If You Go Down to the Woods. Seth C. Adams

driver’s door opened, and he stepped out.

      I snatched at Bandit’s collar again, to let him know he was to follow, and I turned and ran, forgetting all my talk about not taking shit, not being scared.

      I ran for the turnoff like I’d never run before, faster than for any track meet or scrimmage ball game I’d ever been a part of. I ran and didn’t stop running until I was home, through the door, throwing the lock behind me.

      Not wanting to, but needing to know, I peeked through the curtains of the adjacent window. The black Mustang rolled by as if on cue, the windows up so that I could imagine it driven not by a teenage thug, but maybe driving itself, fueled by otherworldly forces. Then it was out of sight down the road, once more part of the night that had birthed it.

      Breathing fast and loud and harsh, bent over clutching my legs, I turned away from the window and looked up to see Mom there wringing a dish towel in her hands, looking at me, looking at the door, waiting to see what hordes of hell and damnation had to be on my heels.