It’s nothing. Just normal forest sounds. You’ve heard them every time you’ve gone camping. See, Bart isn’t scared. Why should you be? He wagered himself: he should be able to identify any sounds they heard out there. He was a country boy, after all. If he just concentrated, and listened . . . There. That was the slap-slap of dewdrops falling from the trees to the fat leaves below. And the groan of an old tree limb. And that call in the distance may have sounded like a woman screaming, but he knew an owl when he heard one. There was the swish-swish of Bart’s corduroys rubbing as he walked, and the light clatter of things in his pack, and the sound of still-dry leaves crunching underfoot.

He reached out for Bart’s back pocket and pulled him to a stop. He motioned for him to be quiet and put his hand to his ear. Listen.

The patter of falling dew. Creaking trees. Birds in the distance.

Bart had humored him long enough. “What the hell am I listening for?”

“I heard footsteps in the leaves.”

The older boy just shook his head. “We’re walking in leaves, Cap.”

“No, it wasn’t us. It was out there.” He pointed away into the dark.

Bart swung the flashlight around and swept the area in question. Nothing. “Did you ever think of animals, Delbert? They’ve been known to hang out in wooded areas, you know.”

“Very funny. What I heard wasn’t an animal.”

“You’re that sure,” Bart sighed. Impatience had edged into his voice. “Now, if you don’t mind, can we get on with this?” He headed back up the drive, towing the boy behind him with a hand still locked on his back pocket.

Putz. Pansy. That was probably what Bart thought of him by now. Quit acting like a baby. What do you want him to do, hold your hand or something? Grow up. It’s just . . .

A voice giggled in the dark.

. . . your imagination. That’s all.

Someone whispered behind him.

Imagination.

A high, tittering laugh.

Gulp.

His throat was suddenly too dry to swallow. No voices, he said to himself, over and over so it filled his ears and drowned out the sounds around him. He could see movement from the corner of his eyes, dark figures with capering white faces, peeking from behind the trees that lined the path.

There’s no one there, no one . . .

He closed his eyes and lowered his head and trudged along behind his brother, waiting in dread for the whistle of Sebastian Danner’s descending ax or the cackle of the mad and the dead. And waiting. And still waiting.

Bart pulled to a stop. “Hey, Cap,” he said, “we’re almost there. Look.”