Prologue: Laughter in the Dark

  The boy never forgot the sound of laughter in the dark.

  He didn't know what was happening. The young boy was just... confused. Too much going on, all outside and all so LOUD! At first he'd thought it was a fire, with the sound of running feet and the voices all panicked, but no. He'd seen fire before, when the Paddleton's house burned down. The smoke had drifted far enough that even in his own home, he could smell it, and this was different.

  The front door opened, then slammed shut.

  His father, breathing hard and unevenly, rested his back against the door and tried to speak. "We can't stop them. One at a time, they're just... picking us off for sport," he panted. The boy's mother looked up from where she was tugging at the rug nearby, eyes open wide. She'd shuttered and barred the windows of the small cottage, but for some reason that wasn't enough. Even at the tender age of six, the boy could tell.

  His parents were terrified.

  Latches flicked shut. A table scraped across the floor, shoved against the door. His father, stout and broad-shouldered, was wide-eyed and fearful. His mother scrambled at the floor, pulling aside the rug to swing open the cellar hatch. She grabbed his arm, tugging him toward the cool, musty opening and the narrow ladder descending below.

  "Down! Quickly!" she ordered the boy, but he was too confused at first. A yank on his arm made him stumble, almost falling in! A fall that could injure or kill him, even though the cellar was so shallow. It shook him out of his dazed confusion.

  He didn't speak. The questions bubbling up died in his throat beneath the terror in the eyes of his parents. That spurred him to fumble downward, hurrying down the ladder. He understood now. They were taking shelter. A storm? But it didn't sound like a storm outside. A monster attack? Picking us off for sport?

  It finally clicked. Picking us off. People were dying. Even at his age, he understood that. He didn’t grasp what death really meant, not yet, but he knew it was scary. Scary and permanent. That’s why he scrambled down, landing hard on the cool, damp floor of the cellar. He looked up, expecting his mother to follow.

  The trapdoor slammed shut. A moment later, even the thin rectangle of light vanished, as something - a rug? - covered the door.

  He was alone.

  In the dark.

  The trapdoor slamming shut made the sounds above even worse. It wasn’t long before muffled shouts drifted down. The scream building in his throat died as a primal instinct kicked in. Whatever was happening, some part of him knew that making a sound would ruin whatever his parents had planned.

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  But he heard it. Muffled, unclear, he heard it. A scream, from his mother. A shout from his father. Loud crashes, thumps. Another scream... unsure which. And then...

  Laughter. Discordant, high-pitched laughter almost like a child's. It sounded strange... off. And it kept rising in pitch, loud enough he could almost make it out more clearly.

  It stopped for a moment as the boy heard his father shout, and a loud crash sounded out upstairs. The lack of light made the sounds stand out all the more, and the boy shivered, wrapping arms around himself. It might have been the cool chill of the cellar... or what his imagination was whispering to him about the room above.

  The giggling started again as he heard another scream. His father, this time, and the muffled noise of his mother shouting. Pleading, though he didn't quite understand that at the time. The giggling rose in volume, easier to hear now... the source must be near his hiding place. It sounded stranger, now. Tinny and artificial, like someone plucking mandolin strings inside a metal box.

  Finally, the stunned confusion began to fade. Terror still gnawed at him, but something else flared hotter—anger. That was his family! He fumbled in the dark until his fingers found the slick rungs of the ladder. He climbed, slipping once when his foot missed a step, but kept going. When he reached the top, he pushed upward, one hand on the trapdoor, the other gripping the ladder, trying to lift himself toward the light—

  A lance of hot pain on his cheek.

  "AHHH!" At last the boy said something, a loud squealing scream. His grip slipped, and for a terrifying moment, the disoriented child was in midair, falling...

  He hit the ground with a loud, wheezing grunt. Loud to his ears—but the screaming above drowned it out. Had anyone heard him? He didn’t know. He couldn’t think clearly. His hand flew to his cheek, tracing a line of pain from his cheekbone down to his jaw, angling beneath his left ear. Warm, sticky blood seeped between his fingers.

  A fraction higher, and he’d have lost an eye.

  A fraction to the left, and he’d be dead.

  The thought hit him like a blow. He’d almost died. His blood slicked his palm, warm and sticky between his fingers. For a long moment, he stayed frozen, dazed, all thought of climbing gone.

  When he shook it off and listened again—silence. No voices above. No screams.

  Was it over? Where were his parents? They’d come get him… wouldn’t they?

  The idea they might not felt ridiculous. Impossible. His young mind couldn’t hold it—but deep down, something told him not to think too hard about that.

  He reached for the ladder again, wiping his bloody hand on his clothes. Climbing carefully this time, one hand after the other.

  —SPLAT—

  Something wet hit his cheek. He wiped it off with a grimace. His mother would’ve made him wash.

  —SPLAT—

  Another drop landed on his bare arm. He didn’t bother wiping this one away. He was almost there.

  —SPLAT—

  His hand bumped against the trapdoor above.

  He pushed—first a gentle shove, then harder.

  “Mom? Da?” The boy’s voice cracked as he called out. The noise above was gone. It had to be safe now… right?

  “Mommy?”

  He slammed the heel of his palm against the door. It didn’t even rattle.

  Thumps gave way to frantic shoves. His shoulder pressed against the wood. He pounded and shouted, begging to be let out—but no one answered.

  And now, something else. A sticky, wet ooze seeping through the narrow slit in the door. The same slit where the blade had stabbed down.

  Fluid. But no light.

  He was trapped.

  At last, the smell reached him—thick, cloying, unmistakable.

  It wasn’t water, or syrup, or milk.

  It was blood.