Page 183 of Tis the Season to be Bullied

I bat branches and leaves out of my way, forcing myself not to look back, knowing the second I do, I’ll trip, fall, be gutted to death.

Instead, I squint forward. Finally, a dark shape looms up ahead. I skid to a halt as I gape at the remains of a church. The roof and two of the walls are caved in. Brambles have reclaimed much of the structure, leaves and drifts of dirt the rest. But there’s no mistaking the cross that used to be on the tower, even if it’s stuck upside down in a hillock of soil that’s grown moss and small shrubs all over it.

And here I was trying to find my way back to my gran’s house.

I want to laugh, but I’m too busy panting. Thundering footsteps push me out of my trance, and I dart into the midnight depths of the church. My heart thumps too hard, too loud, as I hunt around furiously for somewhere to hide.

Briar

I slow down to a walk, allowing my breathing to return to normal after the first leg of my evening run. I love these woods on a Sunday night. So quiet. Nothing but me and the trees. Early evening is best, of course, when there’s just enough ambient light to make out the well-worn path between my house and the church.

Back in the day, I played cops and robbers in these woods with my best friend, Marcus. The church would always end up being the site of our inevitable Mexican standoffs. But fuck, that was more than eight years ago now. I don’t even go inside the building I just use it as a landmark during my evening run. Halfway.

It’s a challenging run; largely on an incline, and veering around the tangled foliage and the wicked thorns that give these woods their name. I’ve torn plenty of my clothes up here, and even had some scars added to my existing ones. The church itself is still a ways off, but I know this path so well I could walk it blindfolded.

I heave in a huge breath, mentally readying myself for another sprint, before a faint snapping of twigs reaches me. I let out a slow breath, straining to hear over the rush of blood in my ears.

I’m not alone anymore.

Wolves have been spotted here before. It’s one of the reasons we were told never to play here when we were kids. Not that me and Marcus ever fucking cared.

As I listen, the sounds transform into footsteps.

Who the fuck dares to walk in my woods?

I bunch my jaw and change direction, angling toward the intruder.

By the time I get close enough to spot the idiot, it’s so dark I can barely make them out.

If they hadn’t been wearing a pale hoody, it would have been near impossible to track them.

I try to keep my footsteps as quiet as possible, but I’m tall and my shoulders are wide—I can either lose them or let them know I’m here.

Whoever it is, they’re definitely on to me. That pale, baggy hoody keeps glancing left and right as their pace picks up.

Who the hell is this guy? He wears baggy clothing as if to disguise the fact that he’s both short and slight.

Lavish is a small town—I would have heard of someone new arriving. Which means this guy’s up to no good. Could be a vagrant from Mallhaven, or someone who got on the wrong bus and then decided to stay. We get them sometimes—people who come here lured by the promise of wealth just like my forefathers back in the day.

The guy in the hoody breaks into a jog.

I speed up, a faint smile touching my mouth.

They think they can outrun me? I’m Lavish Prep’s best receiver.

But I guess they don’t know that, do they?

Indi

I wedge myself behind the charcoal shell of a half-burned pew, my arm brushing against a vicious looking bramble clambering through a hole in the nearby wall.

The sound of running footsteps slow, slow, stop.

I clap both hands over my mouth, and consider the risk of closing off my nose too, but I’m so out of breath, I’d probably pass out if I tried.

I hug my legs to my chest and burrow my head into them, desperate to quieten my panting. Carefully, so as not to make a sound, I lever the switchblade from my belt.

It’s only a week old, but it already feels like an appendage. Now that it’s in my hand, it feels heavy and cold. I pull out the blade, but I don’t lock it in case that tiny sound gives away my location.

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