The Child Thief

“HEY,” NATHAN CALLED. “Wait up.”
The child thief realized he’d let his mind drift, let the kid fall behind. He
knew better, knew that the Mist, given the chance, would get in his head
and play games. Stupid, he thought. Careless and stupid. And now the boy
was actually shouting in the Mist.
Peter waited, searching the shimmering wall of silvery light, listening.
Had the Sluagh heard? Were they on their way?
“I don’t like this,” Nathan said. “Just where are we?”
Peter put his fingers to his lips. “Shhh!” Peter whispered. “You have to
keep quiet or they’ll hear. Now let’s go.”

---

“What’re you talking about?”
Peter didn’t answer; now wasn’t the time for talk. He turned, searching
for the Path. It was there, just ahead, the thin golden thread sliding and
shifting, drifting away as though blown by a hidden wind. You had to stay
with the Path or it would leave you behind.
Peter headed for the Path, then realized Nathan wasn’t following; the
boy was staring at the ground.
“Look!” Nathan said, pointing.
Peter didn’t need to look. He knew what it was.
“Those are bones! That’s somebody’s goddamn head!” Nathan squinted
warily at Peter. “What the hell kinda place is this?”
Peter jabbed his finger to his lips. The kid had to be quiet. Had to!
“Don’t tell me to shhh,” Nathan said, raising his voice. “I asked you a
question. What the fuck kinda place is this?”
Peter gritted his teeth, tried to control his temper, but this kid was going
to get them both killed. He glanced at the Path, it was drifting away. He
didn’t dare lose sight of it, but they needed the kid. Peter stepped toward
him.
Nathan stumbled back, jerked a gun out, and pointed it at Peter. Peter
halted.
“STAY THE FUCK AWAY FROM ME!” the kid yelled.
Peter heard the distant sound of children’s laughter. His blood went
cold. The laughter grew louder, joined by wails and moans, the cackling
cries of old women. The Mist began to stir.
The kid snapped his head about. “What’s that? Huh? What the fuck is
that?”
The Path drifted farther away, another moment and it would be lost.
“Listen, Nathan,” Peter said as calmly as he could. “You have one chance.
Follow me, right now. Move, or you’ll never leave the Mist.”
But Nathan wasn’t paying Peter any attention. He spun around, left then
right, holding the gun out in front of him, his eyes wide and terrified. “STAY
AWAY FROM ME!” he screamed.
The Sluagh came, first the disembodied heads, flying around, circling
the boy, followed by the naked craggy women, holding hands and skipping
merrily about, then the beasts, all shapes and sizes, their barks and howls,
screams and growls rumbling back and forth across the ghostly wasteland.
“NATHAN!” Peter cried. “COME! NOW!”

---

“OH MY GOD!” Nathan screamed and pulled the trigger over and over.
But there was only a dry click as the hammer fell on the dead shells. The
kid’s face twisted into a mask of confusion and terror. Peter could’ve told
him the gunpowder wouldn’t work, not here in the Mist. It never does. And
even if the bullets had fired, they wouldn’t have done a bit of good.
The spirits, one and all, laughed, the sound booming about the Mist like
thunder. The flying heads swarmed the boy, pecking at his hair. He ran
screaming, swinging the gun wildly, trying to fend them off as they chased
him into the swirling wall of gray mist.
Peter didn’t shout to the boy again. It would do no good. Peter found the
Path and walked, his face tight, his eyes hard. He watched one foot after the
other pound into the soft, powdery ground and did his damndest not to hear
the distant echoes of Nathan’s screams.