The Child Thief

Chapter Three

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Mist
Where to?” Nick asked Peter.
“To crazy town,” Peter howled, and wobbled past.
“TO CRAZY TOWN!” Nick cried, and took off after him. They raced
down the street, knocking over garbage cans and setting off car alarms,
yowling and laughing, setting the dogs to barking all up and down the
street.
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.’”

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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

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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

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expression frozen forever on that face. It mirrored his own. Maybe if I