The Crossroads

It was a standoff: Spratling had the knife; Zack had the baby.

The chauffeur stood trembling between them.

Miss Spratling stepped into a pool of cold moonlight. She rotated the knife in her gnarled fist. Its sharp edge glistened.

“Clint’s coming,” she hissed. “Do you hear him? Listen! He’s riding here on the wind.”

Zack heard the wind whistling through a broken-out windowpane.

“That’s Clint,” Miss Spratling insisted. “He’s coming back to kill you and Mr. Willoughby.”

Frightened, Willoughby braced himself against the pole.

“You should go, son,” he said, nearly breathless. “Take the baby. Run away. Hurry! Before Mr. Eberhart returns.”

“Don’t worry, sir,” said Zack. “Eberhart can’t hurt us. He’s a ghost. He can’t do anything except try to scare us into hurting ourselves or giving her what she needs.”

“Really?” said Miss Spratling. “Are you sure about that, Mr. Jennings? Clint is different. He was trapped inside that tree so long, he has acquired certain special powers.”

Zack heard another window rattling behind him.

He whipped around to see if it was Eberhart launching some kind of sneak attack.

No. It was just a scraggly tree branch, buffeted by the wind, tapping its fingers against the dingy glass.

The old lady cackled. “What’s the matter, boy? Afraid of trees?”

Zack spun back around. “No,” he said. “Not anymore.”