The Child Thief

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