Curfew

And then he heard the voices. They came from the dark area beneath the trees that provided the perimeter of his yard. There in the darkness where the moon and the streetlights could not penetrate, people spoke.

"There he is."

"What is he doing out here?"

"GET HIM!"

With arms and legs flailing, Mikey turned and ran towards the house. He didn't dare look back, but he could tell by the commotion from the bushes that they were hot on his pursuit. By the sounds that they made and the different directions the sounds were coming from Mikey Miles could tell that there was a lot of them.

At one moment, he tripped on the cuffs of his wet pants and landed face-down on the cold, wet grass. Fear forced him to his feet. He ran as fast as he could, but he didn't seem to be getting anywhere. He certainly wasn't getting anywhere, nearly fast enough.

He reached the back porch, finally. They hadn't caught him yet. He climbed the three steps on hands and knees. He was still free, but he could hear them. They were absolutely coming. He scampered to the door. With fingers that were trembling and stiff from the cold air and not at all coordinated in his state of panic, he tried to turn the doorknob. It wouldn't turn for him. He tried desperately with both hands, but the knob still held its place. He had locked himself out.

He felt a cold hand clamp down on his bare shoulder. It was colder than anything Mikey had ever felt before. It was colder than the north westerner that blew down from the arctic across the Pacific ocean and swept the little town nestled in the Redwoods. It was colder than the freezing dew that would cause a little barefooted boy's legs to ache all the way up to his knees. The fingers of this hand bit into Mikey's flesh, like an eagle's talons digging into its prey.

Mikey's heart was beating a tempo that threatened to be explosive. His throat felt as if it was pinched off. he was unable to pass air or sound. His stomach knotted. Somehow, he steeled his courage up enough to look down at the hand that had him pinned. The hand resembled a shadow, but it wasn't a play with lights. This hand was real. Slowly he brought his gaze up to the face of the person who belonged to the hand.

There it was at last. He had come face to face with that thing that so many people refuse to talk about. That thing that made grown men tremble and cry in the dark.

What was that word that his mother and father had used innumerable times to substitute the description of evil incomprehensible? What was that one word that he had forgotten? Just one word.

Curfew.