#i also missed one dot of dust but its off to the side and u can't see it unless the screen is white

[sylphwing]

nothin more stressful than putting a screen protector on a device god

[cedarandstories]

Begin, Again

James: 

I have noticed my desk contains a very neat amount of clutter. There may be a lot on it, ranging from little trinkets like a bottle cap and wood carved dog to a soap stone carved heart from a little fair trade shop in Boston, but there’s also so much more to it. It contains the collection of me, in a way. 

I believe the spaces we cultivate showcase a lot more about us than we like to first admit. Hell, my desk shows even more of me than I’d like to admit. I wonder what people would take away from viewing my desk. 

Would they notice the candle and think that I like my space smelling nice, or wonder if I crave its warmth after a long night working alone, the glimmer of a flame sparkling, providing some refuge from the impending darkness? I hope no one is that observant upon meeting someone for the first time, or else I may need to uninstall all these dating apps. 

I suppose I need to actually tell you about how I got the desk and all my little items lining it. I’ll start with the desk, since that seems the most logical place to start. Or maybe not. Let’s start with some of the items. They’re much more fun to talk about (and far less sad) to remember! The little soapstone heart is around the size of a worry stone, and fits in your palm easily. It is lined with small lines dragging across the surface, giving it a brittled and worn appearance. The word “dream” is chiseled into the middle of the heart, the “a” touching the “m” slightly, like a bumbling, nervous child working on his first art project (I really hope that shop was actually fair trade). 

In a small crescent moon plate, half of it speckled in fake gold, the other a beige white, and a thick tanzanite bowl are the collection of crystals I have gathered over the years. I love to collect the pretty and shiny rocks. I don’t actually know if I believe in their supposed powers. Everyone always seems to stand firmly on one side or another. They either must work in all situations, or need to be a complete dud, just a silly obsession the girls choose because of whatever reason boys imagine they do (they’re usually dead wrong about it anyways). For me, they just exist. They just are. They’re pretty, and bring me comfort. Is that too much to ask? Perhaps it is when people need complete and defined answers on everything, and expect to always be right, even when they may not be. 

If I talk about every item on the desk, this will need special features and a director’s cut, and I don’t think even you like hearing me talk this much. Why don’t I tell you about the desk?

I got this desk right before I left college. I had just gotten home for the summer, the last time I’d ever see my family. Or ever see her. The desk was a bit smaller than expected for someone of my stature. But I fell in love with it at first sight. It was a beautiful mahogany wood desk, with strong iron legs. A single, ornate drawer with a beautiful pearl handle to roll it open dotted the middle of the desk. Before my mother even had a chance to let in a snarky remark about the desk being too feminine for me, I signaled for a store employee and purchased it. 

It was expensive, sure, but it was for me. It reminded me of a new chapter. Somewhere new, where it was authentic. It was authentically everything, not just me. It was. It is. For the first time, it existed. In a way, it was just like me in that regard when I packed it on the u haul and sped off to my next adventure, hopefully kicking some dust back on my family. 

It was nothing like my old desk at home, but sometimes I miss that desk at my parent’s house. That desk was a sanctuary, a fortress in a way. It didn’t have walls, giant stone encampments, or drawbridges, but it was still the safest place I knew in that old house. Whenever I needed somewhere to exist, do “homework,” and be away, it was there. 

At 9, it was a refuge from my dad, who insisted that to make a man strong you must first hurt the boy who was simply trying to exist. 

At 14, it was a refuge from my mom, who insisted that to make herself feel good she must emotionally destroy the young son, leaving him even more alone than when he felt alone at school. 

That was the difference, though. This desk wasn’t a refuge. It didn’t have worn out top shelving from me holding the handles tight for security when my dad barged the door open. It didn’t have the small nicks and cuts from me hiding things in it to avoid the wrath of a mother who was desperate to wear me down to an emotional husk of what once existed for no other reason than it was her way of justifying her own spite and anger. The old desk did not have the stained wood from nights of sobbing at it, before trying for a fitful sleep before being woken up again to be screamed at half awake to bewilder and scare me. This desk had the chance to begin anew and exist anew. And I suppose in a way, I get to begin and exist anew. It’s a really exciting prospect. I cannot wait to share it with you one day. 

Yours, 

Daniel

[magicb0x300]

Circus; more than just fun. MCSM;

((Warning! Contains torture!))

((Slight Romeo x Lukas!))

~

“We all ready to go, gang?” Jesse asked, slinging a bag over his shoulder.

“I’m ready!” Olivia quipped, grunting as Axel ran into her.

“You know I’m ready! Carnival food, here I come!” the buff man declared, earning an eye roll from Olivia and a small smirk from Jesse.

“Alright. Petra’s already in the carriage. Let’s head out!” Jesse moved onward, exiting the door.

Axel threw his arms in the air, “woot!” and fled outside the door.

Olivia was last, adjusting her dark green beanie, “Lukas? You coming?” she asked. Lukas however kept his arms crossed, “I don’t know, Olivia. The last I’ve been to that … place, I didn’t leave happy.”

“Wait. You mean you’ve been to Romeo’s Extravaganza Circus?” she gawked, raising both brows.

Lukas winced. That name...

“Y - yeah. I was a kid. It...” the blonde was cut off by an impatient yell.

“You guys comin’ or what? We’re wasting numerous amounts of fun here!” 

Olivia sighed, “c’mon Lukas. Whatever happened in the past definitely won’t happen again.”

Lukas gave her a wary look, “you sure about that, Liv?”

“No, but you’ve got us. And with us, you’re safe.”

Lukas shifted nervously before nodding. Yeah, his friends will be there, and he’ll be just fine.

He’ll leave that circus happy this time...

right?

~

Jesse hopped out of the carriage, and stretched his limbs. “We’re finally here! Take a look at this, guys!” he said.

Axel bounded from the carriage, “whoa. Look at all that fun! We sure we have enough time to experience it all, dude?

Jesse laughed, “we got limited edition tickets, Axel. We’ve all the time in the world!”

“Heck yeah!” Petra burst, “last one to the center square eats my dust!”

The redhead then began her run into the Circus, Axel going after her.

Olivia speed walked ahead, waving to Jesse and Lukas, “see you guys in!”

Jesse turned his attention to Lukas, “ready for a great time, buddy?”

Lukas shuffled, “err... yeah, I guess,” he shrugged.

The brunette seemed to deflate at the lack of enthusiasm Lukas had, “you alright? You look a lot less hyped than the rest of us.”

Lukas forced a smile, waving his hand in dismissal, “it’s nothing, man. C’mon, let’s head to the square.”

The brunette felt a sliver of his own excitement wash away at Lukas’s tone, but obliged. 

The both of them made their way to the circus, the cheery music and chatter of patrons growing nearer.

It honestly made Lukas’s gut swim.

~

The friends stood at the square center, a map spread in Jesse’s grasp. He hummed before instructing, “so the carnival games are near the rest rooms, rides a solid 15 minutes away, and the grub should be... near the performance.”

“I’m heading to the rides! Any of you game?” Petra asked. 

“Nah, I’m gonna go chow down. There’s funnel cake and corn dogs to be eaten, and I’m not missing out!” and with that, Axel was gone.

“I’m gonna try out the carnival games. See if I can win anything,” Olivia chimed, on her way, “let’s meet back at the square?”

Jesse nodded, “sure. See you!” he called. Petra had already gone by the time Olivia left.

Now it was just Lukas and Jesse.

“Hey. Gonna do anything interesting?” the brunette inquired, smiling patiently.

Lukas blinked, giving a side shrug, “I don’t know, really.”

Jesse grinned, “well, I heard there’s a circus performance going on. Would you want to head there with me?”

Lukas shivered. But before he could think about it, he blurted, “sure.”

A little performance wouldn’t be so bad.

~

Jesse and Lukas sat themselves on the wooden bleachers, “hopefully they’ll have some sick performance props! Like, fire hoops! Or...” before Jesse could begin his rant, a voice boomed through the area.

“Welcome, everyone! Welcome! We are so glad to have you!”

Lukas knew that voice. 

“I so dearly hope you all are having a blast at my Extravaganza! It truly warms my heart to see so many smiling faces!” the voice sung.

The owner of the voice wore a black top hat, and a black tuxedo with red stripes printed all over it. “My name is Romeo for those who have never visited. It’s a fine pleasure to meet you!”

Lukas winced, his anxiety only growing as Jesse clapped beside him.

“And for all of you that have dropped by before, welcome back,” he said, his smile growing slightly sinister.

Jesse had settled down, a smile still present on his lips. Lukas held in a whimper as the host’s eyes landed on him.

They lingered there for a moment before flitting to another person in the audience. Lukas felt like all the air had drained from his body.

He remembered.

He remembered how Romeo’s eyes lingered on...

Him. He was now gone. 

Aiden was gone.

“Jesse,” he said, “we need to go.”

The brunette frowned, whipping his head to Lukas, “but we just got here! Don’t you wanna see the performance?”

Lukas felt beads of sweat gather on his neck, “I...”

Jesse grabbed his hand, “c’mon Lukas. Just sit and enjoy this with me.”

The blonde man sucked in a breath, and hesitantly sat back down. Jesse then gave him a light pat on the back, directing his attention back to Romeo.

“We have a very special performance prepared for you all today! That and we also have a very special guest joining us today!” Romeo swung out a hand to his right, “please give a warm welcome to... Stitches the Fox!”

The crowd cheered, hands clapping, and their feet stomping. 

Someone then came walking on stage, carrying a costume. It looked beat up and worn, the color drained from the fabric. “Oh dear! What’s this?” Romeo gasped, placing a hand on his cheek.

“It appears our guest isn’t feeling it today! How saddening.”

Lukas felt sick to his stomach. 

“We must get this show on the road! And for that, we need an assistant to fill in for poor Stitches here!” 

The limp costume flopped around in the holder’s arms. It looked so lifeless.

Jesse lightly bounced beside him, “it’d be sweet if it were me,” he said, eagerly raising his hand high into the air.

Lukas gasped, flinging out his arm, and grasping Jesse’s arm firmly. “Ow! Lukas, what’s the matter with -.”

Lukas just stared at him, eyes blown wide, “you can’t.”

The brunette was about to ask why, until the host spoke up.

“Now! Who would be a worthy companion for our dear Stitches? Hmm~,” he hummed, his eyes trailing along the eager faces in his lovely audience.

“So many eager expressions, how could I ever choose! Oh!” he gasped.

His eyes yet again landed on Lukas, his smile turning mischievous. “How about...” he began, flitting his eyes to a few more bystanders before snapping his back to Lukas, “you!”

No.

Jesse whooped beside him, “yeah! Lucky you, Lukas! Get up there, bud!”

Lukas however stayed completely still.

Romeo cooed, “don’t be shy, boy. Come on up!”

Lukas looked at Jesse, “I don’t…! I can’t perform, Jesse, I-,” he stuttered. Jesse smiled slightly, “you can do it, man.”

“But, I-,”

“We don’t want to keep the audience waiting,” Romeo said, tapping his nail against the microphone.

Lukas swallowed, standing up shakily. He hesitantly made his way to the stage, running a hand through his hair. He could hear Jesse cheering him on from the bleachers. It was a nice gesture, but it didn’t ease any of the tension in both his stomach or his shoulders.

He stood on the stage, legs quivering and his head spinning. He couldn’t dot his, he couldn’t do this. “And what is your name, boy?” Romeo asked, bringing the microphone to Lukas’s trembling lips.

The blonde took a breath, “u - uhm … Lukas,” he mumbled. Romeo hummed, “Lukas. Interesting name. You’re going to be a great help.”

Suddenly, a pair of hands grabbed him, making him yelp. “Now, off you go!”

Lukas then was forcefully pulled by the cast member. Their grip was strong and ruthless, Lukas could not pull away. 

The crowd however was cheering in delight, eager to see what Lukas had in store.

~

Lukas was thrown to the ground as he made it back stage. He groaned, attempting to get up.

A pair of rough hands suddenly yanked him up. He gasped, yelling as the same hands tore away his shirt and pants. His shoes and leather jacket were also discarded.

What was happening?!

“What - what are you-,” he grunted as he received a kick to the back.

“No talking,” a bland voice demanded.

Another kick. “S - stop!” he cried. But the cast members did not hence their assault.

Suddenly, Lukas was man handled into the costume, the fabric rubbing uncomfortably against his skin. “It -,” he began to protest but groaned as a cost member yanked the mask over his head, its ears flopping. 

He then felt a hand grip his neck, forcing his head forward. It hurt.

A hand groped his ankle, something being wrapped around it, then a loud “click!”

Lukas heard the sharp sound of a zipper. He frantically flickered his eyes, finding the eye holes difficult to see out of. It felt hot, and claustrophobic in the costume.

He couldn’t breathe. 

Oh god, he couldn’t -

“I can’t -,” he whined, but was again cut off as the same pairs of hands dragged him back on stage. This nearly made him cry.

“There you are, Lukas, wait no! Stitches! The audience was starting to grow antsy,” Romeo notified, “isn’t that right?”

The audience gave impatient cheers, most of them throwing their arms into the air.

Lukas shivered, his life flashing before him as he was shoved to the center of the stage. 

“Now that you’re here, we have got a lot of work to do! And when I say work, I mean...”

A group of cast members dragged out a set of obstacles. A ring set on fire, a sawing table, and a human sized box, a set of sharp knives atop of it.

Lukas felt his breath hitch.

“Now, my dear Stitches. These here props need to be used professionally. We don’t want any accidents!” Romeo said, approaching the blonde man.

The host hummed, eyes becoming slightly hooded, “my! Don’t you look fresher than a mint,” he set his index finger on the man’s chin, "all nice and prepped for today's show." Lukas drew away from his touch with a whimper.

Romeo scoffed, but for a mere second, before smiling gleefully, “don’t worry! You won’t get hurt,” he lied. “Now, on with the show!”

The audience yelled, Jesse’s cheers being heard amongst it all.

“Our first obstacle will be a fiery one! The ring!” Romeo announced.

Oh, no, no, no!

Lukas was led to the ring, the fire around it licking the metal of it. Said fire only added up to how hot the blonde felt trapped inside the costume.

He was supposed to leap through the ring without getting burned alive. 

He couldn’t do it. He couldn’t - he - Romeo can’t make him!

Sudden electricity coursed through his body, making him thrust forward. He screamed, but no sound came out. 

“Come now, Stitches. You must follow my orders,” Romeo dead panned, the cheeriness in his voice out the door.

Lukas felt another zap of electricity shake his body, “ahh! S- stop!” he pleaded.

“Then do as you’re told, and give these people a show!” the host demanded, stomping his heeled boot against the wooden stage.

Lukas whimpered, gathering his strength. He coiled in and finally leaped through the ring. 

The fire licked his arm. He hissed and drew it back, holding it tight. His foot then hit the ring, the flames burning the fabric of the costume. 

He yelled, the pain worsening as he hit the ground. 

The crowd winced, cries of worry escaping them. 

Jesse too was shocked, no, not shocked, traumatized!

His friend was hurting and here he was, sitting aside and watching!

“H - hey, no! No! Stop!” he cried. Romeo turned his head to the brunette, “who dares to try and put hold on my precious performance?!”

Jesse stood from his seat, “you are hurting my friend! That’s not even legal! Let him go,” he said, tone sharp and cold.

Romeo giggled, “let him go? Ha! The show’s only beginning! There’s no turning back now,” he said, "and plus! I've chosen a fine pick! He's quite the cutie."

Jesse growled, “stop it, Romeo!” he shouted, now dismounting the bleachers, “let ‘em go, now!” 

Romeo snapped his fingers, a group of cast members blocking Jesse’s path. He flinched, “hey!”

“Oh, I don’t think so,” Romeo purred, snapping his wicked eyes to his audience. He found it boring how they now looked so... disturbed.

He missed those gleeful expressions. 

Maybe he’ll receive them again some other day. 

For now, though...

“Ah, it appears my audience is disturbed by this performance. What a crying shame. Boo, hoo, hoo,” he mocked. “But, not to worry! I will bring an even better performance next time! I will even improve my obstacle selection!”

The audience didn’t react how he wanted them to. What a pity.

He scowled, snapping his fingers, “see them out,” he commanded the cast members.

The members shooed away the crowd, Jesse getting trampled. 

Try as he might to push through the cast members, he was always shoved back. “Hey - wh - Get outta my way!” 

Romeo turned to face Lukas, smiling widely, “so sad. Our show’s been postponed  until then, dear,” he said, approaching the writhing blonde.

The host snatched the fabric ear of the costume and yanked it up. Lukas gasped, writhing further, “ah!”

“I mean, it was to be expected. You were doing terribly after all.”

Lukas sobbed, hot tears rolling down his cheeks. “ P- please, let m- me go...! I - I don’t want to be here anymore…!”

“Aww, darling, Stitches. Don’t be like that,” Romeo soothed, patting Lukas’s back.

Lukas arched away from the touch, “please...! I wanna g - go home!” he cried, struggling in Romeo’s hold. 

“But, this is your new home, Stitches. You will love it,” the host said, hoisting the injured blonde to his feet.

The burning fabric against his foot made him lose balance, crashing into Romeo’s chest. 

“Clumsy, clumsy,” he tittered, giving Lukas's back a rub. “Now, without anymore mistakes,” he said, snapping his fingers once more. 

Hands gripped the fabric of Lukas’s costume. “Take the star to his room.”

The hands then forced Lukas off stage, the blonde kicking his legs, “stop it, stop it! L - let me go! Let me -!” 

His body lost control as electricity ran through his muscles. A scream ripped through his throat. Romeo laughed, loud and long.

"I love the sounds you make!" he said, sounding hysterical.

The blonde continued screaming, until he lost his voice. Then, he went limp in the member’s arms.

An hour later he awoken in a dimly lit room. He groaned, struggling to get up.

He couldn’t.

He couldn’t get up.

His body was constricted firmly with chains. 

He was horrified as he felt metal piercing his flesh, blood seeping through his wounds. He was really trapped.

He tried to convince himself that it was all a bad dream and he was just fine. But, it wasn’t.

He was really here, and he was really stuck. 

He knew he’d regret coming back to this horrid circus. 

Now he’s met Aiden’s fate.

“P - please...” he croaked, choking on his own blood. He was so hot, and so itchy in this filthy costume.

“J - Jesse... anyone, please... help me.”

And, with that, Lukas cried himself to unconsciousness.

Trapped and hurting.

(Chapter 1; END)

(Don’t worry! This isn’t the end of the story! I’m not that evil...)

[imagine-darksiders]

Algeō

Chapter 2.

Reaper Form X Reader. Death X Reader.

Tags: Darksiders, Reaper form, Death, blood, glass cuts, mentions of drug use, bullying, monster tongue, reader is full of uncertainty and anxiety. :(

---

The blaring, monotonous trill of an alarm tugs you from a much needed slumber. Grumbling resentfully at the injustice that often comes with being woken up so unceremoniously, you turn over and huff loudly into your soft pillow, where you proceed to squeeze your eyes shut even more firmly, clinging to the vestiges of sleep with the very tips of your consciousness in an attempt to block out the paltry slats of grey sunlight that fight their way through the gap in your curtains.

A click from the old radio clock on your bedside table is swiftly followed by a few, blessed seconds of peace. At least until the familiar drone of Sculborough's local weatherman - Terry Lester - begins to announce the morning weather.

Grudgingly peeling your eyelids apart and releasing a hot, raspy breath into the pillowcase, you turn a wicked eye onto the blue, LED lights that blink at you steadily, indicating the ungodly hour.

'7:00am,' on the dot. The fog lingering at the forefront of your sleep-addled brain finally starts to dissipate as a bright, cheery voice cuts through to it, sharp as a butcher's knife.

“....- morning Scullborough! It's seven am and if you've just joined us, I'm Terry Lester with the weather. It's gonna be a cold one today folks, we've got a weather front sweeping in from the east that'll be bringing strong winds and heavy cloud, and with temperatures hanging around zero degrees, we can definitely be expecting some snow on the way. Good news for the kids, eh?”

“Sure Terry,” you mumble, dragging yourself onto your side and reaching out to slam a hand down heavily on the snooze button. 

Anybody who’s that chipper so early in the morning is definitely up to something shady. As soon as your bedroom plunges back into silence, you sigh and raising a few fingers to wipe the sleep from your eyes. Pulling away a few moments later, you pause, your attention promptly caught by a small patch of skin between your thumb and forefinger. “What the...?”

Bringing the hand closer, you squint at it until you can clearly make out a pair of raised red lumps that stand side by side, marring the otherwise unblemished stretch of flesh.

Drawing a momentary blank, you simply cock your head to one side and blink.

Then, all of a sudden, you're shooting upright in bed with a strangled gasp and staring down at your hand as if it had abruptly sprouted wings.

A flood of images from last night bombard your mind's eye. Flashes of heavy steel doors, dark crawlspaces and coiled snakes, of giant hooded figures and piercing white pupils that burn hotly in the eye-sockets of an enormous, grinning skull.

By the time the images stop coming, you've staggered to your feet and half-collapsed over the sink at the foot of your small, cramped dorm room, staring into the mirror at your dishevelled hair and wide eyes.

“No...No way...” you mutter, watching your lips move in time with the words, “That didn't happen. It was just a dream...”

Just a very vivid, very real dream....

Or perhaps nightmare would be more apt. Some kind of sleep paralysis, maybe? That wouldn't explain the snake bite though.... It was such a vivid moment - The spike of pain lancing up your arm. The overwhelming surge of adrenaline that kicked your heart into a near panic. The feeling of cold, slender fingers wrapping securely around your thighs....

You shudder, furiously rubbing at your arms to distract yourself from the eerie recollection.

After scrutinising your face in the mirror for a few more moments, you promptly turn the cold tap on and splash two handfuls of icy water over your face, washing away tiny specks of makeup you'd missed during a routine cleanse the night before.

The cold is somewhat unpleasant, only enhancing the chill that already lingers in the early morning air, but it is refreshing and proceeds to wake you up a little more, giving your mind a much needed boost. Dragging several, trembling fingers down your cheeks, you sigh at the dripping reflection and attempt to rationalise things or at the very least, gather your thoughts into some semblance of order.

You went to a halloween party last night. Fact. The party was dull. Also a fact. You'd had a lemonade to keep your energy up, unwilling to get drunk that particular night and then, you left and headed back to your dorm, but you'd been waylaid by Mia and Charlie, who locked you in the basement of ShadowBrook house where you proceeded to have one of the worst nights of your life, not to mention the most bizarre.

The latter detail is....not such a solid fact as you'd like it to be, given that the events that unfurled were simply too strange and unbelievable to be marked as true, not without some proof.

It is possible that someone had slipped something into your drink at the party; a psychedelic drug perhaps?

Although you know for a fact that you hadn't put the glass down anywhere, or even taken your eyes off it for more than a few seconds at a time. The club you were in had a reputation for being safe and well-monitored. If someone had tried to drug you, they would need to have been exceedingly crafty.

Whilst certainly not watertight, your theory of having your drink spiked is miles more authentic than 'turns out monsters and ghosts are real. Who knew?'

The only problem with this hypothesis...is that you feel perfectly fine - exhaustion and the apparent snake bite on your hand notwithstanding.

Every little detail about the night previous is as clear as day. You don't have a headache, nor do you feel even remotely hungover. There isn't any pain stiffening the joints of your body, your clothes are all intact and you can remember each moment from leaving your dorm room to returning several hours later. Everything that happened is too

“Okay,” you state in a voice that's sturdier than your nerves, “Okay. I guess drugs is out then...”

So, what in the living hell could that thing have been?

Just like the snake bite, you can recall so many, fiddly details about the monster lurking in ShadowBrook's basement, so many that it becomes difficult to discredit what you saw. A particularly clear memory conjures up the lingering scents of old fabric, of dust blown from the cover of a leather bound book and following that, an ice-cold breath ghosting over the back of your neck.

The recollection causes you to blanch, so you quickly put it from your mind, deciding that it would be much better to instead busy yourself with getting ready for the day ahead. While you do, you fashion yourself a little explanation for what might have happened. It's funny how daylight can fuel a logical mind. The darkness breeds an active imagination and can even turn a skeptic into a believer if they're scared enough. And you had been absolutely terrified.

Charlie and Mia locked you in the basement of a supposedly haunted house and left you there, alone in the dark. And with predisposed claustrophobia already clouding your judgement, you'd simply allowed your brain to fill in blanks, conjuring a horrifying monster that was just a manifestation of your fears. It so closely resembled the grim reaper, complete with a haunting moan and frigid breath, simply because you were afraid of dying alone and trapped in a cold, dark basement.

“There's an explanation for everything,” you convince yourself, inspecting your reflection one last time and dotting some vaseline on your lips, “Could've easily been a hallucination...”

...Could it though? Such a theory isn't out of the question, yet neither is it the most plausible one you've come up with so far.

Satisfied that you've gathered everything you'll need for the nine o' clock lecture, you make your way to the foot of the bed and bend down to retrieve your book-bag but as you do, you register something from the corner of your eye, a flash of blue sitting against the black and grey of your duvet cover.

Trepidation creeps into your gut as you slowly turn and catch sight of a familiar, argyle-blue scrap of cloth. “The blanket,” you numbly whisper. The very blanket you'd promised to return to the entity that doesn't exist....It sits there innocently enough, unassuming on top of the bed. But its being here just feels... wrong. Your brow draws together and you chew pensively on a lip. It doesn't belong in your dorm, it belongs in ShadowBrook. That monster had given it - “No.” You sternly cut yourself off aloud. “I took it.” Perhaps if you reinforce to yourself that there isn't really a monster skulking about the old house in the woods, you'll start to believe it..

Although there wasn't anyone living in the house to miss the blanket, it just didn't feel right keeping it.

That's what you tell yourself, anyway.

In truth, you'd be lying if you said there wasn't a shred of curiosity – of anticipation - lurking in the pit of your stomach. A desire to pursue a mystery, to know for sure that the monster had been in your mind. Closure.

That's what you'd like.

But first...

Throwing the book bag over your shoulder, you dig around in the pocket of your jacket and fish out your phone to check the time. At the sight of it though, you freeze, one foot out the door. The screen has shattered, hairline cracks zigzag up and down it like little rivulets and when you try the power, it remains stubbornly unresponsive. 'That's right,' you think, eyes narrowing, 'I dropped it in the basement and the...the light went out.'

So how had you managed to find it again in that pitch black room?

With a cursory glance back at the blanket, you make a mental note to retrieve it after the morning lecture. After that....

After that, you don't know what you'll do.

Probably something stupid.

Setting your mouth into a hard line, you step fully from the door and let it shut behind you, turning the key in its lock. With your mind whirling at a thousand miles per hour, you pull the jacket collar up higher against the cold, toss a wary grimace to the dark grey clouds overhead and trudge across campus towards the art department.

---

The lecture hall is....unfortunately lacking in students this morning.

Apparently, Halloween is a popular night for people to go out and get completely paralytic, then spend the next day avoiding daylight, people and learning. Even your lecturer, Marion looks as though she'll snap the heads off anyone who so much looks at her strangely, and the two water bottles on her desk were a pretty strong clue as to her activities the previous night. Though where professors go to party, you've yet to find out..

For the first half an hour, you slouched in one of the rigid, purple chairs near the back next to a few other students who deigned to show up, doodling skulls in your note book and half-listening to a powerpoint presentation. Truthfully, your mind is still in that house in the woods, deliberating on the monster. If it was just a fear-induced fantasy, you need to start commending your brain.

“Hey, nice skulls.”

You give a start when someone behind you leans forwards and whispers in your ear. “Huh?” Heart racing, your eyes dart down to the page of your notebook, only to realise that you had indeed spaced out and you've been doodling nothing but chilling, black-socketed skulls for who knows how long. That's when the voice speaks again, dragging you back to the lecture hall. “Fitting. Cos I've got a bone to pick with you.”

Fast enough to nearly crick your neck, you whip around to find that, sitting right behind you and invading your personal space, is the very last boy you wanted to see today.

Charlie Squall's face evokes a palpable rage, his teeth bared into a dangerous grin.

Where the Hell had he come from!? He definitely hadn't been there when you sat down.

You jump when, without warning, his hand claps down on your shoulder and gives it a tight squeeze, yet his vice-like grip unnerves you less than the total detestation on his face. Pulse racing, you will yourself not to shrink under his glare and try to remember that this is the guy whose eyes you sort of maybe want to poke out just a little bit.

“So, Mia and I paid a little a visit to ShadowBrook,” he hisses through clenched teeth, the grip never leaving your shoulder, “Thought we'd let you go in time for today's lecture. Even got up nice and early for you, you know?”

Swallowing thickly, you eyes flick to the students on your left, past Charlie's head. To your relief, they're beginning to take notice, frowning darkly at him, ready to step in.

Taking note of his surroundings, he at least has the sense to release your shoulder, but not before giving it a bruising clasp, hard enough to make you wince.

Despite no longer subjected you to his nasty grip, Charlie remains leant over the back of your chair, breathing hotly down your neck. “Imagine our surprise when we go and find those steel doors bashed in and you 're nowhere to be found?”

“AHEM!”

Both of your heads snap to the front when Marion clears her throat loudly and sends a heated glare your way.

Sneering coldly, Squall retreats, giving you a little more breathing room and allowing you to duck your head to avoid the wrath of the professor. But no sooner has she returned her attention to the presentation, Charlie all but dives forwards again, pulling an exasperated groan from your lips as he heaves an exaggerated sigh, the stench of egg and toast rolling over his tongue and crawling up your nostrils. “Who helped you? How the hell did you get out of there?” The temptation to gloat, to spin and clock him square in the jaw and laugh as he squirms is almost impossible to swallow. You manage it, of course, because if there's one thing you know about Squall it's that he's a baiter. He craves the attention of a retaliation, so, for this reason, you elect to simply ignore him.

Ignoring Charlie Squall would get under his skin like a tick and denying him the answers he so desperately covets won't get you in trouble with the lecturer. A win-win, by your standards.

“Those doors were solid. Steel..I slid that bar across them myself! No way you did that. Did you tell anyone!? I know you told someone.”

His voice is livid, strained, though you couldn't be paying it less mind, too focused on what he said prior. He's right, much as it pains you to admit. The doors.....He said they'd been bashed in. You know for a fact you aren't capable of doing something like that.

Suddenly, the 'fear-induced hallucination theory' doesn't sound nearly as plausible.

“MISTER SQUALL!”

Charlie nearly bucks out of his seat as Marion barks fiercely from her desk at the front, nostrils flaring wildly. “If you're going to keep disturbing my other students, you can come down here and sit at the front!”

Admonished, he scratches at the back of his head, cowing under the judgmental stares of his peers. “Sorry miss, I was just asking Y/n for a pen-”

“I don't care if you were asking her how to tie your shoelaces. Get down here.” She thrusts her long nail at a seat almost directly in front of her desk but he doesn't move for a few seconds, staring at the back of your head, so Marion's voice turns low and eerily calm. “Now, Mister Squall.”

It's very difficult to suppress a self-satisfied smirk as Charlie huffs, gets his feet, snatches his bag up and proceeds to do a very literal walk of shame down to the front row of seats, throwing himself in the chair Marion indicates.

Grateful for her intervention, you shoot her a brief smile, a gesture she returns with a nod before continuing the lecture. Releasing the baited breath you'd been holding, you slump back into your own seat and tap your pencil on the notebook. So...He did go back to ShadowBrook, and he didn't make any mention of a monster. If he had seen something, you doubt he'd be able to keep it to himself for long. Either the monster really doesn't exist and you possess the strength of ten, grown men, or....

Dozens of tiny skulls stare up at you from the cartridge paper. You trace a finger carefully over the jawline of one, frowning softly. Is it so ridiculous to believe that there could be something so mysterious happening right on the outskirts of town?

A flash of anticipation raises your heart rate a little and you tooth pensively at a loose bit of dry skin hanging from your lower lip.

Not a moment later, a piece of paper is suddenly slid into view and snatches you back to the lecture. You blink down at it, then dart your gaze to the student three seats to your left.

It's Luke - a kind, fair-faced boy with an abundance of golden freckles that match his messy pony tail, a few baby curls sticking out from behind his ears. His brow furrows over a pair of warm, honey-brown eyes and nods down to the note.

'You okay?' it reads, simply. It's a thoughtful gesture, considering you've barely said a word to each other all year.

Giving the sloppy biro a quick once over, you send him a sheepish grin and nod, quickly scribbling down, 'Yeah, all good,' underneath his message and sliding the paper back. He reads it, mouth tugging down at the corners in a way you'd swear looks a little put out, perhaps because you hadn't divulged the details with him. If nothing else, the students on your course positively adore a bit of juicy gossip. For a moment, you half expect him to try again with another note, but to his credit, he just flashes you a thumbs up and leans back into his seat, facing forwards once more.

The rest of the hour passes without further incident and by the time the bell rings to signal the end of Marion's lecture, you've flown out through the doors at the back before Charlie has even put his jacket on. Unbeknownst to you though, your movements are followed by a pair of curious, brown eyes...

-----

Deep in the heart of Sculborough woods, inside ShadowBrook house's deteriorated entrance hall, lurks a monster. A very real, very corporeal monster. Since the crack of dawn, after it had dragged itself from a dreamless, meditative state, it's been pacing – or gliding - back and forth from one end of the hall to another, its long, shabby purple cloak sweeping along the floor and disturbing a thick layer of dust and crystalline glass shards; remnants of the fallen chandelier that rests in the centre of a grand staircase.

Every now and then, its hood snaps in the direction of the oaken front doors and two, skeletal wings that extend from its back tense, quivering in anticipation, as if it had heard something. But, when nobody comes through the entrance, its shoulders slump, lanterns clanking noisily, and it goes right back to pacing, waiting for it's new friend to return.

At the thought of the human woman, its bony jaw raises, brow-bone drooping to half obscure its glinting, white pupils. Had it been a human itself, that expression would most closely resemble a dopey grin.

She had spoken to it. To it! She'd been scared at first, of course she was. Who wouldn't be afraid of getting locked in a dark basement in the woods with a giant, emaciated skeleton?

For the first time in centuries, it finds itself regretting this form's ineptitude for articulate speech.

Her strange little voice was the first it had heard of another, living creature since its imprisonment on Earth, the light she brought with her in that tiny black box shone purer and brighter that its own lanterns ever did.

For so long, the beast had only known the scent of old books, dust and tree bark. The moment she rushed into the basement, its nasal passages were filled so abruptly with the overwhelming fragrance of her perfume, it left the monster's mind reeling, dazzled and momentarily disoriented. But then, breaking through the mesmerising smell came another, far less pleasant. Fear. She reeked of it. She still reeked of it - although to a lesser degree - even after she'd learnt that it meant her no harm, that it only had an interest in discovering her, in warming her so she didn't freeze to death. It may have been cursed to remain in this body, and there are those who would argue, itself included, that it had been a monster long before it was turned into one. But it had always kept a secret place in its heart for mankind. And she was the first human it had interacted with in....Well, it's been a while.

Then....the impossible. She called it her friend and it was then that the monster realised just how soul achingly lonely it had been these last few centuries.

So, like a good friend, it stayed behind, trusting her when she promised to return. It didn't even try to attack the other two – the far crueller ones – because she'd asked it not to. Not for fear of their safety, but for its own! She fretted about it.

It had relished in the shock and abject horror on their faces when they came by not long after the sky had begun brighten, only to discover that their makeshift prison cell had been broken out of. Pride swelled in its chest at the knowledge that it had put that fear in their wicked little hearts. They hurried out of there like bats out of Hell, and it resumed its vigilant watch of the front door. Friends are a rare commodity, especially for the spectre of ShadowBrook, and it is adamant that it will not lose the only one it has by hurting the other humans, regardless of whether they deserved it or not.

But as the day wore on and she still hadn't returned, even when the winter sun reached its peak and then began to sink behind the heavy, snow-choked clouds, the monster's hope started to dwindle. 'Where is she? Is she hurt?' it wonders, a distressed croon rumbling up its throat, 'Did those other humans trap her somewhere else?' At that thought, the beast's hackles raise, only falling under the weight of another, far more likely concept. 'What if she's too afraid to return?'

The empty cavity in its chest where a heart never beats gives a painful throb and it raises a slender hand, pressing against its clavicle.  

The latter explanation, though sad, is likely the most obvious reason she hasn't returned to the house....

Alone with only its thoughts for company in the empty dark, the ShadowBrook monster raises its skull to the weather-worn ceiling and lets out a melancholy howl, so high and keening, if any passing human had heard it, they might easily mistake it for the cry of an elk and then pause to wonder why on earth an elk would be strolling around the woods in this part of the world.

Thoroughly heartsick, the monster drifts aimlessly from room to room, radiating a dark, heavy energy that seeps into the house's woodwork and slithers outside, choking the very air itself until an invisible, cumbersome gloom settles over the entire area from the house to the wrought iron gates at the end of its driveway.

With the atmosphere dragged down to match the monster's mood, it ruminates on the Creator's barbarism, to give a lonely wretch the briefest moments of companionship, only to snatch the feeling away so unceremoniously.

One selfish thought, above all others, pushes to the forefront of its mind.

It should not have let you go...

----

The campus clock tower chimes two o' clock, the rings muffled some by the falling snow that's already begun to settle on the dry ground and send the rest of Sculborough into an excited tizzy. Students dart about outside, hiding behind buildings and bushes and grabbing handfuls of the powdery substance to pitch at windows, cars, their friends, anything within lobbing distance. A wet thunk hits the glass of your bedroom window but you barely even blink. You've been sitting on your duvet for the last half an hour with the blue blanket over your knees, leg bouncing rapidly and teeth stuffed into your lower lip.

All day you've been wrestling with the notion of returning to ShadowBrook and proving to yourself once and for all that there is no monster, so you can focus on trying to press charges against Squall and Mia for endangerment, kidnapping under false-pretence, being dicks in general - whatever you can get them for.

It won't be easy, what with Charlie's father being the Head of Department at the university..

With a heavy groan, you pull the second, hunter-green wellington boot on over your thick tights. “This is the dumbest thing I've ever done.”

In the end, the thing that swayed you, that convinced you you should return to ShadowBrook isn't just the burning desire for answers, although that's certainly a factor. No, it's the blue, tatty scrap of wool currently sitting in your lap.

You scowl down at it in silence, cursing the poor blanket for even existing.

Problem is, you made a promise – real or not – to return the blasted thing to the house in the woods. That much at least, you can recall. And a promise left unkept, even one as silly as this, niggles at the back of your mind, always there, waiting until you fulfil it.

Glancing out the window as you stand up, you grimace at the delicate snowflakes swirling down from a quickly darkening sky.

Rummaging around at the bottom of the wardrobe for a while, you eventually manage to find your grey knitted hat, scarf and matching gloves. “There,” you declare to the empty room, inspecting your reflection with a rucksack hanging from your shoulders over your navy, waterproof jacket. “At least this time, I won't freeze to death.”

No. This time, you're going prepared.

You've packed a heavy-duty torch with extra batteries, the backup flip-phone you keep in a drawer for emergencies, a few energy bars and a bottle of water.

As satisfied as you'll ever be, you breathe in a lungful of air, hold it, then blow it out roughly through pursed lips.

With the blanket rolled up and strapped securely to your rucksack, you grab the keys off your bed and head out the door, locking it behind you for a second time that day and trying to ignore the slight tremble in your fingers that has nothing to do with the cold.

-----

Blustering wind threatens to snatch the hat from your head as you stand at the threshold of ShadowBrook house and stare timidly up at the wrought iron gates. Like a pair of vast, black guardians, they moan and sway on their hinges back and forth in gentle motions. Beyond them, the tree branches creak with each cold gust of autumn wind.

Gulping down past an enormous lump, you hesitantly stretch out a hand, pause, then finally wrap your gloved fingers around the nearest bar.

And just like that, the wind drops and an unexpected shiver ripples up your arm from the point of contact.

Suddenly, the empty street behind you starts to feel a lot safer than the snowy woods beyond the low, brick wall.

The very air around you feels....melancholy, thick and as dark as the clouds choking the sky. There's a despondency emanating from those ground that you're sure wasn't there yesterday.

An urge to just throw the blanket through the gates and book it out of there threatens to overwhelm you, though something a little stronger shoves the impulse down.

You often find yourself cursing the strength of your curiosity.

So, despite the oppressive aura lurking about, you force your lungs to take in a steadying breath, brace yourself, and tug the gates open, ducking through to the other side.

Although there isn't any trace of a sun behind so many snow clouds, you're acutely aware that the sky is rapidly darkening with every second that ticks by. It's as though you've walked into the eye of a storm. No twigs snaps under the foot of some, woodland critter scurrying along the frosty ground. There isn't any wind to disturb the twisting branches that claw their way skyward, not a single leaf flutters, and all too soon, the silence becomes deafening and you find yourself taking heavier steps on the gravel, if only to break up the eerie monotony of soundlessness.

By the time you've reached the cobblestone courtyard, you're fairly certain the air has grown even denser and noticeably colder. Two columns of white air billow out of your nostrils, giving you the distinct appearance of a snorting bull, bundled up from head to toe in warm clothes. Subconsciously tugging your rucksack higher, you creep slowly around the central, frozen fountain,  eyes wide and alert as you scan your surroundings.

Daylight reveals far more of the old manor house than you'd been exposed to last night.  

Creeping ivy covers almost the entire front of Shadowbrook, spreading like a thick, green blanket from ground to shingled roof. One of the unnecessarily numerous chimneys on the east wing has collapsed in on itself and if you squint, you can make out the blackened beams and burnt bricks poking out from the top of the hole, tragic remnants of a fire long since past.

From the corner of your eye, you could swear a shadow passes across one of the broken old windows on the third storey, but when you turn to look – predictably – there's nothing there.

“Ooookay,” you swallow, tiptoeing up to the front doors and unclipping your heavy-duty torch from the side of the rucksack.

Memories of last night rise to the surface as soon as you step over the threshold and into the spacious entrance hall. Fragments of chandelier lay scattered like a thousand diamonds, glittering under the beam of your torch as you sweep it over the room, chasing shadows out of the dark corners and revealing a terribly dusty, polished greek marble. At one point in time, it would have shone pristinely white and sparkled under the chandelier.

Emboldened by the presence of daylight drifting in through the impressively wide, stained glass window set right at the top of the staircase, you venture a little further into the room, pulling off your rucksack as you go and setting it down beside an over-turned chaise lounge. Whilst spinning in a slow circle and marvelling at the wooden, coffered ceiling, you absentmindedly pass the torch between your hands, removing your gloves and hat and tossing them haphazardly onto the discarded rucksack.

On an impulse, teeth chattering violently, you suck in a deep breath and call out, “Hello!?”

The volume of your own, wobbling voice makes you jump and slap a hand over your mouth just a second after you opened it, horrified. You hadn't meant for that to be so loud.

The throng of your shout echoes through the house, filling every cobwebbed corner and hidden cranny, disturbing the perfect silence that had lorded over the ruins for centuries.

Shouting in here feels a lot like shouting in a church. Rude and disrespectful.

For some time after the last echo stops feeding back into your sensitive ears, you remain utterly still, puffs of white cloud escaping from the gaps between your fingers with every apprehensive exhale.

And then, like some, mighty giant letting out a thousand year-old breath, the house sighs.

An invisible weight lifts from your shoulders as the heaviness in the air dissipates, leaving the atmosphere inexplicably lighter and far less oppressive than it had been just seconds earlier. Unfortunately, such a disturbingly abrupt change doesn't necessarily comfort you.

Predominantly because of the sudden swoosh and rattle of something moving onto the landing above the grand staircase.

You whip the torch around, illuminating every shadow you can, feeling very much like a mouse in the midst of a lion's den.

All of a sudden, you freeze, eyes bulging and the torchlight quivering wildly in your hands. There's a soft clicking sound coming from directly above and behind your head that sets your pulse racing. The familiar, stomach-churning sound of bone hitting bone.

For the second time in as many days, a sheen of sweat breaks out across your forehead and your breaths start coming louder and faster until you're almost gasping.

Keeping your shaky legs rooted firmly to the spot, you stiffly twist your head around to peer back over your left shoulder.

Only the dark, brown-carpeted staircase greets your wide eyes, the fallen chandelier in the exact same place as it had been the night before.

After a few seconds pass without incident, you release a wheezing, breathless laugh.

You'd been half convinced that the ShadowBrook apparition would be looming right behind you. However, there isn't a spectre in sight. Just a spooky grand staircase in an even spookier entrance hall. 'Maybe I'm just going nuts,' you entertain the thought, chuckling a little before swivelling your head forwards again-

-and let out a scream so piercing, it sets your teeth on edge. The torch slips from your grasp, clattering onto the floor and lighting the tattered ends of a fathomless, billowing, indigo cloak.

The giant, grinning skull of ShadowBrook's resident monster hovers mere inches from your face, the skeletal hand that had been reaching out for you recoiling slightly when the scream rips unexpectedly out of your throat.

Frantic, you try to scurry backwards but your boots slip on some loose glass shards and you tumble over, landing heavily on your rump, the jolt pushing a pained 'Gah!' from your lungs. Feeling your heart hammer a mile a minute, you kick out with your legs, knocking the torch off into a corner, and scuffle away from the hooded creature until your back hits the front doors, paying no mind to the broken shards of chandelier glass that cut and dig into the palms of your hands.

That creature...the one from last night.... You hadn't dreamt it up! Nor had you hallucinated it! The whole damn night had gone just as you remembered.

“Y-You were real!?” you squeak, gaping up under the indigo hood at it.

Unsurprisingly, the phantom doesn't reply with words. Instead, it's brow bones tilt up in the middle and it snaps its teeth together a few times and one of those long, spindly arms emerges from beneath its cloak and moves towards you, fingers outstretched and poised to grab.

Staring up at the monster's bandaged-wrapped palm as it rapidly closes in on you, it isn't long before your 'fight or flight' instincts kick in. Once again, they settle relatively easily on 'flight.'

Quick as a flash, you whirl around to face the door, gripping the handle and nearly wrenching the whole thing off its hinges upon flinging it open, your rucksack and gloves completely forgotten. Outside, the snow has begun to fall even harder, coating the ground with a thin layer of crisp frost, turning everything into a sweeping landscape of silvery grey. This does not deter you however. Crawling through the entrance, you try to slip and slide onto your feet, hands scrabbling over the cold stone that numbs the cuts on your palms.

Unbeknownst to you, the second those doors opened, the creature's pupils shrink nearly into nonexistence and an urgent croak bursts off the end of its tongue. Panic-stricken, it surges forwards after you so fast, the wind that had picked up outside dislodges its indigo hood and fully reveals the giant skull and long, bumpy vertebrae of its neck.

You only make it about three feet from the door when fingers – cold and rigid as a corpse's – hurriedly snake around your waist and jerk you to a slippery halt. Any hope of escape is dashed against the proverbial rocks when your feet suddenly leave the ground and you find yourself being lifted back through the entrance once again. “No, no! Wait!” you plead, reaching out with both hands as the daylight is abruptly blocked out when the doors slam shut, held firmly closed by a huge, skeletal palm.

The monster's shoulders heave, it's eye sockets round and wide. For some time, you stare at each other in shocked silence, save for your frightened pants and struggles to free yourself, all the while never taking your eyes off those empty, black eyes.

'She came back.'

Over and over again, like a broken record, the simple mantra plays on a loop in the monster's mind. The little human's warmth seeps through to its chilly palm and it has to stop itself from sagging down onto the ground with sheer relief. When it heard her voice, the same voice that had pulled it back into the waking world last night, the monster had nearly cracked its skull open in a rush to zoom through a low passage way on the third floor. It hadn't meant to scare her..

No, no. Never scare. Not her.

But when it emerged behind her, moulding from the shadows with the stealth of a phantom, it found itself unable to do much else aside from stare down at the top of her head. It had meant to let out a hiss to alert her of its presence, so it can't really blame her for being startled. The moment she ran, a surge of uncontrollable protectiveness shot through its chest and prompted it to snatch her back into safety. It told itself it was merely worried that being exposed to the cold, harsh elements outside would damage her, if only to distract itself from the truth of its motivations. Simply put, the monster's loneliness had lain itself bare in the few seconds she'd taken to escape. Plagued by the possibility of being abandoned to the solitude of ShadowBrook once more, it panicked, selfishness reared its ugly head and it realised - quite suddenly – that she had to stay, if only for a little while. Just long enough to satiate its hunger for company.

Now, clasping the human in its sturdy hand, the monster wills itself to calm down.

It has her.

She's not going anywhere yet.

Calm down...

---

As you watch the monster's sternum expand and contract alongside redundant intakes of air, a pair of tiny, white lights slowly bloom into existence from the darkness of its sockets, growing steadily brighter the longer it gazes down at you, soft hisses escaping in intervals from between it's ivory teeth, all the while, your pulse sledgehammers against the skin of your wrists.

At that moment, letting out a throaty hum, the monstrosity bends its head down, causing you to recoil instinctively.

You can't believe it's real!

Its jawbone works open just a hair's breadth away from your nervous face and you whimper, eyes clenching shut and pushing out a tear that winds its way down to your chin. As far as you can remember, this thing hadn't hurt you last night, but in reality, you still have no idea what it is, nor its true agenda. Worse still, the hand holding you only tightens in response to each of your feeble kicks, reasserting the notion that you'll never escape and you abruptly recall how easily it had thrown the basement doors from their hinges. Even if it didn't mean to, this thing is beyond dangerous and could very easily do some damage.

“Ple-please!” you manage to choke, earning yourself an attentive coo. “Just – just don't hurt me!”

The beast's head pulls away to study you, the downward curve of its brow bone indicating displeasure before suddenly, it drifts near again to hover just in front of your face and a slimy, ink-black tongue slides out from between the skull's fangs, tentatively extending towards you. Clamping your mouth shut, you choke down on a sob when the soft, pointed tip prods against your chin and drags delicately over the rest of your jaw line to swipe up a few, salty tears before slithering right back into its mouth.

Your eyes snap open, bewildered at the cold sensation. Meanwhile, the monster draws its head back and cocks it to the side, pupils glowing brighter than before. As you peer warily back at it, surprised that it seems to have retained its gentleness from the night before, it gurgles something, dropping its jaws open and closed around a distinct sound that comes out as more of a wheezing rasp than any discernible word.

“Hhrrrehhnd..

Admittedly dumbfounded, you scrub the trail of slick, monster saliva off your chin and flick it off the tips of your fingers, all the while gaping up at the beast. 'Is it trying....to speak?'

Distracted, your legs even stop flailing and kicking.

“Hhhfffuundssss.” it warbles.

One side of your face scrunches up, more confused that afraid at this point. 'Funds? Is this thing trying to mug me?'

Wings flexing out then in, it chuffs through it's nasal passage and tries again, this time breaking the message into two parts. “Hhffrrr-” it manages, drawing in a rattling flash of air before blowing it out again,  forming the rest of the word on a rasping exhale. “-rensss.”

At that, a gasp leaps from your chest so unexpectedly, the monster perks up and it lets out an inquisitive rumble, then repeats the sound, having garnered a reaction from you. “Rrenn..dss. O-ow!”

Casting your mind back, you try to sift through the jumble of mismatched memories until you finally land on something that clicks, some of the last few words you'd said to the monster before parting ways, words that had seemed to please it immensely that it might be driven to repeat them now.

Tentatively, you lick your lips and squint at the creature holding you. “...We're....we're friends now,” you whisper, echoing your own words from the night before and flinching when it releases a happy croon, “Is..is that what you're trying to say? 'Friends now?”

“Frennsss ooow!” it clamours and lifts you closer to it's head. Dangling from the monster's loose grip, you swallow nervously, yet a tiny smile quirks at the corner of your lip. The more time goes by without anything bad happening, the less apprehensive you are, and in spite of the monstrous size and grim features, it really does look somewhat endearing trying to sound out the word 'friend.'

“So, you're real!” you needlessly state, “And you can speak!”

Seemingly a thousand times more excited than you are, it nods, so vigorously that you wouldn't be surprised of its skull topples off.

'This is incredible! I'm communicating with either a full bodied apparition, or a real life monster!'

Either reality is equally astounding.

As if to reaffirm the beast's presence, you tentatively reach a hand up to its face, ready to recoil should those gleaming teeth come apart. As your palm approaches, the pupils flick from your face to your appendage. Suddenly, the pinpricks of light shrink once more.

A throaty rumble emanates from the skeletal chest and before you know what's happening, the thumb and forefinger of its other hand snaps up to pinch your wrist, far more gently than ought to be possible for a creature of such magnitude.

Naturally startled, you attempt to pull yourself loose and wriggle your arm with increasing urgency, shoving at the bone-white fingers and then at its nose bone when the monster leans close to nuzzle at the inside of your palm, which you slam into a closed fist as a sharp pain lances across it with the added pressure.

“Ow!” you exclaim, “That hurt!”

The monster's rumble turns into a quiet hiss and it leans back to peer down at you. 

Unnerved as to why your hands are stinging so much, you turn your other palm over, inspecting it closely. To your surprise, the soft skin is littered with fresh nicks and shallow grazes where the chandelier glass had cut into you when you attempted to scramble away from the monster. “Wow, I have not had much luck with my hands recently.”  

You give a start when, without warning, something wet and cold squirms insistently at the crease between your trapped thumb and forefinger. Snapping your head up, you let your jaw drop, seeing that long, slippery tongue trying to worm its way beneath your closed fist, the creature's brow bones knitted tightly across it's forehead. “Hey! What's the big idea!?” you yelp, trying to squeeze your fingers together even harder to deny it access. Undeterred, it lets out an unhappy grumble and then, to your morbid curiosity, the slim, pointed end of it's tongue thrusts hard into the gaps between your fingers, stronger than you'd anticipated. The wet appendage is cold as ice-water and behaves similarly to an octopus tentacle, prehensile and completely uninhibited by even the tightest of spaces. You can feel the slimy muscle glide with utmost ease across your skin and then it tenses, solidifying beneath your fingers and forcing them up and away from your palms. 

Helpless to do much else, you can only watch as it meticulously sets about cleaning the glass and blood off your hands with a dexterity it simply cannot achieve with its larger fingers. Precise and nearly surgical in skill, the creature digs its tongue beneath the tiny shards of glass still stuck in your cuts, flicking them out one by one and letting them fall to the floor, still tinted red with droplets of your blood. You, meanwhile, try not to squirm at the chilly, tickling back and forth of a monster’s tongue against your wounded skin. There’s something undeniably, grotesquely intimate about the whole act, made even more so by the low croons that occasionally bubble up from the spectre’s throat, not to mention its continuous effort to maintain direct eye contact. You bite the inside of your cheek and stare determinedly off to the side. 

Finally, after what feels like an eternity, the monster’s tongue coaxes your fingers apart to clean the  rest of the blood from them before retreating into it’s skull and it peers down at you with flashing pupils, releasing your hand at long last. Relieved, you tug the appendage back and flip it over to study. As expected, the damage isn’t too bad, nothing that’ll require more than to run it under a cold tap. The monster had completely cleaned it of glass and dirt. Little specks of blood spring up from the deeper cuts but you’re fairly confident they’ll stop soon enough. 

All in all, no harm done. 

A puff of frigid wind disturbs your hair and you grimace up at the ShadowBrook monster, your heart thumping as you notice it’s blazing stare is fixed solely on your un-licked hand. For a moment, you consider telling it that you can manage this one fine, but based on its actions so far, you doubt that’ll slide. “Ugh, fine,” you grumble, holding the arm out for it and trying not to roll your eyes at it’s pleased hum. “You know this is gross though, right?” 

Apparently it doesn’t care about things being ‘gross’, only about getting both of your hands free of old glass. Besides, you have to admit, the cool saliva helps to lessen the sting. 

Satisfied at last, the monster delves one last shard from the heel of your palm and grunts, backing off back to watch you shake your hands out and pull a face as strands of it’s spittle fly off in every direction.”Uhhh.....Thanks, big fella. Appreciate that....” 

Evidently, it doesn’t pick up on your sarcasm, as it gives it’s wings a few, graceful beats and coos, smooth and dovelike. Leaning an elbow on it’s forefinger, you drop your chin on top of your knuckles and squint up into it’s skeletal visage. “You know,” you begin, smirking when it perks up immediately, eager to listen, “I keep calling you a monster, buuut you actually don’t seem so bad.” 

As if it ardently agrees, the monster tosses its head up a few times, grunting happily before it shoves its teeth against your shoulder, huffing out a freezing breath that sends shivers spilling over your body from head to toe.

Swallowing, nervous to have those six inch canines so close to your delicate skin, you stammer, “So – uh. I don't think I ever caught your name?” You're timid, yes, but undeniably filled with a spark of adventurousness. It feels very much like you're making history right now, in this room. Eyes as round as dinner plates, you wriggle a little in the gentle grip, trying to coax the enormous spectre into a response. However, instead, you realise that its wings have stiffened and its jaw clicks shut, pupils darting to the left then back down to you, purple robes falling flat as its excitement ebbs. Immediately, you start thinking you must have said something wrong.

A heaviness settles over the room as swiftly as the drop in temperature and suddenly, you can see your breath fogging up the air in front of you once more. Though you're certainly no expert in the behaviour of paranormal beings, even you can detect a reluctance from the monster.

Eyes narrowing, you tilt your head and peer up at it's skull curiously. “Do...do you have a name?”

It bobs its skull up and down, regarding you with a cautious eye.

Licking your lips, you say, “Can you tell me?”

This time, a long pause precedes an even more hesitant nod, though the creature remains perfectly still, floating several feet above the marble floor. The way its brow bones are pinched together and the fingers of its free hand twitch, you're drawn to one conclusion. It's worried.

But why?

After a moment's pause, you tap its knuckle to get it to look at you again. “Why don't you want to tell me? Are you worried I won't like your name or something?”

Glancing at the ground, its wings droop and clack noisily against the marble and it lowers its skull in an unmistakable nod. Mindful of its forlorn demeanour, you can't help but frown sympathetically.  “You don't think I'll like your name?”

Evidently frustrated, the monster growls and points a claw mere inches from your nose and sends you cross-eyed as its mouth opens and tries to force a word out.

“Sssss.....sssccc...”

In an instant, your face falls and you nervously put your hands on its pointed finger, pushing against it. “Woah, hey now. What're you-”

It interrupts by shaking its head and at last, manages to groan, “Sssccaaaared....” before nudging the tip of its forefinger into your chest, pressing a little 'oof' out of you. A few moments pass before your nose crinkles and you peer up at the beast. “You....you won't tell me...because you think I'll be scared? Of your name?”

Just like that, the monster's pupils blink out of existence and it angles its skull away from you.

Astonishment dancing in your eyes, you can only gawk at it, at that downturned head, the melancholy little hums that drift out of its throat every now and then, the fingers holding you so, so gently, even though just yesterday, they'd flung a steel door from its hinges with a single nudge. How could you – could anyone – be scared of this recessive creature?

Granted, it is particularly fearsome to behold, with teeth the size of your hand, a perpetually grinning skull and sockets darker than the void. But you're old and wise enough to know that appearances seldom portray the extent of one's nature, and for as gruesome as this spectre is to look at, its behaviour is almost... pleasant.

Letting slip a quiet huff, you give the monster what you hope is a reassuring smile. “Hey. I'm not gonna be scared of your name...”

In a flash, the pupils flare to life once more and it turns to look at you uncertainly, gurgling out a question. Determined not to show it any lingering trace of trepidation, you stick your chin out and calmly state, “I'm not scared of you.”

For a while, the monster only looks at you, its brows tilted up in the centre. Then, releasing a reserved sigh, it begins to lower its hand to the floor and slowly deposits you onto your feet. The parts of you that are still wary relish in the relief washing warmly over you as soon as your feet hit solid ground. Before pulling away, it makes sure to gesture at you to 'stay.' The universal hand movement translates perfectly and, satisfied that you won't bolt for the door, it lets you go, fingertips dragging over your jumper longingly as it swivels about, skull sweeping back and forth to scan the floor as though searching for something....

It's too busy to notice the quick glance you shoot the doorway, snapping your head back in direction before it can spot you.

Eventually, it glides over an undisturbed patch of dust that isn't covered in shards of broken glass. With a final glance over to you and a curious hum, it waits until you nod vigorously before frowning and bringing its finger down to the dusty ground.

There, it starts to draw.

'No,' you correct yourself, squinting and shuffling closer to its side, momentarily hurling aside your human instinct to escape.. 'Not drawing...Writing!' As you watch, enraptured, the monster traces crude letters into the dust with the very tip of a finger. Although they're jagged and faint, you can still make them out and find yourself once again fascinated.

'D, E.' It finishes the first letters, hesitating on the third.

“De?” you suddenly ask aloud and when you do, the monster jumps which in turn causes you to jump. Apparently, it had been concentrating hard.

Rumbling low in its chest, it shoots you a glare and goes back to tracing the third letter whilst you throw out random guesses. “Declan?” Derrick!?”

The monster chuffs.

“Dennis? Is it Dennis?”

If this thing's name is Dennis, you're going to throw a happy fit.

Again though, the monster's pupils swivel up to the ceiling as it moves its hand to the next letter. Studying the new one, you feel confusion rise like a dark cloud. “Dea?....What kind of name is Dea?”

The monster's hand curls into a fist and it darts its gaze over to regard you, an exhausted sigh hissing out of the nasal passage. Whilst it watches you, its hand continues to move again.

'T'

“T?” you wonder aloud, cocking your head, “D, E, A....T....” You trail off with a hard gulp, finding there's a dryness in your throat when you try to swallow.

A fretful hum from the monster falls upon deaf ears as you stare down at the word, a sinking feeling pushing at your gut and replacing the earlier confusion. With the clunky heaviness of a glacier, you turn to look at ShadowBrook's monster.

You have a sneaking suspicion you know where this is going.

Its reluctance is evident as it traces the final letter into the thick layer of dust until at last, it draws its hand back and tucks it up next to the other one, scratching anxiously at the bandages on its wrist.

You gulp, willing your eyes to move away from the grim visage, 'It might not be what I think it is....But then, how many names start with 'D, e, a and t?'

Clearly just as apprehensive as you feel, the monster continues glancing between you and the finished word. Gradually, squinting hard as though you're gearing yourself up to look at the sun, you drag your head down to look at what's been written at your feet...

Icy fingers of fear creep up your spine when you read the monster's name. You'd expected something strange when you first asked, but nothing like this. It all makes sense. The grim reaper motif – the hooded cloak and skeletal features, the crooked wings and cold touch.

Feeling its gaze upon the side of your head, you press your elbows into your sides and try to fight the tightening of your muscles, urging yourself not to freeze up again. 'It's only a name,' you tell yourself, letting out the breath you'd been holding. The monster's face looms into your peripheral and you barely restrain a flinch as its nose bone bumps your shoulder, no doubt trying to coax movement from you.

Finally you find the will to tear your eyes off the floor and fix them on its gleaming pupils that watch you unwaveringly. Licking your lips, you take a single, involuntary step backwards towards the door and whisper, voice quaking with adrenaline, “Death?”

[hmhteen]

HMH Teen Teasers: AFTER THE SHOT DROPS by Randy Ribay!

We are so excited that AFTER THE SHOT DROPS is almost here! For Kwame Alexander fans that have grown out of middle-grade, or YA fans of THE HATE U GIVE and ALL AMERICAN BOYS, this sports novel about two best friends torn apart by privilege is heartbreaking, but ultimately hopeful. Scroll down to read an excerpt!

1

Bunny

I’m never sure what to write for the dead. I mean, most of the time when someone hands me the marker at one of these vigils, I just end up laying down something vague

and comforting. You know: See you in heaven. We’ll miss you.

Rest in peace, bro. 

Something like that. But it never feels right. Never feels like your words will make a difference, like they’ll make his family feel better or stop anyone else from dying for no rea- son. The person they’re meant for won’t ever read them, so you’re just wasting ink.

But the small, silent crowd shuffles forward, the girl ahead of me passes me a marker, and it’s my turn. I’ve got to write something.

I step up to the big oak tree that stands in the middle of Virgilio Square, its bare branches spread out overhead like skeletal fingers. A white sheet’s been wrapped around its trunk, with te queremos, gabe, airbrushed across the middle in big blue letters. I know enough Spanish to know that means “we love you.” Everyone’s notes and signatures are scrawled in the spaces all around it. A bunch of teddy bears and can- dles sit at the base of the tree in front of a framed photo of Gabe smiling big, all nestled in a nook formed by the roots.

This is where Gabe and his friends were hanging when the shots were fired. Word is the bullet was meant for some- one else. Too bad the bullet didn’t know that.

I’m tall, so I decide to add my message up high on the sheet where there’s only a couple others. I take off my glove and shake my hand to try to warm it up, then I lean against the tree and press the tip of the marker against the white cotton. The black ink bleeds into it.

I stay like that for a few moments, adding nothing but a black dot because I still don’t know what to write. I want to put down something meaningful. Gabe lived three streets over and was only a year ahead of me in school. We weren’t real tight, but coming up, he was part of the group of kids we’d always play football or manhunt or whatever with. For some reason, I keep thinking about how he used to eat apples whole, core and all. The rest of us would tell him a tree was going to grow in his stomach if he drank too much water. Funny how your mind picks something small like that to re- play.

But I also think about last summer, when I announced that I was transferring from Whitman High, our neighbor- hood school, to St. Sebastian’s, a private school in the sub- urbs. Pride in Whitman High’s basketball team runs real deep around our way, so a lot of people didn’t like that one bit. My main man, Nasir, straight up stopped talking to me. But Gabe was cool about it. I was shooting around at the courts one day shortly after the announcement, and some guys started getting in my face about it. Gabe stepped in, calmed them down, and sent them on their way. Then he told me to keep my head up, to not let it get to me. Maybe it’s because he was good at football and so understood what I was trying to do with basketball, but whatever the reason, it meant a lot. Only, I don’t know how to express all this on a bed sheet wrapped around a tree.

I feel the line behind me growing restless, since I’m tak- ing forever, so I give up trying to find the perfect words. I settle for i won’t forget you, and sign my name. Don’t know what happens to us after we die, but if there’s some way he can read this, I know he’ll understand the words I feel but can’t find.

After handing the marker to the woman behind me, I step aside, slip my glove back on, and dig my hands into my coat pockets. I go back to the rear of the crowd that’s gathered in the blocked-off street, bundled up in their winter gear and waiting for his pastor or his parents or whoever to take the mic that’s set up in the patch of grass next to the tree. After a bit, one of the local politicians gets up there and starts going on about how we can’t let something like this happen again. I’ve heard this song before, so my mind drifts.

It’s overcast and frigid. Late February and still hasn’t snowed more than a dusting all winter. Looking up, I wonder if today’s the day. The gray clouds feel heavy as my heart, like they’re about to dump two feet of snow on us at any moment. An airplane crawls across the sky on its way to Philly on the other side of the river, the drone of its engines getting louder as it approaches. A lot of people hate that we’ve got these jets flying past every few minutes, but I don’t mind. It’s like God’s constant reminder that there’s more out there than this. Besides, I kind of like how they make the sun blink when they pass by on a clear day. Of course, right now the sun’s hid- den behind the clouds, so the plane passes and then it’s quiet again except for boots shifting, people sniffling, cars passing on the side streets. Some hushed conversations. Quiet, sad laughter. Every now and then someone breaking down.

The politician at the mic is still carrying on, for some reason talking about one of her new initiatives. I stay tuned out, letting my eyes wander across the crowd. There are a lot of families from the neighborhood out here, as well as what seems like most of the kids from Whitman High. The girls hold each other and dab at their eyes while the guys stand around like they’ve got faces cut from stone. A few nod at me, but I hang back.

I mostly stay to myself these days. My interactions in the neighborhood usually go one of two ways: either people try to start something like I betrayed them personally by trans- ferring to St. Sebastian’s, or they try to put all this pressure on me to go back to Whitman High. Either way, I’m not feeling like dealing with any of it, so I turn to leave, even though the memorial’s still going.

That’s when I see Nasir. He’s off to the side with his cousin Wallace. Easy to spot them, what with Wallace’s height mak- ing Nasir look even shorter than he would by himself. Both have their hoods up. Nasir stares at the teddy bears at the foot of the tree while Wallace looks all around like he’s got somewhere else to be. I’ll see them on the court tomorrow since they both still play for Whitman, but I consider walking over to say what’s up to Nas. It’s stupid we’re still not talking because I want something more than what Whitman can of- fer. Out of everyone, I expected him to get that.

But as I’m about take a step toward them, Wallace catches sight of me. I nod at him, but he doesn’t nod back. He holds my gaze for a beat and then nudges Nas. Nas lifts his eyes and they meet mine for a moment. Then he turns his back to me and walks away. 

2

Nasir

Everyone’s hanging their head as we trudge toward the bus, headphones on and bags slung over shoulders. Got our asses handed to us by St. Sebastian’s, 29–65, and

now back we go to Whitman. We might argue we weren’t feeling it, what with Gabe’s death hanging over us and all, and, yeah, maybe that was part of it. But the main reason we lost tonight?

Bunny Thompson.

Bunny tore us apart at both ends of the court. You think he’d at least have the decency to pull back a bit against his old teammates, but no. Put up a double-double — his, like, fifteenth consecutive one this season. Not that I’m keeping track of his numbers or anything.

And with that, our season’s finished. We’re teammates but not a team. Players out of game.

The sun is setting behind us, and the air smells like snow. I’m last in line, and before I step through the narrow door, I look over my shoulder at St. Sebastian’s one last time.

The school sits there with its fancy stonework, a statue of its patron saint perched above the main entrance. Dude’s hands are bound behind his back, and he’s wearing noth- ing but a loincloth. Five or six arrows stick out of his body, but he’s got this smug look on his face like he’s about to say something.

The driver starts the engine, and its low rumble calls me back to reality. I turn around and climb onto the bus. Wallace waves for me to join him in the back, but I pretend like I don’t notice and slide into an empty seat a couple rows be- hind Coach Campbell and Coach J. They don’t even bother to take attendance. Coach Campbell tells the driver we’re all set and then leans back, folds his arms over his broad chest, and closes his eyes. Even Coach J — who’s usually so positive you want to slap him — just flips open the scorebook and shakes his head. They didn’t say a word about the whole Bunny thing tonight, but they must have been as sore as we were see- ing him suited up in St. Sebastian’s red and white instead of Whitman’s purple and gold.

But whatever. The bus rolls out.

 I readjust my earbuds and turn up my music. I consider finishing this book we’ve been taking forever to read in En- glish class, Of Mice and Men, but I decide I’m not feeling it. So instead, I gaze out the window and watch the rich suburbs surrounding St. Sebastian’s slide past. My parents always taught me to be content with what I have, to value people over stuff. But still, these are some big-ass houses.

I also try not to think of the game. I mean, it’s not like ball’s my life — I’m not even a starter. But my brain keeps pushing it into my thoughts. This loss hurts more than most. Not that anyone expected us to win tonight. St. S was a pow- erhouse even before this season, before they stole Bunny. That didn’t stop me from fantasizing that we’d destroy them and Bunny would realize he made the wrong decision.

Last year, when he was still on our team, we went twenty and nine. Even made it to the semifinals of sectionals. This season: ten and seventeen. Didn’t even qualify for the post- season. Unforgivable for a team that’s produced its share of all-Americans in its day. I mean, we even lost to William H. Harrison High this year.

William H. freaking Harrison.

Maybe I won’t play next season. It’s not like I’m that good. Main reason I tried out freshman year was because Bunny wanted me to.

But the worst part? He didn’t even talk to me about all this. Went away for a week to DC with his AAU team for nationals in July and came back with the news that he was headed to St. S in the fall.

I realize I’m clenching my jaw and tensing my shoulders. So I take a deep breath, try to let it out real slow and even. Bunny doesn’t care about me anymore, so why should I care about him?

Wallace comes up from the back of the bus and drops heavily onto the seat across from me. I sigh on the inside, because I’m not up for pretending to laugh at the dumb jokes I’m sure he’s about to crack. But all he says is “You cool?”

I nod, then he nods and turns to look out his window, like all he means to do is keep me company.

Grateful and exhausted, I close my eyes. The track I’m listening to ends, and the next one begins.

3

Bunny

My hands are so cold the warm water hurts. I clench my teeth and count down from thirty. The pain will pass. Always does.

Sure enough, by the time I get to zero, my fingers feel like fingers again instead of icicles. I shut off the faucet, pat my hands dry on my hoodie, and then head back into the living room.

Jess is on the couch wearing a big sweatshirt and winter cap because the heat’s broken again. She’s got a fat textbook open on her lap and a yellow highlighter in her gloved hand. But her eyes are on the TV, where the news is playing real quiet. Justine and Ashley, our little twin sisters, are curled up against her on either side under a pile of blankets, asleep like they had a real hard day in the second grade.

I pick up the ball from the other end of the couch. 

“You really going back out there?” Jess asks. Her eyes are locked onto the old guy on the screen going on about politics or something.

It’s tempting not to. Trust me. It’d be real nice to unlace my sneakers and take it easy the rest of  the night. Maybe play 2K or plop down on the couch right here or go over to Keyona’s place. I mean, I did have a full day of school and a hard workout at practice.

But then I think of  the playoffs. We’ll start with a bye since we were seeded first, so we’ll play on Friday for the quarterfinals. Four more days to get ready.

I also think of Mom busting her butt working the grave- yard shift at the hospital right this very moment and Dad’s bookstore not doing so hot. I think of Jess sitting in front of me studying hard but still racking up student loan debt. I think of the twins buried in blankets because our landlord doesn’t bother getting anybody over here to fix the heat like he claims he will and leaving the oven open doesn’t warm the whole place.

I know there are people out there who got it worse than we do, but there’s people who got it better, too. A lot better, and they’re probably not even working as hard.

“Yup,” I say. “Right back at it.” “Isn’t it cold?”

I shrug, pull my own knit cap from the front pocket of my hoodie, yank it down over my head, and then flip my hood up. “Like it’s summertime in here?”

“You’re crazy,” she says, though I’m thinking the same thing about her spending all that time studying to become an underpaid social worker someday. If I’m going to work hard for something, you better believe it’s going to pay the bills. “Aaron said he called someone about the furnace.”

“Right,” I say. Aaron’s our landlord, who lives in the suburbs. “In the meantime, feel free to burn those to keep warm.” I gesture toward the kitchen table at the stack of col- lege brochures that’ve been flooding our mailbox for the last few months. Schools can’t send me specific recruiting stuff until June 15, when I officially become a junior, but until then they can send me all the junk mail they want, apparently.

“Mom and Dad would kill you,” Jess says, laughing.

I laugh, too, because it’s true. They’re collecting each and every one so that we can go over them together when they have time. They won’t let me toss one until we’ve read it all the way through and discussed the pros and cons, even if it’s from some small school nobody’s ever heard of before, like the University of Chicago in Nebraska or something wack like that. But the problem is they both work so much that that pile of brochures will probably reach the ceiling before long.

I say goodbye to Jess one more time and then head back outside, careful not to make too much noise as I close the door behind me. Out of habit, I glance up at Nasir’s window across the street. His light’s on, so I think about rapping on his door and asking if he wants to come with me. But then I think of him turning his back on me at the vigil the other day and then him acting like I didn’t even exist during our game, so I roll out by my lonesome.

The streets are empty. The houses are dark. Don’t want to wake anyone, since it’s a Monday night, so I hold the ball on my hip with one hand and bury the other in my pocket as I make my way to the courts. I walk quickly, with my breath puffing out in front of my face. Nasir and I must have made this walk together a million times throughout the years. One of us would play offense and the other defense as we went up the sidewalk. If the defender could steal the ball, then we’d switch. Most of the time I was the one dribbling. Not that Nasir was that bad, but I knew him well enough to know that his eyes would flick downward right before he’d lunge for the steal, and that’s when I’d cross over and spin, slipping past him to run the rest of the way to the court, laughing as he trailed behind. But sometimes I’d let him swipe the ball away just because.

That was how it used to be, though. Now I’m always mak- ing this walk alone, putting my moves on ghost defenders. Wondering if I made a mistake.

After a few blocks, I reach the park. It’s behind the com- munity center on the other side of the soccer and baseball fields, far enough away from any houses that I don’t feel bad dribbling once my feet hit the blacktop.

There’s an empty forty at center court. At least whoever left it didn’t bust it and leave the blacktop littered with shards of glass like they sometimes do. I go over and pick up the bottle with my right while dribbling with my left. Toss it into a trash can and then turn back to the hoops.

It’s not as nice as St. Sebastian’s gym, but this is my home court. This is where I started really playing ball with Nasir once we graduated from the low-hanging crate nailed to a telephone pole on our block. I know every crack and dip like the back of my hand. I know if the shot’s going to drop by the sound of the clang when it hits the steel rim. I know the lights click off at ten but you can still see enough to keep shooting if the moon is bright.

This is where I’ve lost and won a thousand games. Where I drained that half-court shot as a sixth-grader to beat the high school kids. Where I broke my nose catching an elbow on a drive and didn’t get the foul shots. Where I dunked for the first time and nobody was around to see — except for Nasir.

This is my home court. Our home court. 

I toss up a rainbow, which sails through the netless hoop. But I’m not here for three-pointers. I’m here for fadeaway, midrange jumpers — the shot I blew three times during to- night’s game. If I’m going to lead St. Sebastian’s to another state title, I can’t be missing that action every time.

After grabbing the rebound, I reset at the top of the key. Lower my dribble and visualize my man crouching low, hands up like they teach in basketball camp. I start counting down from ten. At five, I fake right and then cross over to the left. At four, I turn and back the dude down, and at three, we’re a few feet inside the arc. At two, I pivot and leap. At one, I release the shot at the peak of my vertical. At zero, I fall backwards . . .

The shot falls short and glances off the front of the rim. I chase it down, return to the top of the key, and restart.

Dribble, cross over, back down, pivot, fade away, and release. Another brick. Another rebound.

I keep repeating the motions. Each dribble echoes across the night. The soles of my sneaks scrape over the concrete with each motion. The wind picks up, frigid and stinging. My fingers and toes start to feel numb again, begging me to quit, to save it for practice tomorrow.

But I don’t.

I dribble, cross over, back down, pivot, fade away, release. 

Rebound.

Reset.

***

Bunny and Nasir’s journey has only just begun. If you want to read more of this incredible YA for fans of THE HATE U GIVE and ALL AMERICAN BOYS, pre-order it from the links below!

Amazon

Barnes & Noble

Books-a-MillionHudson

IndieBound

Powell’s

Target  

[usfwspacific]

Seasons of the Hunt: Part II of our Series on the Enigmatic Hungarian Partridge

By Dan Magneson, USFWS Fisheries Biologist

Editor’s note: As a part of National Hunting and Fishing Day (Sept. 23, 2017) and Public Lands Day (Sept. 30, 2017), the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service’s Pacific Region is highlighting hunting, fishing and public lands, as well as the importance of the North American Model of Wildlife Conservation. Be sure to read part one of Dan’s story here. 

Photo credit: gwbf.org 

SPRING

The covey has disintegrated, with the young from the previous year having paired off and formed strong monogamous bonds with Huns from other coveys.  If they are both still alive, the original parents will stay together and start yet another new family.  If one has since died, however, the survivor will readily form a pair bond with a different mate.

If the Hun is like a feathered cheetah when it comes to speed, then they are like a feathered rabbit when it comes to reproducing themselves!

The nest site is usually chosen in sparser dried stems of taller grass intermixed among the stalks of broadleaf weed cover consisting of the previous year’s dead growth and thus creating a light canopy overhead; hay and alfalfa fields that received mowing the previous year are virtually never chosen as a nesting site.  Huns have a decided propensity for nesting in strips of cover along fencelines and in wide ditches along roadsides, possibly a function of their spending so much of their time along the edges of the adjacent fields.  

Depending somewhat on the latitude, the great majority of the nesting will take place from around Memorial Day to the first day of the official start of summer at the solstice; both the male and female are devoted parents and will actively defend the nest.

The female constructs a simple ground nest while the male stands guard.  That task completed, she will typically lay from 16 – 18 buff-olive eggs (although there are occasionally white specimens) and sometimes as many as 22 eggs, by far the most of any gamebird in North America and in fact among the most of any bird on earth.  

This, coupled with and enhanced by extremely good early brood rearing conditions, explains what enables the Hun to generate such steeply-sharp population spikes in certain years and explains why coveys may then be unexpectedly encountered in areas where you traditionally have never seen them.  

Normally, the Hun is much less subject to mortality from predation during winter weather than are most other upland gamebirds – except predators can and often do exact a heavier toll during horrifically-bad winter weather of exceptionally long duration.

But they have an even greater Achilles Heel, whereupon their numbers really take it on the chin: above and beyond anything else, especially extended periods of cold and wet conditions early in a chick’s life can be deadly and very severely depress Hun numbers in the coming autumn; the importance of warm and dry conditions to the very young one-and-a-half inch tall chicks cannot be emphasized enough.  So please, no rain dances now!

As the chicks continue to grow toward maturity, they become less and less associated with cover that has a canopy overhead.

Outside of this acutely-vulnerable period of their lives, I would expect that Hun populations would do better in dry and droughty years in the more easterly portions of their North American range, and conversely do better in moister than normal conditions in the generally more arid westerly parts of their range.

Photo: Hunting for huns in Montana. Photo credit: Hank Shaw

SUMMER

The female carefully conceals the eggs with vegetation whenever she briefly departs, and by now the last of the later clutches will hatch out in July, and insects are of paramount importance to the hungry chicks at this time of year; the high protein levels are necessary to fuel their rapid rate of growth and development.

AUTUMN

In the dryfarmed prairie regions, such as North Dakota, to be consistently successful in the early hunting season look for the birds along the grassy fringes between the wheat stubble and neighboring Siberian elm and Russian olive shelterbelts, or back-and-forth along the margins of other relatively-light cover types bordering the wheat stubble.  The Hun coveys will be comprised mostly of inexperienced and naïve young-of-the-year birds, affording you closer shots and more opportunity to flush them again since they generally won’t go very far before landing.  Their early season behavior always reminded me a great deal of hunting bobwhites along the osage-orange hedgerows back in my native southwest Iowa.

Photo credit: Donald Jones, Montana FWP

Composed at its core of immediate family members, falling in with this central covey along the way are otherwise-unpaired adult Huns.

Besides watching them in order that you can go pursue them again, there is another reason – if you have shot at them.  Sometimes a bird you thought you had missed or barely “tickled” suddenly drops from flight deader than yesterday’s news, or you see a bird land short of where the rest of the covey put down.  You owe it to your quarry to try to get these otherwise-wasted birds into your bag.

Huns will commonly feed early in the morning and again late in the afternoon; food is plentiful, so it doesn’t take them long to get their fill.  Then they will loaf during midday in the vicinity of the edges of the fields.  In wheat country, their diet may be almost entirely comprised of the kernels of this grain, along with sprouts of volunteer plants.

Like a big ol’ trophy bucket-mouthed bass near an old submerged stump, Huns seem to orient to certain features in an otherwise homogenous landscape.  That elevated knoll or hillock or that lone bush or rock pile out in the wheat stubble are good spots to focus your efforts upon, as are abandoned farm machinery and implements in old ranch junkyards and the like.  I remember once hunting an ocean of wheat stubble, and the only feature different was an old Christmas tree that had been dumped out there.  And that was right where I found a big covey of Huns.

You may be able to flush the same covey twice or maybe three times, and very rarely four times.  Huns really stick together, and the first flush is likely to be straight toward some landmark familiar to that covey.  The second flush will likely see them veering in something of an arc.  The countryside may look fairly featureless to you, but rest assured it is not to them.  If you flush them a third time and at the limits of their home range, they might well turn and come right back over your head in order to return to familiar turf – which is quite often the same spot you originally found them, or near to it, and thus demonstrating that they really are rooted or anchored to a certain home range.

If you do succeed in fragmenting the covey into singles and doubles, these are the birds to pursue because they will likely hold much tighter and subsequently flush at much closer range than is likely with the remaining bulk of the covey

In the sagebrush country of Montana, Wyoming, Idaho, Washington, Oregon and the far northern portions of Nevada and Utah where irrigated agriculture is more the rule, again look for Huns in areas adjacent to stubble fields of wheat, rye, barley and other small grain crops.  Much of the time this will be along the steeper foothills next to the flatter cultivated farm fields.  Mostly grassy cover interspersed with dots of occasional sagebrush is ideal, and don’t forget to check the grassy heads of basins and especially the deeply sun-shielded and sometimes surprisingly-moist creases between hills, and especially on the very warm days of the early season.  The Huns can find cooler shade among the broader-leafed shrubbery, and the damp conditions are conducive for attracting insects and also for growing succulent shoots and tender grass tips; Huns are always partial to a meal of fresh salad greens, no matter what the season.

I like best the places where the border along the sagebrush and wheat stubble fields really weaves and wanders a lot, where the wheat is surrounded on three sides by sagebrush and grass or conversely those lone and long fingers of sagebrush and grass protruding far, far out into the wheat stubble.

Keep an eye peeled for the places the Huns take dust baths, and the odd loose feather or two confirming that.  And look for piles of droppings indicating where they have roosted; the individual droppings are pointed at one end and broad at the other, looking like a miniature green sugar cone with a scoop of white vanilla ice cream.

If you shoot a double-barreled gun, a fast 20-gauge with a #7 ½ load in a barrel choked improved cylinder and the other barrel choked modified with a #6 load should do a fine job in most instances.

Insects such as beetles, grasshoppers, crickets and ants will continue to be taken by Huns, but the carbohydrates and lipids found in grains have by now begun progressively making up more and more of the diet as the overnight freezing-frosty temperatures causes the insects to die off for the year.

But there are those coveys of Huns who live out their entire lives never once feeding on cultivated, domesticated cereal grains from farm fields.

In the Sawtooth National Forest south-southeast of Twin Falls, Idaho I used to hunt mule deer in a rather pristine, broad valley that was, as best I recall, either entirely ungrazed by cattle or else only very lightly grazed.  I probably put up more coveys of Huns down there more often than anywhere else I’ve ever been, and they were miles and miles from the nearest agricultural areas. They were absolutely thriving out there in that desolate country.  So don’t ignore those vast holdings of public lands that are managed by the U.S. Forest Service, Bureau of Land Management, the public lands adjacent to the big western reservoirs managed by the Bureau of Reclamation and the U.S. Army Corps of Engineers, and those portions of U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service-managed National Wildlife Refuges which may be open to hunting.

There are often steep hills associated with these wilder areas, and the birds usually flush downhill and then hook off one direction or the other towards the end of their flight.  I don’t think it is a deliberate and diabolical attempt on their part to better elude your finding them again; instead I think they are just trying to reduce their air speed in order to make a soft and easy landing.  Don’t be too surprised if they subsequently start to slowly work their way up another hill.  You can use the rough terrain to plot a quiet and more concealed approach and if you have a partner, one hunter can start working downhill from above them while the other starts working up the hill from a point just below where they originally landed.  Watch especially any stragglers that flush late behind the main body of the covey; these birds often cut corners and take shortcuts to catch up, giving you a better idea of where they’ve landed if the flight of the main covey has been obscured by an obstacle.

But I’ll tell you, when it comes to pursuing opportunities to make multiple flushes in steeper country, don’t be surprised if the Huns wear you out before you’ve worn them out.  

As autumn grows long in the tooth, the Huns will have wised up considerably, becoming in many cases ultra-wary and hyper-alert. It is about now they begin to start flushing so wildly, far out of shotgun range, and start showing you just how well they can twist and turn on a dime once in flight.  Oddly enough, Huns do tend to generally hold well for a pointing dog – provided it doesn’t press them too closely.  The ideal Hun dog is one with the endurance of the Energizer Bunny, and that casts to-and-fro across the field very widely, but is solid as a statue when it goes on point, allowing you plenty of time to get there.  But don’t dilly-dally with these now-skittish Huns!   Hunt the dog into the wind, and don’t be afraid to experiment if need be:  circling far out to the side and around the covey, then coming in directly at the dog, sometimes perplexes the Huns just long enough for a decent shot at them.  A hawk whistle may help freeze running birds in their tracks; to imitate a hawk, some hunters will go so far as to tie a dark helium balloon to their belts in hopes of likewise helping to pin the Huns down into place.

I’d stick with all #6 loads now, and consider moving up to a 12-gauge shotgun.  You never know for sure what Huns might decide to do on a given day, whether to flush nice and close or way out there beyond gun range.  But I think I’d lean more toward a modified or full choke, though, as it is more likely to be the latter case.

 WINTER

I used to go to college in Bottineau, North Dakota, which is located in the far northern (and central) part of the state.  A blizzard would be howling and wind-driven snow would be coming in thin, powdery waves across the ground, the mercury standing at far below zero.

Yet the Huns would be out scurrying around and feeding right in the midst of it, so impervious that they seemed imbued with immunity to bitter cold.

For such a small bird, the winter survival skills of the Hun border on the incredible; they are absolutely unfazed by the same ferocious blizzards that can lay waste to an entire population of pheasants.

Their habit of forming a warm roosting ring is part of it: with snow lingering on the ground, one author spoke of repeatedly finding different overnight roosts used by the same covey of nine Huns.  They had always very consistently packed into an area smaller than what a single pheasant takes up.  

But unlike either pheasants or bobwhite quail, if conditions get bad enough, then the Huns will use the blanket of snow itself as insulating cover, readily burrowing down into it to escape especially severe and otherwise deadly conditions.  

The wind may whip up some big snowdrifts, but other areas are commonly kept largely snow-free by the very same winds, which gives the Huns a place to forage for food.

But if there is a fairly uniform and persisting cover of snow of four inches or more, the Huns will start to utilize woody cover, as Aldo Leopold noted in 1931:  “Hungarians come nearer being able to get along without cover than pheasants or quail, but during snow they do require some heavy grass, weeds, or standing corn.”

In the northwestern quarter of the state of Iowa, it’ll be wild plum thickets for certain any time there is one in the Hun’s home range, just like with the bobwhite quail in the bottom two tiers of that state’s southernmost counties.

In the Dakotas, it will likely be stands of lilac and caragana.

Out here further to the west, it’s going to be shrubs such as snowberry, hawthorn, chokecherry and buffalo-berry.

Mimicking fox hunters is a viable option, whereupon you don white coveralls and wrap your gun in white tape.  You might consider packing binoculars tucked down inside your coveralls to keep them from fogging up or flopping against your chest.  Neither food nor length of daylight is as plentiful now, so looking even out into the very middle of fields such as wheat stubble becomes more worthwhile as the Huns are now generally spending a greater proportion of the daylight hours feeding.  One thing that will help you after a new snow is that now there are fresh Hun tracks with which to betray their presence.  Scanning far ahead will help you plot an ambush; if you don’t see the Huns actively moving about, then look for “dirt clods” sitting out there and protruding up from the snow.

Also don’t forget the effects of the wind chill factor. Look for Huns to escape the cold winds by locating themselves on the lee sides of hills, steep and sheer protective creek banks, and also man-made structures such as abandoned farmstead buildings as well as lone grain bins and machine sheds.   If such areas also receive warming rays of sunshine and the thinner areas of snow melts off to boot, so much the better.  The wind can work to your benefit by better masking your approach, but bear in mind that the now-nervous Huns will compensate by relying on their vision just that much more when conditions diminish the effectiveness of their sense of hearing.

As in all seasons, if there is a spring or seep where sprouts continue to grow from the unfrozen mud, they are worth checking out for Huns.

I definitely would go with a 12 gauge shotgun in the winter, and preferably one with a PolyChoke as you again never quite know at just what range at they will choose to flush on any given day.  I usually like a more tightly-choked barrel with a #6 shell in the chamber, and I follow that up with #5 shells in the magazine for successive shots at probable longer ranges.

But if the snow is especially deep and worse yet covered by a thick glaze of ice for a prolonged period, the Huns will become desperately hungry, and then begin approaching gravel roadsides, livestock feedlots, silos, and farmsteads in general, searching for barer ground anywhere where they might locate some food.  But no ethical hunter would ever exploit such a pitiful plight.

Late in the winter, after the season closes and the weather warms and the snow melts off,  the males will begin squaring off with one another and engage in ritualized fighting, with the victor getting to stay where he is and the vanquished bird having to leave.  

Female Huns are more aggressive during this period than the females of most other gamebird species, and will decisively lower the boom on any other females caught flirting with their chosen mate.  And which male Huns are the favored mates? The ones seen as leaders within the covey and also those who seem to maintain a state of heightened alert.

The cycle of a new Hun generation is beginning anew.

 SUMMING IT ALL UP

Coupled with the topography, the direction and the angle and the intensity of the sun along with prevailing weather and wind patterns combine to create a seasonally-changing mosaic of different plant species and ultimately plant communities of varying density.  This in turn provides the Huns a home range in which they can capitalize upon the best opportunities for their continued survival and perpetuation of their own kind.  

For you to be a consistently-successful hunter of these birds, you’ll need to develop the ability to discern these differences and how they interact; that in turn will get you pointed in the proper direction and better narrow things down to just where the Huns are likely to be found on any given day during the changing seasons.

And all of this is alluring to a hunter, or should be, creating a charismatic aura and enticing you to try to take apart and figure out just what makes these birds tick.

The upside to learning in this big outdoor classroom is the generally grand and glorious scenery, the stunningly-spectacular sunrises and sunsets in this otherwise-austere landscape, the wild and sometimes surreal cloud formations, the weird and grotesque rock formations, the sego lily and Indian paintbrush, that old corral with those giant and golden cottonwoods, and all the solitude to be found in the American Outback that is Hun Country.

It’s a classroom in which you will never become bored.

Best of Luck to you the reader during this hunting season and in all in your future Hun endeavors!