Page 2 of Midnight Creed

That last part stung him more than his raw knee with gravel embedded in the bloody wound. How many times could she say hurtful things and still expect him to not be crushed under the weight of those words?

That’s when he started thinking about opening the car door. What would she say when he rolled out and actually broke an arm or a leg? He bet she’d be sorry for being so mean to him then.

More sirens screamed on the street in front of him, but he could feel his ten-year-old fingers searching the door latch. Could he open it then tuck and tumble like he’d seen in the movies?

And what if he did break his arm?

The thought still made him smile, twenty years later.

How guilty would his parents feel? Or would they only be angrier because then they would need to take him to the ER? And it would cost a fortune and they were already arguing about money. Still, he imagined white bone sticking out of his skin. Would it get their attention? Could he actually steal a couple days of attention away from precious Mickey?

His mother would feel bad. Wouldn’t she?

Or would she say, “See, you’re always breaking things and making a mess.”

But he didn’t open the door that night. The boy-coward scrunched down again. His imaginary escape defeated. A quick glance at his brother told him their parents’ argument had died down for now. No more quivering lip. Mickey’s eyes were closed, and he looked like he was sleeping. He envied his brother’s ability to soar from tears to sleep. The words hadn’t left bruises on him yet.

Why couldn’t he do that?

In his mind, he imagined his ten-year-old self dressed in an armor of steel like a superhero. Words would ricochet off the metal like bullets. The sparks igniting everything around him, but none of it affected him. None of it touched him. Not a single scratch. He’d be invincible with powers no one could stop. And he’d decide who to crush and who to save.

The car swerved suddenly, and he still felt that unexpected motion. His father had driven around a curve and on-coming headlights blinded them through their windshield. A pickup was parked on the side of the road.

“Someone’s stalled,” his father said and slowed then braked. He pulled onto the right side of the road, tires bumping off the edge and skidding in the grass and clay.

That was where the horror movie began. It happened so quickly, yet twenty years later it always played out in nerve-wrecking slow motion.

His father opened his car door, but left the engine running.

“They probably ran out of gas,” he said, getting out of the car and leaving the door open.

In some versions, his mother protested.

Sometimes he hears her scream.

There are screams, but he’s never sure if they’d come from Mickey or his mother. But he was certain that when the man alongside the pickup started hitting his father, Gregory couldn’t believe it was real.

It had to be a game.

Or maybe the dark was playing with his eyes.

Later, his mother told the police officers that his father waved and yelled for her to go. They all were in danger. His father wanted them to run. Go get help.

But Gregory didn’t remember any of that.

He didn’t hear his father yell to her. How did she know? How could she be so certain?

But one thing he remembered clearly—remembered it the same every time since—was the last view of his father through the back window. Gregory could never forget that look on his father’s face.

Surprise? Pain? Shock? All of that. But mostly, what Gregory saw was disbelief. His father looked like he couldn’t believe they were leaving him behind.

A police whistle startled him back to the present. Back to the cold, dark street. By-standers had gathered. Others who looked like him. Gawkers of the night. The police told them they needed to step back, again. Step away from the flashing lights.

One of them looked directly at Gregory, never once suspecting he was the reason they were here. He was the reason for this chaos, bringing them out in the middle of a frosty, dark night.

And he was still capable of breaking things.

2