I had to skip the victory bash because of ‘grounding stipulations.’ My dad had been gracious enough to let me bat but this was the end of the line. So I began cycling home with an empty stomach and an empty heart.

  As I stopped at a red light, a black 1970 Dodge Charger pulled up alongside my bike. To my shock and horror, the front windshield lowered to reveal Billy and Tyrone’s maddening faces. Billy’s nose was bandaged in an X-shape. From the various bloodstains sticking out like rivulets, I knew that the damage was severe.

  “Look what you did to me, you shithead!” he shrieked, pointing at his nose. “You know you have to pay for this!!” And the chase was on.

  First, they tried to ram me off my bike. I barely escaped the collision by pedalling as hard as I could and taking a leap of faith onto the sidewalk. Then, they kept close to the curb, with both of Tyrone’s outstretched hands trying to nab me. Perseverance and speed paid off as whenever they thought they were close enough to grab, they only clawed air. Third, they took out their paintball guns and Pop! Pop! Pop! One grazed past my left temple, narrowly missing an oculus.

  “That was nearly an eye, YOU BASTARDS!!!” I yelled back. They both snickered in near-triumph.

  “You can’t run for long!” shouted Billy.

  I swallowed in an elephant’s gulp of air and pedaled faster than a Tour de France cyclist. I was pedaling so damn fast that my buttocks went numb. My hands and fingers too. Tunnel vision enclosed my eyes as all of my thoughts turned to a singular shout of “Escape!”

  All of a sudden, my vision cleared enough for me to see what was ahead-a denim blue 1972 Ford F-100. The rest of Billy’s Gang was waiting for me on the flatbed, their paintball guns pointed squarely at my face. There was nowhere to escape-they had blocked both ways. Or so it seemed. I turned my head and there was Staffield Park. I made sure to make them believe I was going to lose and then swish! I turned my bike and headed into the narrow path. I didn’t look back but I did joyously enjoy the squealing of tires and crushing of metal. Billy’s Gang was finally immobile.

  I was so triumphant that I didn’t notice the ice cream cone in my mouth.

  Nor did I hear the little girl shouting “Hey! You stole my ice cream!”

  Because by the time she was complaining, I had swallowed everything. It tasted delicious. On second thought, I should have left her a dollar. Splat! A paintball whizzed past me and hit a toddler, who collapsed into the sandbox. How the hell did Billy’s Gang get all the way over here? And then I knew. Billy was a jock but he was not stupid enough to leave such a glaring escape route unguarded. So he had posted five further guards in a golden 2010 Ford F-150. And they were firing at me. And I was going too fast to be able to escape. Surely I would be a dead boy by now. Thus, I closed my eyes and resigned myself to my dismal fate.

  Bang! I hit a large, heavy, metal object and in less than a second, I was in the air. A half-second more and my butt was bursting with pain in a thicket of bushes. I had hit a bench, flown over the pickup truck, soared over the entirety of the street, and vaulted over a neighbor’s fence. I had unconsciously achieved a Guinness World Record.

  As I lay there, I watched as the back door to the Tudor mansion flew open and a rather aged man with a ridiculous horseshoe moustache that had perfect dimensions flew to my side. A cigar was clearly smoking in his mouth. I coughed on the smoke. It was awful. I’d like to smoke but not the second-hand one. He sported neatly groomed black hair that was slightly messy when it dangled off the forehead cliff and a navy blue tweed sporting jacket layered over a plain blue dress shirt. In addition to these, he had dress pants to match the jacket, and black dress shoes that to be honest, looked more like sneakers than actual, olden times shoes. In addition, his right pocket featured the iconic folded handkerchief that pierced upwards with its triangle. He was the definition of an antiquarian.

  “Son, ya fine?” he asked me. Before I could even begin to form a proper answer, he had pulled me up. Strong grip he had there.

  “Where am I?” I asked.

  “Yer in mah house. I saw ya fly over the fence. Yer in trouble or somethin?”

  “Boy stuff,” I said, sullenly looking at the ground.

  “Aye, be careful. The world’s gettin worse. ‘Specially the invisible.”

  Ding Dong! Ding Dong! My hairs stood up. Billy’s damned gang would not give up, even after their leader was grievously injured. I was about to climb back up the fence but he stopped me.

  “Ye stay right here. Aah’ll deal with ‘eir horse-shittin’.” In a flash, he had entered the backyard shed and pulled out a long, brown shotgun. In another flash, he disappeared into the hallway. I cautiously followed him to the staircase in order to witness the potential showdown that would take place. He opened the door to six of Billy’s boys. They were led by the massive sumo, Berserker, Filipino kid, Mike Meanie. “Howdy, how can aah do for ya?” the Edwardian man asked. The skinniest kid of the gang, Chad spoke.

  “We’re looking for a friend. His name is Calvin Garcia. Is he with you?” His faux-model boy manner disgusted me. He was a dirty thug, not a polished gentleman. What a worthless hypocrite.

  “Aah ‘pologize but yer buddy’s not with me. An aah dun know someone by that name.” Chad paused for a bit before he found the opportunity to utter his outrageous request.

  “Can we at least take a look around? We won’t be long.” At this, the man’s tone got way tougher and lower.

  “Naw. This’ private property.”

  “Can we wait here?”

  “I sayd naw. Get off mah lawn.” Chad also became serious.

  “Sir, our friend has stolen something from us. We need it right away.”

  “Liar,” I muttered under my breath. That was my big mistake as Mike Meanie suddenly looked in my direction and pointed. Chad saw my shadowy movements and reacted accordingly.

  “He’s there! Get him!!”

  The boys charged in. SLAM! The front door hit Chad and he crumpled like a piece of paper. Mike Meanie tried to tackle the man but was knocked in the Adam’s apple, the stomach, and the nuts with the butt of the gun. The sumo wrestler fell over into the two boys standing behind him and the domino effect occurred. The remaining two boys who were still standing attempted to throw punches but they were swiftly met by the barrel of the shotgun.

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  “If ya make one more move, aah’ll blast ye! Naow git out, git out, ye filthy rascals! An never come back agin! Scram!!” Without further warnings, the less injured boys picked up their more heavily hurt counterparts and dragged them out of sight. I was applauding internally. Three victories in a single day. What luck I had! My savior turned to me.

  “Pat Cochrane.” We shook hands.

  Pat invited me into his study which was a venerable artifact of the Elizabethans. The wood panelling was richly dark. The smell of it was from old-growth forests that had been cut down long ago. Bookshelves with thick leather-bound volumes dominated much of the wall space, forming an octagonal shape. Surprisingly, the volumes were clean (Pat must be a cleanliness fanatic). The white marble fireplace featured a higher frequency old-growth wood that was better suited to be displayed than to be burned. The long candles on the mantelpiece were also showroom items. Two paintings hung above the hearth. Viewed together, they formed a duality of natures. The positive nature was embodied by the Virgin Mary nursing her baby while being surrounded by three important men (St. Donatian on the left and Saint George and some random clergyman on the right) as depicted by the Flemish master Jan Van Eyck. The negative nature was embodied by a twisted, horrendous mockery of nature (Hieronymous Bosch’s hellish depiction of sinners being tortured by grotesque demons). If you are curious how the hell I know so much, just know that I read too much. The opposite wall was also a duality-Thomas Cole’s pastoral vision of the second stage of empire-building contrasted with Francisco Goya eating his own son while being stark naked. A brown leather couch faced two brown leather armchairs that were fit for philosopher kings. A white coffee table comprised the center, with a vase full of roses and an exact, point-by-point replica of Bernini’s David throwing his sling at the giant Goliath. And on the ceiling was something grand and special-two ambassadors, a Byzantine carpet, ornate green curtains, a celestial globe, a sundial, a lute, a hymnbook, and a skull. This room was a fusion of the Classical and the Medieval, all under a Renaissance roof.

  Contrastingly, wires ran along certain ‘highways’ of the ground where they linked up to connect microphones that serviced each of the armchairs and maybe the sofa as well. There were also some tripods that were tucked away in certain corners. This was the official studio for The Supernatural Realm with Pat Cochrane, a realm I had absolutely no interest in.

  But it was still a nice museum to enjoy as I waited for Pat to bring down his wife who was carrying the tea and the cookies. His wife, shocker, was much older than the rather aged Pat. Wrinkles covered much of her face. She hobbled unsteadily on a cane. She shared the head covering with Jordan but in this case, it was a babushka. “This’ mah wife Albulena,” Pat introduced. I shook her frail hand.

  “Who iz thiz young mun?” she asked, her voice clouded with a thick Eastern European accent.

  “He’s mah new fren’,” Pat answered jovially. “Aah rescued im’ from his bullies.”

  “I viz I waz zere to zvack zem with my cane,” came her next remark. “But don zworry about zem.” She patted me gingerly on the back. “Zpat haz zome zvery important zings to zell you.” She made her hobbled way back up the creaking stairs. Before she left the basement entirely, she managed to add in this statement: “Hiztory iz my huzbandz zing; knitting iz mine. We different.” The door was closed.

  Pat pulled out a freshly printed newspaper. It was dated Friday June 30th, 2012. That was yesterday. The headline read: “Man Found Dead in His Home Burnt to A Crisp and Missing a Head”. Here is how the rest of the article went:

  “Just early this morning, the skeletal remains of a man were found in a suburban home at the northern end of North Charleston. At first, police speculated that the man had been dead for many weeks but neighbors disproved this theory as they had interacted with him five hours prior. The man was found lying face down in the foyer of his house. Strangely, his body looked as if it had been burnt to a blackened crisp and his head was missing. Not only that, but the North Charleston police were unable to find any visible sign of a wound. One fact remains certain: the man died this morning at 3:33 a.m. His analog clock was found to be frozen at that exact time. Investigators have identified the man as Thomas Morenz, a hedge fund analyst who worked at the Bank of America branch in downtown Charleston. As of now, the exact cause of death for Mr. Morenz is unknown. The investigation remains ongoing.”

  “What’s this?” I reacted. “It’s just a regular murder.” Pat eyed me sternly.

  “Didya read the whole article?”

  “Yeah. The cops haven’t found the killer yet. Happens all the time.”

  “How’dya explain this?” He handed me a stack of more papers.

  The headlines were “Family of 5 Found Dead in Their Home as Charred Corpses,” “Investigators Baffled at Blackened Bodies of a Couple in a Car,” and “Op-Ed: What is Going on in Charleston County? Is There a Serial Killer on the Loose?” Still, I could not understand Pat's point and how it mattered to me.

  “Look here,” I said, a little more forcefully. “This is just a serial killer on the loose, okay? I’m not afraid of them. I’ve watched Friday the 13th. I’ve watched Texas Chainsaw Massacre. I’ve watched Michael Myers. Just quit the BS and tell me what the hell you are talking about.”

  “The killers ain’t human.” Somehow, I was expecting a response like that. I was beginning to see that Pat was a crazy guy. “‘Deir demons.” Yeah, he was definitely a nutjob. He lit his cigar and puffed as rings of smoke soared gracefully into the basement air. “They fake bein hooded children who visit ya inne night-at home, in a car, in a store-an they knock. When ye open the door, they ask to come in. ‘Deir voices’re very robotic. They’ll have a telekinetic pull on ye that makes ya want to let them in. Most importantly, deir eyes are pure black.”

  “You mean like sharpie black? The entire eye?”

  “Aye, inkjet black.”

  I now knew what nonsense he was talking about. The Black Eyed Kids or BEKs for short was an urban legend that was raging on the various 4chan and Reddit forums of Creepypasta. People were making up various fraudulent encounters with these kids in order to get some much-needed internet clout. I even jumped in the fun, with a slight sexual twist-the BEKs wanted to enter my house to take pics of my dick. In the end, my story was not funny and there were tons of comments calling it “lame.” But yeah, screw the haters.

  I chuckled. “Man, I know what you’re talking about. The Black Eyed Kids is the most popular trend right now. Most trending search on Google. The number one most trending video on YouTube is I Wet My Pants Seeing The Black Eyed Kids. Haha, you got me with the trolling. Funny, funny, funny.” Pat’s face grew even more serious and grave. He genuinely believed that if he didn’t warn me, the BEKs would come for me and I would die.

  “Calvin, the world ain’t just stuff. For we wrestle not ‘gainst flesh and blood, but ‘gainst principalities, ‘gainst powers, ‘gainst the rulers of the darkness of this world, ‘gainst spiritual wickedness in high places. Ye needta be prepared. To avoid any encounter with them, take strong heed of these two rules. Number one: dun let 'em in at all. Dun even answer the door. Dun look. It’s betta for ya to lose an aah than for your whole body to be consumed by these evil demons. Number two: dun ever enter a place that’s already been invaded. If ye enter, ye give them the permission to see ya as a target in deir witchin’ hour hunt of peoples’ souls.”

  “I know, I know.” I was exasperated and in the depths of boredom. “You don’t need to tell me. I never open my door to strangers. What the hell makes you think that I would?”

  “As a dog returneth to his vomit, so a fool returneth to his folly.” That statement enraged me. It was worse than being called a sinner or even being condemned.

  “Are you calling me a ‘dog’?”

  To my shock, “Aye ye are.” At this, my last straw broke. I got up and left.

  “Damn you, Wacko Patco! I’ve had enough of your horseshit! You belong in an insane asylum, you nut!” In a few moments, I was pedaling away from that madhouse. However, I could not shake off his final words which a simmering feeling was telling me that it was prophetic.

  “And fear not them which kill the body, but are not able to kill the soul: but rather fear him which is able to destroy both soul and body in hell.”