By Robert Staub
My name is Seth. I’m in the 4th grade and walking home from school. Every day at 3:00 p.m. when school’s over, I walk fast and sometimes run home to watch Superman at 3:30 and Dark Shadows at 4:00. My wristwatch that Mom bought me for Christmas reads 3:17. I need to run the rest of the way home.
A shortcut through the woods near our house will get me home by 3:30, but I’m not allowed to go into the woods. Mom says it could be dangerous because you can’t see through the trees from one side to the other. Cops on the radio and even the newspaper have been warning people to stay out of the woods, but I don’t know why.
Today’s the day to try the woods. The key is not to tell Mom. Nothing is going to happen, anyway. Anything bad at all and I’ll run. Nothing can catch me when I’m running at full speed. I jog across Birch Lane and up into the woods. The leaves and fallen branches are kind of deep this year. Even halfway up to the knees in some places. I jump on the branches just to hear them pop, feel them crunch. Some huge maples and oaks grow up on the rise to the left. Somebody could hide behind those trees if they wanted to, but I don’t see anyone.
I’ve always loved the woods. They’re pretty in November. Colored leaves flutter down, and a breeze blows through the trees on most days. All I need to do is jog straight through to Rose Hill Avenue and then home. I got two packs of Now or Later candy in my pocket for the shows. I don’t want to miss anything.
It’s a little bit colder in the woods today, and windy. About halfway through, I pick up my pace and hear something, like it’s on the wind. A loud whisper. “Pretty girl…pretty girl...pretty girl.”
I heard it! I know I did. But I’m not a girl I’m a boy. I’m wearing a hockey jersey, jeans and sneakers. Maybe someone’s just messing around with me.
“Pretty girl.”
Much louder this time. Sharp sound of twigs cracking and crunching behind me. My arms feel prickly. My heart pounds. I start to run, but my legs feel heavy. Can’t go fast like usual. I look over my shoulder. A big man in dark clothes and an open poncho is running toward me. I see his big, black teeth. He’s got something in his hand.
I’m halfway through the woods now, pointed towards home. I start to run as hard as I can. Finally, my legs feel lighter, and I’m running faster. The deep leaves make it hard but I can feel my sneakers kick up higher as each stride stretches out longer.
There, about a football field ahead, I see light. It’s the edge of the woods and a small bit of our street.
I’m running too fast now. I trip over a branch and lose my balance, falling flat on my face, arms outstretched. I spit out dirt and leaves. The noise gets closer. I try to stand up. I’m kicked in the back so hard that the air is knocked out of me. I can’t breathe. I can’t move. Out of the corner of my eye, I see a man with rotten teeth and greasy hair crouching over me. He holds a long screwdriver in his left hand.
He gets closer to my face. He smiles at me. His green and bloodshot eyes bore through me. His breath smells horrible. He whispers to me, “Pretty girl. You’re a pretty girl. A special treat just for daddy!” I seem frozen to the ground. I’m so scared, I pee my pants.
Somehow, I force myself up, yell, and push the man aside. I take a few steps forward. A sudden real bad pain, like a giant hornet sting, explodes in my left shoulder. I scream in pain. I feel a couple of more stings in my back. I run faster, fueled by fear. I want to live!
He’s still right behind me. I can hear his wheezing breath. As in dreamy slow motion, the sunlight moves closer. I tell myself to run faster. I break out of the woods and almost stumble onto my street. I catch my balance and look back. The man is still in the woods. But I hear “Pretty girl!”
I jog toward my house, looking over my shoulder. He’s not following me. Our house is just ahead of me, on the corner. My back and shoulder throb with pain, but I think I’m gonna be okay. I’m not gonna die.
Mom will call the cops. She’ll call an ambulance. She’ll yell at me. I’m so sorry, Mom. I’ll never do anything like this again. Never. Not ever.
It took a few days after the man in the woods stabbed me, but the cops caught him, and a judge sentenced him to prison. Even though I have bad dreams sometimes, I sleep better now that he’s locked away in an upstate prison for many years.
Just before bed, Mom and Dad were arguing about something they heard on the radio. I heard Dad say “No, not just yet. He’s been through enough. We’ll discuss it with him immediately after he’s caught.”
Early March this year is in like a lion. An icy night. A cold sky filled with stars. Snow still on the ground. I’m dreaming when something wakes me up. I look at the clock. It’s 3:14 a.m. I groan, roll over, and pull a heavy blanket over me. It takes forever to fall back to sleep.
The alarm blares at 7:00 a.m. I stretch and yawn. I pull open the window shade. The sunrise is getting brighter. Something is smeared on my window in what looks like dark finger paint, but I don’t know what it is. I put on my robe and boots and go outside. Frozen snow crunches under my feet as I walk around the house to my bedroom window. I see other footprints in the snow. A sudden chill stabs through me when I look at my window.
Spelled out in red, frozen blood are the words, “PRETTY GIRL.”
Robert Staub writes Speculative Fiction. He has had stories published in Literary Orphans and The Siren's Call.
