The rattle of the bus door echoed into the biting March air as Mikey Young leapt down onto the frozen earth, his boots slipping on the slick, uneven crust. He stumbled but caught himself on the cold metal frame of the bus doors, steadying his thin frame against the chill that seemed to seep beneath his ragged coat.
"Be careful now," the bus driver called, voice gravelly and distant as Mikey broke away, heading straight toward the drainage ditch lining the road’s edge.
Behind him, Cammy was descending the steps with effortless grace, her figure briefly silhouetted against the dim interior light. Mikey barely heard the driver's caution; his young heart brimmed with a desperate eagerness to impress her. He didn’t glance back as he scrambled toward the ice-crusted ditch bank, his eyes scanning for a rock worthy of his triumphant throw.
“Look, look!” he shouted, laughter bubbling up as he flung a jagged stone that shattered through the brittle ice, sending shards and a splash of frozen water into the frigid air like a whale blowing mist.
Cammy, unimpressed, veered away with a casual shrug, heading toward the warmth of Mrs. Russell’s weathered bungalow and the glow of its inviting Netflix screen. Mikey scrunched his face in confusion; older kids were peculiar creatures.
School was never something Mikey looked forward to, though he tolerated it well enough. A subtle dread always lingered beneath the cheerful chaos of finger paints and playground games. Somewhere in the recesses of his six-year-old mind, he sensed a shift coming—an inevitable peeling back of childhood’s mirth to reveal a bleaker, more tedious world.
He had begun to see the line drawn from carefree puddle-jumping to the careful maneuvering around them, a growing wariness that whispered of things lost and battles yet to be fought. Despite these early inklings, Mikey rarely let them linger; life was too full of wonders and small adventures to be clouded by gloom.
Besides, there were compensations to look forward to—driving cars, buying whatever video games caught his fancy someday. That thought brought a small smile beneath the winter grime.
The sky above the prairie was a dull gray, swollen with thick clouds that had gathered while Mikey was in class. Now, pale flakes began to drift down, softening the harsh edges of the landscape. The first snow of the season was falling.
Mrs. Russell emerged from her creaky porch, her bony hand raised in greeting. "Snow’s coming down, Mikey. You want to come in for a bit? Warm up by the fire?" Her voice was thin, carrying the weight of years and quiet loneliness.
Mikey shook his head, clutching a small, quarter-sized rock he pocketed from the roadside. With a flick of his wrist, he sent it arcing over the ditch, watching as it punched a neat hole through the thin ice.
Mrs. Russell sighed, conceding with a weary shrug before retreating inside. The muffled hum of her television floated through the thick walls, a dull comfort against the biting cold outside. Old age dulled her hearing, but she always kept a watchful eye on the street.
Mikey crouched beside the ditch, fingers picking at frozen mud and loose pebbles, tossing them one by one across the brittle ice. His imagination roamed free, transforming the icy water into secret rivers and hidden worlds just beneath the surface.
He edged closer to the large culvert where runoff water sloshed between the gutters, careful to stay within sight of Mrs. Russell’s window. He knew better than to stray too far; it meant a stern talking-to later, and no one wanted that.
His muddy boots sank into the sticky black prairie mud as he dug furrows, widening the rivulet trickling from the road into a bustling torrent that soon faded into wet earth.
Suddenly, a cold shiver crawled up his spine, freezing the blood in his veins. Something had shifted in the air—a faint sound beneath the tinkling ice, a movement too subtle for others but clear as a warning bell to Mikey.
The hair on the back of his neck prickled, and his small body stiffened, caught between curiosity and a rising dread. From the culvert came a slow, wet sloshing, unsettling and out of place in the quiet snowfall.
The world’s fragile innocence cracked, replaced by a creeping sense of alien menace. Mikey’s heart pounded with the same panic that had gripped him when he first moved into the new house with his dad, the feeling that unseen eyes were watching, waiting.
All the better to see you with.
A rasping breath, low and guttural, hissed through the chilled air—something not quite human, filled with hunger and malice.
All the better to eat you with!
Mikey swallowed hard, his throat dry and tight as if stuffed with cotton. Muscles trembling, he spun on his muddy boots and scrambled toward the faint light and shelter of the bus stop.
The wet sloshing grew louder, accelerating into jagged splashes. Out of the corner of his eye, a hulking, shadowy figure swung up onto the culvert with a dull thud, towering as high as Mrs. Russell’s bungalow.
A sinister chittering broke through the gentle snow, sharp and manic, echoing in the stillness like a twisted lullaby.
“Ah-ah-ah-ah-ah,” the sound mocked, sending icy dread coursing through Mikey’s veins. His legs, soaked in adrenaline, took a few faltering steps forward.
He screamed, voice cracking, as he stumbled toward the house that now seemed impossibly distant, swallowed by the vast, empty prairie. He was utterly alone.
From the shadowed figure, long spindly arms dangled like grasping branches as it leapt from the culvert to the muddy bank with a wet thump. The beat of giant feet pounded behind him, the monster’s ragged breath steaming in the frigid air, reeking of decay and the sickly-sweet stench of a rotting mouse trapped in a forgotten vent.
“Daddy!” Mikey cried, terror exploding from his chest as a brutal force slammed into him from behind, sending him crashing face-first into the slushy mud. His coat and pants soaked dark with earth, breath knocked from his lungs.
Where was Mrs. Russell? Where was anyone?
Far down the road, D’arcy’s sharp eyes flicked toward the swirling snow as she half-walked, half-hopped, head turning anxiously. The red glow of her truck’s tail lights pulsed through the storm’s haze.
Gotta get home now.
She swallowed hard, her nerves tightening. I didn’t hear a thing. Not a damn thing.
The monster’s cackling rose again, a chilling, toothy clatter that filled the silent prairie. “Ah-ah-ah-ah-ah.”
“Daddy!” The plea ripped from Mikey’s raw throat as the creature’s cold, damp hand closed around his leg, wrenching him violently. Pain bloomed as if his limb was being torn away, but then the mud slid beneath him as he was dragged forward into the unknown.
The acrid stench of death overwhelmed him, and his voice caught in harsh coughs. The creature hoisted him over its grotesque shoulder, its matted fur scraping against his cheek as his vision darkened under the crushing weight of primal fear.
Then the monster was running, tearing through the blizzard-swallowed prairie, carrying little Mikey Young like a broken doll into the merciless storm.
But this time, the boy wasn’t entirely silent. Somewhere deep inside, a flicker of something fierce—hope, defiance—ignited. Mikey clung to it as the cold wind whipped past, determined that the shadows would not claim him without a fight.