His usual route home took him over the Campton river bridge past Bertha’s house.

The only other way was along the old railway line that went all the way past the factories, but that would add at least five miles onto the trip.

There was one other way: a shortcut through an old colonial manor, but only a fool would go near that place; it was haunted.

They said at night you could hear the windows rattling, and lights would go on and off which seemed a lot scarier when Allie told it.

Some of the seniors once climbed the walls and they were drinking and telling scary stories in the garden when something happened that they refused to speak about, but after that, they all ended up in therapy.

No, Charlie didn’t like the thought of going anywhere near that place.

He finally decided he would chance Bertha’s after all.

She lived in a duplex on 11th. Her bedroom overlooked the street and it wasn’t a far walk from the front door to the gate, which meant he had about three seconds to get past her house before he lost his teeth.

Charlie reached the corner of 11th and Bree, with his heart beating a little faster. He dropped to his hands and knees and slowly peered around the hedge.

Bertha was racing up and down the road on her bicycle, ringing the cursed bell. There was no way he was getting past that.

He turned to stare in the direction of the rail lines with a pit forming in his stomach alongside his mounting hunger pangs. If he left now, he may make it home a few hours after dark—and a few hours after dinner. His stomach wept at the thought.

There were always a number of crazy homeless people along that route, and they all came out the woodwork at night like vampires or werewolves; not that any of that stuff existed, he quickly tried to assure himself. He really had to stop listening to Allie’s stories.

He peered around at Bertha again who was now peddling after a rottweiler. The poor thing looked terrified. Charlie sighed. He may as well prepare himself for the long walk.

The journey took him past the old manor with its knotted vines and weeds covering the ancient stone walls. The cast-iron gates were tall, with massive stone dogs keeping watch to either side of them.

The grass reached halfway up his leg, and the garden hadn’t been tendered in years, and the house was falling apart. Charlie had seen the kids that lived there once—which kind of took the sting out of the lights going on and off story—they were strange and pale and never seemed to smile. No one knew anything about them, but the rumours said that if you looked long enough you would see a crazy old woman peering out of the attic window.

Still, none of that seemed quite so bad when up against the thought of an extra five miles. Whatever he decided, he had to do it quickly, because evening was settling in, and he didn’t want to have to find his way home in the dark. Outside the town centre, there were long sections without any street lights that he hated walking through.

He stared at the manor wall, considering. What if he peered over, just for a quick look? He had always been curious about the old place, and it wasn’t like he was actually going to go through with it.

He found a vine as thick as his wrist and between that and the uneven stones managed to pull himself up.

The place looked deserted. Past the shell of a greenhouse and the far wall stretched the spires of the St Dominic’s Catholic church which was a block away from his house. If the pontificate shouted too loud the spray would settle on Charlie’s window.

It looked so close, so inviting, and the distance across the grounds was less than he imagined. Besides, there were a lot of places to hide and it was kind of dark enough to cover him.

He ran through a few excuses he could give in case he was caught, and that’s when he realized he was actually going through with it.

If he found a ball on the roof of the gym, he could have tossed it in and then hopped over to retrieve it which would make a great excuse, but all he had was his school bag, and no one would believe that a maths textbook accidentally bounced into their yard.

He thought of saying he was a girl scout selling cookies, but his lunch box was empty which was a bit of a flaw in an otherwise flawless plan.

He searched around desperately for something he could use, and his eyes settled on the postbox, and he suddenly realised he had his way in.

“That’s it!” He slapped the wall in excitement. If he found any post, he could say he received it by accident and had come to return it personally. It would all be very innocent and very nice of him.

The postbox opened into the wall, but he could slip his hand through the gate and reach in from behind.

Inside he found a letter—more like an ancient-looking parchment sealed with a blob of wax—and a pamphlet for Bettie’s laundry services—we collect. He tossed that one aside. No one would believe he came all the way to return that, but the other one... He tapped it to his hand, wondering if he should go through with it.

With a last look around at the lengthening shadows, he finally slipped the parchment into his suitcase.

Feeling a little guilty, he glanced at the massive dog statue to the left which seemed to be staring right back at him, disapprovingly. The thing was like something out of Greek lore: like a wolf-dog-demon hybrid that would keep a child up at night.

Caught in those stone eyes and feeling strange things, he reached out a hand towards it. Closer... Closer...

Its mouth twitched in a snarl, and Charlie yelped and stumbled back into the grass. He threw up his bag in front of his face as a shield, waiting for the dog to rip his throat out, but somehow his throat remained attached—he knew that for sure by the high-pitched sound issuing from it.

After a few seconds, he slowly peered out from behind his suitcase.

The statue towered above him, framed by the darkening sky, but it hadn’t moved and no longer even seemed to be looking at him.

With a nervous laugh, he dropped his head into the grass to give his blood pressure a chance to return to normal.

It must have been a trick of the light. Still, he kept well clear of the thing as he made his way back to the wall.

He shot a glance in either direction looking for an excuse not to go through with this. The street lamps were coming on, casting shallow pools of light that normally brought parents out onto their stoops with wine, and ushered the children indoors, but this street was empty, the neighbouring houses boarded up. No one was around. Gathering what courage he had, he reached for the vines.

The garden was just as quiet as the street. Nothing stirred; nothing moved.

Taking a deep breath, he tossed his bag over and dropped into the long grass.