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His head’s about seven inches thick,” grumbled Ollie. “I could have thrown a brick and he’d be fine.”
When the mist rises, and the smiling man comes walking, you must avoid large places at night. Keep to small.
“You’re too young for coffee,” said her dad, not looking up. He was sitting at the kitchen table and scrolling through the news. “I’m not too young to go out in the rain and catch pneumonia,” said Ollie, pouring herself a cup anyway and stirring in sugar.
Linda Webster, owner of Misty Valley Farm, was the woman from yesterday, the woman whose book Ollie had stolen.
the digital readout said RUN in gray letters, flickering like the lights.
“What happens at nightfall?” Ollie demanded, wishing her voice didn’t sound so breathless. The bus driver’s mouth curved up at a strange angle, as though a child had drawn the smile on. His tongue and his gums were very red. He said nothing.
From the front of the bus came a series of loud bangs and some un-teacher-like swearing.
She glanced once at her watch with its flickering warning. 15:56. How did her watch know?
The display had changed. HIDE, it said. The display lit for an instant, with a flickering blue glow.
she tried to run but a scarecrow had her by the hair, had hooked its rake hand in, and she could only writhe helplessly as the fire grew and grew and grew . . .
Ollie glanced at her watch. RIVER, it said, and a new countdown had started. 06:37:41.
All the scarecrows had their hands up. The light glinted dully on the tips of the rakes, the edges of scythes and trowels. “Yes,” Brian whispered. “They definitely moved.”
Though she never saw their heads move, they always watched her come and they always watched her go.

