Kurt came home in the middle of Scooby Doo. He was in his usual crappy mood.
“Barbara!” he called. “Where the hell are you, woman? Is the kid here?”
Robin stood up and, gripping the handle of the heavy knife, walked out to the hallway where Kurt was doing the yelling.
“I’m here.”
“What the hell are you doing watching TV this time of day? Why aren’t you in school?”
Robin moved up close to his stepfather. “Goodbye, asshole.”
Kurt’s mouth dropped open. Before he could speak, Robin drove the knife handle-deep into the lower part of his stomach. He yanked the blade upward, slicing through flesh and fat and muscle until it scraped the breastbone. Kurt grunted and grabbed at the wound, trying to keep his intestines from spilling out. He dropped heavily to his knees. Blood bubbled from his mouth and he pitched face down on the tile floor.
Robin went back to the television set where he watched the rest of Scooby Doo. That was where they found him.
Neal Baines paused and looked across the campfire at the three rapt boys. “I see I’ve got your attention now.”
“Pretty good story,” Casey admitted. The other boys nodded silently in agreement.
“Ah, but that’s not the end,” Neal said, making his voice spooky.
The boys moved closer together.
Since Robin was only 12-years-old, the state could not try him for murder. In fact, a lot of well-meaning people sympathized with the boy as an “abused child.” He was sent to a school for the socially challenged, where he learned, among other things, how to make a serviceable knife out of innocent materials. He fashioned his first from a toothbrush and a razor blade. He tested it by slicing open the jugular of one of the older inmates. This act was blamed on a severely retarded boy into whose locker Robin slipped the weapon.
He was a good-looking boy and was the star of most of the little plays the school put on at holiday time. A woman visitor at one of these productions made the mistake of coming backstage while Robin was fighting one of his headaches. Her mouth flapped and her chins jiggled and he didn’t understand a word she said. She smelled like perfume and sweat, and when she went to hug him she breathed garlic in his face. Robin picked up a sharpened spoon stolen from the cafeteria and ripped open the artery just under her ear. By the time she was found in a sticky pool of blood Robin was off in another part of the school.
When he was eighteen Robin was pronounced cured and his record was expunged. In his six years at the school he had developed a small talent for acting, and a pretty fair knowledge of vital spots on the human body. He took a job at the same department store where Barbara had worked. Shortly thereafter, an assortment of excellent knives disappeared from the kitchenware department. And so did Robin.
The headaches still came, but he learned to live with them. He changed names and jobs and cities frequently, so, except for the use of a knife, there was no clear pattern to the killings that followed in the next few years. The victim could be anybody. A homeless man in Phoenix, a teacher in Grand Rapids, a truck driver in Manchester, two young sisters in Seattle. As Robin grew into young manhood his self-confidence and pleasant appearance let him insinuate himself into any situation. He could be a delivery man, a door-to-door salesman, a mechanic.
“He could be anything,” Neal concluded, looking around. He paused for several long seconds. “He could even be...a counselor.”
The boys stared at him wide-eyed across the flames.
“Holy shit,” muttered Moons Henafin.
“Guess what name he is using today?”
“You’re not...” Casey Poole’s voice wavered and faded to a whimper.
Travis Walker wrapped his arms around himself as though for protection.
Neal’s eyes glittered in the fading firelight. His teeth glistened in a smile that was evil itself.
“We’re fucked!” Casey whimpered.
Neal’s grin widened, showing darkish red gums. “Today,” he said, “Robin the knife boy calls himself...Neal Baines!”
“I knew it!” Casey got out.
The boys began scrambling to their feet, looking wildly around for an escape route. The tall evergreens seemed to lean in over their small clearing, sucking out the air.
Neal Baines began to laugh. The boys looked to each other, then at the young man across the campfire. His laughter rose into a wild cackle. He threw back his head and howled his glee into the night sky.
Moons Henafin began to whimper.
Abruptly the laughter stopped. The boys, standing now, unsure what to do, stared at their counselor.
The crazy grin relaxed into Neal’s familiar big-brotherly smile. The glitter faded from his soft blue eyes. He took a moment to look at each of the boys. Then he said quietly...“Gotcha.”
“Holy shit,” Moons said for the second time.
“I knew it wasn’t really you,” Casey lied.
“You are good,” Travis admitted.
“I just wanted to show you troopers that I can tell a scary story.”
Moons and Travis faked a laugh. Casey pretended to yawn.
“I think it’s time to sack out now. We’ve got a long trek home in the morning.”
Moons peered over his shoulder at the sullen woods. “Maybe we could, um, move the tents closer together.”
“Don’t tell me you’re still scared,” Neal said. “It was only a story.”
“It’s not that,” Moons explained. “I just meant if we want to, like, talk to each other.”
“I don’t want you guys yammering all night. The tents stay where they are.”
Not making any attempt to hurry, the boys unrolled their sleeping bags, made a few lame jokes, and eased into their pup tents while Neal banked the fire.
Travis lay staring up at the low roof of his tent. The story of Robin the knife boy would not leave him. Every night sound took on a sinister meaning. The creak of the trees, the cry of an owl. Once he thought he heard one of the other boys sob, but everything was quiet after that.
Quiet until a soft footfall outside brought Travis to full alert. The flap of his tent was snatched aside.
“It was you!” Travis got out.
Neal Baines’s eyes raked Travis with fearful intensity. The terrible grin was back. “Oh, yes. It was me.” His jacket was open and the front of his sweatshirt was wet and red and sticking to his chest.
“You don’t want to do this.”
“Oh, yes I do. You know I do.”
Travis pulled in a breath.
Neal anticipated him. “Go ahead and yell. Nobody’s going to hear you.”
“Casey? Moons?”
“Not now. Not ever again.”
Travis squirmed in his sleeping bag. “Why?”
“Why? Because it’s fun. It’s a rush. You really should try it.” Neal laughed deep in his chest. “But then, you won’t have a chance, will you?” He worked the top half of his body into the boy’s tent and brought his right hand up where Travis could see it. “I brought my knife.”
Travis slipped one arm free of the sleeping bag. He lunged upright and punched Neal in the soft flesh just under the breast bone. “So did I.”
Neal made a last sound, something like “Aaaaaah,” and looked down at his life spilling out as Travis withdrew the Woodsman blade.
Simon Clark
Here is another tough truth: the first novel you write probably won’t sell.
The Woods Are Dark was a disaster...it blasted away my career in the United States.
Most authors, most of the time, have absolutely no control over the artwork or written material that appears on the covers of their books. They’re lucky if they get to keep their titles.