The Killing Circle by Andrew Pyper

When she was ten, she moved four times. When she was eleven, twice more. When she was twelve, she moved once a month for a year. And all along the Sandman followed her. Showing her the things he would do if he were real, and continued to do in her dreams.
    And then, when she was thirteen, she was sent to live in an old farmhouse in the dark forests to the north, further north than most farms were ever meant to be. Her foster parents there were the oldest she’d had yet. Edra was the wife’s name, and Jacob the husband’s. They had no children of their own, only their hardscrabble farm, which yielded just enough to feed them through the long winters. Perhaps it was their childlessness that made them so happy when the girl came to them. She was still a mystery, still a problem. But Edra and Jacob loved her before they had any reason to, loved her more than if they’d had a child of their own. It was the suffering the girl had seen that prompted their love, for they were farmers of land that fought them over everything they took from it. Edra and Jacob knew suffering, and had some idea of what it could do to a girl, alone.
    For a time, the girl was as happy—or as close to happy—as she’d ever been. There was comfort in the kindness her elderly foster parents showed her. She had a home in which she might live for years instead of weeks. There was a school in the town down the road she took the bus to every day, and where there were books for her to read, and fellow students she dreamed of one day making friends of. It was, for a time, what she’d imagined normal might be like.
    Her contentment had been so great and without precedent that she’d almost forgotten about the terrible man who does terrible things. It had been a while since her night thoughts had been interrupted by his appearance. So it is with the most awful kind of surprise when she comes home from school one afternoon in late autumn to overhear Edra and Jacob talking about a little girl who’d disappeared from town.
    Thirteen years old. The same age as her. Playing outside in the yard one minute, gone the next. The police and volunteer search parties had looked everywhere for her, but for three days the missing girl remained missing. The authorities were forced to presume foul play. They had no suspect in mind. Their only lead was that some in town had lately noticed a stranger walking the cracked sidewalks at night. A tall, sloped-shouldered man, a figure who kept to the shadows. "A man with no face,” was how one witness put it. Another said it seemed the man was searching for something,though this was an impression and nothing more. Aside from this, no details were known of him.
    But they were known to the girl. For she knew who the dark figure was even though she wasn’t there to see him. She knew who had taken a girl in town the same age as her. The Sandman. Except now he’d escaped the constraints of her dream world and entered the real, where he could do all the terrible things he desired to do.
    The girl was certain of all this, along with something else. She knew what the Sandman searched for as he walked in the night shadows.
    He searched for her.

6
    Write What You Know.
    This is one of the primary Writers’ Rules, though an unnecessary one, as the initial inclination of most is toward autobiography anyway. The imagination comes later, if it comes at all, after all the pages of the family photo album have been turned, love affairs autopsied, coming-of-age revelations and domestic tragedies rehashed on the page. Usually, people find their own lives sufficiently fascinating to never have to confront the problem of making things up. The Kensington Circle is no exception. Evelyn’s campus sexcapade, Petra’s marital breakdown, Ivan’s sewer-rat metamorphosis. I’m jealous of them. It would make writing so much easier if I never tired of seeing the same face in the mirror.
    But what if you don’t particularly find the life you know all