A YEAR LATER, nothing is the same as it was, but somehow it might be better. It’s an entirely new decade. The four of us are high school graduates. Charlie takes photos for the Windale Press and loves every second of it. Gabe is training to be a deputy under Chief Rebecca Conner. Sonya and I are preparing to head for Massachusetts any day now.
The “riot” left a lot of people in Windale feeling lost and unsure of their own realities. The anomaly invaded so many people’s minds and caused so much trauma in the process that half the population of the town moved away. Toward the end of our last year of high school, businesses started closing their doors, too. The diner, which burned to the ground that night, never reopened. In March and April, the Sunrise Theater and Sid’s Comic Emporium went under. By the time graduation came around, most of the Triangle was plastered with OUT OF BUSINESS signs.
In August of 1990, Sonya and I meet Gabe and Charlie at the end of Whisper Trail, at the lookout spot. We’re too afraid to go down the trail to the clearing. But this is close enough. This spot is sacred in its own right, not just for our friendship but for so many lives lost to senseless, selfish violence.
We pull each other in and hold each other tight for what feels like a long time and not nearly long enough. Sonya’s hand slips into mine, fingers lacing together. The air is warm, but there’s a cool breeze. The leaves whisper and shake. It won’t be long before autumn makes them extra chattery. In the distance, the water tower is like a pale blue balloon, lingering over a quiet, fearful place. A place that feels like home, even after everything.
“I still promise,” I say, looking around at the others, lastly at Charlie, who grins and blushes. I don’t have to explain what promise I’m referring to. “I still promise if you guys do.”
“I promise,” Sonya says, resting her forehead against mine.
“Me too,” Gabe says. He runs a hand through his hair, squinting against the sun.
“Wait,” Charlie says. “What the hell are you guys talking about? I don’t remember any promise.” The rest of us groan while he cackles, holding his stomach, leaning on his cane. After a moment, he says, “You know I promise. Always.”
We stay there a while longer, hesitating before whatever comes next. I glance around, listening to the trees rustle. Not far along Whisper Trail, near the boulder where we made our original promise, I spot something moving up a gnarled trunk. It’s long and slithery, a bug, winding its way up the tree with a thousand legs, searching ahead of itself with arching antennae. It’s as black as a night sky.
I close my eyes, my chest suddenly tight with panic. It’s not real, it’s not real, it’s not real. I count to ten. When I open my eyes, the thousand-legger is gone. But I still feel an itch creeping up the center of my back, a sense that we’re not alone.
Maybe we never will be.