Page 31 of The Knucklebone Brothers

"Rory, come out already," Blythe's low growl followed, closer now. "Leave Amos alone."

I heard a rattling sound from the back of the cabin, the sound of someone trying the doorknob. They'd found me.

Panic seized me, cold and sharp. I looked at Amos, my eyes wide with terror. "Thank you," I whispered, my voice shaking. "But I have to go. I can't let them get me." I grabbed his arm, my fingers digging into his sleeve. "Don't tell them I was here. Please."

He just nodded, his expression unreadable.

I didn't wait for another word. I turned and bolted for the front door. I could hear them entering the back of the cabin, their voices muffled but clear. I didn't look back. I just ran, my only thought was to put as much distance between me and them as possible.

The boys' voices were behind me, their taunts and laughter echoing through the trees, getting closer. I had to hide. I had to disappear.

That's when I saw it. A cornfield. But it wasn't just a cornfield. It was a maze, the stalks towering over me, a tangled, overgrown labyrinth that looked like it hadn't been touched in years. It was fucked up, the paths narrow and winding. I didn't hesitate. I plunged into the maze, the rustling stalks closing in around me, swallowing me whole.

There were lights scattered throughout the maze, but they weren't normal lights. They were old mason jars, each one filled with a dead, preserved animal—a frog, a snake, a small bird—its body suspended in a cloudy, yellowish liquid. A single candle flickered beneath each jar, casting a sickly, jaundiced glow that made the dead things look like they were moving, their shadows dancing and twisting on the corn stalks. It was a grotesque, Appalachian nightmare.

Then I heard it. A woman's laughter, high and unhinged, echoing through the corn. It was the same laughter I'd heard back in the trailer, the sound of someone who'd just escaped the damn asylum. I froze, my heart pounding in my chest, my eyes scanning the darkness.

"Aurora, come out, come out, don’t you want to play!" Maverick's taunt was closer now, his voice a singsong mockery. I could hear them circling me, their footsteps crunching through the corn, their laughter a low, menacing rumble.

I crept through the maze, my movements slow and deliberate, my breath held tight in my chest. I saw a shack up ahead, a small, ramshackle building leaning precariously to one side, its windows boarded up. There were string lights inside, a soft, red glow that made the place look like it was bleeding. And scrawled across the door in what looked like blood were the words, "Little pig, little pig, let me in." Standing next to the shack was a tall scarecrow, but it wasn't made of straw. It looked like a mummified body, its skin dried and leathery, stretched tight over whatever was beneath it. It was dressed in tattered rags, its head basically a skull, its eyes two hollow, empty sockets. It looked like it had been there for years, left to rot in the sun.

I didn't think. I just ran. I burst through the door of the shack, slamming it shut behind me. "This is how I die," I whispered, my voice shaking. "Great. That stupid girl who corners herself." But then, a new thought, a spark of defiance, flickered in my mind. Maybe I could wait them out. Or even better, maybe I could surprise attack them. But fuck, I left my bat at Amos's house!

I looked around the shack, my eyes scanning the darkness for a weapon. The place was a mess, a graveyard of old tools and forgotten shit, but it was also a storage shed for their twisted carnival. In one corner, a stack of rusted juggling pins leaned against a faded "Bearded Lady" banner. A dusty crystal ball sat on a crate, its surface clouded and cracked. Then I saw it. Hanging on the wall was a pair of rusty garden shears, the blades long and sharp, the handles wrapped in cracked leather. They were heavy, solid, and deadly. They were perfect.

I grabbed the shears, the metal heavy in my hands. I could hear the boys outside, their voices getting closer, their laughter a low, menacing rumble. They were barking and howling, circling the shack like a pack of wild dogs. I found a dark corner, a spot behind a stack of old tires, and I waited, the shears held tight in my hands. I was ready.

The shack door groaned, the wood splintering as it was forced open. I held my breath, the rusty shears feeling like an extension of my own arm. I pressed myself deeper into the stack of old tires, the smell of hot rubber and dust filling my nostrils.

Maverick sauntered in first, his grinning clown mask a sickening, white crescent in the dim light. "Little pig, little pig, what a fix you're in," he sang, his voice muffled and distorted by the plastic. "Let us come in, or we'll huff... and we'll puff... and we'll blow your house in." He let out a sharp, barking laugh, the sound echoing in the small space.

Blythe followed, his blank, expressionless mask a haunting void. He didn't say a word, just started kicking things over, his heavy boot sending a stack of old coffee cans clattering to the floor. He was flushing me out, methodically destroying the little hiding spots I might have, his movements a slow rage.

They were getting closer, their footsteps a heavy, rhythmic beat on the wooden floor. Maverick was circling, his head cocked, listening. Blythe was a bulldozer, shoving aside anything in his path. They were almost on me. I could feel the vibrations of their steps through the floorboards, the air growing thick with their presence.

That's when I made my move. I burst from behind the tires. I didn't aim for anything specific, I just lunged, swinging the shears in a wide, frantic arc. I was a whirlwind of rusty metal and rage.

The blade connected with something. It wasn't a deep, satisfying stab. It was a glancing blow, a sharp, scraping impact against Blythe's arm as he moved to block me. He grunted, a surprised, pained sound, more annoyed than hurt.

Maverick lunged at me from the side, his shoulder slamming into my ribs and knocking the wind out of me. The shears flew from my grasp, clattering to the floor in the far corner of the shack.

I was disoriented, gasping for breath, but I wasn't done. They were on me, a tangle of limbs. Blythe had one of my arms, pinning it behind my back, his weight a crushing force. Maverick was laughing, walking towards me. I saw my chance. I was able to wiggle my arm away from Blythe's grip. As Maverick got closer, his masked face close to mine, I didn't flail wildly. I aimed.

I balled my fist, tensing every muscle in my arm, and drove it upwards in a short, brutal arc, aiming right where his chin would be under the plastic. I put all my weight, all my rage, all my fear into that one punch. The impact was sickening. My knuckles slammed into the hard plastic of the mask, but the force of it transferred, a solid, satisfying thwack as his head snapped back.

Maverick yelped, a genuine cry of pain that was cut short as he stumbled back, his hands flying to his jaw. "Son of a bitch!" he howled, his voice no longer mocking, just raw and hurt. He ripped the mask off, his face a contorted mask of pain, his jaw already red.

Blythe had my arms again, his body more tense against my back. "Rory, stop," he said, his voice a low, dangerous warning.

But I wasn't done. I thrashed wildly, kicking back, my heel connecting with Blythe's shin. He grunted, his grip loosening for just a second. It was all I needed. I twisted, squirming out of his grasp, and scrambled away.

They were on me again in an instant. Blythe tackled me from behind, his weight a crushing force as he slammed me into the floor. I threw my head back with all my might, aiming for his face. My skull connected with his, a sharp, jarring impact that sent a wave of dizziness through me. Black spots danced in my vision, but I heard him grunt, a low, pained sound.

They manhandled me then, their movements rough and clumsy, but not intentionally brutal. They wrestled me to the floor, their hands gripping my arms and legs, their bodies a tangled, suffocating weight. Maverick was on my legs, his weight pinning them down, while Blythe had my arms, twisting them behind my back and pressing his knee into my spine.

"Fuck, that hurt!" Maverick yelled, his voice a mix of pain and glee, his face still twisted in a grimace. He was clapping, a slow, rhythmic sound.

"Dammit, Rory," Blythe grunted, his voice a low, guttural sound, muffled by the mask. He was pressing his weight into my back. "You shouldn't have done that."