The Child Thief

The cool fall air filled Nick’s lungs, blew the hair from his face. His heart raced, his body flushed with adrenaline, excitement, and the sheer joy of abandonment, of freedom like he’d never known in his life. Thoughts of Marko, his mother, all the bullshit felt a million miles away.

  The neighborhoods fell behind, replaced by warehouses and industrial buildings, the steady incline leading them toward the docks. They saw no more headlights, or any other signs of people. Nick felt as though they were the only two souls left in the world, and he wished it would never end.

  AS THEY NEARED the harbor, the fog thickened, seemed almost alive the way it swirled and snaked around them. Peter stopped and stuffed the chocolates into his bag. In addition to the knife, Nick noticed a carton of cigarettes and several packs of gum. Peter kicked his skateboard into a ditch.

  “Man, what are you doing? That’s a killer board.”

  “Won’t need it where we’re going.”

  “What do you mean?” Nick let out a weak laugh.

  “The Mist is here,” Peter said, and looked Nick in the eye. “This is the point of no return. The Mist will take us to Avalon, a place where you never have to grow up. An island of magic and adventure, but there’s danger and…monsters. Nick, do you go willingly?”

  Nick laughed, “Umm, yeah, sure Peter.”

  “No, you have to say it.”

  “Say what?”

  “Say, ‘I go willingly.’”

  Nick thought Peter was carrying this whole enchanted island thing a bit too far, but fine, he could play along. “Okay. I go willingly.”

  Peter looked relieved. “Then we go,” he said, and they continued down the street.

  As the buildings and streetlights began to disappear behind the foggy veil, so did the sounds of the city—the chug of the tugboats, the occasional long, low horn-blast from the ferries, all faded. Soon he no longer smelled the bay at all. The wind died and the air became stale. It smelled of the earth, of old things. The mist grew perceptually colder and brighter, as though glowing from its own radiance. And Nick finally admitted to himself that maybe things were getting weird, that maybe following a golden-eyed boy with pointed ears to a magical island might not have been the brightest idea.

  “Stay close,” Peter whispered. “And keep as quiet as you can. We don’t want them to know we’re here.”

  Nick couldn’t imagine who else would be around here this time of night, but kept quiet just the same.

  They’d been in the fog for maybe ten minutes when Nick’s foot caught on something and he stumbled to the ground. He dropped his skateboard and his hands slid into wet, chalky earth—gray, the same color as the fog. Nick couldn’t recall exactly when the pavement had given way to earth. But he wasn’t particularly surprised; he’d figured Peter’s fort would most likely be hidden in a dump, or an abandoned lot around the shipping yards. But he was surprised when the dirt began to evaporate off his hands, drift away in smoking tendrils, as though it, too, were somehow part of the mist. Then he noted what he’d tripped over: a white shape with two large dark holes. Nick squinted, leaned forward, and realized he was staring into the eye sockets of a human skull.

  The skull lay half-buried in the dirt, wrapped in the last remnants of worm-riddled flesh, dried and ashen. There was a knot of blond, braided scalp still attached to the top of its head. He also saw what had to be an arm bone, and a few smaller bones scattered about.

  “Holy crap!” Nick said, scrambling to his feet.

  “Peter,” he whispered, fighting to control his fear. Peter had disappeared.

  “Peter,” he hissed again. Where’d he go? He glanced around. No Peter, nothing but the same dull, shifting grayness everywhere. Nick had no clue which direction he’d come from, or was heading to. His breath quickened. He felt the mist was caving in on him, like he would suffocate, like he was being swallowed.

  “Peter,” he called, a little louder this time, then louder. “Peter.” He knew he was losing control, knew he might start screaming at any second.

  Peter materialized out of the fog.

  “I told you to stay close,” Peter said harshly.

  “Peter, there’re bones. Human bones! What is going—”

  Peter snapped a finger to his lips. “Shhhh. They will hear us.” Peter’s eyes were deadly serious and his look sobered Nick up.

  “Who are they?” Nick mouthed, suddenly very alarmed.

  But Peter didn’t answer. He only beckoned with quick, sharp gestures for Nick to follow.

  Nick had no intention of going another step into this ghostly wasteland. But, as the mist closed in around him, seemed to actually touch him, caressing and slithering along his skin, the touch cold and clammy, as Peter’s back began to fade and Nick realized he would be alone again, his resolve evaporated and he sprinted forward to catch up.

  Nick stuck as close to Peter as he could and kept a careful watch where he stepped in case there were more bones. And, of course, there were more bones, many more bones, and not just bones; he saw helmets, swords, and shields, most looking as though they’d dropped in straight from the Crusades. He almost stepped on a flintlock pistol and noticed the moldering remnants of a three-cornered hat, what Nick thought of as a pirate hat. A bit farther on he saw a skeleton with thin, leathery flesh clinging to its frame; it clutched a canteen in one hand and wore the tattered trappings of a British Redcoat. A few hundred feet away lay the remains of a man in a dusty Civil War uniform. The soldier’s rotten hands still dug at his eyes.

  Then Nick saw the Nike high-top and his blood went cold. It was just sitting by itself. Nick couldn’t take his eyes off it, so was taken by surprise when his foot stumbled on something soft. He halted and found he was standing on a boy’s arm, his shoe sinking into the soft, pliable flesh.

  Nick staggered back. Oh, Christ! Oh, good Lord! Nick put a fist to his mouth and bit hard.

  The dead boy looked to be about his age, but it was hard to tell, because his skin was parched and peeling away. The kid’s eyes were wide-open, his mouth a big, hollow O. Nick had no problem reading the terrified expression frozen forever on that face. It mirrored his own. Maybe if I scream, Nick thought, maybe then I’ll wake up back in my bed, and maybe I’ll hear Marko and his asshole friends screwing around downstairs and I won’t care, because anything will be better than wandering around out here stepping on dead kids.

  But Nick didn’t scream, because he didn’t really believe this was a dream—this was real, every bit of it. He knew if he screamed, they—whatever they were—would hear.

  “Peter,” he whispered. Peter kept walking. “Peter,” he called. “I want to go back.” To Nick’s alarm, his voice carried, not just echoing but actually rolling across the mist as though the mist itself was carrying it along.

  Peter turned, his face horrified.

  And that was when Nick heard the voices—soft and far away at first, but quickly moving closer: the light calls of children, sweet chorus of women, and deep baritone of men. Laughing and gay, as though they were all on their way to a summer picnic. But behind these, or maybe within, he heard wailing, a sad, terrible keening. The hair on the back of his neck stood up.

  “They’ve found us,” Peter said, his voice dead as stone.

  “Found us? Who’s found us?”

  “Nick,” Peter said, his words quick and urgent. “No matter what you hear, no matter what you see, ignore them. Avoid their eyes. And whatever you do, don’t dare speak to them.” Peter glanced into the fog. “If you lose the path, Nick, your bones will never leave the Mist.”

  Nick’s mind was one big WHAT THE FUCK! Then he caught movement. The mist had begun to stir.

  Shadows, mere shades of gray on gray, began to swim around them, some hulking and sluggish, almost lumbering, others small and fleet as sparrows, most just furtive wisps of indefinable vapor. Their whispers and calls echoed around them, crawled right into Nick’s head.

  Nick glanced at Peter. Peter kept his eyes directly forward and marched onward at a
quick, steady clip.

  Nick gritted his teeth, balled his hands into fists, and clamped them tightly to his chest. He tried to slow his breathing. Don’t fall behind. Whatever you do, don’t fall behind. He picked up his pace, keeping tight to Peter’s heels.

  The mist next to him began to swirl, almost to boil, until the shape of a woman formed, her skin pale and shimmering. She smiled at him demurely, floating along, twirling and rolling. The tendrils of her gown and hair trailed out behind her as though in an underwater ballet.

  Nick struggled not to look into her eyes, but felt powerless to do anything but, and when he did, he saw that she was beauty itself. She began to sing to him. He couldn’t understand the words, but he recognized the tune. The same lullaby mothers have been singing to their children for thousands of years. It promised to keep him safe and warm. It promised an eternity of maternal love. She stretched her arms, beckoning him to her.

  It would be all over if he went to her. Part of him knew this, the part that was screaming somewhere deep inside to stay on the path. The rest of him knew this too, but thought it was okay, because it would be such a sweet death. Cradling him in her loving embrace, she would rock him, soothe him. All his fears, all the bad things would simply drift away forever. Nick found himself wishing for nothing more.

  Peter’s voice came from somewhere far away, little more than an echo. “Stay with me!” And a face, the terrified face of the boy, the one in the high-tops, flashed in Nick’s head. He blinked and forced himself to tear his eyes away from the woman.

  Where’s Peter?

  Nick saw only a vague silhouette in front of him. Is that him? How’d I fall so far behind? He noticed sheets of mist drawing together like curtains, as though trying to build a wall between them. Panicked, Nick sprinted forward, stumbling across the soft, undulating surface, almost knocking Peter over when he caught up.

  “Hang on,” Peter whispered. “You’re doing good.”

  Doing good? Nick wanted to scream. Doing good at what? What is going on? What the fuck is going on?

  The woman continued to float alongside of him, her face now mournful. Crazily, Nick found himself feeling regretful. Then she raised her arms above her head as though entering a swan dive, arching her back, snaking her body through the smoky tendrils of mist. Suddenly Nick was very aware of how full her breasts were, discovered he could see the shape of her large, dark nipples beneath the thin veil of her gown and the dusky shadow between her legs. A warm, tingling sensation began to grow in his crotch. Nick felt his face flush and glanced away. When he did, he caught sight of something out of the corner of his eye. A tail? He blinked. She had a long, scaly tail. She also had scales on her arms, small and delicate, and her fingers were long and clawlike. He squinted. Oh good God, he thought, her hair. Her hair is full of worms! No, her hair was worms, thousands of tiny, squirming worms.

  Nick jerked back and almost fell over.

  She scowled, dark and angry. Her eyes shrank to mere slits, her nipples stretched into long antennae, her belly opened up into a gaping maw, and Nick saw row after row of jagged little teeth!

  Oh, no! Oh no! Oh no!

  A sound came out of that mouth, like a thousand angry hornets, and she came for him.

  Nick screamed and crumpled to the ground, arms out, watching helplessly as she fell upon him, watching as her huge mouth, a mouth easily as tall as himself, engulfed him. So this is how I will die, he thought. But no jagged teeth tore into his flesh. All he felt was a blast of cold air as she passed through him. It took him a moment to realize that he was still alive.

  Peter! Where’s Peter? He thought he saw a shape plodding away from him. Was that Peter, or another trick of the fog? “PETER!” he screamed and scrambled to his feet. Now there were three different shapes, each heading in a different direction.

  “PETER!” he shrieked, then an inner voice, the one from deep inside of him, said, Stop wasting your breath. Think! Nick stopped, concentrated, tried to clear his mind. Footprints. Find his footprints. They were there, the faintest trace, disappearing as the moist earth rapidly filled them in. Nick gritted his teeth and ran in their direction. And just ahead was Peter, not another illusion but truly Peter.

  “PETER!” Nick raced forward and grabbed Peter by the shoulder. “WAIT FOR ME!” he screamed. “WHY WON’T YOU WAIT FOR ME?”

  “Steady,” Peter said, not losing a step. “Have to keep steady or all is lost.”

  Nick clutched Peter’s jacket, twisting his hand in the fabric, wishing he could close his eyes and make them all go away.

  They came, dozens, then hundreds, all shapes and sizes, filling the air with their screams, laughter, wails and cries. A swarm of disembodied heads flew past, singing, a host of naked old women with large, saggy breasts skipped merrily around, holding hands and laughing through wide, toothless grins. A throve of tiny children with grasshopper bodies buzzed insistently, all manner of hungry-looking beasts, with sharp teeth and claws, stalked alongside them, and small, shadowy men with protrusive blank eyes and bird beaks danced wildly.

  “What are they?” Nick cried between clenched teeth. What is going on? A short time ago he’d been eating Chinese food in the middle of Brooklyn. How could he now be lost in a fog with these horrors? Things like this can’t really happen!

  He felt their wispy fingers crawling through his hair, his clothes, over his mouth and eyes.

  A little girl’s face shot up to him, her eyes black holes, her mouth frozen in a scream that made no sound. She just hung there staring at him. He tried to wave her away, but every time his hand went through her, she just giggled, giggled while wearing that horrible scream, giggled until he thought he’d go crazy.

  “Oh God,” he cried. I can’t do this. Not any longer. He needed to run, he didn’t care where to, he just had to run.

  If you run you will die, came the familiar voice. Calm but stern, it was his voice, his inner self, the boy that had been through his share of hard times and had managed to keep it together. And how had he done that? How had he dealt with watching them shovel dirt onto his father’s casket? How had he dealt with hearing his mother cry herself to sleep night after night? How had he put up with the bullshit at school—the endless taunts and bullying, and Marko fucking with him every day? He’d simply withdrawn deep within himself, pretended as though all the bad things were happening to someone else and that he was just along for the ride. And this had always got him through. It didn’t make it okay. It didn’t make the hurt any less painful later, but it got him through. And right now he just needed to get through.

  So Nick went there now, to his safe place, and watched the show from afar. And from afar it was clear that the mist was all noise and bluster, merely trying to scare him, confuse him, drive him from the path.

  Nick looked through the mist, locked his eyes on Peter’s back, kept them there, and plodded onward—steady.

  Soon, the voices began to fade. The mist settled down, returned to a state of placid, endless gray. And not long after that he smelled the sea again, felt a breeze, heard the lapping of waves. Finally the mist thinned and Nick could just make out a shadowy bank against a starless night sky.

  NICK STUMBLED TO his knees and planted both hands on the wet beach, clutching the sand to steady himself. He took in a deep gulp of air, like a surfacing swimmer, and tried not to scream, tried not to think about them. What the hell had that been? He clenched his eyes shut but there was no hiding from what he’d seen. “What was that?” Nick said in a harsh whisper and looked up at Peter.

  Peter wore a grin from ear to ear. “You did great!”

  Nick glared at Peter. “WHAT THE HELL WAS THAT?”

  “The Mist,” Peter said, as though nothing could be more obvious or natural.

  Nick waited for more, but Peter just stood there wearing that stupid grin.

  Nick glanced over his shoulder, back into the swirling mist, wondering if it would follow, would come after him. “Those things. What were those things? What w
ere those fucking things out there?”

  “Mist spirits.”

  “Mist spirits?”

  “Yep, the Sluagh.”

  Nick realized this was going nowhere. He pushed to his feet and clenched his fist. He wanted to punch the pointy-eared kid, wanted to beat that smug little smile into his face, had never wanted to hit someone more in his life.

  Peter took a step back, looking perplexed.

  “YOU TRICKED ME!” Nick shouted. “You jerk-ass! You knew about that crap and didn’t tell me.”

  “Not true,” Peter stated like a trial lawyer. “I specifically asked if you were ready to enter the Mist. And you said—” Peter mimicked Nick’s voice—“ I go willingly.’”

  Nick glared at Peter. “You know what I mean. You didn’t tell me about all that crap out there. About those things!”

  “And what, spoil the surprise?”

  “Stop being a fucking wiseass!” Nick cried. “I saw a dead boy out there. Why are there dead people out there?”

  Peter’s face clouded and he looked away.

  “If I’d fallen behind, would I still be out there? Wandering around, screaming your name until I died?”

  “Yes.”

  Nick stared at Peter, stunned, a forgotten word still on his lips. He turned his back on the boy, eyeing the mist, watching it the way you’d watch a dog you know will bite.

  “I had to stay the course,” Peter said. “I did what I could for you. But if I’d wavered, if I’d hesitated, or strayed from the path…all would’ve been lost.

  “And Nick, you really did do well. The Mist isn’t an easy path to walk.”

  Nick whirled. “FUCK YOU! FUCK YOU!”

  Peter’s jaw tightened. “It’s a good idea to keep your voice down or the Flesh-eaters will hear.” He peered intently down the shoreline.

  Nick followed Peter’s gaze. Flesh-eaters? He studied the jagged shadows and twisted terrain lining the beach. It didn’t look like anyplace he’d ever seen. He shuddered; just why had the pointy-eared boy brought him here? “Peter, where are we? Really?”