"Oh, come on, Heddy!" I give the girl a playful shove. "Just tell me what's the big secret?"

"Well…" Heddy glances up and down the nearly-empty sidewalk, then pulls a rolled-up ?magazine from the inner pocket of her coat. "All right, but not a word to anyone."

"The magazine's tastefully artistic cover read all "Vogue march 1931, Early Paris Collection". "That's it?" I flip through the first few pages. "The big secret? A fashion magazine?"

"Bite your tongue. This is Vogue, and I had to work for it." Heddy lowers her voice to a whisper. "It may have once belong to Mrs. Rosequist, who I may have babysat for last night." she sighs. "Then that brat kid of hers may have caught me stashing it in my bag and made me play five games of checkers with him to keep his traps shut."

I smother a laugh. "Well, aren't you the master thief?" I peer at a full-page spread of the latest evening gowns. "Do women really where the stuff in Europe? So weird."

"Says the girl in the fedora!" Heddy snatches the magazine from my hands. "Who do you think you are, Al Capone?"

"Someone has to set the trends." I tip my hat. "Any day now, Vogue will be trying to get me on the horn, just begging for my fashion advice."

Heddy rolls her eyes and tucks the magazine back into her coat. "Yeah, Yeah. So tell me, snazzy dresser, why is it the only boy you have ever kiss is that midget Billy Stein?"

"You're awful! It's not his fault he's so short of his age. Besides, he's nice."

"Yes, nice." heddy's mischievous smile twist into a dark, menacing grin. "We are who we are, Ruthie."

I frown. What did she mean by that?

In the dim moonlight, I can only make out the most basic lines of Heddy's face. Moonlight? My breath catches in my throat. Night came on so fast. I wasn't in Boston anymore, either, but I do recognise this place. The cobbled street, the rundown buildings. I've managed to wander all the way to the public square in Marooner's point. It shouldn't be possible, but the old brick well in the middle of the square seems solid enough. The drip-drip of water trickling down from the hanging bucket echoes more louder than it should.

"How--" I turn to Heddy, but find no one there. "Heddy?"

"Keep that curiosity of yours in check, Ruth."

I whirl around. Gertrude, the town baker, stands just a few feet away. Her eyes glittering unnaturally in the moonlight.

"What's going on?" my voice sounds more frightened than I meant it to be. "How did I--"

"Stick to mischief and kissing silly boys." Her broad face remains as emotionless as her to tone. "Look not upon foul things, nor gaze into the infinite darkness. Therein will you find only madness."

I furrow my brow. My uncle has been treating me to Gertrude's famous cinnamon rolls every summer since I were a little girl and I've never heard her say anything more than a simple "good morning" or "thank you."

Whispers echo up from the well. Something in the voice strikes me as inhuman. My eyes snap to the well. I expect a pall, dead hand to emerge from the darkness, dragging some abomination behind it. The expectation is so strong that for a moment, I actually do see a hand. I shake my head quickly to break my trance. Once again, I'm alone in the Square.

There's no way I'm sticking my head in that well, but what harm could there be in just trying to have a little conversation?

"What are you?" I ask.

Silence. I open my mouth to call out again, but a cacophony of Voices rises from the well speaking in a language I don't understand.

I clench my fist to stop my hands from shaking. "What do you want?"

"More voices thread themselves into the chaos but one stands out from all the rest. "You… I will wake…Forever… Prophecy…"

"You're a brave one."

Startled, I whirl around. Heddy stands right behind me, her lips curve's in her accustomed smirk. "We choose you well." she touches my arm. A pulse of energy flows into me.

"It's time to wake up now. Be brave, but not reckless." Heddy taps her left temple. "Keep your head."

A piercing shriek startles me awake. The boss has come to a stop. Right, the brakes. Each stop on this trip has been painful on the ears. And all of that with Heddy… Just a dream, I tell myself, but I could swear there was something more to it.

I sigh as I step down from the bus. That dream might end up being the high point of this trip.

Pale dust costs my shoes as I lug my suitcase along the sandy road to my uncle's house on the outskirts of Marooner's point. The first day of summer and here I am at the most boring town on earth.

Mother woke me up early this morning. By the time I was awake enough to think, she had already packed me off to spend the summer with crazy uncle John, because "nice girls don't need bad influences like Heddy Saunders."

Uncle John's two story house perches at the tip of a small rocky peninsula, daring the ocean to sweep it away. The house seems to be Wining the battle, for now. An old mailbox leans near the porch steps, just a few degrees shy of falling over. Next to it, a narrow footpath cuts through the tall grass towards the back of the house.

This might not be so bad, really. Uncle John can be a little odd, but he's never been boring. I used to love spending the summer here.

I dump the heavy suitcase at the bottom of the porch steps and flex my fingers to get the blood flow back. I'm pretty sure my mother shoved a few bowling balls into the suitcase, just to punish me further.

I'm a little earlier than expected, assuming my uncle John remembers I were supposed to be visiting at al. I could explore around outside a bit before going in, or I could just bite the bullet and head to the house. If i'm going in anyway, I may as well bring the mail with me.

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it's hard to tell if the mail box is rusty or if it was always brownish-red. A careless hand has painted a number 1 on the side of the in white paint.

The little door seems to be stuck. I get a better grip, plant my feet, and try again. The rusted metal feels rough under my slender fingers. Just when it seems like I might break it, the mail box pops open. A narrow slip of paper is all that lies inside. On it, a scrawled message reads, "The wise gull knows when to leave his nest. -L".

I roll my eyes. "L" would be my uncle's friend Lavinia, probably the only person in town who's stranger than he is. I haven't seen her since I were small, but he still talks about her all the time.

Remembering how upset he was the last time I read one of her notes, I put the slip of paper back into the mailbox and close the door as best as I can.

I still have a little time to look around, or I could head inside.

The crooked, splintery railing around the porch is lined with sea shells and wave-smoothed stones collected from the beach. In my experience, things that end up on the porch are usually forgotten completely. I retrieve the spare key from a planter full of dry brown flowers, then let myself in.

The inside of the house is as wellkept as the outside is neglected. polished walnut floorboards reflected the afternoon light from the windows. I walk down the hall to the study, the house creaking around me like an old ship. As a child, I were certain a wave would sweep it away, but after this much time, I think the house might just outlast the sea.

I stop in the doorway to my uncle's study and there he is, pacing, his gray-peppered hair standing up in all directions.

"The marks," Uncle John mutters. "How did they... Did Lavinia tell them? No, no, she... can't go through town. Could take a boa--"

He looked up quickly, like a startled bird.

"Ruth! I hadn't expected..." He frowns. " Bother! I'd completely forgotten."

I can't help smiling. "Oh, no harm done."

He barks out a laugh. "No harm. You can't... This isn't the best time, I'm afraid."

An unfamiliar fear burns in his green eyes. With him, it's hard to know whether he's just hung up on a strange idea, or if something really is wrong.

"Wait, I say. " What's going on?"

"The island, of course. You know." Uncle John pushes his glasses up his long nose. Large smudges show on the normally clean lenses.

"My turn, that's all. There really isn't time for discussion." He steers me towards the door and all but shoves me out of it. "Off you go! Wonderful seeing you again. Have a safe trip."

The door slams behind me. I hear the lock turn, and then thunk of the deadbolt.

My mind turns to the spare key in the flowerpot. One option is to unlock the door and let myself in. Of coarse I could knock and try to reason with my uncle. And then of coarse there's an option of just leaving. My uncle isn't stupid, nor is he exactly crazy. Maybe I should do as he says.

Once held calm down, Uncle John will probably let me back in. In the meantime, I should give him some space. I grab my suitcase and start back down the road to Marooner's point.

If I'm lucky, u might catch the bus back home. This would be perfect chance to spend the summer in Boston with my friends, provided Mother doesn't think of other relative I could visit instead.

By the time I walk the two miles back to town, the afternoon is turning golden and my hands have gone numb from dragging the suitcase. I blow a stray lock of hair away from my eyes, then sigh when it falls into place again. At least if I do decide to leave, I'll be glad I brought the brought the suitcase with me.

Marooner's point usually sees it's fair share of summer people later in season, so right now it's practically a ghost town. Every time she visits, Mother goes on and on about the quaint 19th Century charm, but as far as am concerned, the town is just run-down and outdated.

A cobbled street leads me to the town square, where a dry fountain stands. The three-tiered fountain promises a beautiful display if some one would turn it on. It's been dry for as long as I can remember.

As I enter the square, a barrel chested man throws a contemptuous look my way and mutters something under his breath. By the wide-brimmed hat and rubber boots, u guess he's a fisherman, like most people in this town. His eyes dare me to confront him.

"What did you say? I fix him with the sternest look I can muster.

He flashes a crooked smile, clearly not intimidated by some scrawny girl. "I said it's the old warlock's niece, back again so soon."

I frown.This isn't the first time I heard Uncle John called a warlock. "What do you mean by that?"

"Come on, we both know what you are, girl. I'm sick to death of your playing kind playing dumb." He smirks at me. "They'll cart you all soon enough, and the rest of us'll be better of it."

My cheeks burn. I hear my mother voice, nagging at me not to let my temper get better of me.

I know better than to start a fight with a man twice my size. I adjust my grip on the suitcase and start walking again, head down. Though the fisherman's low chuckle brings a new flash of anger, I manage to ignore it.

The bus station lies across the square.

In past summers, I always wanted to leave this town out of boredom. Now it's fear that drives me, which is ridiculous considering what a sleepy, peaceful town this has always been. It's not like gang-infested streets of New York that I've read about. Nevertheless, there's something creepy in the air, perhaps downright hostile. I hustle over the bus station.

A bronze bell jingles overhead as I enter the general store that doubles as Marooner's point bus station. Meagerly stocked shelves, only about as tall as me, break up the long, dim room. The unvarnished floor creaks underfoot as I navigate through crooked rows of canned goods to the old ticket counter at the back.

I drop my suitcase before the well-pollished wooden counter, then shake the numbness from my fingers. Only a few seconds later, Mr. Davis, the store's owner, hobbles over.

The old man raises his eyebrows. "How can I help you, miss?

"One to Boston," I say. "The last bus hadn't left yet, has it?"

"No, not..." Mr. Davis squints at me. "Aren't you John's Chilcott's niece?"

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Maybe I'm reading too much into it, but that encounter in the square has left me felling uneasy about the townspeople.

"No, no," I say. "We do kind of look alike, but I think she's blonde."

Mr. Davies frowns. His eyes flick towards the stock room, then he gives me a slight nod.

"There are no more buses until tomorrow, I'm afraid." He lowers his voice, keeping his eyes on the stock room door. "I should probably hurry back home now."

I hear a shuffled footstep within the stock room. Tension buzzes in the air like electricity, making the hairs on my back of my neck stand up.

"Get going," Mr. Davies whispers. "Good luck to John."

I grab my suitcsse, my palms sweating, and walk out of the general store as quick as I can.

He was lying about the bus. I pause in the town square. And everyone else is acting strangely.

There are a few pedestrians in the square. I meet the eyes of a woman and she turns away quickly, pulling her children along. Another man gives me a sidelong look as he passed by.

I reside to take refuge in the library. People are quite and nice in libraries. I can hide out there until my uncle calms down.

The Marooner's point library is one large, musty room attached to the town hall. Tall bookcases crowd the space around a long table, their shelves filled for the most part with outdated friction.

The librarian, a short round woman, is seated behind a desk near the center of the room. She slides her glasses down, regards me for a moment, and then nods slowly. I wave and smile. With a slight lurch, she gets to her feet and then waddles to the back of the library and disappears.

As I browse, I find a thin volume on Cutler Key. I take it down and flip through the pages. Near the middle, a heading catches my eye: "The sleeping God." This section discusses an old wampanoag legend, which describes the island as the resting place of a dangerous powerful spirit.

The afternoon light from the windows has turned a burning orange. There's no harm in giving Uncle John a little more time to himself. I keep reading.

In spite of warnings from the local natives, early settlers built a village on Cutler Key. The history of the village is not a pleasant one. Murder. Plague. Cannibalism. The settlement held out for ten years before the survivors moved on.

Those who left the island brought with them stories of a great beast beneath the earth. The rumbling of its breath shook the ground. While no one had seen it, each and every one of them had dreamed of some vast, indescribable creature that slept in a dark place.

I close the book and return it to it's place. On the shelf below it stands an old, fragile volume that looks like it would be better off under glass. Faded lettering on the spine reads, "The dark one."

I reach for it, unthinking. When my fingers touch the spine, a damp chill creeps up my arm.

I pull my hand back. Some books are not meant to be opened.

The daylight is almost gone now. If I know Uncle John, he will have completely forgotten whatever was worrying him and moved on to some other project.

I grab my suitcase. As I open the library door, I hear an angry shout from the square. I pause. Another shout follows. I have the unshakable feeling that I'm hearing the beginings of an angry mob.

This is unreal! I think. I rush to the window. My stomach clenches. A sea of angry faces stares back at me.

Whatever it is, I didn't do it! I'm just sitting in the library, reading, like a good girl. Not the kind of behaviour I'd expect to incite a riot.

The voices outside only grow louder. I turn the lock on the front doo. A moment later, a fist hammers against the wood.

A rock crashes through one of the windows and lands at my feet. The window is high enough that they may not be able to climb through it easily, but that door won't hold for long.

The librarian's desk would be a good barricade, or a good hiding place. Another door catches my eye: the one that leads back into the town hall. I might be able to find another exit through there, but I have no idea who else might be inside.

I feet slip on the floor as I strain to push the librarian's desk in front of the door. After a long struggle, I finally manage to slide the desk into place. The door shudders in its frame, but still holds.

"Stop right there."

The librarian stands in the other doorway, holding a shot gun on me.

"I'm sorry about this, Ruth, but it has to be done." The librarian adjusts her grip on the shotgun . " I don't want to shoot you, so don't move, all right?"

A thrill of panic runs through me. I can't help imagining how the shotgun blast would feel as it tears through me.

In the midst of the fear, I find something else: a surge of power, like nothing I've ever felt before. On a deeper lever, I know I can use it.

I close my eyes and reach for that power, but my thoughts just slip around it. The door splinters. With my heart beating in my throat, I strain after the power one more time. I grasp energy and force it outward.

When I open my eyes, a faint blue shield surrounds me, separating me from the librarian. She stares at it for for a long moment before squeezing the trigger. The shotgun roars , spraying the shield with buckshots.

The barrier holds, but the shotgun blast reverberates back at me, shattering my concentration. A little dazed, I jump out of the window and hit the ground running.

A large group of locals has gathered in the town square, more people than I've ever seen all at once in this town. The barrel-chested fisherman I met earlier notices me.

"There!" He points at me. "Get her!"

The townfolk advance towards me.

Off to my right, an ally leads deeper into town. I take a deep breath and try to steady myself enough to make a run for it.

Enraged shouts and the rumble of countless running feet follow me down the narrow ally. The buildings in either side lean inward, as though the town itself is trying to crush me.

I take a right turn at the first intersection. If I make as many turns as possible, I might just lose them. My pulse pounds in my temples, but I keep pushing myself to keep running. Up ahead, a cellar door flips open. An old woman pokes her head out.

"In here, Ruth!" She calls in a loud whisper. "Hurry!"

I pause and try to catch my breath. The old woman seems familiar, but I can't quite remember how I know her.

BANG!

Dust flies from the concrete wall ahead of me.

My eyes widen. They're shooting!"

The woman chants something in a language I can't understand. Maybe she really does want to help me, maybe it's a trick, but before I know it, I'm running.

Angry shouts and the sound of running feet grow louder down the ally behind me.

"Wait!" the woman shouts after me.

The ally takes a sharp turn to the right, where it ends in a cluttered dead end. A ladder leans up against one wall, allowing access to the roof.

Judging by the voices, I don't have much time. I could try my luck on the rooftops, or hide somewhere in the juumble of crates and barrels.

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