Page 10 of Blood Moon

“Might need to change my britches.” Yanking out his flashlight, he sets his hand on the handle and swings open the door.

Snagging my Maglite, I do the same. A child’s scream pierces the fog. I spin toward the sound, shine my light left. Through the swirling mist, I spot a boy. He’s Amish. Ten years old. Tears streaming. Terror on his face. Running toward us as fast as his legs will carry him.

“Sammy!” he cries.

Tomasetti intercepts him. “Easy does it, kiddo.”

The boy slams into him hard enough to cause Tomasetti to stumble back. “Whoa,” he says. “I’ve got you. What’s wrong?”

“It’s coming!” The boy squeals, terror reverberating in his voice, head swiveling to look behind him. “Run!”

“It’s okay.” Gently, Tomasetti grasps his shoulders and bends to make eye contact. “We’re police. You’re safe. What happened?”

“The monster ate my brother!” the boy cries.

I want to believe the words are a child’s imagination run amok, but the statement elicits a quiver of uneasiness in my gut. Maybe because I know there’s an as-of-yet unidentified animal roaming the woods.

I cross to the boy, kneel so that my eyes are level with his. “Where did you last see your brother?”

The boy twists and points. “There! By the creek! We were f-fishing and the m-monster came out of the woods! It has glowing eyes and screams like a banshee!”

“Are you hurt?” I ask.

He’s sniveling, trying not to cry, not quite managing. “N-No.”

“What’s your brother’s name?” Tomasetti asks.

“S-Sammy.”

I straighten, make eye contact with Tomasetti. In tandem, we raise our beams, shine them on the wall of trees. The impenetrable wall of fog. There’s no sign of anyone else. No movement or sound.

Tomasetti cups his hands on either side of his mouth and shouts the boy’s name. “Sammy!”

We listen for a response, but nothing comes.

“Do you think it ate him?” the boy whispers.

“Not a chance,” Tomasetti says quickly.

“How long ago did this happen?” I ask.

“J-just a minute or two,” he replies.

“I’m going to take a look.” Tomasetti squeezes the boy’s shoulder. “Stay put. Everything’s going to be all right.”

“Be careful,” I tell him.

“Yep.” He starts toward the woods and disappears into the swirling white miasma.

I look down at the boy. “What’s your name?”

“D-Danny Hochstetler.”

“How old is your brother?”

“Twelve.”

“What are you doing out here this time of night?”