Bad Things by Tamara Thorne

don’t let them, don’t let them.
    Quietly he reached up and pulled the wrought-iron bolt on the arched front door, then grabbed the handle and pressed the thumb latch. It clicked softly open. He waited a moment, then, slowly, silently, he pulled the heavy planked door open. His heart thumped as he got ready to run out and down the steps to the oak, to rescue Robin and carry him inside to safety.
    â€œHi, baby brother.”
    â€œRobin!”
    Bathed in the yellow glow of the porch light, Robin waited on the welcome mat, resting on his hands, peering up at him. He was soaking wet, and a small trickle of blood oozed from a cut hidden in his hair. Otherwise he looked fine. Below, at the bottom of the wide steps, the amorphous shifting shapes of the greenjacks cavorted and tumbled in the grass. I’m not afraid of them anymore. The realization astounded him even more than Robin’s amazing recovery. I’m not afraid. Suddenly he knew what it must feel like to be a grown-up. Smiling, he turned his attention back to his twin.
    â€œRobin, you’re okay! I was afraid you were—”
    â€œDead?”
    â€œKnocked out. I thought you were knocked out!”
    â€œI was.”
    His twin’s crooked smile made the hairs on the back of Ricky’s neck stand on end. Grandfather’s familiar words flitted through his mind.
    . . . his father held a sword in his hand, ready to run the body through if his son had become a changeling.
    â€œWhatcha thinkin’?”
    â€œNothing. Are you okay?”
    â€œOkeydokey, icky Ricky.”
    Stunned, he stared at his brother. Ricky knew, beyond all doubt, that he had never, ever told anyone about the name the jacks called him: It was too humiliating. His bladder let go. It didn’t matter. “What?” he whispered.
    â€œI’m okay.”
    â€œDid you hit your head?” he asked timidly, wanting to believe that he’d imagined his brother’s rhyming reply.
    â€œJust a little. Just enough.” He crossed the threshold, his movements lacking their usual grace, and stared around the room as if it were something new. “Shut the door, Picky Ricky. Let’s go to bed.”
    In shock, Ricky loitered a moment in the open doorway watching the greenjacks as they capered in the rain. One, dimmer than the others, did not jump or dance, but stood motionless under the tree, near the place where Robin had fallen. A chill raced up Ricky’s spine.
    Robin? he thought hard at the figure.
    And he thought he heard his name, called softly, but it was lost in the leaves that chattered in the breeze.
    â€œWhat’s going on here?”
    Ricky whirled at his father’s voice and saw his parents in their robes and slippers, standing at the bottom of the living room stairs. His dad’s arms were crossed, but his mother stepped forward quickly.
    â€œYou’re wet. You’re both wet!”
    Immediately Robin began to cry. “I fell,” he sobbed.
    â€œFell?” Mom scooped him up, mindless of his wet clothes and the leaves and dirt sticking to him. “From where? Are you all right, honey?”
    He threw his arms around her neck and clung, his face buried against her shoulder, sobbing and heaving as he never had before. It was a show. Ricky cringed, wondering what would come next.
    â€œI fell out of the tree,” he wailed. “I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to—”
    â€œRick?” His father loomed over him. “What were you boys doing?” He looked him up and down, mouth set in a grim line.
    â€œI—I—Robin went out the window and—” He silenced, knowing he shouldn’t tell the truth because they wouldn’t believe him.
    â€œIt’s all my fault,” Robin bawled.
    Amazed, Ricky stared at him.
    â€œI was playing a trickertreat on Ricky.” His voice hitched dramatically over a series of whimpers. “I . . . I wanted to scare him. I lost my