Chapter 1
“Fudge nuggets! What in the name of Leonard Nimoy is that?”
Although they couldn’t match his colorful vernacular, Gordon Sands and Sierra Cary found themselves just as curious — and more than a teensy bit terrified — as their friend Gus Tilley. In fact, Sierra seemed to be shivering. Gordon could hear her teeth chattering like a jackhammer as she clawed at the left sleeve of his nylon Buffalo Bisons jacket.
“It seems to be … swirling,” Gordon said as he looked up at the greenish mist rotating like a tiny funnel cloud midway between their position at half-court of the creaky old gymnasium and the nearest basket. Mesmerized, he slowly lifted the camcorder in his right hand until the eyepiece bumped into his eye socket.
“I, I don’t remember the weatherman saying anything about fog … indoors,” the sandy-haired Gus said, clutching the pole of a fishing net.
“It’s gross! Like Slimer,” Sierra said. She picked up a basketball at her feet, heaved it at the glowing mist and screamed, “Go away!”
The dew-like particles simply parted with the ball’s passing and reconstituted themselves. Like Sierra, Gordon was beginning to feel the chill, too, as if the tip-off circle where they stood was sinking into the court like a well. But he shook it off, adjusted the focus of the camcorder and said, “This is what we came for. Isn’t it?”
“It’s not so bad,” Gus said. Summoning his courage, he extended the pole of his net and took a swipe at the thing, which collapsed into an orb and shot at his head like a Nolan Ryan fastball. Gus threw his net into the air and hit the hardwood with a loud splat!
“Fart knocker!” the heavy boy said, getting to his feet and dusting himself off.
“Whoa!” Gordon said, twisting like a top to catch video of the orb as it shot around the field house. “Whatever that is, I’m not leaving until I get it on camera!” When it stopped over the home-side bleachers and dissolved into a mist again, Gordon stepped up into the stands for a closer look.
Gus reached out his hand for Sierra to follow, but she slapped his arm repeatedly, shaking her blonde ponytail and muttering, “No, no, no, no, NO!” But at the insistent jerks of his close-cropped head, she followed his tentative steps up the stairs, sheltering behind his broad back.
“Maybe we should try talking to it,” Gordon ventured.
“Go ahead,” Gus said. “You’re the big talker.”
Thinking, “This has as much in common with extemporaneous speaking as ‘Nosferatu’ has with ‘The Vampire Diaries,’” Gordon looked over his shoulder at his friend, who gave a half-hearted chuckle and shrugged. Turning back toward the ecto-mist, his shaggy brown hair brushing the red-and-white collar of his coat, Gordon gritted his teeth and said, “Here goes nothin’.”
Clearing his throat, he said, “What is your name?”
Nothing.
“Why have you come?”
The mist was silent, but its swirling seemed more animated. “Maybe we’re getting somewhere,” Gordon thought.
“What do you want from us?”
The mist continued to pulsate as a low voice moaned, “Go.”
“What do you want? How can we help you?”
The mist seemed to be expanding, taking on some sort of shape. “Go!” it repeated.
“Ma-ma-maybe we should, you know, go,” Gus said.
“Not till we get to the bottom of this,” Gordon said. Through the camcorder’s lens, it appeared that the shape was growing a torso, and arms with claw-like hands were extending out. Beneath a shape like a witch’s hat, was that a skull?
Sierra screamed, “AAAIIIEEE!” and jumped on Gus’ back, but Gordon stood fast.
The lower jaw of the skull worked open and closed. “GET … OUT!”
With the rafters shaking at the sound, Gordon stumbled backward and rolled down the stairs, tumbling into Gus and Sierra! They all wound up in a heap on the basketball court. Sierra was pushing the boys, shouting, “Get off, you fatheads!”
As they scrambled apart, the trio looked up. The now fully formed apparition was diving toward them with unearthly speed. “Flee!” it shouted. “Flee for your lives!”
The trio ran for the exit with Gordon turning occasionally to get more video. Gus tripped over his fishing net on the floor, did a somersault and landed on his butt. “Fluffernutter!” he shouted, got to his feet and ran like the 100-yard dash, pumping his arms and legs for all they were worth.
Gordon and Sierra were already down the steps outside, sucking in mouthfuls of cold air. They called his name as Gus flew by, but he only screamed, “AHHH!” and kept running, the sound of his size-13 shoes echoing into the night.
“Where did that thing come from?” Sierra asked.
“I think it came with the building,” Gordon said, trying to catch his breath.
“This isn’t how I imagined my first year of high school at all!” she said, drawing her cardigan closer. “I wish we could go back to last summer.”
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