Ghost Walk

CHAPTER THREE

Ken Ripple wiped the sweat out of his eyes. Then, hands on hips, he stretched his aching back. He let out a satisfied sigh as it cracked.

“Getting too old for this shit?” Terry Klein asked.

“No,” Ken said. “I was banging your wife last night and threw my back out.”

“Well, at least one of us is getting some from her.” Terry pulled off his leather work gloves and flexed his fingers. “Damn, blisters.”

Ken grinned. “Too much jerking off.”

“Like I said, at least one of us is getting some from her.”

Both men laughed, and then turned back to the business at hand: rigging a pulley system to an out house door. When triggered, the series of cable and pulleys would open the door, allowing a dummy to lurch out at unsuspecting passersby. All they had to do was step on the hidden switch. The dummy wasn’t much—straw and plywood covered with some of Terry’s old clothes, and a rubber monster mask for a face—but in the dark, it would suffice.

The Ghost Walk had been Ken’s idea. He’d always enjoyed haunted attractions. Central Pennsylvania was loaded with them—Field of Screams, Jason’s Woods, The Spook House, The Haunted Mill, Scream in the Park. But it wasn’t until last year, when Ken had attended a trade convention in Baltimore for haunted attraction operators, that he’d gone from an enthusiast to designer. He’d gone to the convention out of curiosity, hoping for a glimpse behind the curtain, some trade secrets, how the magicians pulled their rabbits out of the proverbial hat. Instead, he’d come away with a deep desire to build an attraction himself.

And dedicate it to Deena’s memory.

Two years ago, Ken’s wife, Deena, while suffering from a slight cold, had missed her period. A home pregnancy test showed a positive result. This was a joyous event. They’d been trying to have a child, without success, for the last three years. But the subsequent follow-up visit with the doctor brought grim news—her slight cold was anything but, and Deena wasn’t pregnant. Instead of a baby growing inside her, she had a tumor. The cancer had already spread. Four months later, she was gone, and Ken was alone again. He missed her more and more each day. His friends and family told him that it would get easier with time, but it didn’t. Yes, the emotional wounds healed, but the scars still ached.

To honor his wife, Ken decided to build a haunted attraction, and donate the proceeds to women’s cancer research. The area around LeHorn’s Hollow seemed like the perfect location. It was steeped in local folklore—ghosts and witches and all kinds of creepy phenomena. Murders, both solved and unsolved. The place was perfect. Sadly, he couldn’t construct his Ghost Walk on the LeHorn property, since the land’s own ership was tied up in a lengthy battle between the state and surviving family members. But the woods around LeHorn’s Hollow were vast, and a lot of it was untouched by the fires, which had consumed so much two years before. And the area that had been burned wasn’t suitable; it was ash and rubble—a wasteland.

Ken decided to situate his attraction as close to LeHorn’s Hollow as was legally—and environmentally—possible.

First, he approached the board of directors at the Gladstone Pulpwood Company, which owned some of the neighboring forest (the state and local governments, and several farmers and companies owned the rest). After several meetings and a lot of pleading, he secured the company’s support and the usage of their land. More importantly, he benefited from their insurance coverage.

Then he took his idea to the township and got the proper permits and permissions. That had been a little trickier. There was a lot of red tape to cut through. Zoning wasn’t an issue, since the Ghost Walk was situated on Gladstone property and privately owned land donated by neighboring farmers. But he needed to apply for building permits, provide a site plan and all sorts of documentation, and fill out a seemingly never-ending pile of applications. Eventually, however, he got it approved.

Finally, he put out a call for volunteers. Men and women from various local organizations and churches answered the call—students, youth groups, retirees, volunteer firemen and medical responders, and members of the Lions Club, VFW, American Legion, Rotary, Masonic Lodge, and Knights of Columbus. All donated their time and labor while Ken funded the undertaking and oversaw construction. He obtained some corporate sponsors. The local hardware store donated supplies, as did the lumberyard. Ken studied back issues of Haunted Attraction magazine and contacted some professionals via a message board for haunt enthusiasts, all of whom were very helpful. He’d been stunned and grateful beyond words at the kindness and enthusiasm the community had shown.

Construction had started in August. Ken and a few volunteers had scouted the forest, marking trees to indicate in which direction the trail should go. Then they cut through the brambles and brush, clearing the undergrowth so that they could commence with the design.

And here he was, just a few days from the grand opening—and there was still a ton of things to do. He’d taken his two weeks of paid vacation from his day job, and was using it to get everything completed in time.

His only regret was that, because of the time the whole process had taken, he wouldn’t open until Halloween Eve. Most haunted attractions were open for the entire month; the Ghost Walk would only run from the night before Halloween to the first weekend in November. Still, if it was a success, maybe they’d be open sooner next year.

Finished with the pulley system, the men tested it out. Ken stepped on the hidden pressure switch, which was hidden beneath dirt and leaves. On cue, the out house door banged open and the dummy lunged out. Then it leaned back inside and the door slammed shut again.

“Perfect,” Ken said.

“What’s next?” Terry asked.

Ken sighed. “Too much. The guys from the VFW are almost done with the maze house, but we need to rig some strobe lights inside it. The trail needs to be raked again. We have to make sure we remove all rocks, roots, and anything else somebody could trip over. Last thing we want is someone taking a tumble and suing us. Someone with a pickup truck needs to make a run to Nelson Leiphart’s place. He’s got a field of dead cornstalks that we can use for camouflage along the trail.”

“Camouflage?”

“Sure. In addition to the buildings and scenarios, we’re gonna have volunteers in masks or makeup hiding along the trail. When people walk by, they’ll jump out and hopefully scare the shit out of them. So we need to camouflage their hiding places.”

Terry frowned. “Shouldn’t we use tree branches and leaves? Would look more natural. Or plywood sheeting, maybe?”

“Sure, but part of the fun is knowing there’s something up ahead. People see the cornstalks and they’ll be dreading taking another step. But at the same time, they’ll have no choice. Helps to ramp up their fears. Plus, cornstalks are suited to Halloween. It’s all about the ambience.”

Smiling, Terry shook his head.

“What?” Ken asked. “What are you laughing at?”

“You, man. It’s amazing. I’ve known you since high school, but I’ve never seen you as fired up about something as you are this. I mean, just listen to you talking about this—I’m impressed. By day, you hang drywall. But after work, you become an expert at this shit. I’ve got to hand it to you, Ken. When you first came up with this idea, I figured you’d lose your shirt. But you’ve really pulled it together.”

“Well, I could still lose my shirt. It’s all for nothing if nobody shows up on opening night.”

“They’ll come.” Terry put his hand on Ken’s shoulder and gave him a squeeze. “Deena would be proud of you.”

“Thanks.”

Ken’s voice was thick with emotion. They stood in awkward silence for a few seconds. Then Terry cleared his throat and removed his hand.

“Okay,” he said. “Where do you want me next?”

“Can you give Sylva and Clark a hand unloading those bags of lime? We need it to outline the trail.”

“Sure. What are you gonna do?”

“Walk the trail. Check up on everybody. See if I can spot any last-minute things we might have missed. And later, I’m supposed to meet with some reporter. Trying to get a write-up in the paper. They’ll probably do a hatchet job.”

“Better you than me.”

“Yeah.”

Terry gathered his tools and then strolled back up the trail, vanishing around the bend. Ken turned around and walked the other way, following the trail deeper into the forest. He inspected various locations along the way, making sure they were functional. The guillotine, whose dummy had a removable head. The spider’s grove, an area of the trail overrun with gauze “webs.” A pit in the earth, made up to look like a flying saucer crash site, complete with bits of twisted metal and several “alien” bodies. Scattered hiding places, small sheds that housed generators and first-aid stations.

The sound of hammering greeted him as he approached the maze house. It was a ramshackle construct. Low-hanging branches scraped against the corrugated tin roof. Various grades of plywood and weathered planks made up the outer walls. It looked exactly as Ken had wanted it to—like something out of a backwoods horror movie. House of 1,000 Corpses or Texas Chainsaw Massacre or Cabin Fever. He pushed past a sheet of plastic nailed over the doorway and stepped inside. The interior was far different. Black plastic covered the walls, floor, and ceiling, blocking out all light. Three different passageways led off into the darkness. The center hall glowed dimly. Ken followed it to the source of illumination: a string of work lights hanging from the ceiling. Four retired VFW members were putting another dead end into place, driving nails into the thick plywood.

“Hey, guys.”

The men stopped hammering and turned to him.

“Howdy, Mr. Ripple.” The speaker, Cecil Smeltzer, pulled a red bandanna from his back pocket and wiped his brow. “It’s coming along good. Darned if we don’t get lost trying to find our way back out.”

Ken laughed. “Let’s hope not. Wouldn’t want to send a search party in here after you.”

“No, we wouldn’t.”

“It looks good, guys. I really appreciate your help. You’ve done a great job.”

“No need to thank us,” Cecil said. “It’s for a good cause.”

The others murmured their agreement.

“And besides,” Cecil continued, “it ain’t like we’ve got much to do during the day anyway.”

Ken allowed them to show him all they’d done, and nodded with satisfaction. Then he exited the maze and continued down the trail. The work sounds faded, and silence enveloped him. The forest was still, the quiet noticeable. Ken supposed that all the activity had scared off the wildlife, but the absence of even the birds and insects was a little unsettling.

He reached the end of the trail, which opened up into a barren field. Stubs of harvested cornstalks jutted from the rocky soil. When the Ghost Walk was up and running, hay wagons and tractors would be positioned in the field to transport the customers back to their cars. There were supposed to be two teenaged volunteers working here. They’d been tasked with roping off the trail’s end and clearly marking the exit. Since they were seniors, the high school allowed them to leave school in the afternoon and help out with the Ghost Walk; all part of the workplace credit program. The idea was that they’d learn valuable skills that could be applied in the job market after they’d graduated. But reality was something different. Instead of working for him, they’d apparently played hooky.

Ken swore under his breath. The rope lay on the ground, along with the exit signs. There was no sign of the teens.

“Hey,” he hollered, trying to remember their names. He searched his memory, to no avail. “Hey, you kids!”

His voice echoed through the forest. He paused, listening. Then he remembered their names.

“Sam! Rhonda!”

They were good kids, for the most part. Except for now, when he needed something done. He called out again but there was no answer.

“Goddamn it. Want something done right, you’ve got to do it yourself.”

Sighing, he gathered the rope and began stringing it up between the trees. The echoes faded and the unnerving silence returned.

Won’t be quiet for long, Ken thought. Hopefully, on Halloween, there’ll be lots of screams.

“What was that?”

Rhonda Garrett squeezed Sam Freeman’s hand. She halted, glancing back through the forest. Sam cocked his head and listened.

“Sounds like Mr. Ripple,” Sam said.

“He’s probably looking for us. Maybe we should go back.”

“Screw that,” Sam argued. “When we go back, if he says anything, we’ll tell him we had to go piss.”

“In the woods?”

“Why not?”

“Poison ivy, for one thing.”

“It’s October. There’s no poison ivy now.”

Sam tugged her hand, leading her forward. Rhonda halted again, reluctant.

“I don’t know, Sam. We could get in trouble. I don’t need anymore drama from my mom. She’s still tripping about catching us in the hot tub.”

“She’s just mad because you’re getting some and she’s not.”

Rhonda gasped. “That’s terrible!”

“It’s true. Your mom would be a lot nicer if she’d just get laid. When was the last time she went out on a date?”

“I don’t remember. Probably years.”

“Well, there you go.”

“It wasn’t just the hot tub,” Rhonda whispered. “I think she suspects.”

“No way. She can’t. We were careful.”

“I know, but I still think—”

Sam interrupted her. “I thought we weren’t going to talk about that. We need to move on. It’s a nice day. No need to bring ourselves down.”

Rhonda’s bottom lip quivered. Her eyes grew watery. Feeling guilty, Sam tried to change the subject.

“Maybe we should fix her up with somebody,” he suggested.

“How about Mr. Porter?”

Sam grimaced. “The shop teacher? He’s like seventy and shit.”

“He’s nice.”

“He’s old. And he scratches his ass.”

“Oh, he does not.”

“Straight up. He sticks his hand down the back of his pants when he thinks nobody is looking. Then he scratches his ass and sniffs his finger.”

“That’s disgusting!”

“That’s Mr. Porter.”

Rhonda laughed. “Well, then who would you suggest?”

“How about a little mother–daughter action.”

Rhonda slapped his shoulder. “You’re disgusting.”

“I can’t help it. Your mom’s a MILF.”

Rhonda pulled away. “I’m going back. You can stay here.”

Sam grabbed her arm. “I was just playing. I’m sorry.”

“It’s not funny. That’s my mother you’re talking about.”

Sam pulled Rhonda closer and kissed the top of her head. Her hair smelled like strawberry-scented shampoo. His lips grazed her forehead, then dipped to her ear. He nuzzled her neck. Rhonda sighed.

“I’m sorry,” he repeated. “Let me make it up to you?”

“Not here. Let’s go a little further. This close to the trail, I won’t be able to relax.”

“Okay. We’ll go where they can’t find us.”

He led her deeper into the forest. The trees were close together and the air grew colder. They could see their breath like smoke. They walked hand in hand, not talking, comfortable in their shared silence. Sam wondered what Rhonda was thinking about and decided it was probably how much trouble they’d be in if they were gone too long. She always worried about getting into trouble. Rhonda wondered what Sam was thinking about and decided it was probably sex. He was usually preoccupied with it.

Though neither of them knew it, they were actually thinking about the same thing.

Their baby.

Sam and Rhonda had known each other since the sixth grade. They’d been dating since the ninth. Their relationship was surprisingly free of all the usual teen angst. But seven months ago they’d faced their first big hurdle when Rhonda missed her period. They’d been careful. Sam always wore a rubber. But despite that, Rhonda got pregnant. After coping with the initial shock and dread, the two agreed to keep it a secret from their families.

Rhonda was terrified of what her mother would say. Her mother, twice divorced, had gotten pregnant with Rhonda at seventeen and never missed an opportunity to remind her daughter what a mistake that had been. Also, Rhonda wanted to go to college. How could she juggle that with the demands of being a parent?

Sam was frightened of the responsibility it would bring. Sure, he loved Rhonda. He always had. But he wasn’t ready to get married yet. Although he hadn’t told her, after graduation, he wanted to join the Marines and go to Iraq or Afghanistan. She’d have enough problems with that without adding a baby to the situation.

The abortion was a mutual decision, if not an easy one. Pennsylvania law stated that women under the age of eighteen needed permission from a parent before having an abortion. No way would Rhonda’s mother ever agree to such a thing, and the only contact she had with her father was the monthly child support checks. Her stepfather had moved to North Carolina after her mother divorced him. Parental consent was out. And Pennsylvania required women to go through a “state-mandated information session”—basically, they tried to talk you out of getting an abortion. She didn’t need that drama.

After Rhonda confided in her best friend April, they came up with a solution. Washington, D.C., had no parental notification or consent laws, and it was only a three and a half hour drive from York County. Sam went online and bought fake IDs for them both, stating that they resided in the District of Columbia. Then, on a rainy Tuesday, they called in sick to school and made the drive.

They’d been haunted by it ever since.

Both were thinking about it when a man stepped out from behind a tree and pointed a rifle at them.

“Don’t scream,” he rasped. “Don’t make a sound. Move and I’ll blow your fucking brains out the backs of your heads.”

Rhonda’s grip tightened. She squeezed Sam’s hand, grinding his fingers together.

“What do you want?” Sam asked, trying to hide his panic.

The man grinned. “You.”

The entity inside Richard Henry had many names, yet none of them were its true name. To speak that aloud was to invite certain death and destruction. It, along with its twelve brothers, was one of the oldest things in the universe. Indeed, it had been old before this universe was even created. It was not a demon, though many throughout history had mistakenly thought it as such. Nor was it a god, though it had occasionally been worshipped as one over the centuries.

Since well before the dawn of humanity, it had taken different forms, used different faces—a satyr, a pillar of fire, a small child, a storm cloud, a black goat, a giant serpent, and others. Anything that mankind feared, anything that haunted them, this being could replicate. Each guise had a different name attributed to it. Verminus. Nuada. Lud. Shub-Niggurath. Pahad, who hungers. Lilitu, the cold one. The Mesopotamians knew it as Lamashtu. Cain’s tribe called it Nud. Another clan, forgotten by history, called it Othel. To some civilizations, it was the Father of Pan. To others, the Living Darkness. One obscure sect had believed it to be the sire of Kali. The Celts figured out its real name, mistakenly thought it a benevolent deity, and had paid the price for that tragic error. The Romans had also known its real name, but refused to speak it out loud, instead referencing it only in their texts. Humanity had since mistakenly believed that the Romans didn’t know its real name either. The Greeks had believed that merely acknowledging its existence could lead to madness. To avoid the risk of speaking its name, many cultures struck all references to it from their histories and grimoires. Others simply called it He Who Shall Not Be Named.

Its real form was a shapeless, shifting darkness—the absence of light made solid.

Its real name was Nodens.

Nodens’ temples could be found everywhere across the universe. On distant planets unknown by mankind, like the twin moons of distant Yhe and the fungal gardens of Yaksh. In the deserted tunnels beneath Mars and in the center of Jupiter’s Great Red Spot. On frozen, barren Io and several hurtling asteroids. And on Earth, in the ruins of Mesopotamia, Babylon, Rome, and Persia, and more recent diggings in Oregon, Hawaii, Peru, Kenya, the Yian-Ho province in China, and the Welsh counties of Gloucestershire and Monmouthshire.

Nodens existed in none of these temples. Instead, it resided in the center of a place—a Labyrinth—that spanned space and time, dimensions and realities. From there, it sent out tendrils to different worlds, searching for the slightest opening. When conditions were favorable, these exploratory feelers breached the barriers between dimensions, allowing it to infect entire worlds with its darkness. All it needed was an open door.

Nodens had corrupted other Earths before. Alternate Earths. Ones whose dominion wasn’t given to Ob or Leviathan or Behemoth or Kandara or any of the others among the Thirteen.

Now it was this Earth’s turn.

It studied the male and the female through Richard Henry’s eyes, sensed their fear, and tasted their terror.

The darkness quivered with excitement.

No matter how many times Nodens had done this over the eons, it never tired of the destruction and violation—the utter desolation that followed in its wake.

The time was near. The barriers were weakening. But first, before Nodens could totally engulf this world, it had to finish the breach. The seven sigils carved into the rocks encircling the doorway prevented that. It couldn’t touch the sigils or move the rocks.

But these creatures—and others like them—could.

“Keep walking. Bear to the right.”

“Look…” Sam turned around.

The man thrust the rifle at him. “I said keep walking. You stop again, or turn around, and I’ll blow your fucking head off. You’d better just do as I tell you.”

Despite the threatening words, the man’s voice was flat. He looked bad—spoiled. Smelled like it, too. Judging by the condition of his clothes and his unkempt appearance, he’d been out here in the woods for a few days. His skin was pale and sallow. His fingernails were caked with dirt. Leaves and twigs clung to his greasy hair, and his bald spot and other exposed areas were covered with scabs and bug bites. But it was his eyes that disturbed Sam the most. They were black—two impenetrable obsidian holes floating above the guy’s nose. No iris. No sclera. No cornea. No color. Just darkness.

Normal people didn’t have eyes like that.

The man stroked the rifle’s trigger. Sam trudged forward, ducking the low-hanging branches. Rhonda reached for his hand. Her palm was sweaty. Sam felt her pulse hammering beneath the skin. Its rate matched his own.

“Look, mister,” he tried again, careful not to turn around or stop walking. “Let my girlfriend go. Whatever the problem is, she doesn’t have to—”

“I need you both,” he said with that same inflectionless tone. “Straight ahead. Don’t stop until I tell you.”

Guy’s a freak, Sam thought. Maybe he’s sick. Infected with something that made his eyes like that. Or maybe he’s just fucked up. Wants to watch us get it on or something. Or maybe he’s gonna kill me and do something to Rhonda.

He shuddered. But if that was true, then why hadn’t the man shot him already? Probably because they were still in earshot of Mr. Ripple and the other volunteers. He was forcing them to march farther into the forest, away from the Ghost Walk. That couldn’t be a good sign. Sam considered shouting for help, but his fear wouldn’t let him. If he called out, the man might shoot him on the spot.

The ground sloped downward. They came to a thin, trickling creek.

“Go across.”

Sam and Rhonda did as ordered. Rhonda slipped on the far bank and her foot splashed into the water, soaking her shoe.

“Keep going. Straight. Not much farther now.”

Thorny vines tugged at their legs as they continued on. Occasionally, the man would give them a direction—left, right, or straight ahead. Otherwise, he said nothing. The forest was silent. Sam winced as a branch whipped his face. A red welt formed on his cheek. He rubbed it gingerly, then wiped tears from his eyes. Rhonda stumbled over a rock, but Sam kept hold of her hand and held her upright. Eventually, the dense undergrowth thinned out. They passed by some dead trees, and soon entered a burned-out hollow.

“Almost there.”

Rhonda sobbed. “Please don’t hurt us. We’ll do anything you want.”

“Yes, you will.”

The ground was covered with a thick layer of ash. It swirled around their feet as they plodded forward. Some of it flew into Sam’s mouth and nose, and he coughed. Unable to help himself, he halted. Rhonda did, too. When he could breathe again, Sam glanced back at the man, ready to beg forgiveness for defying his orders to keep moving. The plea died in his throat. The man had stopped, too. He held the rifle in the crook of his arm, pointed away from them.

“I’m sorry,” Sam said. “The ash…”

“Doesn’t matter. We’re here.”

“W-what are you going to do to us?” Rhonda stammered. “We did everything you asked.”

“Yeah,” Sam said. “We won’t tell anybody. We promise.”

“Just let us go. Please?”

“You can both leave here once you’ve moved those rocks.”

Sam blinked. “Rocks?”

The man nodded his head at something behind them. Slowly, Sam and Rhonda both turned. Their eyes widened. A circle of round, gray stones jutted up from the ash. Judging by the marks on the ground, some of them had only recently been uncovered. The stones had strange carvings on them. One of them lay on its side, revealing a hole in the earth.

Sam turned back to the man. “You want us to do what?”

“I can’t touch the stones. But you can. I want each of you to move one.”

Rhonda frowned. “What for?”

“Because if you don’t, I’ll kill you.”

He pointed the rifle at them again and stepped forward, forcing the teens toward the circle. Sam and Rhonda walked backward, their eyes not leaving the gun.

“Besides,” the man said, his tone still emotionless, “there’s somebody waiting for you inside the circle.”

Sam balled his fists up at his sides. “Who?”

The man didn’t respond.

“His eyes,” Rhonda whispered. “What’s wrong with his eyes?”

Sam hushed her with a warning glance. Rhonda fell silent.

They reached the stones. The man kept the rifle aimed at them, holding it at waist level. He nodded at Sam.

“You first.”

Grimacing, Sam slowly turned his back to them and knelt down. He tensed, expecting to feel his head split apart at any second, but their captor made no move. Sam put his hands on the stone in front of him. It felt cool, but quickly warmed to his touch. He could have sworn that it was vibrating slightly. The fillings in his teeth began to ache. Sam winced. He needed to piss. His bladder felt like it was going to burst.

“Don’t pull it out yet,” the man warned. “Your turn, girl.”

Rhonda knelt next to Sam. They both waited. As they did, something occurred to Sam. Obviously, they were in the part of the forest that had burned down two years ago. The area was barren and desolate—but shouldn’t it have been alive again? It had been two years. Surely, new growth would have started by now—saplings pushing their way through the ashes, small plants seeking new footholds in the wide open space. Instead, there was nothing.

“Okay,” the man said, interrupting Sam’s thoughts. “Pull those rocks out and toss them aside.”

Ignoring his bladder’s insistent urgings, Sam tugged and pushed until the heavy stone came free. Rhonda did too, but couldn’t get the stone to move. Grunting, she pushed as hard as she could. Veins stood out in her neck and forehead. She sat back, exasperated.

“It won’t move.”

“Do it.”

“Sam can do it. He’s stronger than me.”

“He’s already touched one. It’s your turn.”

“I can’t!”

“Do it or your boyfriend dies.”

With an angry shout, Rhonda freed the rock from the soil. It rolled aside, revealing more of the strange carvings.

“What now?” Sam asked, not looking back.

There was no response.

With the sigils removed, Nodens sent two more tendrils surging through the doorway and into the world.

Sam and Rhonda heard it at the same time.

A baby. Crying.

“Oh, God,” Sam gasped. “Oh, my fucking God.”

The baby’s cries grew louder.

“I’m sorry,” Rhonda sobbed. Tears streamed down her anguished face. “I’m so sorry. I want to take it back.”

In the center of the broken circle, darkness swirled, coalescing into a cloud. They watched, terrified but unable to turn away, as it formed their greatest regret. Their greatest loss. Their greatest fear.

It opened its eyes and curled its little hands into fists.

The ghost of Sam and Rhonda’s dead baby screamed for its parents.

They screamed, too.

And then the darkness took them.