Whisper Down the Lane by Clay Chapman (inspiring books for teens txt) 📕

and wandered off on his own, when he should’ve been keeping up with the rest of us?

Even as I reason with myself, I feel like I’m failing him by not fearing the worst. That’s what parents do. What real parents do. They fear everything. Everything. Until life proves otherwise, life itself is a threat.

I push through the crowd at a brisk walk that turns into a full sprint once I realize that I’m not seeing him anywhere.

I stop before the mouth of the maze. An archway of jack-o’-lanterns curves over my head. Each carved pumpkin has a battery-powered LED light flickering within, mimicking a candle.

“Elijah!” I call out. “Eli.” There’s no peering over the towering stalks. Hal’s made sure of that. I have to plunge into the labyrinth, make my way through its rows like everyone else, navigate each twisting lane, suffer every dead end. But there’s no time. I know that every slipping second is sending Tamara deeper into a catatonic state, the panic consuming her.

I’m going to find him. I have to find him. There isn’t any other option. The second I saw the maze, I knew he was in there because that’s exactly what I would’ve done if I were in his shoes. This is where I would’ve gone. Where every boy goes.

I run through the maze. I rush past all the other parents still with their kids, forcing my way through the clusters of teenagers.

“Watch it, asshole,” some dipshit in a varsity jacket shouts as I pry apart his crew.

I spot a flash of blue through the stalks and think it looks like Elijah’s T-shirt. Isn’t he wearing a blue T-shirt? I can’t remember anymore. The only thing to do is plow through the cornstalks and make my way into the neighboring lane.

“Elijah!” When I burst through the maze’s wall, I stumble upon an unsuspecting family. Their son lets out a shout, startled by my abrupt entrance. I try to play it off, pretending I’m a part of the festivities, a volunteer minotaur that pops out and says boo. “Sorry…Sorry.”

I swore I’ve already come this way. I’m so turned around. Now I have to backtrack. The maze is making me dizzy. The cornstalks seem to turn as I pass, like they’re watching me.

Where am I? Where’s Elijah? My pulse hammers against my temples. I feel my heartbeat full-on throbbing in my head, pressing against the inside of my skull. I need to think. Need to—

Pray.

I need to stop and get my whereabouts and just—

Pray.

I’m willing to do anything. Do whatever it takes to get him back. Do I need to get down on my knees? Clasp my hands and say the words out loud? What do I need to do, what do I have to say, to make this all go away? Make it stop? Please, I beg, please, just bring Elijah back.

I halt before the body suspended from its post. Its arms are slung out at its shoulders. Its head is slumped to one side.

Mr. Stitch’s bloated chest is disproportioned. The hay stuffed into his shirt settles into misshapen muscles. One arm is bulkier than the other. His head is a burlap sack, the faded letters sugar cane printed across his forehead. But most unnerving is Mr. Stitch’s new addition to his annual getup, something that’ll surely cause a stir with the churchgoing crowd on Sunday…

A pentagram.

Red rivulets dribble down his flannel shirt onto the flattened cornstalks below. Purely on reflex, I reach out and brush my finger along a wet tendril. Did I really think it was—what, blood? I recognize the bright crimson tincture right away. Red tempera paint. I use the same brand at school. The paint is still fresh against his chest, from the looks of it.

Do I want Mr. Stitch’s help? Somehow, the spirit of this dead Confederate will know where to look? Isn’t that what kids do here? Come to Mr. Stitch? Let him whisper his stories?

Anything. I am willing to try anything. What do they all say? How does the story go?

Watch out for Mr. Stitch. Don’t get too close…

“Mr. Stitch.” I can’t recognize the sound of my own voice.

And whatever you do, don’t ever, ever say his name three times…

“Mr. Stitch.” This doesn’t sound like me.

You’ll wake him up.

“Mr. Stitch—”

Just the faintest release of air spills out from his hay-stuffed chest. It’s wet. Ragged, like damp burlap ripping. I take a step closer. To listen.

“Is this who you’re looking for?” The voice comes from behind me, but in the vertigo of the moment, I swear, I believe Mr. Stitch says it.

I spin around and find Elijah. His eyes hide beneath his flop of hair. He can’t stand still, shifting his weight from one foot to the next, as if he needs to pee.

I rush to him and kneel before him. “Oh God,” I say. “You’re okay, you’re okay.”

The ground is soft, the stalks pressing down into the mud, leaving me unsteady. I have to clasp Elijah’s shoulders to balance myself. My grip is tighter than it should be, but I need to hold on to him, not just for balance, but to make sure I don’t lose him again.

Then the slightest spike of anger wedges itself in. “You can’t run off like that! We were looking everywhere for you! Your mom is scared to death.” Funny how you can be so afraid one second, and then the next, something just switches. The current of emotion reverses course and some self-righteous sense of indignation takes over. How dare you make me feel this afraid, this roller coaster of emotion seems to say, as if this were all Elijah’s fault. Am I blaming him? I don’t think I had shaken him that hard, but he’s crying now. “Don’t you ever do that again.”

In the blinding heat of the moment, I hadn’t acknowledged—hadn’t noticed—the woman standing next to him. I had launched directly into my parental tirade.

It was Mr. Stitch, right? I called him, conjured him, and he brought him back.