Page 100 of Yumi and the Nightmare Painter

“Run,” Painter said. “Yumi,RUN!”

His voice sliced through her terror, and she recovered enough to turn and dash away, clinging to her painter’s bag—not because it would be helpful, but because she neededsomethingto hold on to.

The nightmare gave chase. Silent save for what sounded like metal on stone. Painter ran out in front of her, looking as frantic as she felt—she thought he was leaving her, but no. He wasleadingher. He waved as he dashed for an alley just ahead of her. She followed him in, nearly tripping at the hard left turn.

The nightmare beast, far more bulky, responded less quickly. Itskidded past, then had to heave itself back after them. Yumi—against her better interests—glanced behind her as she ran, and saw it darkening the mouth of the alley. It reached in with two enormous hands, one against each wall, raking the stone and cracking a window. Then it fell to all fours and began charging again.

“The bell!” Painter shouted as they burst out the other end of the alley. “Ring the bell!”

They crossed a street, entering a wide open place with smooth stone ground that held sections full of wood chips and strange erections of metal and wood. The first time she’d seen one of these, she had thought it might be some kind of art installation—and had laughed when she was told it was a sports court and playground.

Painter led them past some of the playground equipment, perhaps thinking it would slow the beast—but the nightmare ripped through the metal, tossing a jungle gym. Hopefully the noise would attract someone. Yumi added a belated scream to the cacophony, and almost pulled the bell free—but a chunk of metal hurled by the monster clipped her, knocking her to the ground. Her bag skidded out of her hands.

Acrackfollowed, then ink stained the bag, flowing from the opening.

The beast hesitated, seeing that.

“Come on,” Painter said, hovering near Yumi, waving urgently.

She found her feet and turned toward the bag.

“No,” he said. “Leave it.”

Trusting his instincts, she ran with him across the playground.

“Head this way,” he said, pointing down another alleyway. “The nightmare can see me. I’ll lead it to the south. You curve around the block, then sneak up and grab the bell. Ring it.Don’ttry to confront the thing. Understand?”

She nodded, too terrified to trust her voice. If she opened her mouth, she’d scream.

Out in the playground, the thing had given the ink a wide berth, but now came for them again. Painter took a deep, wide-eyed breath—even though he was a ghost—then ran back out. He didn’t wave at the thing to draw its attention; he justran. The thing turned after him, and Yumi didn’t wait to see the result of their chase. She did as Painter had said, running down her own alley and ducking around the rear of a building, breathing heavily.

There, she stood trembling, spine pressed to the bricks, sweating and taut—every muscle like a rope trying to haul a tree from the sky. She knew she needed to keep moving. She needed to sneak back and grab the bell.

She should move. Painter was running for his life.Move!

Her body refused.

It’s difficult for one who hasn’t experienced it to understand how powerfully the body can react to trauma like this. Seeing something so terrible come for you—knowingit intends to not merely harm you, but likelyfeedupon you—goes against all rational experience. You end up reaching someplace deeper than your thoughts can go, sinking to instincts hard-coded into your very essence.

Overriding those is not simply a matter of willpower. It requires training and experience. So Yumi trembled there, huffing, dazed—and had tofightto keep herself from running away as fast as she could. It is to her credit, not her condemnation, that she remained frozen. The only viable alternative her body would accept involved mad, uncontrollable flight.

A hand grabbed Yumi on the arm.

She bolted upright, finding a large figure standing beside her that hadapproached completely unseen—not because it had been particularly quiet, but because she hadn’t been able to concentrate on anything other than her fear.

Hysterical, she swung her fist at it—and it grunted. Then…then said her name? Her eyes focused, and she saw for the first time that it was…Tojin?

Yes, the painter Tojin, sleeves rolled up, shaking her arm and saying her name. Again. Again. Finally she registered it, and emerged a tiny bit from her frenzy.

“I told you it sounded like her,” Tojin said over his shoulder. Calm. Too calm. Hedidn’t know.

Akane walked up, arms folded, painter’s bag over her shoulder. “Yumi,” she said. “You promised you wouldn’t go out anymore. Wetoldyou how dangerous this was.”

Technically, Yumi hadn’t promised she wouldn’t go back out. They’d just lectured her on it, and had assumed compliance from her contrite bows.

She wasn’t in any state to argue that point. “How?” she said, her voice hoarse. “How did you find me?”

“We tailed you,” Tojin said, “when you left the apartment earlier. We…well,Ithought you’d go back to it.”

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