Wendy and Her Lost Boys -- The Lost Boys 1987

Chapter 12: Flour Coated Peace Offering

– Wendy –

A sound lifts me from my dreams. It wasn't a crash, so much as shuffling – movement where there should be none – not in the middle of the night at least.

My breath caught in my lungs, a heavy weight making fear trickle down my spine. It pushed me forward as my feet shifted off the bed and touched the cool floor.

I move towards my closet. The other side of the room never felt so far as it did now, especially when I needed to reach for it the most. I close the tips of my fingers around the handle and pull it open as quietly as I can.

The hinges creak and I pause, breath bated, waiting to hear footsteps pounding down the hall to my room, my door to burst inward.

But neither of those things happened. So I continued, pulling the closet door wider and finding my weapon of choice, a wooden baseball bat driven through with nails.

When you're living in a large, drafty house without a ferocious dog to give you back up, it pays to be your own protection in times like these and Baby does a good job of keeping us all safe.

The familiar weight of the bat in my hands calmed me, if only momentarily. I had to get to Laddie and Star, warn them or save them, I didn't know.

Keeping to my tip toes, I cross my room to find the door. Opening it without a sound, I silently praise the well oiled hinges, before continuing on my way. Laddie's room is closer, at the opposite end of the hall. I'll start there.

From where I stand outside my door, I can just make out the silhouette of his room. The doorway is softly illuminated by the streetlight outside his window. But this, it's all wrong. Laddie's door is never open, not like this. He sleeps with the door cracked open, three inches exactly. Any more and it's too scary for him to look into the void of darkness shrouding the hall.

Not knowing what I'll find, I hesitantly peak into his room. His bed is empty, sheets sleep rumpled, but he's nowhere to be found.

Softly, I call out to him. The lack of response drives a pit into my stomach, twisting it as a sheen of cold sweat breaks out across my skin.

My mind is in a whirl, panic flooding my thoughts. I stumble out of his room and into the hall. My grip on the bat tightens further, my grip white knuckled and bloodless.

Down the hall, I move past the first flight of stairs to Star's room. It's the same as Laddie's. Bed empty, comforter fallen to the side, slippers forgotten in a rush.

I think about calling out for her, but a small noise on the first floor of the house stops me cold.

The shriek of a knife leaving the wooden block. It's unmistakable. A chill ripples over me.

I steel myself and make my way down the final flight of stairs. An unexpectedly soft light in the kitchen guides me closer to the sound of shuffling and hushed whispers.

I raise Baby over my shoulder, preparing to strike and hoping all the while I'll be strong enough if it comes to that.

Holding my breath, I round the corner and falter at the sight before me. My grip on the bat loosened and I let it fall to my side, the end of the nails just grazing the floor.

Before me, Star and Laddie are whispering excitedly and measuring ingredients with Dwayne. A butter knife rests on the counter, flour painting one side of it a powdery white.

Somehow, Dwayne looks different than he did just a few short weeks ago. His long hair is pulled back in a messy bun, one of Star's red scrunchies keeping it in place.