Hidebehind

Sixteen

That second turned into five minutes, which turned into ten, which turned into fifteen. I checked my watch a ridiculous amount of times, but every minute felt like ten in itself. After a quarter of an hour, I clambered out from beneath the rock overhang. At first, I hadn't wanted to leave. It almost felt like if I left it, I admitted this fear in my gut—the fear that they weren't coming back. But I had to leave at last, otherwise I would've gone crazy in there. Even though the rock felt like somewhat of a hideout, safe from anything that my imagination might conjure up, it wasn't really any safer than being out in the trees. And besides . . . there weren't any dangerous animals in those woods, anyhow. No mountain lions or bears or anything. Maybe a coyote or a fox, but they were more afraid of people than people were of them (or so I'd heard).

Part of me wanted to stay. They had to be coming back—they just had to be! They wouldn't have left me. They were my friends. Sort of. But even if I told myself that a hundred times, I couldn't have made myself totally believe it. I was angry, but not at them. For some reason I was mostly angry at Jay. Why? Well, most I could figure, I was angry at him for not coming, too.

After almost half an hour of kicking at weeds, tossing pebbles, and wandering around (with the rock fixture always in view), I decided I'd have to go home on my own. Maybe they were going to come back, but the shadows were starting to crawl through the undergrowth and in between the spidery trees, and I didn't want to be there when it got dark.

I thought for a moment about climbing a tree to see which way to go, but none of the branches looked likely to support my weight. Then I remembered that we'd come to the rock overhang from behind, so I clambered back up the little hill and over the rock shelf and started walking.

I walked. And walked. And walked.

Nothing.

No sight of anything but trees, trees, and more trees.

I walked for an hour. An hour and a half, then. Still, nothing.

By this time, the shadows had turned to full-on dimness all around me. The trees weren't very thick, so I at least still had whatever light the sky shone down, and I'd have any moonlight that wasn't smothered by clouds, but none of that mattered. All I could think about was how it was nearly dark, and I was quite obviously lost. How I could get lost, I had no idea. It hadn't seemed to take long at all to hike into these woods to my Grandpa's campsite. Maybe it had only seemed shorter because Alex and Chuck had been with me, and they'd been talking. But even so, I knew that I should've made it out at least half an hour ago.

I tried to keep my brain thinking about directions and landmarks and not walking in circles, but that only worked for so long. The darker it got and the longer I was there, the more moths fluttered in my stomach and panic pricked at my brain. I tried so hard to push the thoughts away, but they came anyhow—skinned rabbits, all muscle and pulp; bloated, blood-filled ticks; sharp-toothed night creatures (which I could no longer convince myself didn't exist); creepy murderers who might hang out in woods; and, worst of all . . .

But I wouldn't think of it. I wouldn't.

I stopped for a moment, after I had been running like a crazy person without even really recognizing it and lost my breath. My gasps came out in chops, and when I lifted my hands to my face to try and literally smack some sense back into myself, I noticed that my cheeks were wet from my streaming eyes. Why was I crying?

My imagination was horrible. As I stood there, just breathing, knowing I was probably going to be fine—even if I had to stay the whole night, it wasn't cold enough for me to die of hypothermia, especially if I kept moving, and somebody would definitely come looking for me once Great Grandma realized I was gone—I tried to get all those awful images out of my brain. It worked, too. I felt myself start to calm down. It was okay. I was going to be just fine. I had to think of happy things. Like going back home. Like mom and dad. Like leaving this stupid place and all its stupid, mean people . . .

But then the worst thought of all came, despite my trying so hard not to think it. I didn't want it, but it just popped into my head:

Whatever got that kid might get me, too.

And just as I thought that, I became aware of the horrible sensation that someone was standing behind me.

Quick as lightning, I instinctively bolted around—whatever was there moved as fast as I did—faster; I'd seen it out of the corners of my eyes. It was behind me again, so I spun, but it anticipated me a second time. The shadow darted so quickly—it was at my back a third time, a fourth . . . and soon I was spinning in circles and barely seeing it as it knew every move I'd make. Hysteria set in. I felt a scream welling up in my belly and in my lungs; it caught in the back of my throat and then I was off and running again, but whatever was there, it was chasing me. Always at my back. I glanced over my shoulder and saw the black thing dart beyond my line of vision. I tried again and again, stumbling now from fear as much as from the dark, and the more I ran, the more my brain started thinking crazy stuff, like maybe it was just my eyes seeing things, or maybe Alex and Chuck were playing a mean joke, but then I'd try to glance back and the dark splotch would move so clearly that in that moment, I had no doubt something was there. All I could do was think of Grandpa and that kid . . . Grandpa's words: "He'll get you. He'll get you . . . hide behind you . . ."