit back to the

tent and helped him collect his things. It was a little after one o’clock in the

morning when Kit rode down the driveway and into the deserted street. The

wind pushed his hair away from his forehead as he zipped down the hill out

of Troy’s subdivision.

I wonder what kind of accident it was, Kit thought.

He had always liked Uncle Arnold. Sometimes he wondered why he

couldn’t have been Arnold’s son rather than Albert’s. His uncle had always

treated him with kindness and love, and he seemed to enjoy having Kit

around. Kit felt guilty about his attitude on the phone. The more he thought

about his uncle, the faster he pedaled.

His route took him straight through downtown Black Rock. He crept

past the old brick buildings that lined the street on either side, guarded by

silver parking meters. There were no cars parked along the sidewalks, and

none moved on the street. The traffic lights blinked yellow.

Kit coasted to rest his legs for a moment. He looked toward the nearest

building and realized someone was watching him. The person stood in the

shadow of a recessed doorway that led up to a set of ramshackle

apartments.

Probably one of the town winos his father was always griping about or

somebody who couldn’t sleep.

Kit turned to face the road again and noticed another person in front of

the furniture store. And another in the doorway of the department store.

And the doorway after that.

And the one after that.

A figure lurked in every alley and entrance on both sides of the street.

All had hooked noses and wide-set eyes. Everything else about them was

indistinct, like a group of cookies made with the same cutter. Yet something

about their features sent a chill through Kit despite the muggy night air.

He heard footsteps and looked over his shoulder. The figures were

disengaging from the shadows after he rode past. They crossed the

sidewalks and merged into a group that walked stiffly down the middle of

the street after him.

Kit pedaled faster as the street began a gradual uphill climb. Another

glance showed the group was getting larger. Breathing heavily, Kit stood

and pedaled up the incline. He didn’t remember this hill being so steep

before. His wheels slowed; his momentum lessened. It was like riding

through syrup.

His pursuers drew closer. Footsteps increased in speed and rhythm. Kit

knew he shouldn’t, but he looked back anyway.

The group, thirty strong by now, started to run toward him. The distance

between them closed.

“Leave me alone!” Kit yelled over his shoulder.

His bicycle was barely moving forward. Sweat covered his brow as he

stomped the pedals. He knew he could get off and run, but something held

him to the seat. Then his momentum was gone. The bicycle wobbled.

Dozens of identical hands reached for him.

Kit yanked the handlebars sideways, and suddenly, he was moving

again. He rattled down a hill into the town park. Taking his feet off the

pedals so they could spin faster, he hunched over the handlebars to

minimize wind resistance. Sticks snapped. His tires kicked up blades of

freshly cut grass as he wove between the maple, ash, and black oak trees.

Kids often used the park as a shortcut. It didn’t really save much time,

but the sidewalks made for smooth riding. Kit found one, and he was glad

to be off the hole-riddled ground. The air cooled his face, and a great

pressure released from his chest. Chancing a peek over his shoulder, he saw

his pursuers. They stood on the sidewalk at the summit of the hill. They had

not entered the park.

What the hell was that? he wondered. What were they doing? Why did

they chase me like that?

The moon illuminated his path across the park. He steered his bike

toward the gazebo in the center and resumed pedaling.

Something surged out of the darkness at him—a vague black blur. He

yelled in fright and twisted the bicycle aside. He smelled a gross yet

familiar aroma, like sour milk.

The bicycle wobbled beneath him. Kit regained his balance just as the

shape came toward him again from the darkness beneath a tree. Something

cold touched his arm just above his shirt sleeve. No, not touched.

Clutched. Grasped.

Rip.

Kit and the bicycle slammed into the ground. His right side tingled, and

pain flared there as if it had been set on fire. Stars twinkled at him from

between the trees. Reaching across his stomach, Kit found the right side of

his shirt sticky and wet. The pain spread throughout his body, radiating

from his shoulder.

Shit, I’ve broken my arm! That could be the only explanation for the

piercing agony that enveloped him.

He struggled to sit up.

Something crouched among the trees’ shadows.

Kit squinted. The pain caused his eyes to water. He tried to separate the

movement of whatever had attacked him from the inky blackness

surrounding it. He saw an arm sticking out from behind a tree, but whoever

it belonged to was hidden from his view.

The pain grew intolerable. He panted through gritted teeth and cradled

his broken right arm, cold and sticky with blood. That must be why it hurt

so bad. It was one of those breaks where the bone comes through the skin.

Kit couldn’t remember what it was called.

He focused harder on the tree his attacker was hiding behind. The arm

was still visible, and it was holding something. Through the pain and

darkness and tears, Kit tried to identify what that something was. He could

make out that it was thin and slightly bent toward the shorter end. The

longer section ended at a hand—

The air caught in Kit’s throat. He wanted to scream but couldn’t. He

looked down at his quivering body. His left hand clutched the right side of

his bloody shirt. Instead of an arm, there was only gleaming bone

surrounded by shredded muscle and flesh.

Eyes bulging, Kit finally screamed and screamed and screamed.

Whatever was behind the tree flung Kit’s own right arm at him. It spun

through the air and landed at his feet. The fingers still twitched.

“AHHH, GOD!” he shrieked.

Kit bolted upright in bed. Darkness surrounded him. His heart raced. It

hurt so bad that he put a hand over his chest to keep it in place. Cold sweat

drenched his skin, and his breath came in great rasping gasps. The inside of

his skull felt like an impacted wisdom tooth being tapped with a hammer.

With his left hand Kit fumbled for the lamp beside the bed. The light

nearly blinded him. He cracked his eyelids just enough to look down at his

right arm.

It lay on top of the covers, trembling as the nightmare flushed from his

system. He closed his eyes and took several deep breaths. That goddamn

dream again, he thought. Would he ever be rid of it? Kit didn’t know what

it meant. He had flipped his bike that night on his way home. Going too fast

when I hit a rock. But he’d never broken his arm. It wasn’t ripped from his

body, and nobody had chased him through the middle of town. Groaning, he

fell back into pillows that stank of sweat and tried to go back to sleep. He

left the light on.