The Child Thief

PETER PUT A finger to his lips. This time, Nick didn’t have to be told
twice. He got quiet, dead quiet, barely daring to breathe as they pushed their
way up the muddy path and into the trees.
The woods were still and silent, no creaking insects, no croaking frogs,
as though the very land was dead. The heavy silence amplified their every

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step as the mud sucked at their feet. They plodded onward, snaking their
way around weedy bogs, sinkholes, and across a few shallow, slow-running
creeks. The air was heavy with the smell of stagnant water, mud, mold, and
decay. The overcast sky provided only a faint greenish glow to help Nick
stumble his way over the roots, rocks, and brambles. He could just make
out the tortured shapes of the trees looming above them, their leafless
branches—like tormented hands—seemed to be reaching for him as they
passed. Nick did his best to avoid touching the trees, as their bark felt soft,
yielding, more like flesh than bark.
A low bellow rolled out from the woods ahead of them. Peter ducked
down against the twisted trunk of a fallen tree and Nick slipped up next to
him. Both boys peered through the tangle of roots searching the shadows
ahead. From somewhere behind them came another bellow. “Barghest,”
Peter whispered and slid out his long knife.
Barghest? Nick thought. Okay, great. Flesh-eaters, now barghest. What
the hell’s a barghest?
In a clearing, not twenty yards up the trail, Nick spotted a pair of
orange, glowing eyes. A dark, hunched shape about the size of a wolf crept
out of the shadows. It crawled on all fours, stood up on its hind legs, and
began to sniff the air. From behind them came the slapping of feet tracking
through mud. The sound grew steadily closer. Nick allowed himself to
slowly turn his head and saw another set of eyes moving their way. He
instinctively pressed himself further into the overhanging roots and ground
his teeth as he fought the urge to cut and run. The dark shape moved past
them, sliding by so close that Nick could’ve reached out and touched it, so
close that he could actually smell it—a musty smell like an old, wet carpet.
The shape joined with the other in the clearing and a moment later a
third arrived. One by one all three of them turned their orange eyes toward
Nick. Cold mud oozed between Nick’s fingers as he clutched the wet earth,
afraid to even blink.
Somewhere far away another howl echoed across the swamp, almost
human. All three of the shapes tilted back their heads and answered, and
Nick felt the sound in his very bones. He struggled to control his breathing.
Every ounce of him wanted to run, wanted to get as far away from that
sound as he could. He felt Peter’s hand on his shoulder—strong and steady.
Finally the three shapes shuffled away.

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Peter waited a long time before he stood up, and they continued down
the trail.