Flashlight Tag, Part 4 (Fiction)

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       Color bloomed in the flashlight's circle.
       Nothing. No one there.
       "Damn," Stephen whispered.
       He tracked the ground up the side of the depression. Shadows sprayed as the light moved.
       Still nothing.
       Along the rim and down the other side. Empty, except for moths twirling in the air.
       He dropped the light back to the bottom.
       "Jesus," he croaked.
       A shape crouched. A guy on his knees?
       He wasn't there a few seconds earlier.
       "Hey! I got you down there! Come on up!"
       The shape did not stir. No acknowledgment.
       "Chris? Is that you?"
       Chris wore a dark jacket. Could be him.
       "Chris?"
       Maybe they switched jackets. Oldest trick in the book.
       "Don't be an ass! Don't make me chase you down!"
       Still nothing.
       Weird.
       It was a person, right? Not a stump. Not a rock sticking from the ground.
       He shook the flashlight despite the steady, crisp light. He aimed it again.
       His chest squeezed.
       The figure was standing. Not Chris. Not anyone he recognized.
       Man or woman? The ratty clothes had no definition. Shoulder-length hair hung in oily clumps. A glint reflected from hidden eyes.
       It stepped forward. Branches snapped. A chill snaked up Stephen's arms.
       Instinct yanked him backwards. He dove into the trees and sailed over ground as fast as he could. His light thrashed through the forest.
       He pushed himself higher and higher on the slope toward the others, but soon his legs burned. The pull of the valley was too strong. To keep speed, he turned bit by bit. In the end, he was heading down again.
       Panting, he ripped himself around a trunk and pointed the flashlight back. The light bobbed with his breath.
       Emptiness.
       He searched left and right.
       No. No sign of the creepy figure.
       The crickets sang to the calm, still night.
       He waited. Listening. Trying to calm his thundering heart.
       Nothing moved out there. He must've outrun it.
       He started forward again. He pointed the flashlight ahead.
       "Gah!" he cried, shrinking back.
       The figure. Ahead of him.
       And closer.
       Impossible!
       The hush a moment before crashed as it came toward him. Panic exploded.
       As if on wings, he spun and sprinted. Pounding the soft ground, he smashed away branches with his shins.
       Like a hurricane in the forest, he stormed downward, gobbling speed. Last year's leaves hurtled from his shoes. Faster and faster, his legs flailed to keep up with the ground.
       Then, his shoulder caught a sapling. It punched him sideways.
       Spinning.
       The back of his head struck a wind-bent tree. His ankles pitched up. The world whipped in an indigo soup of swirls.
       His face hit. His body pattered down later. The impact knocked his fear spinning to the heavens.
       His unconscious body skidded to a stop. Flakes of bark settled, and quiet poured over him.

* * *

shhhhhhhhhhhhhh
yes
shhhhhhhhhhhhhh
hickory hickory hickoryhickoryhickory
feet
(in the dark)
hickorypricklyhickorypricklyhickory
star (wind)
blowing and
(blowing and)
walk--
within (sleep)
colors in light
blood in the light
walking (walking)
goose bumps singing
find me sitting
stars circling
listening to mother moon
reflected
(in broken windows)
they ran
away
(I'm afraid)
they ran
(THE COTTAGE)
they ran and ran and ran and ran....

* * *

       Stephen stirred. He crawled through the fog of his injury back to consciousness.
       He unknotted his neck. He spit grit from off tongue.
       What was he doing in the dirt? Dreaming? God, his head hurt like hell.
       Images still flitted in his mind. Craig's house. Back when they were kids.
       He was remembering the night he slept over years ago. The night Craig alluded to when he scared the others. They had screwed off half the night. Way past three o'clock.
       Stephen didn't remember shutting his eyes. One moment television scenes danced, the next he was swimming in the strangest sensations. Especially wetness. On his feet.
       Craig told Stephen the next morning. Told him what he did.
       Craig heard the door. He snapped awake. Where was Stephen? Not in the sleeping bag.
       Craig checked the house. The bathroom. The kitchen. He never thought to check the front door.
       A breeze nudged it as he tiptoed by.
       Craig pushed and bared himself to the open darkness. Stephen?
       Not much choice. He laced on shoes. He slipped into the pre-dawn stillness.
       Craig walked a while, avoiding the woods. Headlights washed over him from one lonely car. It didn't stop. It wove deeper into the scrub lands. It's tire-hum dwindled.
       Farther on, he heard it.
       Crunching. Crunching.
       A porcupine waddling?
       No. Too steady. Too long for stubby legs.
       Craig prodded himself into the black sweep of the mountain. Poked, scraped, and scratched, he caught the form of Stephen tracing unseen trails. He grabbed him.
       Below, a fiery glare burst through the trees. The rising moon reflected in the broken windows of the cottage.
       Next to the windows, an open door.

       And now his ass was planted in the dirt. What the hell happened?
       The pain in his head was exquisite. Jesus Christ.
       He sat up in the darkness. He leaned against the tree he bashed his head into.
       Vaguely, he recalled running, but the throbs in his brain scrambled the memories.
       Wait. That's right. He was looking. Playing the game. He cornered someone. He--
       Shit!
       He curled his legs closer.
       Chased! He'd been chased!
       He craned in all directions. Searching. Listening.
       Where was it?
       No sound of it now. Not even a breeze moved.
       God, how long was he out?
       He felt a lump under his legs. He reached and found the grip of the flashlight. Cupping light with his hands, he glanced at his watch. Only forty minutes since the game started. The light flicked out.
       What should he do?
       He listened for the others higher on the mountain. He rubbed the knob swelling on the back of his skull.
       He had to get up there. As a group, they'd figure out what to do.
       Some crazy asshole was loose in the woods.
       And he was afraid.
       Cautiously, making no sound, Stephen pushed himself to his feet. He faced the long climb.
       He had to do it.
       He had to do it fast.
       He relit the flashlight.
       And there it was. Already coming.
       The forest erupted before he could scream.

On to Part 5
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