Rockinghorse by William W. Johnstone

her shirt.
    Johnny caught the quick backward glance of his sister. “What’s wrong with you now?” he asked.
    â€œI don’t know. I mean, I just . . . well, I just kind of felt like someone was watching us. It gave me a funny feeling, that’s all.” She once more looked behind her at the dark timber. The forest remained mute and still.
    Johnny laughed at her. “You’re imagining all that,” he said. He walked on ahead of her.
    She hurried to catch up with him.
    The eyes shifted, following the boy and girl. The eyes were unblinking as they watched the pair.
    Some primal fear touched Jackie with a damp hand. She could not explain the sudden fear, knew only that it was very real. Something moved from within the dark woods. Whatever was in there was pacing the boy and girl as they walked. Leaves rustled softly and a hissing sound reached them.
    â€œJohnny!”
    â€œI heard it. But what is it?” Johnny had stopped and was looking into the darkness of the forest. Neither boy nor girl could see anything.
    A very foul odor slithered out of the darkness, touching the brother and sister. Fear touched them both, causing young hearts to pound and palms of hands to turn sour with fear-sweat.
    â€œListen!” Johnny whispered, his voice shaky and breaking as dread filled him.
    A shadow fell across the old weed-filled path. Jackie turned toward the darkness and began screaming.
    * * *
    The painted-on eyes of the old rocking horse glowed in the musty, cobwebbed-filled attic. Amid the boxes and trunks and old furniture, its painted-on grin changed into the very essence of evil. Slowly, almost painfully, the wooden horse began to rock back and forth. It creaked and groaned on its curved runners. The dust-filled tail began to twitch with life. Faster and faster it rocked, kicking up pockets of dirt in the dark attic. The wooden hobbyhorse whinnied softly, just loud enough to be heard past the littered confines of its self-imposed corral.
    But its cry could be clearly heard in the depths of the dark forest. Shadowy forms began to move as silently as the walk of death. They glided effortlessly through the tangle of vegetation, moving toward the Bowers home.
    * * *
    â€œJackie!” Lucas said, raising his voice to be heard above the girl’s screaming. “ Jackie!” He grabbed her by the shoulders and shook her. “Now calm down, girl—what happened?”
    â€œSomething’s in there!” she said, pointing into the murky shadows of the timber. “It’s been following us. It stinks and it hisses.”
    â€œNow, kids,” Lucas said, fighting to hide his smile and hoping he was keeping doubt from his voice. “Just calm down. Both of you. You’re letting your imaginations run wild.”
    â€œShe’s telling the truth,” Johnny defended his sister. “I heard it, too, Dad.”
    Lucas shifted his gaze to the boy. He knew the kids were not story-tellers. They had been raised to tell the truth; lying got them spankings while the truth meant a less severe punishment, regardless of the minor offenses.
    â€œI thought she was just imagining it, too,” the boy said. “But then I heard it and smelled it myself.”
    Gripping his sturdy new walking stick, Lucas didn’t know whether to laugh it off or take them at their word. He decided on the latter. “Go on back to the house, both of you. Yell out when you get to the clearing. Tell your mother I’m going into the woods. Now take off.”
    The kids needed no further urgings. They cut out at a flat run. Lucas watched them, a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. He listened until he heard them shout that they were clear. Then he turned to the dark forest.
    He stepped into the bewildering wall of tangle. Making his way cautiously, looking for snakes—the sound could have been a rattlesnake—he walked into the silent humid forest.
    Humid, that word came to him.