I’m worried this has something to do with why I’m here.

She remembered Dwyer rolling his eyes at that, and what she’d then told him. That if he was wrong, it meant the killer was still out there, and she was worried about what he might do next.

Where are you, Paul?

Amanda stared at the pitch-black woods before her now. The Shadows, they called them here. She heard nothing beyond the heavy silence there, but she could sense the weight of the history that lay within them. History that seemed to have returned now.

History that was taking life after life.

PART THREE

THIRTY

BEFORE

The fourth week of the summer vacation.

I was at Jenny’s house, up in her bedroom. We were kissing and fooling around. Her mother didn’t seem to mind Jenny spending time alone with a boy in her room, but the door was open and she was constantly up and down the stairs, working tirelessly. At one point, we heard her out in the upstairs hallway and quickly broke apart, Jenny standing up and moving away from the bed, where we’d been half lying. I remember her mother was singing absently to herself as she made her way along the hall, constantly moving from one task to another.

Jenny and I listened for a moment. When we heard her footsteps on the stairs again, Jenny smiled at me and sat back down on the bed.

“As nice as this is,” she whispered, “it would be better to have a bit more privacy, wouldn’t it?”

My heart did one of those surprising new tricks.

“Yes,” I said. “It really would.”

It wasn’t like I hadn’t thought about it. And, of course, with my parents both out all day, it had also occurred to me that my own house would offer exactly that. I just hadn’t had the courage to mention it before. And also, after spending time at Jenny’s, I was painfully aware of how threadbare and run-down my house was in comparison. But it was stupid to be ashamed.

“You could come to mine one day instead.”

“Yeah?”

“My parents aren’t home much.”

She smiled. “That sounds like a good idea, then.”

“I’m at work tomorrow. Maybe Friday?”

“Yeah. That would be great.”

We stared at each other for a moment, and I realized she was just as nervous and excited as I was.

“Oh.” She stood up suddenly. “I’ve got something to show you.”

She walked over to a chest of drawers. There was a spread of papers and books beside the television there.

“Actually, I got it a few days ago, but I wasn’t sure if you’d want to see it or not.”

“What is it?”

She picked up a slim hardback book.

“It’s the anthology. From the competition? They sent me a copy.”

“Oh wow.” I was embarrassed but also touched that she had been worried about showing it to me. “It’s fine, honestly. I’d love to see it. It looks amazing.”

She smiled and brought the book over to the bed. It had no sleeve, but was beautifully produced. The cover was pale blue, with the title and the list of contributors—twelve in all. I found her name and ran my fingers over the texture of it.

“It looks so professional,” I said.

“I know.”

“Your first publication.”

“Actually, I had a story published when I was seven. In Kicks magazine.”

“Okay—second publication, then. First with your name on the cover, though. First of many, I reckon.”

“Thank you.” She smiled. “I am really pleased.”

“It’s awesome.”

It really was. The disappointment from my own rejection had faded a little now, but it would never have occurred to me to resent Jenny’s success. I looked at the cover and imagined seeing my own name on a book like this, and was determined to redouble my efforts. Maybe one day I’d have something of my own to show her in return.

The spine gave a quiet but satisfying click as I opened it, and then, holding the book carefully, I flicked through the first couple of pages until I found the contents.

“You’re meant to read it,” Jenny said. “Not preserve it.”

“I just want to be careful.”

“It’s not that big a deal.”

“It so totally is.”

I moved my gaze down the list of contributors. It was non-alphabetical, and I found her close to the bottom.

“Red Hands,” by Jenny Chambers.

I stared at that title for a few seconds, a chill running down my back. I almost felt the urge to pinch my nose shut, but there was no need—I could tell I wasn’t dreaming right then. The one thing I didn’t know how to do was make sense of what I was seeing.

“Paul?”

I was aware of Jenny frowning. And yet I just kept staring at those two impossible words. “Red Hands.” The rest of the text on the page began to crawl before my eyes. For over three weeks, I’d done my best to forget about Charlie and his stupid stories, and this seemed like an ambush he’d somehow managed to plan in advance. Like a trick was being played on me.

“Paul?”

“Sorry.” I shook my head, then quickly searched through the book, looking for the start of the story. “Just give me a minute.”

I found the page, and started to read.

Red Hands

By Jenny Chambers

It was nearly midnight when the man in the woods called for the boy to go to him.…

I flinched as Jenny touched my arm. She pulled her hand away as though shocked.

“Jesus—what’s the matter? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.” She attempted a smile. “And you’ve not even read it yet.”

I looked at her, feeling sick.

“Is that what this is? A ghost story?”

“Sort of. It’s the one I told you about.”

“The sad one.”

“Yeah.” She rubbed my arm. This time neither of us recoiled. “What’s wrong, Paul?”

“I don’t know. Can I read it first?”

“Yes.” She moved away from me slightly. “Of course.”

* * *

The story was about a young boy who was drawn out of his house in the dead of night by a man calling to him from the woods. The boy snuck quietly down the upstairs hallway so as not to wake his mother, whom it was clear he resented in some way. Downstairs, he unlocked the back door as silently as he could, then stepped out into the cold and the dark. His backyard was overgrown, full of wavering black grass.

The man was standing on the edge of the tree line at the bottom. The boy couldn’t see the man’s face, only that he was a large, hulking figure.

When the man turned and headed off into the woods, the boy followed him.

There were eloquent paragraphs describing the boy making his way into a forest that became increasingly frightening and fairy-tale-like as he went. But while the boy was scared, he kept going anyway, even when the man was sometimes only a vague presence between the trees ahead. The boy brushed the foliage aside in the darkness. Vines caught his ankles. Sticks and twigs cracked beneath his feet.

And eventually he found the man.