The Changeling

The Pooka Dance

Brody came into the house much later than the boys had anticipated. In fact, it was nearing eleven o'clock before they heard the door open and heavy footsteps enter the front hall. They'd grown tremendously bored, even though Brody had a television in the den—the only channels he got seemed to play imported British soap operas and game shows non-stop. Strangely enough, the two had begun to worry about the man, though they didn't voice their thoughts. What if he was lying unconscious in some field? Hadn't he been the very person to advise them against going out in the dark? As the windows blackened and the interior of the house grew more ominous, the boys had begun to grow increasingly uneasy, partially because they worried for the man, but mostly because they didn't want to go out looking for him or be alone in the farmhouse with god-knew-what lurking around outside. But Brody did eventually return, and when he did, the boys felt their lungs breathe deep again, as if they'd been waiting to exhale the entire time.

"You still up?" the man growled upon seeing them. "Forgot you were even here."

He rumbled off somewhere into the house, and the boys looked at one another. The guy had been borderline friendly before . . . now, they felt a little scared of him. Was the man resenting taking them in? Was he going to change his mind about helping them and call the authorities?

Eric clicked off the television. "I think we should go to bed," he said to Neil.

Not usually fond of people telling him what to do, Neil had to agree that staying out of Brody's sight was probably a good idea. Listening to the man's footsteps in other parts of the house, the two made sure they avoided him and sneaked into the room that had been designated theirs for the night. It held a single bed and a sofa, and for once, the two didn't fight about who slept where and just plopped themselves down on the respective pieces of furniture; sleep soon followed.

The noise woke Eric first. In his half-asleep, half-awake circumstance, he couldn't tell if it was part of his dreams or not—were things breaking and creaking in his dreams? Was something stomping and snorting in his dreams? It was only when he became more aware of himself and fully awoke, sitting up in bed, that he realized the sounds he heard were most definitely not in his mind.

Something was going on outside the window, not nearby but close enough to the farmhouse that he could hear it. There was someone outside making quite a racket—tearing things up. Eric pictured the numerous fences and stone walls crisscrossing the surrounding land and wondered if someone was uprooting fence posts and throwing the huge rocks around; that's what it sounded like was going on. Uncertain at first if he should be afraid or not (maybe it was just Brody, still working out there with his sheep in the dark night), he decided against waking Neil and went hesitantly to the curtained window. As if knowing he was approaching, whoever was outside suddenly intensified the noises: thuds of rock smashing onto the ground, breaking against one another, and the creaking then snapping of wooden stakes as they were likely bent in half and broken. Eric felt his breath catch in his throat. His nerves crept more on edge as he inched toward the window.

Moonlight shone through the square of glass except on the bottom, where a nearly-sheer, old-lady-looking curtain hung halfway down the pane. Eric could see nothing through it, but he knew he had to look past it. If he woke Neil without looking, the redhead wouldn't let him live it down. He already came off as chicken enough. Besides, he was safe, indoors.

He delicately turned up a corner of the curtain, but he hardly got a glimpse of what was out there because just as he lifted the fabric, a huge chunk of wood flew straight toward the window and he stumbled backward with a startled yelp. There was a thud to the side of the window rather than the shatter of glass Eric had expected—whatever was thrown at him hit the house. Shivering like a dried leaf left on a tree branch, the boy stumbled back onto his feet, but he backed away from the window.