“No way!” Georgie exclaimed. “Mom told you to stop making up stories.”
“It is true. I saw Ferry Blackwell,” Macy replied earnestly, adding, “He had a head like a melon.”
“You did not. Get your stuff ready, and let’s go. We’re going to be late.” Georgie walked out the front door, and Macy followed reluctantly, wishing that her big brother would believe her this time. She did like to make up stories, and their mom had asked her to knock it off, but this wasn’t a story. She had spotted Ferry Blackwell, she was sure of it.
~
Shifting from one foot to the other, Macy stared down the school driveway. All of the buses had left; everyone was gone. Georgie was late. She had tried to call him on her cell phone, but there was no answer. Her mom was at work, and interrupting her would guarantee a whole evening of arguing. Slipping the phone into her back pocket, she decided to walk home. As the pavement twisted and turned she found herself thinking about Ferry Blackwell again. Last week, she had started reading a book about the history of her town, Devilsville. It had not been riveting, except for one phrase, handwritten on page twenty-two. It read: In the woods of Devilsville, you’re sure to find a gory thrill. When the Bakerman wants to eat, hide your hands, and cover your feet. With a head melon-sized and fire burning in his eyes, he’ll harvest your fingers and your toes, then leave the rest so everyone knows. Murdered by an angry town, he swore revenge when they shot him down. So watch your children, but never tell- if Ferry Blackwell comes back from hell. Macy knew the words by heart. She had looked through a few other books, but found nothing else about Ferry Blackwell. Then, the other day, she saw him. There had been a rustling behind the trees in her backyard. When she had gone over to investigate, someone actually was there. It looked like a man, but with a huge head. He had flashed a mad, toothy grin at her, then quickly disappeared. Her mother had come running out when she heard Macy’s rants of terror.
“Macy, what did I tell you about scaring people with your stories?” her mother had quipped. Macy knew that no one was ever going to believe her, and why should they? After all, she did have a long history of making things up, which had opened more than one can of worms for her parents to deal with. Things like; Ginny Wader, in the third grade, refusing to touch door handles ever again or Georgie wearing a helmet wherever he went for a year. The list was long, she mused. Her thoughts were suddenly cut short. Just ahead, at the bottom of the hill, a school bus was stopped in the middle of the road. Macy cautiously walked up to it and climbed the steps. Other than the backpacks and lunch boxes strewn about on the seats, it appeared empty.
“Hello?” she said tentatively. “Is anyone here?” She made her way down the aisle. Midway, her mouth dropped open in horror. On a seat to her left, there were bloody nails mixed in with a heap of shoes and socks. BANG! Something hit the side of the bus. “What was that?” she whispered. BANG! Again, the bus shook and teetered. Macy reacted fast and ran up the aisle. Quaking with fear, she grabbed the door handle and pulled. Just as it was about to latch, long fingers pried it back open. Two red, veined eyes zeroed in on their target. Terror forced the air out of her lungs, and she screamed. Then, everything went blank.
~
Macy was flat on her back when she woke. She was chained to the floor, and her feet were bare. A painful stinging in her fingers and toes sliced through her body. Where was she? What had happened? “Who else is here?” she questioned the darkness.
“Shhhh,” a panicked voice ordered.
“Who’s there?” she said again.
“Stop talking, you idiot. He’ll hear you.” It was a terrified sounding boy.
