Sarah Benadine is Dead

Chapter V, Part II

In his school days, if anyone wanted to find Charlie Mouser, the library was the best bet. He was there the day Shannon Malone found Caleb Vance and he was there a few days later, when Caleb Vance came looking for him.

Charlie Mouser spent most of his time alone. It was not that he didn't have friends, though he had only a few of those. Solitude was safer; in the few weeks he'd been back at school he'd already had to have his glasses fixed twice—thick, horn-rimmed glasses that he hated but were the only thing keeping him from smacking into walls. Thank God he had his spares, or anytime Vince Masterson or Dean Procter got a mind to snap his regular pair he'd be up a creek. They were old but they would do. Keeping to himself in the library spared his glasses some torment, and spared himself some torment, as well. He knew Jared Wilkins had gotten a fat lip a time or two for saying the wrong thing at the wrong time around Vince, Dean, and the rest of their group, and he had no intention of getting the same treatment himself.

He wasn't sure what Ollie O'Brien did to keep his glasses together, but, whatever it was, he was glad she did it. If he went home one more time with tape around the bridge or the arms he was certain his mother would murder him.

Non-fiction was his own little corner of the universe, plopped in the middle of shelves with encyclopedias and How To's and a few biographies, all mixed together in a mockery of the Dewey Decimal System. "Not enough time in a day," Miss Terwilliger, the librarian, always said. "Not enough time to keep all these books straight."

No one ever came back to non-fiction most days, anyway, except Charlie. How the books got so out of order was a mystery to him.

The day Caleb Vance sat down next to him at the table, Charlie was sure the shock was written all across his face. Caleb spent a lot of time in the library himself; Charlie would know. But usually he was with others, Jared Wilkins and Dexter Bradbury. Henry Turner once in a while. That day Caleb was alone, sitting at Charlie's table with him. The only person who ever sat with Charlie was Ollie O'Brien when she was offering to fix his freshly busted glasses. Some vague part of him thought Caleb had him confused with someone else. Caleb greeting him with his name squashed that thought right away.

"Figured I'd find you here," Caleb said with a soft sort of smile, and it struck Charlie as strange that Caleb would know where to look for him. It shouldn't have been—the library was, after all, always the best bet, but he felt like Caleb wouldn't have noticed. He didn't really think anyone would have noticed, besides perhaps Miss Terwilliger, who always smiled brightly when he came in, trying to keep the slight sadness out of her eyes. Charlie Mouser was a good boy, Louise Terwilliger thought, but it was a shame he was always in the library instead of out with his friends. If anyone knew the time he spent here, it was only her, or so Charlie assumed. Caleb Vance's presence proved him wrong.

"Hi, Caleb," Charlie said quietly. Caleb's soft smile became almost apologetic.

"Listen, I've got a couple questions for you." Caleb was hesitant, plotting his words carefully. Charlie could tell that much. "I hear you're the best person to come to with this sort of stuff. And I think that might be right."

Charlie would've winced if Caleb hadn't been face-to-face with him. He knew what Caleb meant as soon as he said it. He heard something like that on occasion, usually as a taunt. Most people didn't talk about it. Just the ones who were already causing trouble.

But this was Caleb. Charlie liked Caleb. He saw the same kind of understanding in Caleb's eyes that Shannon Malone did, even though he didn't know it. Caleb had had his own share of trouble with Vince Masterson, Dean Procter, and Quintus Zima—the worst of the bunch. That itself was enough reason to trust the boy.

"Fire away," Charlie said.

Caleb's eyes were distant as he asked, "Have you ever heard of a monster that's all white and doesn't have any eyes?"

Charlie arms flailed haphazardly. "Keep your voice down!" He glanced to his sides frantically, half-expecting Miss Terwilliger to materialize right there next to them. "You know we'll be in trouble if anyone hears us talking about this."

When Charlie looked back to Caleb, the other boy was smiling, amused.

"Yeah," he said easily, shrugging as if it were the most insignificant thing in the world. Charlie could do nothing to prevent the small grin that crossed his own face. Caleb Vance's smile was infectious. Charlie Mouser would learn that over the years. Caleb persisted. "Well, have you?"

Charlie looked to the left and the right once more, suddenly worried about more than just Miss Terwilliger.

"White with no eyes?" He was asking for confirmation that he didn't need. He knew exactly what Caleb had said.

"Yeah. And six fingers on both hands." Caleb had, in fact, lowered his voice.

"Thought you might say so," Charlie said. His face was slightly pained, the face of a person who has realized something they wished they never had. "Sounds like a Follower."

Caleb looked at him in fascination. Charlie knew he didn't have a lot of experience with this kind of stuff. "A Follower? What's that?"

Charlie sucked in a breath. This is what you get for all that reading you do, Charlie's traitorous mind told him. It sounded a bit like his older brother.

"They're these creatures that people can control. There's some spell or ritual or something that you have to do to summon one, and then it must just disappear when it's done its business."

"What's its business?" Caleb asked. "Anything the person who summoned it tells it to do?"

"Naw." Charlie lowered his voice even further; Caleb had to strain to hear. "It's—it's got a target. That's what you summon it for. It kills someone for you, so you don't have to."

"Holy smokes," Caleb said. He sounded breathless. "You sure?"

Charlie Mouser was, unfortunately, positive. He remembered reading about the thing in a book Miss Terwilliger had let him take out last May on good faith. ("It's history," she'd said as she'd checked it out to him, watching him print his name neatly on the index card from the pocket in the front. "They can police everything else you students do and say, but they won't police my books.") There had been a whole slew of creatures in that book—his mother probably would have lost her mind if she'd known what he'd been reading about—but he'd remembered that one in particular, the Follower. That one had disturbed him the most. Something dedicated only to killing. A living, breathing, killing machine. There had been pictures: rough, hand-drawn figures, but Charlie was pretty sure that whoever had done them was very well-acquainted with his or her specimens. He'd seen the six sharp fingers, the caverns for eyes, the jagged teeth that seemed to go on forever.

"Leaves a black mark on the right hand of the person it's after," he said.

And something else...there was something that was caught in his mind, floating just out of reach—

"There aren't any left," he said so suddenly Caleb jerked a bit. Charlie smiled sheepishly; he hadn't obeyed his own stipulations. His voice was loud enough for anyone nearby to hear. Much softer, he said, "Sorry. But there aren't any left."

"What do you mean?" Caleb asked.

"The Followers," Charlie explained. "They were wiped out after a war. Something like seventy years ago. No more."

Caleb's face was sorrowful as he beheld Charlie. "I'm not so sure about that."

Charlie's eyes narrowed in confusion. "Huh?"

Caleb shook his head with a thoughtfulness that was almost adult in its intensity. "I don't know. But I got a pretty bad feeling."

Charlie didn't have the courage to ask anything more.

***So I've been kind of radio silent the past couple days, but I'm back with a chapter I'm equal parts proud of and dissatisfied with. Ah well. Thanks to everyone who voted and commented, I appreciate it more than you know.***