Author's Notes: Yes, a rewrite. I hope this isn't too disappointing or vexing, but I felt that it would provide a far more rewarding experience for you, the readers, and me. After writing the first draft for a year and a half, I have discovered a lot more about the story and characters, as well as my comfort zones as a writer. I believe that with the new plot elements in place this story will ultimately be more rewarding to read, far more suspenseful, descriptive, and dramatic. The original thirty-one chapters can still be found on my profile, under the title Samantha. As always, please read and review. Also, please note that even though this is not under the category for the movie version of Bridge to Terabithia, it is still a movie verse, as are all my other stories.

Disclaimer: Let it be known for this and all subsequent chapters that I own no rights to Bridge to Terabithia or any of the characters or settings related to it. I do, however, own the Harper and Walden families, Samantha Aarons-Parker, Timmy Williams and family, Bailee Jefferson and Cletus Burke. The original Bridge to Terabithia characters are the property of the Paterson family, Harper-Collins books, Disney, and Walden Media. No profit will be made from this version of the story, and no copyright infringement is intended.

A Note on the Historical Accuracy: Please note that the references and scenarios related to both real life people and events are only based upon actual fact, and I am in no way affiliated with any of the people mentioned. All portrayals are done with the utmost respect, and I have tried to gather as much information as humanly possible, but please know that some facts have been flexed or over-analyzed for the sake of the story. This is not a history book, it is a fictitious story, and should therefore be treated as such. Thank you! : )

A Note on the Rating: This fanfiction is rated T for teens, mainly for some mild sequences of fantasy and realistic violence. Mild coarse language—such as that used in Katherine Paterson's original novel—is included in some chapters. Not suited for anyone under the age of thirteen.

In the Paradox of Wonderland

Part One:

The Enchanted Rope

Chapter One:

The Boy

Lark Creek, Virginia, mid-August, 1976

"Lewis. Lewis. Lewis. Lewis Daniel Harper, are you listening to me?"

The ten year old boy snapped to attention, averting his eyes from the window and turning to face his mother, who was currently standing with her hands on her hips, bright red lips pursed in a most angry fashion. She tapped her foot against the linoleum floor impatiently, uncurling one fist so that she might keep tempo by drumming her fingers against her thigh.

"I'm…sorry, Mom." The boy—Lewis—said meekly. "What did you ask me?"

Mrs. Harper sighed loudly and narrowed her green eyes. "I did not ask you anything, Lewis." She spat sharply. "I told you to help clean the living room so it might look somewhat presentable before my friends arrived for dinner tonight, and that you did not do, young man. Now, if it is not too much for me, your mother, to ask why you did not do as I instructed, could you please tell me what the blasted thing was that distracted you?"

"I was reading," Lewis told her quietly, staring down at his jeans.

"I'm sorry, what?" Mrs. Harper made a show of leaning towards her son, hand cupped around her left ear. "What did you say, Lewis?"

"I was reading, mother." He repeated, feeling his fingers tremble. He pushed himself deeper into the shallow window seat, pressing his spine up against the window molding and pulling his feet—which were mostly bare, unless you counted the navy blue cotton socks—onto the bench with him, wrapping his arms tightly around his knees, which threatened to knock together. Perspiration broke out along his thighs, dripping down into the shallow crevices that came just before his crotch. He swallowed as deeply and as quietly as he could, trying to calm himself mentally.

There's no need to be afraid, Lewis. He thought. She's your mother, and you've done nothing wrong. There's nothing wrong with reading Lewis, so you have nothing to be afraid of. Don't be such a coward; you have no reason to be afraid…

"Oh, you were reading, were you, my little scholar?" Nancy Harper feigned immense interest, making her eyes widen and pushing one of her unnaturally blonde locks out of her eyes. She leaned down into the face of the frightened boy, smiling falsely.

"Yes, ma'am, I was reading." Lewis's eyes flitted to the woman's face, and he looked down promptly after meeting her eyes, which were glaring at him like black emeralds over her excessively powdered nose. He felt the sweat again, this time it was beading on his neck, icy little droplets hiding calmly beneath his shirt collar.

"Pray tell, my dearest boy, what was the book you were reading?" Her voice was so soft and sweet that for a brief moment Lewis felt a flash of hope; if he focused only on the mask of motherly adoration—which was so thin and foreign on Nancy's thickly made up face it threatened to crack with the slightest provoking—he might be able to blur out the truth: the deep, impenetrable anger that always kept the love away, the hurt and genuine unhappiness that he could never seem to cut away, even after years of trying. Lewis could never fully comprehend what exactly made his mother so angry and bitter all the time, but he reasoned—the reasoning coming from bits and pieces of supposed "Adult Only" conversations he had heard at various family events over his short decade of life—that it had something to do with his father, a figure who was nothing but an undeveloped shadow in Lewis's mind. He had never once met his father, never laid eyes on a photograph. His father…well, to be frank, Lewis didn't have the slightest inclination what had happened to his father. No one would tell him anything, except for his great-aunt Clara, who had, three Christmases ago, said these exact words: "Louie, my dearest, how big you're becoming! Such a handsome young man, too. I swear upon my dear Mummy's grave—may she rest in peace, blessed woman—you will wake up on your eighteenth birthday and find your Daddy's face looking back at you in the mirror."

This statement had delighted the young boy to the point of near speechlessness. "Do you really think so auntie?" He had breathed in astonishment, staring wide eyed at the old woman. Clara had laughed her little wisp of a laugh, and reached over to pat his cheek with her twisted, prune-like fingers.

"Of course, Lewis. Aunt Clara would never lie to you." She assured him, smiling so widely that it looked as though the papery skin of her face would fall away from the bones.

Now, Clara was a dear woman, and Lewis loved her very much—she was his favorite relative, possibly because she was the only one who paid a lick of attention to him—but the boy was aware that she was a wee bit batty, and her statements couldn't always be counted as true. He figured he should get a confirmation from another reliable source. All throughout dinner he looked around the table at the faces of his family—all of them Collins's, his mother's family. They never saw any of Harpers, because they were related to his father—wondering who would be the best to ask. There was Grandma Yvette, but she hated Lewis and the subject of her daughter's missing husband. Grandpa Waylon never stopped eating, not even to pray, and after dinner he would go into the den and fall asleep in his old plaid recliner, under the dim, flickering lights of the puny, half-dead Christmas tree. Then there was aunt Julianne, his mother's younger sister. Julianne was a Broadway dancer, and extremely beautiful, with long, wavy flaxen hair, skin that was like cream and roses, blue eyes so clear they were almost silver, which were hooded by ebony eyelashes, and elegant, naturally hairless legs, which were always shown off by short, tight-fitting skirts that were so snug Lewis figured it was a miracle she could sit down without them splitting clean down the backside. But despite her beauty, Julianne was quite gormless, and she also had a habit of dismissing unpleasant things as if they had never happened. So aunt Julianne was a no, Lewis decided.

Beside Julianne sat the oldest of Yvette and Waylon's children, Tom. The moment his nephew's eyes landed on his face he looked up, his cold, dark eyes meeting the boy's with a hollow displeasure, as if daring Lewis to continue looking at him. Like the coward he was, Lewis looked away, busying himself by trying to sculpt a Christmas tree using only ham, mashed potatoes, stewed apples, and his fork. The activity worked well until his mother—who was sitting beside him—cleared her throat quietly and nudged him with her knee under the table. He stopped for a moment and looked curiously up at her, trying to decide what she wanted from him. She jerked her head lightly in the direction of the fork, and then she pulled it downward, almost dragging it into her chest. Lewis looked back at her, then at the fork, and back at her again. Slowly, he laid the fork on the plate and quietly sipped some milk from his glass. His mother smiled at him and rubbed his thigh affectionately before returning to her own dinner.

He watched her for a while as she stared down at her ham, cutting it into tiny, bite-sized pieces. It was strange; he realized how his mother didn't quite fit in with the rest of her family. Instead of having blonde hair like Julianne and her father, or brown hair like Tom and her mother, she had a strange mix, a murky blonde color that couldn't truly be called blonde or brown. Every Collins, even great aunt Clara, had curls or waves, while his mother's hung stark straight, past her breasts in no sort of fashionable style. It was then he recalled something Grandma Yvette had told her in the kitchen that afternoon. Lewis had been loitering just outside the doorframe while they cooked, waiting for them to leave so he might sneak a still warm gingerbread man off of the cooling rack on the counter. He remembered how he had closed his eyes and held his breath, trying to focus only on the sweet, slightly peppery scent of the gingerbread instead of the stronger smell of cigarette smoke, which wafted in through the open window that looked out onto the porch where Tom, Grandpa Waylon and Julianne were smoking. He remembered how he had turned his body sideways, pressing his right shoulder up against the wall next to the kitchen door, cheek turned ever so slightly towards it so that he might hear what his mother and grandmother were saying. They weren't speaking much, only working, pots and pans clattering dully against the plain white ceramic tiles of the countertops. When they did talk to each other, it wasn't about anything that interested the boy, it was only: "Nancy, pass me the spatula in the sink please." or "Ma, your meringue is burning," which was then followed by: "Well, if it's burning, take it out of the damned oven! You got two hands, don't ya?"

"Yes, Ma." Nancy replied, and Lewis heard the sound of the oven door's rusted hinges creak open, and the familiar whoosh of hot air as the slow fan in the circa nineteen-fifty Wedgewood appliance puffed, and the scent, now released from its confines, swirled around the room like an invisible tornado, carrying out into the hallway in which Lewis stood, the smells of cigarettes and gingerbread now overshadowed by burning lemon custard.

"Blah!" Nancy shrieked quietly as the heat of the aluminum pan scalded her unprotected fingers. The desert was hastily dropped onto the closest counter, where it slid and sloshed on the leftover egg white and dish soap, and sent one of the blackened tips on a short distance to the bodice of her dress.

"Dammit!" She cried, much louder now, as she flicked the hot food particle onto the floor and rubbed the place where it had been. A few flecks of the still pale underside remained on the clothing, and as she rubbed they smeared into a much larger—and much more noticeable—blemish.

"Aw, damn." She hissed, going over to the sink and flipping on the tap. The next sound that was heard was a hollow clang, the sound of Nancy's necklace being laid on the countertop.

His mother had worn that piece of jewelry for as long as Lewis could remember. It was nothing more than a tarnished pewter chain bearing five mismatched charms of personal sentiment, a chain so long it reached Nancy's belly when sitting. "A charm for every occasion." She always said. "No need for a bunch a needless stuff when you can have one universal tool."

The chain held a small silver cross—for church—a simple gold heart—for everyday—a pewter L charm—"L for Lewis, because he's my son." She had said once to Mrs. Walters at church, back when Lewis himself was five and they still attended regular services—a very small, bronze colored, old fashioned key and an infinitesimal diamond, set in silver.

The purposes of the last two bobbles were unknown to the little boy, for no matter who he asked, no one would tell him.

"You know, Nancy…" Yvette began, somewhat hesitantly. "No decent, self respecting man with good money's gonna wanna marry a woman with a seven year old boy, a dirty mouth, and one piece of jewelry, with most of the charms given to her by a husband who cheated on her, with a woman that was the mother of his little girl…"

"Shut up Ma!" Nancy screamed, slamming her fist down on the countertop.

Lewis's legs felt like jelly. Pressing the heels of his hands up against the wall he slowly eased himself to the ground, breathing in and out through his mouth. If what his grandmother said was true, he had a half sister out there, and a father that had chosen said half sister over him and his mother.

"Daniel is not important, Ma." Nancy stated calmly. "He left two months before Lewis was even born to go be with that Jane woman and her…their…he left to go be with Jane and Maggie two months before our son was even out of the womb. He is not my husband; he is not Lewis's father. He's…"

"Cow squat?" Yvette suggested.

"Yeah," Nancy sighed. "He's nothing but cow squat."

"He wasn't very attractive, you know." Yvette remarked a few moments later as she chopped some unknown food to tiny bits.

"I didn't marry him because of his good looks," Lewis's mother replied.

"Then why in hell did ya marry him, Nan? He wasn't smart, he didn't have money, or a title, or noticeable talent, and he certainly wasn't loyal…"

"I married him because he said he loved me, mother. I married him because of the little things he did that made me feel like a princess, little things to make me feel good that you and Daddy never did…"

Yvette dropped whatever knife she was holding. "You better be joking, girl." She hissed.

"I never joke, Ma." Nancy retorted frostily. "You and Dad always slapped me when I did."

"Nancy, you were a horrible child, I'm going to state that right now." Yvette stated evenly, her voice firm. "You deserved to be slapped, and you were, even more than your brother and sister. They turned out fine, didn't they?"

"What's your definition of fine, Ma!?" Nancy half-shouted, throwing up her hands in frustration. "Tom is a drunkard, and lazy as a…well, he's so lazy I don't even know a word. And Julianne is a complete trashy ditz who has no idea what people are saying about her behind her back…"

"A trashy woman who is oblivious to the opinions and feelings of others." Yvette repeated, lips pursed. "Is that how you're describing your younger sister?"

"Yes, mother. And I don't care how harsh of an accusation it may be…"

"It is a harsh accusation, yes." The older woman interrupted. "But it seems more suited for you."

"Ma!" Lewis saw genuine hurt seep into his mother's eyes, and he wanted nothing more than to run to her and throw his arms around her. Fear and sadness rendered him immobile, however, and he stayed where he was, listening numbly to the truths he now wished he could exchange for lies, any lies.

"Nancy, I am your mother, and I am going to tell you this, because I think you need to hear it. You married a man who did not love you, who was already in a relationship with another woman who was carrying a child that was also his. You must've known this, because how else would you remember Maggie's name?"

"Ma, please…" Nancy's voice wavered.

"You are pathetic, Nancy Elaine Collins. Pathetic, do you hear me? Weak, spineless, miserable. And your father and I may have slapped you, and maybe your brother never wanted to play hide-and-seek, and yes, your sister did accidentally crush your model of the solar system the night before the third grade science fair, but no matter what we did to you as a child, you cannot pass this failure off on our family. Becoming involved with Daniel Harper was your decision, and that disgraceful boy of yours is the aftermath. So no matter what you believe, marrying that idiotic man was your fault. And while Daddy and I 'Never Treated You Like a Princess', at least we decided to keep you around! If you wish to find yourself a husband, girl, I suggest you shape up."

The last sentence was hissed so low Lewis had to strain to hear it. Satisfied that she had done her damage, Yvette turned sharply on her heel and marched out of the kitchen. Lewis realized too late that his grandmother would lay eyes on him as soon as she turned the very shallow corner that connected the kitchen to the hallway that lead to the living room. He debated his chances of escape, and realized with great horror that they were minimal. His grandmother was moving far too quickly, and even if he did try to haul himself to his feet and make a run for it, he would most likely collide with the small, wobbly end table that was not too far from his feet. If any form of disturbance was detected by Yvette or his mother, surely both of them would come running to see what the problem was, and he would be in twice as much trouble. Sucking in a mouthful of air, he held his breath and pushed his tailbone deep into the carpet, wishing nothing more than to just disappear.

The wish was ignored, of course. Yvette rounded the corner and caught sight of the terrified looking boy not far from the kitchen, who had, without a doubt, heard the whole exchange between her and Nancy.

Perhaps the boy had a guardian angel, perhaps the Fates chose to smile upon his disgraceful life, or maybe he was just lucky. Whatever option you choose, it so happens that Yvette Collins chose to leave her grandson right where he was, only glaring down at him with her eyes, those strange, hard and frightening green eyes, ones so pale they were a washed out moss color, flecked with hazel and gold and grey. They were like cat's eyes: haughty and cool, distant and disinterested. As she stared down at him, he wondered how she could have the cat's eyes, the ones that seemed to only be a mirror of the outside world, never quite showing what was going on inside of the person. So he wondered how she could have those kind of eyes, and yet show him all the anger and hatred that boiled inside of her old heart, anger and hatred toward him, all in one simple glance.

"Nothing good comes of eavesdroppers, Lewis Harper," She whispered, and smiled mockingly down at him, before sliding serenely down the hallway as if nothing had ever happened. He heard the changes: Shoes rubbing softly against the carpeting, slowly drifting away into nothingness, followed by the hollow, squeaky slam of the screen door.

He remembered how blank and hard the silence seemed, how terrifying. He remembered how his stomach pitched and rolled, as if he were on the upper deck of a sailboat during a thunderstorm. He remembered closing his eyes yet again, and he remembered trying to stand, only to have his knees shake so violently that he tumbled right back on to his behind again.

But it was now, three years later, as he stared his mother in the face and remembered how that day had robbed him of all the rare, soft motherly smiles and pats on the knee under the dinner table, that what had happened after he had managed to rise to his feet stood out so poignantly in his memory that it was as if he was seven years old again, waiting outside his grandparent's kitchen in the bitter December of nineteen seventy three, breathing in the icy, smoky air from the outside that seemed to burn in his chest with a numbness so deep it almost felt hot, hotter than fire, and wondering why the window was even open on one of the coldest Christmases he had ever experienced.

He remembered rising to his feet and edging slowly into the kitchen, seeing his mother with her back to him, elbows resting on the countertop, face pressed against her palms. He remembered the necklace, seeming to flash like a warning siren, still abandoned by the sink, and the silly hope he had that his mother might be okay.

"Mama?" He said quietly, edging towards her cautiously like she was an angry Rottweiler.

She turned abruptly, eyes rimmed with red.

"Oh…Lewis…" She quickly grabbed a towel from the countertop, dabbing at her eyes and trying to smile. "What do you need?"

"Oh, nothing, really…" He tried his best to sound nonchalant. "I was just wondering…"

"Yes?"

"Well, I was talking to Aunt Clara, and she told me something. Now, I know you say she can be a bit batty sometimes, so I wasn't sure if I could believe her. I thought I'd ask you if it was true."

"Alright…" Nancy trailed off, waiting for him to speak.

"Well, I was wondering…" He stopped, twiddling his thumbs. His mother gave and over-exaggerated nod, eyes wide, trying to look encouraging to hurry him along.

"Do I look like him?" He asked quickly, voice wavering, now terrified of her reaction. The reaction he got was not the reaction he expected, however: She laughed.

It wasn't a full on belly laugh of course, it was more of a monosyllable, a simple, dry, confused sounding ha. Her eyebrows knitted together in confusion, and she eyed him like you might eye someone you believe isn't entirely…together upstairs.

"Look like who, Lewis?" She asked, fragments of the chuckle tingeing her words.

"My father," He blurted out before he could stop himself. "Aunt Clara says I look like my…"

Before the word father could pass his lips, Nancy was right in front of him, kneeling down so they were eye to eye, her hand grasping a fistful of his shirt.

The laughter was gone, and her eyes were now so full of anger that Lewis could only see his grandmother's eyes glaring down on him a moment earlier, so clouded by years of misfortune, bitterness and bad decisions that they seemed to only be a reflection of the world outside of her head. However, in this particular situation, it so happened that what was going on inside of Nancy Collins-Harper's mind was exactly what was in front of her: The dark eyes, the disheveled light brown hair with the "Window's Peak" hairline that would never be tamed, not even by combs and mounds of sticky goop. The pale complexion, like fresh, hot, frothy milk, dotted with orange freckles, so it looked like it belonged on someone with red hair and blue eyes rather than its actual owner. Lips that were a simple pale pink, almost sickly looking, and constantly dry, no matter how mild the climate was, and even gallons of the highest quality balm could not change it. Occasionally—most often when said person was deep in thought—the tongue would peek out of the mouth and run over them in an attempt to provide moisture, but it would only make an obnoxious slurping sound before disappearing back inside of the orifice again. The lips were a very queer shape indeed; the lower was quite full, and pouty, so it looked like the person had been punched in the mouth. The upper lip was the polar opposite: thin as could be and ever so slightly tweaked upward. The nose did not fit the face at all, what with the full mouth and round cheeks, the ears that stuck out a little too far from the head and the earlobes that were most horrible—as almost all detached earlobes are, and the earlobes belonging to both Daniel Harper and his son were no exception, mind you. But the nose was by far the greatest abnormality of them all, long and angular and ramrod straight, with a perfect point at the end, which allowed full view of abnormally large nostrils, which, strangely enough, were nearly hairless. The posture, however, was perfect, every mother's dream. The spine was always straight; heels always pressed together, knees flawlessly locked. The broad shoulders never ceased being square in line with the torso and the boxy jaw naturally tilted up and out, giving off an air of confidence and intelligence. The arms, though skinny, rested calmly at the boy's sides, elbows very lightly pressed against his ribs. His fingers were almost always curled into fists, so that he might stop himself from chewing on his fingernails. The method did nothing—the nails were constantly short and scraggly.

And so it was true: as Nancy studied her son's face she indeed saw her ex-husband staring back at her, the proud and curious expression in the eyes reminiscent of a photograph of Daniel in his boyhood, standing beside his father and grandfather on a dock in front of some lake--smiling so wide it looked as though his cheeks might burst--as he held up a fat trout by the hook that was still lodged in the roof of its mouth. That photograph was hidden in the bottom of her dresser drawer at home underneath her brassieres, swimsuits and undergarments suited for the winter months, along with various other photos, letters and knickknacks that she only examined on the days on which she wished to wallow in her self-pity.

But she could not tell him that. No, she couldn't, even as she looked at the expression so familiar to her it made her very chest ache. The pride was much too strong for her to tell the truth. So she naturally did the thing that would keep her ever-present and powerful conceit intact: She lied.

"You listen to me very carefully, Lewis," She had said, voice so even and low it was almost a monotone, apart from the few snippets of anger that managed to creep in. "Your Aunt Clara is a loony old bat, who hasn't the slightest idea what she's talking about, understand?" Her voice was slowly rising, becoming angrier and louder with every syllable that slid through her lips. Lewis nodded slowly, his already milk white visage becoming paler, if at all possible. The freckles stood out like bright red traffic lights against the ghostly color of his skin, and he felt his shoulders begin to tremble.

"I never want to hear you talk about your father again, do you understand me?" He nodded once more. "And anything you've ever heard about him I want you to forget about."

"Yes Ma'am." he whispered meekly, and allowed her to drag him out of his grandparent's kitchen by his shirtfront, only looking back for a brief moment, simply to see that his mother's necklace was still on the counter. He realized, with a sinking heart, that she was leaving all talk of his father behind with it. The two charms with the untold stories—which he now understood must have something to do with his Dad—would never been seen again, their stories never told to him. Forever bottled up in his mother's wounded heart, never allowing them out into the world for the danger that they would only bring back more pain.

He was back in the present again, looking at the same angry woman he had faced in the kitchen. Her eyes had remained cats' eyes from that day forth. All visits to the Collins' had stopped after that Christmas—the two of them now spent the holiday alone, with no presents, no smiles, no family. Aunt Clara had tried sending Lewis a card and some money the first year after the incident, but Nancy had extracted the money, put it in her purse, and burned the card. Letters came on his birthday that year as well, and they too suffered the same fate that Aunt Clara's Christmas card had. Unbeknownst to her, Lewis always watched, mesmerized by the flames, the glowing orange and blue light licking up the smooth, glossy cardstock like a cat might lap milk from a saucer. He stood in the hallway outside the den, watching her stare into the fire with a sadness he didn't quite understand. He breathed in the faint scent of smoke as it wafted from the small brick fireplace, remembering the same bitter, ashy smell that he had breathed in on the day he discovered what his father's leaving had done to his mother. He thought about his father quite often—though what to think he couldn't be entirely certain. His mother had told him to forget all things he had ever heard about his father. Did that mean she knew that he had overheard the conversation between her and Grandma Yvette? Did that mean that he didn't look at all like his father, and Aunt Clara was a loony old bat that didn't say anything truthful? Or was it all really true? Had his father really left him and his mother for a woman who was carrying Lewis's half-sister, older than him only by eight weeks? He didn't know, and knew better than to ask. His mother had meant business about leaving all talk of his father behind, and one of the acts put into motion to reinforce the statement was her new friends, the very same friends who were coming over that evening. Lewis did not like his mother's companions; not in the least.

There were five of them, four men and one woman, all of them grossly tattooed, smelling of liquor, scantily dressed, or overly made up. About once a month they came over on a Friday night, one man carrying an alcoholic beverage, one carrying a poker case, others carting around cigarettes and food. Upon the arrival of the friends his mother would send him to his room, though he really didn't have to be sent. He didn't want to see what caused them to all be scattered around his house the next morning, half asleep, moaning about headaches and downing black coffee by the gallons. Usually he would just curl up under his covers and read into the wee hours of the morning, more than willing to give his mind over to whatever novel he had checked out at the library that week. His mother didn't really know about his weekly visits to the old building in town. During the school year he would just skip the bus ride and walk the few blocks to the library, browse through the shelves, find a good story or too, and then sit down at one of the round tables and do his homework until Mrs. Abrams, the kind, middle-aged librarian, offered to drive him home. The system worked well, and he usually went three times a week, forsaking Monday, Friday, Saturday and Sunday. The library was closed from Saturday to Monday, and Friday was the one day the school busses didn't run, therefore his mother had to pick him up, a task she took upon herself with the most unpleasant of attitudes. More than once he had considered walking home, but with the quick approaching twilight and usually freezing weather it did not seem to be a very safe plan. Summers were even harder, if that was possible. Without the excuse of being at school for six and a half hours five out of seven days a week, it was exceedingly difficult to fiddle with his schedule as he pleased. For while his mother was not the most loving or attentive of parents, she did know enough about her only child to know that he was certainly not a social butterfly, to be frank, he had no friends unless you counted Mrs. Abrams. But parents, even mean, inattentive ones, do not usually count librarians who are old enough to be the child's mother or school teacher among their friends, especially when they don't even know said librarian. So, as you can imagine, saying that he was off to spend the day at a comrade's house was out of the question. He did manage to slither into the library every one or two weeks, when his mother went grocery shopping. He would say he was off to admire—he could only admire, for he had no money, and his mother wasn't one to give allowance or provide special treats—something he supposedly found interesting, like an Atari game system or a pack of Uno! cards, when really he would dash across town to the library, sprinting though the little town like a bullet, not wanting to squander any of his precious time in the peaceful sanctuary, with its creamy carpeting, cherry bookcases, and the large, leather bound encyclopedia that always sat open on the world map, perched on its own little podium in a place of honor by the librarian's desk at the front of the building.

Since his time in the scholarly haven was significantly reduced without the presence of his education, in the months of June, July and August he turned his back on the simple, quick reads that were Wells, Juster and Christie. Instead, he spent his time filling his head with words that needed to be read a bit slower, discovering the mesmerizing powers of Tolstoy, Shakespeare and Dickens.

With trembling fingers he held up this week's discovery, a frightening depiction of a Gothic London in the eighteen hundreds, haunted by an evil being with a lust for blood, particularly which of which belonged to beautiful, dimwitted, and rather busty young women.

His mother tore her eyes away from him and snatched the battered paperback copy of Dracula from his grasp, thumbing through the worn pages with obvious boredom. If she noticed the small, yellowed parchment pocket with the label on the front announcing that the volume was property of Lark Creek Public Library and would only be lent to Lewis D. Harper until the twentieth of August, nineteen seventy-six, her countenance betrayed nothing of the sort. She just kept on flipping through the novel, pausing for a brief moment about midway through the book where he had laid his bookmark—which was nothing more than a dingy shoelace that was horribly frayed on one end, due to a missing aglet—then snapping it shut and picking at the worn down red and black binding with her thumbnail. Finally, after peeling off part of the binding into a very tiny strip, she rolled it into a tight ball between her thumb and forefinger, stared at it for half a second, and then simultaneously flicked the wad into the corner and tossed Dracula back onto the window seat.

"Help me tidy this living room, Lewis," Her voice was very close to a snarl, and the little boy rose without a further argument.

Tidying did little to improve the appearance of the house—it was already in very poor shape, and all his mother did was dump dirty dishes in the sink without washing them and shove items like scraps of paper, wadded up paper towels and Kleenex, and empty granola bar wrappers under the couch and chairs—but Lewis helped anyway, piling the weeks' worth of cereal bowls in the old rusty sink and sweeping the Kleenex that overflowed from the tiny garbage can near the refrigerator into the cabinet beneath the sink that held a few bottles of household cleaning solution. After ten minutes his mother pronounced the house "presentable", and while the boy still thought it messy, he quietly agreed before tucking Dracula under his arm—though he may not want to read it, he certainly wasn't going to leave it alone around his mother, not after she had peeled off that strip of the binding!—jammed his feet into the worn down, mud splattered, one size too small, black and white Adidas sneakers and hurried out of the house, sprinting through the tiny laundry room and allowing the screen door to slam behind him. He didn't bother to walk down the two stairs that lead off the porch and into the front yard; instead, he simply jumped from the porch to the ground, enjoying the satisfying, muted thump that met his ears as the soles of his shoes met the compacted dirt of the drive. His knees shook lightly from the impact, and in spite of himself he smiled, the fresh air filling his lungs already giving him a slightly happier outlook on life.

He began his little walk by strutting down the driveway, deviating from the precise dirt pathway about midway to the gravel road that served as the main highway for that area of Lark Creek. He began walking through a large green field that ran alongside his home, enjoying the feeling of the tall grass brushing his ankles as the green stalks snaked their way up the legs of his jeans. He wandered aimlessly through the grass for a while, coming to a stop at one of his favorite places. It was a simple, three-sided shed, tall and boxy, like one of those red telephone booths you always saw on postcards from England, only with an odd roof and no door. He reasoned the little dilapidated structure had once been a cow shed, and had most likely only housed one animal, probably a heifer that had been used for milking. He walked inside of the building, instantly protected from the sun's harsh, hot glare. The ground inside grew wild with weeds and wild flowers, almost obscuring a worn down, three-legged wooden stool and a bucket that was completely rusted, inside and out. Sunshine flowed in through some cracks in the back wall of the shed, casting "God Rays" upon two barely discernable words etched into the right wall. Lewis walked over, allowing his fingers to trace the splintery, messily carved words; words which he assumed were actually a name. He used his thumb to follow Miss Bessie until the abrupt end, when the E on Bessie suddenly stopped and became a straight, hard line that went all the way down to the ground. He wondered who this Miss Bessie was; perhaps she was a person, maybe the mistress of the house, or the daughter or sister of the farmer who had owned the cow. Or maybe, he thought with a smile, Miss Bessie was the cow herself.

He left the shed and continued through the field, stopping for only a moment at the old barbed wire fence that separated the property owned by his mother from that belonging to their neighbor, a grumpy old farmer called Mr. Craig. Lewis deliberated for only a brief instant before putting Dracula on the ground and pushing it under the fence with his foot.

He slithered easily through the gap in the fence, barely noticing as one of the rusty barbs caught on his T-shirt and snagged the fabric, almost smacking him on the arm as he pulled himself free. He picked the book up off the ground and dusted it off on his jeans, tucking it between his right elbow and his ribs as he continued walking.

The terrain here was hillier, dipping up and down, little gullies and streams weaving through the landscape, which resulted in Lewis's sneakers getting rather soggy. He trekked through the bramble without complaint, swatted away flies and bees half-heartedly as he stared up at the sky and watched a few tiny, wispy clouds float harmlessly in the firmament, which was today a bright, clear, picturesque blue. A hot, dry wind blew across the landscape, tugging at the willowy grasses, bleached a true, shining gold by the sun. The clay baked in the sunshine, and as the breeze cascaded over it a rich, sweet, mossy scent met Lewis's nose. He smiled a half smile to himself and closed his eyes, breathing in the indescribable smell. At this time another breeze came, this one stronger and hotter than the first. A fresh bout of sweat broke out along his neck, face, back and thighs, though this sweat was from physical exertion, not fear. The weather was particularly warm today, he noted. The town of Lark Creek was a tiny one indeed, so infinitesimal that no road maps of Virginia decided to show where it was, tucked safely in the center of a triangle that included Roanoke, Bedford and Altavista. The climate in Lark Creek was very similar to that of Roanoke; the month of August usually went from the low to mid eighties. Today, however, it must have been at least ninety five, if not hotter. The perspiration made the fabric of his jeans stick to his calves, and he began to feel a slow, building burn in his hamstrings. He hadn't walked this far in a while. His breathing became heavier, the action more difficult as the exercise caused the muscles lining his ribcage to tighten, and the simple act of inhaling and exhaling suddenly caused hot spasms of pain to shoot down his ribs and up into the walls of his throat.

The side split grew more and more uncomfortable as he continued his trek, and at last he collapsed, winded and sore, on a short, rough little log not far from a perfectly flat, smooth dirt pathway surrounded by shrubbery. Focusing on short, shallow breaths, he worked on calming down his screaming muscles. Soon, the searing pain eased into a manageable ache, but he wasn't ready to continue on his hike, or even the twenty minute walk back home. Deciding to rest until he felt up to it again, Lewis spread Dracula open on his lap and began to read about the devilishly beautiful females who were trying to seduce one of the main characters so they could drink his blood without any real complaint on his behalf.

He had been lost in the tale a good ten minutes when he heard the noise. It was quiet at first, nothing more than a low rumble, like the engine of a fine sports car. But it came again, an octave or two louder than the first and more dangerous sounding. Lewis looked up, startled, and glanced around.

"Hello?" He called out tentatively. "Is anyone there?"

No human voice answered, but another growl followed, accompanied by a low, breathy woof. The plants lining the driveway shuddered, and a final growl was heard, louder and more terrifying than any of the other warnings. Slowly, Lewis shut the book and rose to his feet, unsure of what to do. The shrubs parted, and the boy found himself staring into the black eyes of Farmer Craig's huge, lethal pit bull, the one who had ripped into a mountain biker two summers ago because he had been trespassing on Craig's land. The man's leg had been completely sliced open—Lewis knew this for a fact, gory pictures had decorated the local news and papers for days—and many townspeople had actually signed a petition to have the dog shot. Mr. Craig had gone into a flurry, and the police had been called upon to settle the dispute. A verdict had been reached that the dog had really meant no harm, after all, the biker had been trespassing on Farmer Craig's land, and wasn't it the job of a dog—and a pit bull, nonetheless—to protect his master's land? "It is just a dog," One police officer had said in a final news article about the issue. "How can it tell the difference between a friendly, outdoorsy tourist and John Wayne Gacy?"

And it couldn't, of course, the journalist agreed. And right now Lewis agreed with both of them wholeheartedly. The dog had no idea that he was just a little boy, not a crazed serial killer. All he knew was that Lewis was on his master's land, where he should not be. His lip curled upward, revealing his massive jaws. With one russet colored paw he stepped forward, and a harsh snarl rumbled in his chest. Lewis looked around frantically. He was trapped, he realized with horror. The dog had completely trapped him.

Another growl erupted from the large black and brown animal, and his muscles rippled in anticipation beneath his coat. He growled again, taking just one more step forward before crouching in anticipation. His black eyes were filled with malice, and with just one more woof he shot forward like a bullet, aimed just right.

He would strike the bull's eye.