“What can I do?” I asked, instantly becoming a caretaker.
He shook his head, not quite sure how to answer. “Nothing,” he said finally.
“Who are you?” I asked.
Again he barely shook his head. “Not sure. Used to have a name. Can’t remember. So long ago.”
I remembered the picture I had stolen, the one of the boy and his mother, and I fished it from the pile of my damp jeans, careful to keep the frayed picture from ripping into pieces forever.
“This,” I said, holding it gingerly out in front of my face. “Is this you?”
I couldn’t be sure, but I think I saw his pink, ruined eyes water a bit, and a grim little smile appeared. It was almost enough to make him momentarily less gruesome.
“Me,” he said wistfully. “I was gone. Long time, gone.”
“How long?” I asked.
“Not sure.”
“Do you remember this? When you took this picture? You were probably my age then.”
He closed his eyes, cringing as the singed flesh cracked and wept. “Yes,” he said finally. “I remember. She gave me that… my own toy. A globe. Snow. Never had seen snow. She said we would go somewhere white. One day.”
I leaned closer on the edge of the toilet seat, close enough for him to rip out my throat if he chose to. “What happened to you?”
The pink eyes opened once more. “Him,” he replied, confirming what I already believed to be true. There was something darker, some evil force that had been controlling him, and for the first time in countless years, the human being inside was peering out.
“He came to me. In dreams at first.”
“Dreams!” I blurted. “Yes, in dreams. A shadow with bleeding eyes.”
“You see him?” he asked.
“Yes,” I replied.
There was a look of pain across his face, and I felt horribly humbled and frightened by the fact that this dying creature was pitying me.
“Bad.”
“What do you mean?”
He took a deep breath, but not nearly as deep as he had before. “He’s not from… here.”
“What do you mean?”
“Someone… brought him here. Gave him a body. He shouldn’t be here… shouldn’t be alive.”
“Like, a ghost or something?” I asked, confused.
His answer was short, but clear.
“Demon.”
There it was. This thing, whatever it was, had no business even existing in our world, and it was being passed from person to person, a disease intent on keeping itself alive by finding another host. Andy was supposed to be next on the list, but now there was little doubt that I was the one caught in the crosshairs. How many missing children were turned into these things, pawns in some game they didn’t understand?
“How did he… do this to you?” I asked.
He swallowed and I could see that speaking was growing harder by the second. “I woke up in a dark place. The cave,” he added with a slightly bitter look at me.
“What did he… do?” I asked.
He swallowed like an old man swallowing a dry pill. Then he held up his impossibly thin hand, showing me the red sores that were now charred and black. “He touched me. Each day. Over and over again.”
I pointed at the gruesome hand and asked, “Why? What does it do?”
He smiled, the idea of it still, even at the end, slightly alluring. “I never eat. My last meal was with her,” he said, pointing at the picture. “No food for me. Only this.”
He held both hands up, and I could picture Andy writhing underneath him, could feel my own ankle burning and itching.
“You feed off people?” I asked, and he nodded. “Feed on what?”
“Goodness. Innocence. The best parts of them.”
Again he smiled.
“When I was done with them, there was nothing good left. It took weeks. Months. Years sometimes. I visit in the night. Touch them. They dream. When the sun rises, I’m gone.”
Any pity I had known had faded, and my hands were little balls of white knuckles. I wanted to kill it, wanted to go into the kitchen and slide the biggest knife I could from the block and bury it in that grotesque neck. It wouldn’t change anything. Even then I knew it. But it would make me feel better.
“Why?”
He looked confused.
“I want to know why,” I said, leaning even closer.
“Because that is what he wants.”
In my mind’s eye, I saw that shimmering black reflection, felt the pursed lips at my ear.
I’m coming.
“What does he want?” I asked.
“I don’t know,” he answered. “To plant seeds, I think. Something inside of us, all of us. Something waiting to be awoken. Killers. Abusers. Men and women that ruin themselves, and in turn, ruin others.”
“Is that what he did to Andy?”
He shook his head, but barely moved as he did. His words were slowing to a crawl.
“No. Andy. Was the next. The replacement. He wasn’t taking out. He was putting himself in. Soon, Andy would be pushed aside. He would take control.”
“That’s why you’re dying, isn’t it?” I asked. “Whatever it was that kept you alive is half gone. It’s just you now.”
“Yes,” he said. “He makes them… makes us… more like him. Changes us so we can do our new job.” He held up his hand. “I didn’t always look like this,” he added as he brushed his fingers across his ruined face.
“So Andy was going to be the next one? The next Thief?”
“Not anymore,” he said quietly. “You.”
I felt my temper swelling once more, but sheer willpower kept me on the seat. “No,” I answered through my teeth. “I won’t be.”
Once again, I saw a miserable pity in that face, his brows arching down, his eyes growing watery. He could, for the first time perhaps, see himself in me. Who knew what sort of torture it took to create this awful thing, but I knew that I was the first person he had spoken to in years perhaps. If only this had happened sooner, with someone else, in some other time, how many people could have been changed? How many families might still be intact, still unbroken?
“You don’t understand,” he said with teary eyes. “Not yet. But you will.”
“How can I stop it?” I asked.
“You can’t,” he said.
“There has to be a way,” I said, more to myself.
“No. He’s ready for something new. He wants you. Wants to wait until you’re old enough. And then…”
“Then what?” I asked, my voice quivering.
“He wants to take the next step. A child. Something none of us could give him. Only you. One touch, and he knew.”
The pink eyes drifted closed, and I let him be. We had gone through so much, and I feared the worst for Andy. Even now, with no more surprises, I wasn’t sure if I would ever really have my brother back again. And now this. Something else. Something worse, coming for both of us, bent on revenge.
“One more thing,” I said.
“Tired,” he answered.
“You’ll sleep soon,” I said. “I promise you that.” The eyes slid back open and locked on mine.
“Why the toys?”
He looked surprised, as if the question itself had never even occurred to him and he had to think about his answer. Then the ragged lips parted in a weak, barely audible voice.
“Hands,” he said slowly. “They take from people. Feed on them. But the toys… they are different. They soak up all the good things… happiness… smiles… laughter. They are in here… all of them… all he has stolen… the dreams… children’s dreams… they love toys…”