In my hometown, there’s a park that was once the site of the local junior high. All that’s left of the school now is the skeleton of an entryway. It’s evocative in the way that old, abandoned things are, and it seemed to me that it deserved a story. This one’s short but not so sweet. An unsettling tale of a hunted, or possibly haunted, kid.
Enjoy!
Mama said the boy with the black eyes isn’t real.
When I first told her about him, she thought I meant another victim of Mike Thomas’s after-school ambushes. But when I explained that this kid didn’t have bruises but actual black eyes—no white part, no pupils, no nothing, just black—she gave me that look like she’s disappointed and that she feels bad I can’t keep honest.
I hate that look.
Ever since that thing with Dad, I promised her I’d stop telling lies. She said she couldn’t take one more liar in the house. Said she wouldn’t see her only son turn out rotten like his father. I told the lies in the first place to keep her from looking so sad all the time, but they’d only made things worse. So when I promised I’d stop, I meant it. But by then it was too late.
She doesn’t believe me about the kid with the black eyes. No one does.
Well, that’s not actually true. Jordan does, but I think he’s just saying so because we walk the same way home from school and he’s even smaller than me and super annoying, and Mike Thomas pushes him around the most. Maybe he thinks there’s strength in numbers. Like if we walk home from school together, Mike Thomas will quit bothering us.
I want to tell him that Mike’s bigger than the two of us put together, but honestly, I don’t really mind the company. Walking home from school is when I see him. The kid with the black eyes. And I don’t like to be alone when that happens.
We live in the good part of town. Our street has big houses that all face a wide green park and the lake. The park used to be a school a long time ago, but they tore it down or it burned in a fire. I can’t remember.
When they made the park, they left the school’s old stone entryway, a big arch that leads nowhere. Mama thinks it makes the park look ‘picturesque.’ I think it looks creepy.
And it’s even creepier now with the kid.
I don’t see him all the time, but when I do, he’s by the stone archway and he’s staring at me from the time I get off the bus until I walk up the front steps of my house. It’s hard to focus on anything but his eyes, but he’s got on weird clothes. Jeans, but they’re rolled up at the bottom and kind of stiff, and a red plaid shirt with a collar and buttons. No one dresses like that anymore.
And, yeah, I’m thirteen, and that’s like, too old for being scared. But you’d be freaked out too if you saw him. I’d face Mike Thomas any day over that kid with the black eyes.
At least Mike grunts and spits and smells and calls me horrible things. He’s mean but understandable. I know what he wants.
But this kid—he doesn’t speak, doesn’t move, doesn’t even seem real. There’s definitely something wrong with him besides his messed-up eyes.
Like today, Mike Thomas was in detention and Jordan had Math Olympiad or something, so I was on the bus alone. It dropped me off at the edge of the park, and I saw him right away. Just staring like he always does, standing in that old archway with the dead vines.
But then he did something different. He motioned for me to come over, real slow and, like, deliberate. Nothing else changed, not his face or anything, just that little wave of his hand.
I didn’t really want to. I mean, since I’m trying to be honest, I was afraid. Just straight-up chickenshit, you know. But I was also pretty sick of him. I thought maybe if I talked to him he could explain himself, and I could tell him to leave me alone. So I ignored the nerves and came over.
When I got close to him, I could see he must be sick. His skin didn’t look good, and his mouth hung funny. I stopped in front of the arch, but I guess I still wasn’t close enough because the kid motioned me closer.
Now at this point I know I should just run home, but I can’t stop staring at his eyes. I can see my reflection in them. Like looking in a mirror. I see myself in them and something else. Something I can’t quite figure out. So I go in closer without even realizing it.
And then in my head there’s a voice, but I never see the kid’s mouth move. It’s whispering something, and it’s hard to hear, so I get a little closer. And I can still see myself in his eyes. And now it looks like I’ve got bruises—two black eyes. But I blink, and the bruises are all that’s there, and my eyes look like the kid's, and I think I scream or something. Before I do, though, I hear the whisper again.
Now your mama will believe you.
I don’t stop running until I’m at my front door. ‘Til I run up to the bathroom and splash some water on my face to try and calm down.
I haven’t told Mama anything about it. Even though the kid said she’d believe me, I don’t think she will. Maybe I’ll tell Jordan. But I’m definitely not going to tell them about what I saw in the bathroom mirror.
It was just for a second, but I know I saw them. Bruises. Bruises that melted into my eyes until there was nothing there but two black holes.
Looking for more tales fresh from the witch’s oven? Check out my other dark fantasy and horror stories here.
Or maybe you’re in the mood for something a little longer? My serialized novel, Dark as Dawn, Bright as Night, is a literary fantasy with elements of horror, and you can find all the episodes here!
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