The Haunted Traveler Vol. 2 Issue 1

102
cleats.
Before stepping back into the batter’s box, Billy
gave one last look over his shoulder to Tom, who gave him a
thumbs up. Then he turned around to face the music.
And here comes the pitch. Do or die, apple pie.
Nobody at Warrior Field actually saw Billy Tillman’s
game-winning homerun that evening. They were too busy
watching in horror as the top half of Billy’s broken bat sailed
through the infield like a harpoon, nearly robbing that poor
Wildcat third baseman of his manhood. If they had been
following the ball, they would have seen what Billy saw as
he rounded first base, and what Tom saw from the dugout: A
pair of long, spindly ash-white arms reach through the trees
and pull Donnie Valentine into the Yonder.
***
There was no post-game pizza celebration in Hillgrove
that night. I suppose the sudden disappearance of a
twelve-year-old boy kind of puts a damper on the win, Billy
thought. Even if he was on the other team.
Billy sat guard under his bedroom window while
Tom slept restlessly in his bed across the room. The boys
had decided — given the circumstances — that there was
strength in numbers. Billy had volunteered to take first shift.
He rested his eyes for a moment, listening to the police helicopters
and search dogs in the distance. He knew it was no
use. Just like Billy’s homerun, poor Donnie Valentine was a
goner.
Billy startled at the sudden sound of breaking glass
and winced as tiny slivers rained down on his head and neck.
Although his room was dark and he couldn’t yet see where
it had landed, Billy knew what a baseball busting through a
windowpane sounded like.
He looked across the room to see Tom sitting bolt