Sarah Adams's Arc

Chapter 1 of 1

Sarah Adams pressed her back against a wet tree and watched the light drain from the island. She was ten, maybe still ten, and she had lost count of the days since the plane broke apart and she lost her mother and father. Her vacation clothes clung to her, dirty and rotting on her skin. Her pink backpack held three crackers, a bottle almost empty of water, and her father's knife. She had one plan left: find her parents before the night found her. And the night was coming. Rain started again. She needed a dry, hidden place before dark. Last night she had slept in the open, and something had breathed near her ear. She would not do that again. She pushed through the trees until the ground turned to gray sand. Ahead, a cave opened in the rock like a black mouth. She stopped. Caves could hide things too. But the rain was cold and the sky was almost gone. She stepped inside. The cave was dry. Her feet found something soft. A sleeping bag lay slumped on the sand, rotted and torn, stuffing spilling out. Near it stood a stack of dented old cans with peeling labels. Someone had lived here. She knelt and touched a small doll on its side, its stuffing coming loose, its painted eyes staring up. A child had been here. Sarah dragged the sleeping bag deeper into the dark. It smelled of mold, but it was cover. She could rest here. She could hide. For the first time in days her chest loosened. Then a shape filled the cave mouth. It was thin and gray, a man that was not a man. His skin cracked over his bones. A torn shirt hung open on his chest. Around his neck swung a string of yellow teeth. His eyes were white and empty, and when they found her, his mouth pulled wide. Sarah did not breathe. This was the thing from the nights. This was what breathed near her ear. He stepped in. His foot knocked a can, and it rolled and rang against the stone. He lurched toward her, arms reaching, a wet sound coming from his throat. Sarah's hand dug into her backpack. Her fingers closed on the knife. She had promised herself she would not use it. She pulled it free and slashed at the reaching hand. The blade bit. He hissed and jerked back. She did not wait. She ran past him, into the rain, the knife still open in her fist. Behind her he snarled and gave chase, dragging his bad leg over the sand. The cave was lost. The dry place was his. She ran into the dark and the storm, hunted now, knowing his face, knowing he was between her and any shelter on this island.