Chapter 3: Hide-and-Seek

I was nine years old then.

My sneakers were two sizes too big, my favorite T-shirt faded with a Cincinnati Reds logo. I still believed monsters could be chased away by a nightlight.

We’d just moved from Kentucky to a small Ohio town.

It was the kind of place where people left doors unlocked, the diner always served meatloaf on Fridays, and everyone waved as you biked past.

I wasn’t allowed out at night, but nine-year-old boys are always mischievous.

Curiosity always won. The world outside seemed so much bigger after sunset.

That night, while my parents weren’t watching, I climbed the backyard fence and slipped out.

The grass was slick with dew; I landed with a muffled thud. My breath puffed in the cool air, adrenaline humming in my veins.

I was playing hide-and-seek with local kids in the abandoned parking lot behind the old grocery store.

The asphalt still radiated heat from the day, and the air smelled faintly of gasoline and cut grass. The lot was cracked, sprouting weeds, surrounded by chain-link and flickering streetlights. Perfect for late-night games, even if our parents would’ve freaked.

The kid who was "it" was called Little Ben.*

Ben was the youngest of four, always eager to win, always smiling with a gap where his front tooth should be. Everyone called him Little Ben, even though he hated it.

I hid in a pile of firewood, watching Ben pull the other kids out of their spots one by one.

The woodpile smelled like rain and old bark. I tucked myself in tight, heart racing as Ben’s footsteps crunched on gravel.

Those who were found joined the seekers. Soon, everyone was found except me.

I listened as laughter faded, the others drifting off, voices echoing in the night.

It was getting late, and the other kids lost patience and went home.

A car rumbled past, headlights sweeping the lot, but Ben’s shadow kept searching.

Only Little Ben refused to give up.

His voice grew hoarse, determination fierce. He never quit, even if it meant missing curfew.

"Jason, where are you?"

His call was plaintive, rising above the cicadas.

"Jason, I have to find you."

Each call got more frantic, more lonely—like he was scared to be the last kid left in the dark.

He kept calling my name, searching everywhere.

His voice bounced off cracked asphalt, echoing under the moon.

He couldn’t find me, and I stayed hidden so long I started to get drowsy.

Sleep crept in, eyelids drooping. I remember thinking I’d won, that Ben would give up and go home.

Half-asleep, I was jolted awake by a sharp, piercing scream.

It cut through the night, turning my blood to ice. I snapped upright, heart hammering.

I sat up in fright and looked out.

The firewood shifted beneath me. I peeked over the edge, searching for Ben.

Little Ben was gone, and only a terrifying trail of blood remained in the parking lot.

My stomach dropped. The dark, sticky line snaked across the cracked pavement, glinting in the pale moonlight.

It was a summer night. Just moments before, the sky had been clear and the moon bright.

I remembered the fireflies, the warm breeze—gone now, replaced by an unnatural chill.

I didn’t know when a thick fog had crept in. The old streetlights shone through the mist, turning everything milky white.

The fog rolled in heavy and strange, like a scene from an old horror movie. I shivered, breath clouding in the damp air.

Normally, fog was rare here in summer, but that night was different.

Even the crickets fell silent. The town felt cut off from the world.

The blood trail twisted and turned, winding into the thick fog. No one could tell how far it stretched.

The line seemed endless, swallowing the world beyond the lot. I felt impossibly small.

I was terrified. I scrambled out from the firewood.

My knees scraped, and I almost slipped on the dew. I ran, legs shaking.

"Ben! Ben!"

My voice was thin, barely louder than the wind. I forced myself to follow the blood, step by step.

I took a few steps along the trail and saw a sneaker, soaked in blood.

The sneaker was red-and-blue, just like Ben’s. My hands shook as I picked it up.

It was Ben’s—his mom had written his initials inside the tongue with a black Sharpie.

The town was small, surrounded by woods on three sides.

You could always smell pine sap on the wind, hear whippoorwills at dusk. The trees pressed close, like old sentinels.

On clear days, you could see the old water tower from the lot.

It rose above rooftops, rust-streaked and faded—a familiar landmark.

The blood trail led toward the woods to the south.

Beyond the last streetlight, the world melted into darkness and fog.

I looked that way—and in the thick fog, saw a huge black shadow waving at me.

It stood out—impossibly tall, limbs too long, its hand moving back and forth like it was summoning me. My heart almost stopped.

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*Little Ben: a common nickname for a young boy in small-town America.