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Dead leaves rustled in the gutters, their bright fall colours leeched to grey in the distant street light, the early dark. Thorn kicked them from his path, feeling the crisp crunches beneath his shoes as the shapes distorted and crushed, crumpling into autumn dust. The twilight had a charm of its own, and he walked quickly, eyes open to the patterned play of shadows, but mind distant. He had homework to finish when he got back to the dorm, and maybe he could sneak in a little more painting before lights-out.

He drew his jacket closer over his chest as the wind picked up, an icy chill that seemed far too early for the season, blowing straight through and stopping him cold. The leaves fled from the gust, and the shadows they left… weren’t right.

He’d been alone in this street, he was sure. The shops were closed. There weren’t even any cars. But a shadow that wasn’t his shadow was shifting.

He snuck a look over his shoulder, eyes turning first to the darkening sky. The bat incident had left him nervous, that was the logical explanation. He had a right to be, given how scratched up they’d left him, and the bites he’d seen on other people being wheeled off to hospital. But the heavy clouds showed no signs of the flying menaces that had attacked at the fair.

It was very quiet. He found his gaze drawn back to street level.

There was a figure standing in the street, just at the edge of the light.

They must have come out of a shop while he was daydreaming, he realised. With a little groan at his own jumpiness, he turned away to continue walking. The feeling of being watched remained. The feeling of being followed. When he glanced around again, the figure was still there, just the same distance away, not moving.

The air itself felt heavy, almost charged. Almost haunted. A chill settled over him, blood and bone, that had nothing to do with the wind. His fingers felt out the pendant around his neck, wrapping around the smooth stone, the carved rune, and he turned to fully face the shadowy watcher.

“Mom?”

He took a cautious step towards the figure. The darkness swallowed it up. He froze in place, trying to find it again, an outline, an edge, a face.

“Don’t go!” he begged the darkness. “If you’re there, give me a sign.”

The figure, if it was there at all, was silent. A ghost? Or a real, living woman who wanted to be close but didn’t want to be seen?

Thorn stared into the darkness beyond the street light. But the night had closed in on him, and he couldn’t pick her out, the fold of her long coat, her trailing dark hair, the same colour as his own. He almost couldn’t picture her at all.

The tension was too much. The silence was too much. Thorn turned and fled from the eerie presence, racing through the streets, and he could feel it whispering behind him, faint like fairy footsteps, barely there but filling his world.

It stayed with him as he skidded through the Hillworth gates, just within curfew. It followed him through the halls. And when he reached his dorm room, flung open the door and stepped inside, he thought he saw it watching him, as he turned to close the door.

Inside, the room was dull and empty, the bed made, personal items stowed out of confiscation reach, the harsh fluorescent light banishing shadows. The sense of… presence slowly faded as the normality of the little room settled his nerves.

And it seemed like nothing. It seemed like a prank, someone trying to weird him out for the hell of it. He leaned his back against the door. So why did he feel like crying?


(644 words)