Feral

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“Brian Knight delivers with a "drive-in movie book.”
 
FERAL keeps you reading. It's a page-turner.”

~ Mort Castle, author of
On Writing Horror
&
Cursed Be the Child

"FERAL is a haunting, genuine fusion of horrific fantasy and the fearsome dreads of present-day life.  FERAL bites hard and doesn't let go."

~ Tom Piccirilli, author of
Shadow Season
&
The Cold Spot

"Brian Knight's writing shines with a dark brilliance."

~ Douglas Clegg, author of
Afterlife
&
Isis

"Knight is a writer to watch."

~ Ellen
Datlow
,
Years Best Fantasy & Horror

“Say hello to horror's next big thing.”

~ Brian Keene, author of
Dead Sea
&
Tequila's Sunrise

“One of today's most exciting writers.”

~ Ed Gorman,
Breaking Up Is Hard To Do
&
Sleeping Dogs

Dedication

To Ed Gorman, the first to say yes to this story.

T
hey called it The Playground of Dreams, and that's what it was at first.

B
uilt in the early 1970s, it was a project one part government grant and two parts community spirit.
 
The planning had taken years, but once they broke ground, it finished up in a three-week whirlwind of donated time and money.
 
The massive playground sat just outside of town, at the eastern end of Blackstone Park where the neatly manicured green gave way to wild grass, groves of old Willows, then stony, weed-choked shoreline. The northern border of Blackstone Park was the Snake River, flowing docilely toward the Pacific Ocean like a dark liquid giant, and a paved walkway that joined Blackstone Park to the city.
 
Its southern border was a line of tall Willows, a sound barrier for the freeway that ran past just beyond.

Blackstone Park was developed in the 1960s as the cornerstone of Riverside's largely successful beautification project, and The Playground of Dreams was the Blackstone's pinnacle.

It was a place where Riverside's kids could go and indulge their every fantasy while parents waited, watched, or read from one of the park benches just outside the midget kingdom's iron-barred wall.
 
Pirates roamed the deck of a tiny grounded ship, climbing up and down ladders and knotted ropes in search of treasure, imaginary enemies to run through, or a nearly forgotten soda, left in trust of a waiting parent.
 
Brave and able knights guarded high wooden castle turrets, patrolled winding walkways like the tops of castle walls, charged down tall slides as if into battle.
 
Sometimes the pirates and knights battled each other; sometimes they fought together, often recruiting from each other's ranks to mix up the endless battle even more.
 
Sometimes Black Beard watched over Camelot while King Arthur pillaged.
 
It didn't matter; it was all one kingdom.
 
The only enemies in The Playground of Dreams were Boredom and Reality, and inside that magical iron border they stood no chance.

Mostly though, there was no organized play; mostly it was just perfect, joyous chaos.

Then the dream died.

I
n the late 1970s a girl was found beaten, almost unrecognizable, naked and violated, half buried in the playground's sandbox.
 
Her name was Jenny Heyworth, and she was only nine years old, a runaway.

It was like a water faucet being shut off; one day The Playground of Dreams was full of screaming, rioting children, the next it was empty.

Blackstone Park, dubbed Feral Park after years of disuse, became a different kind of playground; a playground of drinking, drugs, and teenage sex.
 
City workers blocked the access road from the highway with a barricade and a sign reading
Blackstone Park is closed to the public—Enter at own risk
.
 
Someone had since crossed Blackstone out and written Feral above it in dripping, purple letters.
 
Soon though, Feral Park gained a reputation as something else entirely, and even the partiers left it alone.

Sometimes the kids still found it, street kids, runaways, children of the night, and most who went there were never seen again.

A
mber heard her name called in the night and rose to answer it.
 
She was still somewhere between dream and reality, and in her mind it was her daughter's voice.

When she saw the man's familiar face standing before her in the near perfect darkness, a grinning caricature of wickedness, all teeth and glaring eyes, every suppressed terror and forgotten childhood nightmare she had ever known came back to her.
 
She had forgotten this face, the face of the Bogey Man, but here it was again, and now she remembered.

“My sweet little Amber,” he said.
 
“My precious, precious thing.
 
How you've grown.”

She tried to run, but the power of his gaze kept her where she stood.
 
She wanted to scream, but he cupped his hand over her mouth, cutting off her breath.
 
As hard as she tried, she could not make a sound.

Then she saw his other hand and the wicked thing he held.
 
A pair of stainless steel scissors, polished to a spotless mirror shine.
 
They opened with a metallic hiss, making an X shape.
 
He gripped them at the crux with his bare hand, fingers wrapped around handle and blade.
 
They should have cut him, but did not.
 
Weak light from outside lit the razor edges like lines of fire.

He punched through her with one extended blade and yanked upward, opening her up from crotch to sternum like one would a fish.

She felt the freezing sweat on her brow, cheeks, and chest, the odd sensation of parting skin and flesh as it hung in flaps from her midriff.
 
Cold fire that filled her to the core, its intensity growing with each application of his weapon.
 
There were hot, meaty splashes against her legs and feet as he gutted her.

Then, finally, her struggle for breath ended, the grinning face faded to black, and she felt nothing.

H
e knew she was gone. He could see the horrible understanding in her eyes die, leaving the dumb, empty gaze of a stuffed animal.
 
He released her and she folded inward like a noiseless accordion, coming to rest at his feet.

He was drenched with her blood, painted with it, but that was fine.
 
Just fine.
 
He put the scissors away and rubbed his palms together in a slow, circular motion, relishing the tacky wetness between them.
 
He closed his eyes, drew breath deep in through his nostrils, savoring her smell.

“Mommy.”
 
It was a small, fear-choked cry from down the hallway.
 
The voice of the child he had come for.
 
“Mommy, I'm scared!”

He opened his eyes, his smile widening, and laced the fingers of his bloodied hands together in a prayerful gesture.

“Ah,” he intoned in a slow out-rush of breath.
 
His lips parted in an impossible grin.

Huge teeth - shark's teeth - shining in a shadow face.

He went to her, sat on the edge of her bed.

“Why are you crying, Charity?”

She ignored him, continued to watch the door, waiting for her mother.
 
She gave him an occasional nervous, twitching glance.
 
He was a stranger to her, though she knew his face from dreams.

She was not a stranger to him.
 
He knew her, had come for her as he had so many others.

He asked her again, “Why are you crying, my precious little angel?
 
It breaks my heart to see you crying.”

Again, she ignored him.
 
The third time he took her gently by the face, the V between his thumb and forefinger gripping her chin while his fingers caressed her cheeks.
 
The blood on his fingers painted her cheeks; red streaks like the war paint on one of Peter Pan's little Indians.
 
He eased her into a sitting position and leaned closer.

Her eyes darted, left and right, up and down.
 
They rolled in their sockets in an effort to avoid his gaze.
 
She was the strongest child he had ever encountered, but the force of his will was too powerful to resist.

“I had a bad dream,” she said at last.

“My dear Charity,” his voice was soothing, offering cold comfort.
 
“A bad dream, was it?”

“Uh huh,” she said, then closed her eyes, forcing back the panic and tears.
 
She opened them again and glanced back toward the door.
 
She knew her mother wasn't coming.
 
She did not cry then though, she stayed in control.

“I dreamed about the Bogey Man,” she said when she had managed to kill the sobs.

He patted her head, smoothed the dark tangle of hair from her high forehead.

“There, there,” he said.
 
“Don't cry now.
 
Close your eyes and sleep.”

She nodded and slouched back against her pillow, all fear put away by the force of his suggestion.
 
Thoughts of her mother, at least for then, were swept aside.