The Paladin Prophecy

SUICIDE HILL

Will followed Nick as they snuck out of the broom closet to an undersized door hidden between two rows of lockers. Down a dark flight of stairs, along a low, narrow corridor, up another flight of stairs, out another door, and they were outside the field house, on the side facing away from campus toward the thick leading edge of the woods.

Will gulped in deep breaths of cold air, hands on his head as he walked off the stress and tried to make sense of what he’d seen.

A window in the air … like the one in the hills behind my house! A window into the Never-Was … That’s where the monsters come from and that’s how they get here … burbelangs and gremlins and whatever the hell that last horror was.

Nick watched him the whole time, arms folded, leaning against a tree, rolling a toothpick around in his mouth. “What’cha doing at the Barn anywho, dawg?”

“I’m supposed to hook up with the cross-country team and Coach Jericho.”

“Jericho? Aw, man, that is tragic,” said Nick, shaking his head.

“Why, what’s the matter with him?”

“Ira Jericho’s a classic death-dealing crush-your-spinal-column hard-ass. And by the way, about said dude? He’s watching you right now.”

Will turned. A tall, rail-thin man in formfitting dark blue sweats stood forty yards away, where a dirt path from the field house entered the woods. Jericho wore his long thick black hair in a ponytail. His face was so bronzed it almost looked carved. He had severe cheekbones and a thin severe mouth. His dark eyes stared intensely at Will. He inserted two fingers in his mouth and let out a shrill, piercing whistle. He pointed a finger at Will, then at his feet: You. Right here, right now.

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