Thea

I used to know what it was. To be afraid.

I was afraid of so many things. Nightmares. The dark. The emptiness under my bed. The inside of my closet, where anything could hide. The voices that I heard whispering to me in the night, that seemed to come from outside the house or under my pillow or, sometimes, inside my own ears.

My mother always knew when the fear had grabbed me. At least, that’s what I remember. I didn’t have to find her, force myself out of bed over that treacherous dark gap. She would just appear there beside me, settling down on my bed, under my rumpled quilts. I remember the smell of her hair, which was long and pale, like mine, and the feeling of her hands as she’d rub my forehead, over and over, until I finally fell asleep.

I was five when she died. Cancer. Fast. And after that, I wasn’t afraid anymore. Because the worst thing had already happened. There was nothing left to fear.

Now nothing can touch me. Nothing even comes close.

It’s already night as I ride to Anders’s house. And they are everywhere. The dark things. All around me. Clinging to the high branches, swaying back and forth with the wind. I can see their twisted bodies and their milky white eyes. I am not afraid. I’ve stared back at the darkness for so long now that what I feel is barely a feeling at all. It’s just recognition. Familiarity.

I know you. I see you. You mean nothing.

The Thorsons’ house is dim. No cars in the drive. I pedal to my usual spot, leave the bike in the shrubs, and creep though the trees.

I’m less cautious than I used to be. I don’t have time to be crafty. Both sides already know me anyway.

I can feel the emptiness even before I reach Anders’s bedroom window. I glance through the pane, just in case. A lamp burns on the bedside table. There’s Goblin, asleep in the twisted bedding. Rumpled clothes on the floor. The row of guitars. One missing. Yvonne.

My X on the window is faded but present, just starting to flake away. I slice my palm with my pocketknife. The cut from half an hour ago has already healed. I retrace the X on the glass before this cut can close, too.

Then I step back, my mind whirring. I watched Anders step through the door of the Underground Music Studio a few hours ago. He won’t be there now. He won’t be at Jezz’s house. But he’s out here somewhere, with his white car and Yvonne.

And suddenly I know exactly where he’ll be.

Anders wants to believe that I don’t really know him. He can believe it all he wants.

I climb onto the bike. The dark things roar as they chase after me. They can’t move faster than I can. They’ll have to use surprise instead. I keep my eyes sharp, looking up, down, ahead, everywhere. I ride so fast that the trees melt into a smear.

At first, when the thud comes, I think I’ve hit a tree. This is something that hasn’t happened since I was little, first figuring out how fast I could move, unable to dependably control it. But then I realize that something has hit me.

It has plummeted from above, dropping on me like a panther. Its black body strikes the bicycle, its hands scrabbling at the handlebars for an instant before leaping away. The front wheel of the bike jags left. I pull it back, steadying, planting my right foot in the mud.

The thing is hunched a few paces behind me. I hone my eyes. I can see its long, long fingers. Its claws. Its eyes are chalky and wide, the shells of two rotting eggs. It makes its sound. A wet, thrumming growl.

I drop the bike and lunge after it.

The thing races away. Back up into the trees. I just have time to make out its bent, bony shape. A few rustling leaves trace its path, and then everything is still.

It wasn’t up for a fight. It was only here to distract me. To slow me down.

I jump back on the bike.

I’m still not afraid.

The dark things aren’t quite real, anyway. Not on this side of the cracks.

But when you’re empty inside, dark things will find a place inside of you. Like water. Like air.

Dig a hole. There will always be enough darkness to fill it up.

That woman at the Crow’s Nest was so filled with them, she practically breathed darkness. Usually the darkness is harder to see; it only shows in flashes, or it’s gray instead of black, like an almost-dead coal.

And of course, most people can’t see it at all.

That’s why the dark things want Anders. Darkness loves to hide in plain sight. It loves being watched and worshipped and heard, without even being seen.

I need to find him. Fast.

I fly past the Crow’s Nest, into the woods.

I can feel him close by.

I stop the bike, climb down from the pedals. Through the trees, I catch the flash of a silver guitar case, one shard of light in the enclosing dark.

They’re hungry. White eyes. Dark teeth. Dark claws.

But I will catch him first.