Stalker

"It's close to midnight. Brave adventurers, you can not see it, but you know something's lurking in the dark. The door slams behind you, and you know you're in for a long night." A high pitched and nasal voice said, the speaker's face hidden behind a screen.

"I raise my flashlight and look around the room. Can I see anything?" The response was tired, and punctuated by a sigh at both the start and the end of the sentence.

"Only long, hanging cobwebs and decades of dust. This house hasn't been lived in since the fifties, so it's downright archaic for someone like you." At this, the group sighed. Mark must have something in the works, and chances are, it wasn't going to be pretty.

"From the darkness, a shape emerges. You can see a wide smile, its teeth like pearly white tombstones, total blackness surrounding the face, covering all save for two white eyes, black pin pricks in the center of each. They dart around, taking stock of their prey." Mark giggled from behind the screen, his curly black hair bouncing as he laughed.

"It beckons you forward with a hand hidden by shadow, its grin hungry. You all gasp in fear as you realize that you face…The Thriller!" Mark's giggling was high pitched like his voice, and the tired kid placed their head in their hands and rubbed their eyes.

"Oh, shit. Quick question. If the hand was hidden by shadows, how would any of us see it?" The tired kid questioned.

"Uhh… That's a good question, Carter… Maybe keep your silly logic out of my game, please?" Mark hissed over the screen.

"Fine. Maybe tone the descriptions down a bit, I think you're scaring Miller. He's paler than me right now." Carter gestured towards a younger boy who was no more than thirteen, who had turned so pale he looked like a corpse.

"I'm not scared! I'm f-fine. Keep going, Mark." Miller retorted, his eyes opening wide as he looked down at his hands before covering his face, as he was indeed paler than usual.

Mark looked over the screen, a puzzled expression on his face. He adjusted his glasses, and tugged on his hair thoughtfully. After a few more seconds of consideration, Mark folded the screen and put it down.

"I think we'll stop here for the night, gentlemen. You may think you know what you face, but do you really? Find out next week in the climactic conclusion to our campaign of Creeps and Cul-de-sacs!" Mark announced, flashing a wide and toothy grin at his friends, who simply stared at him glassy-eyed.

"Heh, I'll have to sleep a whole week before we do one of these midnight sessions again! Great game, Mark!" John said as he got up and stretched, sliding his chair back under the table as he stepped away, forcing life back into his sleeping limbs.

"Sorry man, I'll make sure I'm in better shape for the next game. Had fun. But now I must sleep." Carter stood as he spoke, flipping his hood up and ruffling Miller's hair as he followed John.

Now only Miller remained. He sat in silence, staring at Mark as he cleaned up the game. Mark looked up at the young boy and smiled at him.

"Did you have fun tonight?" He asked.

"Yeah! It was scary, but fun. Can I play again?" Miller responded, an infectious smile over taking him.

"I don't see why not. Think you can get home alone all right?" Mark asked, carefully placing everyone's character sheets into a folder.

"Oh, yeah. My place is just a block down. My mom's expecting me, so I'd better head home." Miller said, handing his character sheet to Mark and then pushing his chair back into place. He waved at Mark one final time, and trotted up the stairs, shaken, but pleased.

The chill autumn air slowly took hold of Miller as he stepped outside. Leaves lightly blew in the wind. Fall had come late, as it always did in Casterhill. Street lamps provided the only light, as the sun had sunk hours ago, leaving many pockets of darkness where the lamps illumination wouldn't reach.

Miller sighed and breathed in the crisp air. He pulled his hood up and walked down the driveway, slunk around the massive van that was always parked in the center of the driveway. He didn't know who owned it, or the last time it had been driven, as grime coated the windows and red and white painted frame.

He turned left, and began to head down the street, sticking to the sidewalk and trying to ignore the pointed fingers of the underbrush. There was nothing there.

Miller wasn't scared. He was thirteen years old now. He'd be shaving soon, and if his older brother was anything to go by, that was grounds for adulthood. He knew there was nothing in the dark. Adults weren't scared of monsters anyway.

The wind began to whistle, the leaves speeding past Miller like cars on a highway. He pulled his hood further down on his face, and pressed on, easily struggling against the wind.

A whistle turned to a howl, a shriek even. As the wind sped up, a leaf lashed his face, splitting skin and tasting blood. Miller grunted, but kept walking. He had to get home. Casterhill was a sleepy town, so there was hardly any violent crime. However, that wouldn't ease a mother's concerns. So Miller pressed on, racing to beat his special curfew.

The wind stopped suddenly. Miller stumbled, but caught himself before he hit the ground. Something tapped against his ankle, and the poor boy yelped and jumped away. He turned and looked behind him.

Only one of those branches. He sighed in relief. There was nothing there.

Almost like clockwork, the streetlamp above him burst, sparks and glass falling as brilliant flashes against the pockets of darkness. Miller skittered forward, into the darkness and immediately out of it when he realized just what he'd gone into.

Further down the street, back at the edge of Mark's driveway, another lamp shattered and went out. Then another, on the other side of the street, leaving only one lamp illuminating the street against the growing oppression of night..

Miller cautiously stepped into the very center of the pool of yellow light. His heart hammered in his chest, his lungs heaving and hands trembling. It was just a freak accident. The lamps were old, and needed to be replaced.

There was nothing there.

A black dress shoe stepped into view. Miller stared down at it, the edge of the shoe shimmering in the golden light. Static crackled in his ears as his heart leapt into his throat.

There was something there.

"Now there, sonny. You seem scared. There's nothing to be afraid of." A voice cut through the static, a voice like that of an old radio show host. Upbeat and confident. The kind of voice you could listen to for hours, day in and day out.

"Who are you?" Miller asked, keeping his eye fixed on the shoe. A silver tipped cane tapped on the ground next to the foot.

"I'm your Uncle Bennet!" The voice said, static consuming the air after it finished speaking.

"My Uncle Bennet is in Hawaii. He called me yesterday." Miller muttered, his voice almost inaudible.

"Correction. My real name is Wilco! It was just a test, my boy. It's nice to meet you. Shake my hand?" A black gloved hand came into view, and the cane tapped the ground again.

"You have long arms, Wilco." Came Miller's muted reply.

"Indeed I do, my boy! C'mon kid, don't leave me hanging here!" Wilco said, waving his hand and wagging his fingers at the boy.

Fear froze the boy's body. He couldn't force himself to move, even if he wanted to. Yet, his hand reached out and grasped Wilco's. The movement was janky, like a puppet on a string, and just as involuntary.

"Good boy! It was a pleasure meeting you, Miller." The tall man said. Wilco was gone as fast as he'd appeared, fading away like a fuzzy signal.

Miller stood stone still, staring down at the stump where his hand used to be. Blood spurted from the wound, but the pain hadn't reached his brain yet, the static now drowning out everything.

He felt oddly disconnected from everything. He no longer felt the chilly autumn air on his skin, saw nothing, no stars in the sky or yellow light and he heard only that terrible, deafening static.

A dozen hands, unknown and unseen, clutched the boy and dragged him into the underbrush.

The street was empty now.

There was nothing there.