He couldn’t believe how quickly the light disappeared. From the Glade proper, the forest didn’t look that
big, maybe a couple of acres. Yet the trees were tall with sturdy trunks, packed tightly together, the
canopy up above thick with leaves. The air around him had a greenish, muted hue, as if only several
minutes of twilight remained in the day.
It was somehow beautiful and creepy, all at once.
Moving as fast as he could, Thomas crashed through the heavy foliage, thin branches slapping at his
face. He ducked to avoid a low-hanging limb, almost falling. Reaching out, he caught hold of a branch and
swung himself forward to regain his balance. A thick bed of leaves and fallen twigs crunched underneath
him.
All the while, his eyes stayed riveted on the beetle blade scuttling across the forest floor. Deeper it
went, its red light glowing brighter as the surroundings darkened.
Thomas had charged thirty or forty feet into the woods, dodging and ducking and losing ground with
every second, when the beetle blade jumped onto a particularly large tree and scooted up its trunk. But by
the time Thomas reached the tree, any sign of the creature had vanished. It had disappeared deep within
the foliage—almost as if it had never existed.
He’d lost the sucker.
“Shuck it,” Thomas whispered, almost as a joke. Almost. As strange as it seemed, the word felt natural
on his lips, like he was already morphing into a Glader.
A twig snapped somewhere to his right and he jerked his head in that direction. He stilled his breath,
listened.
Another snap, this time louder, almost like someone had broken a stick over their knee.
“Who’s there?” Thomas yelled out, a tingle of fear shooting across his shoulders. His voice bounced
off the canopy of leaves above him, echoing through the air. He stayed frozen, rooted to the spot as all
grew silent, except for the whistling song of a few birds in the distance. But no one answered his call.
Nor did he hear any more sounds from that direction.
Without really thinking it through, Thomas headed toward the noise he’d heard. Not bothering to hide
his progress, he pushed aside branches as he walked, letting them whip back to position when he passed.
He squinted, willed his eyes to work in the growing darkness, wishing he had a flashlight. He thought
about flashlights and his memory. Once again, he remembered a tangible thing from his past, but couldn’t
assign it to any specific time or place, couldn’t associate it with any other person or event. Frustrating.
“Anybody there?” he asked again, feeling a little calmer since the noise hadn’t repeated. It was
probably just an animal, maybe another beetle blade. Just in case, he called out, “It’s me, Thomas. The
new guy. Well, second-newest guy.”
He winced and shook his head, hoping now that no one was there. He sounded like a complete idiot.
Again, no reply.
He stepped around a large oak and pulled up short. An icy shiver ran down his back. He’d reached the
graveyard.
The clearing was small, maybe thirty square feet, and covered with a thick layer of leafy weeds
growing close to the ground. Thomas could see several clumsily prepared wooden crosses poking through
this growth, their horizontal pieces lashed to the upright ones with a splintery twine. The grave markers
had been painted white, but by someone in an obvious hurry—gelled globs covered them and bare streaks
of wood showed through. Names had been carved into the wood.
Thomas stepped up, hesitantly, to the closest one and knelt down to get a look. The light was so dull
now that he almost felt as if he were looking through black mist. Even the birds had quieted, like they’d
gone to bed for the night, and the sound of insects was barely noticeable, or at least much less than
normal. For the first time, Thomas realized how humid it was in the woods, the damp air already beading
sweat on his forehead, the backs of his hands.
He leaned closer to the first cross. It looked fresh and bore the name Stephen—the n extra small and
right at the edge because the carver hadn’t estimated well how much room he’d need.
Stephen, Thomas thought, feeling an unexpected but detached sorrow. What’s your story? Chuck
annoy you to death?
He stood and walked over to another cross, this one almost completely overgrown with weeds, the
ground firm at its base. Whoever it was, he must’ve been one of the first to die, because his grave looked
the oldest. The name was George.
Thomas looked around and saw there were a dozen or so other graves. A couple of them appeared to
be just as fresh as the first one he’d examined. A silvery glint caught his attention. It was different from
the scuttling beetle that had led him to the forest, but just as odd. He moved through the markers until he
got to a grave covered with a sheet of grimy plastic or glass, its edges slimed with filth. He squinted,
trying to make out what was on the other side, then gasped when it came into focus. It was a window into
another grave—one that had the dusty remnants of a rotting body.
Completely creeped out, Thomas leaned closer to get a better look anyway, curious. The tomb was
smaller than usual—only the top half of the deceased person lay inside. He remembered Chuck’s story
about the boy who’d tried to rappel down the dark hole of the Box after it had descended, only to be cut in
two by something slicing through the air. Words were etched on the glass; Thomas could barely read
them:
Let this half-shank be a warning to all:
You can’t escape through the Box Hole.
Thomas felt the odd urge to snicker—it seemed too ridiculous to be true. But he was also disgusted
with himself for being so shallow and glib. Shaking his head, he had stepped aside to read more names of
the dead when another twig broke, this time straight in front of him, right behind the trees on the other side
of the graveyard.
Then another snap. Then another. Coming closer. And the darkness was thick.
“Who’s out there?” he called, his voice shaky and hollow—it sounded as if he were speaking inside an
insulated tunnel. “Seriously, this is stupid.” He hated to admit to himself just how terrified he was.
Instead of answering, the person gave up all pretense of stealth and started running, crashing through the
forest line around the clearing of the graveyard, circling toward the spot where Thomas stood. He froze,
panic overtaking him. Now only a few feet away, the visitor grew louder and louder until Thomas caught
a shadowed glimpse of a skinny boy limping along in a strange, lilting run.
“Who the he—”
The boy burst through the trees before Thomas could finish. He saw only a flash of pale skin and
enormous eyes—the haunted image of an apparition—and cried out, tried to run, but it was too late. The
figure leaped into the air and was on top of him, slamming into his shoulders, gripping him with strong
hands. Thomas crashed to the ground; he felt a grave marker dig into his back before it snapped in two,
burning a deep scratch along his flesh.
He pushed and swatted at his attacker, a relentless jumble of skin and bones cavorting on top of him as
he tried to gain purchase. It seemed like a monster, a horror from a nightmare, but Thomas knew it had to
be a Glader, someone who’d completely lost his mind. He heard teeth snapping open and closed, a
horrific clack, clack, clack. Then he felt the jarring dagger of pain as the boy’s mouth found a home, bit
deeply into Thomas’s shoulder.
Thomas screamed, the pain like a burst of adrenaline through his blood. He planted the palms of his
hands against his attacker’s chest and pushed, straightening his arms until his muscles strained against the
struggling figure above him. Finally the kid fell back; a sharp crack filled the air as another grave marker
met its demise.
Thomas squirmed away on his hands and feet, sucking in breaths of air, and got his first good look at
the crazed attacker.
It was the sick boy.
It was Ben.
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