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SIXTEENELLIE

When Henry and the old man vanish, I stand perfectly still for three long heartbeats, as if waiting for them to come back into focus. Then I blink rapidly, as if that will help. It does not help.

I still don’t run through the woods, shouting for Henry. This has happened before, and I’ll be ready for it this time. I’ve somehow moved to another place.

Except I haven’t. Everything is exactly as it was, the only difference being that I’m alone. I can still feel the lingering heat from Henry’s hand, and when I look down, there’s blood on the ground where the old man had been lying.

Return to the road.

I know where I am. I know where the road is. Go back.

I take one last, slow look around, and then I back up, like Henry had done earlier, not wanting to turn away from the forest. Yes, the forest is behind me, too, but logic doesn’t matter—the deep forest is ahead, and so I pick my way backward, step by careful step—

The crack of a rifle shatters the silence.

I hit the ground, arms over my head, heart pounding so hard I can’t breathe. My therapist’s voice whispers, “Inhale, exhale,” but I’m paying no attention because that wasn’t thunder, it wasn’t a car backfiring. That was a rifle, and I know exactly what it sounds like even if I have spent the last twenty-five years of my life ducking from every loud noise that is not rifle fire. After the bang, I’d always realize that I’d made a mistake.

Now I have not.

Someone is out here with a gun.

I should say that makes no sense. There’s a storm. It’s the middle of the night. You don’t hunt in the middle of the night. But I have already acknowledged the truth of tonight.

None of this makes sense. Something is wrong with this forest, something otherworldly, and I need to stop trying to force it into any narrative that “makes sense.”

What matters is that there is someone out here with a gun.

My heart hammers, and I gulp tiny mouthfuls of air, terrified of making a noise.

As the forest goes silent again, my breath slows, and I press my face into the damp ground, letting the scent of it remind me that I am not ten years old, not lying on a sidewalk with a heavy weight on my back and—

Breathe. In and out.

If there is someone with a gun, he’s a long way off, probably shooting at cans after a night of drinking. No one is nearby. No one is hunting humans.

I push to all fours, straining to listen and hearing only the drip of rain on the undergrowth. Then I rise to my feet.

Get to the road. That’s what I need to do, because it’s what Henry will do. The logical thing.

Where is the road? When I hit the ground, I lost all sense of direction.

No. I was backing up to the road, and I dropped flat. That means it’s still behind me.

Three more breaths, and then I step backward …

A shadow slips between the trees, and my heart stops. I freeze in place with my gaze glued on that spot.

A human-sized shadow. Like I’d seen earlier.

I force my mouth open to call Henry’s name, because it must be him, right? But all I manage is an exhale that squeaks at the end. Then the shadow moves between two more trees, and it is slender and not much taller than me, and there is no way it is Henry.

We thought the old man had been dragged off by a dog, but we don’t know that. It could have been a man with a dog. Killed the old man quick, ripped him free and dragged him into the forest, and now he’s coming for us. Picking us off one by one.

Not a monster. Not a giant beast. A human. Because that’s what it always is. That’s where the real terror comes from.

People ask what you’re afraid of, and they want you to name some fictional creatures—vampires, ghosts, zombies—and when you say “people with guns” they roll their eyes, because you’re not playing the game. Only it’s not a game, not if you’re me, ten years old and seeing what a man with a gun can do. Those are the monsters.

Now there’s one in the woods, and I’m exposed. He only needs to peer around that tree and he’ll see me, if he hasn’t already.