Chapter 6
1590 Words
The simple act of stroking hair carries countless meanings in human society—encouragement, comfort, intimacy, and more, usually in positive ways.
Summer had asked Matthew Dennish to be her friend, pleading for some acknowledgment. In response, he had extended the same hand that had just taken the life of a small creature, and with an almost inconceivable gentleness, brushed it against her hair.
Did he truly understand the significance of that gesture?
Even the next day, Summer found herself pondering it.
The town had only one elementary school, nestled at its center. The walk home took twenty minutes, and Mrs. Smith required that the four children still in elementary school go home together.
Yet…
Summer waited beneath the school building, only to be joined by Justin, a fifth-grader like Lyra, and the very same boy who had slapped Matthew two days ago.
“Where’s Lyra?” Summer asked cautiously, folding her arms.
“Who knows—probably skipping class again,” Justin said, clearly disliking Summer as well. He was one of Frank’s gang. “The little freak isn’t here either.”
In theory, the first graders should have been dismissed earliest.
“I’ll go check—stay here,” Summer said.
“No one’s waiting for you,” Justin sneered, rolling his eyes. “The little freak can die wherever he wants.”
Without another glance, he walked away. Good riddance—Summer didn’t want an argument along the way.
She was about to head toward the first-grade classrooms to look for Matthew when one of her classmates emerged.
Surprised, the girl exclaimed, “Why are you still here? I heard from the first graders that Matthew went into the woods.”
Summer froze.
The town in Bloodshadow Killers was remote, surrounded by untamed forest. Sparse human presence aside, the terrain was treacherous and labyrinthine; outsiders would surely get lost. In short: perfect for murder and mayhem.
Matthew was not only a newcomer to Mrs. Smith’s household, he was also only six years old.
Why would he wander into the forest of his own accord? Was he seeking thrill in his already precarious life? Summer’s worry spiked. She waved off her classmate and sprinted toward the trees.
There was still time to catch him before he went too deep.
Thankfully, the snow in the woods remained unshoveled. Summer immediately spotted footprints and followed them at full speed. Initially, only a series of small prints appeared—clearly Matthew’s. After running three or four hundred meters, she saw Matthew’s footprints converging with those of two others.
Alarmed, she quickened her pace.
Navigating past a frozen creek and near a small dirt embankment, Summer finally caught up to the tracks.
Matthew stood at the edge of a tree clearing. Several meters away, a young boy and girl whispered to one another. To Summer’s astonishment, they were familiar faces.
The girl leaning against the tree, laughing and teasing? Lyra, of course.
Summer’s eyes widened. What was going on—were they flirting? Surely not! She knew there was no concept of early romance in America, but she was only eleven! And the boy she had seen joking with Lyra looked like a middle schooler.
Justin had said Lyra skipped class—was it to secretly meet this boy? Who exactly was he to her?
So Matthew had entered the woods to find Lyra… but how did a six-year-old even know she was there? And how did he track her footprints? Summer could hardly believe it: a child so young, already skilled in observation and tracking?
She considered sneaking Matthew away to avoid disturbing them, but she was too late.
Lyra’s previously cheerful expression stiffened. She shoved the boy she had been close to and glared at Matthew.
“You little freak!” she screamed. “How long have you been watching?”
Matthew, unsurprisingly, remained silent.
His stillness only inflamed Lyra further.
Upon reflection, her anger was understandable. She had no idea Matthew had come looking for her. In her eyes, he was just the eerily quiet, doll-like boy who had appeared unbidden in the isolated forest, watching her flirt with her boyfriend. Goosebumps ran down her spine just thinking about it.
“You were peeking!” she yelled, advancing toward him. “Summer sent you, didn’t she? You’re her accomplice, you little—”
Summer: “…What does that have to do with me?”
Seeing Lyra ready to strike left no time for thought. Summer lunged forward: “Lyra, stop!”
Taking advantage of Lyra’s momentary pause, she pulled Matthew behind her.
Her sudden appearance seemed to confirm Lyra’s suspicions. The eleven-year-old looked positively unhinged. “I knew it! You scheming traitor!”
Summer: “What are you talking about?”
She felt indignant—Matthew had come looking for Lyra with good intentions, yet he was being scolded, almost attacked. Who wouldn’t be furious?
“Matthew came because he was worried about you,” Summer snapped. “If Mrs. Smith hadn’t required everyone to walk home together, no one would care about you!”
“That’s nonsense—you’re just fooling yourself!” Lyra shrieked. Pointing at Matthew, she ranted: “I heard the social worker tell Mrs. Smith when he arrived! His father was a violent addict, his mother neglected him and even killed his father! This monster didn’t speak until he was three because no one taught him! Do you think he’ll feel gratitude for your kindness? Look at him—he’ll eventually kill you, me, everyone!”
The torrent of abuse made Summer’s head spin.
Well, she thought wryly, at least she finally learned something about Matthew Dennish’s biological family. Neither the system nor the original movie had ever revealed this.
The foster agency hadn’t placed him in a special school, proving that he passed as a normal child. It was just that he saw no need to communicate verbally.
It made sense. Listening to Lyra, one could recognize a textbook American tragedy: a child raised in an environment devoid of care or attention, whose tears never drew parental regard, whose smiles never earned reward. Naturally, he would fail to understand the meaning of emotion, or the need to express it.
Matthew’s luck had truly run cold. Neglected by parents, neglected by foster care. Had even one person been willing to guide him, he might never have become the boy—or future killer—he was today.
“Say what you want,” Summer said lazily, ignoring Lyra’s tirade. “We’re leaving.”
Lyra: “You’re not getting away that easily!” She stepped closer. “You’re going to tell Mrs. Smith, aren’t you? You scheming betrayer!”
Summer: “…Is she okay in the head?”
Usually, Lyra could be blamed for sleep-deprived irritability. But this paranoia was beyond reasonable.
“I’m not a fool,” Summer muttered. “What benefit is there in stirring trouble for myself?”
“You little brat! Go to hell with the little freak!”
Lyra ignored her words, violently shoving Summer.
Summer stumbled back, falling into the snow. Fortunately, the thick snow and winter clothing cushioned her, and she felt no pain.
Even so, Summer’s patience snapped.
“Lyra!” she called, her voice raised. “What are you thinking? Want to learn from Justin and slap me too? Let’s see how you explain this to Mrs. Smith tonight!”
Hearing this, the boy with Lyra seemed to awaken from a daze. Middle schoolers feared trouble; if this escalated, their truancy would be exposed to parents. He finally intervened, restraining Lyra.
“Enough—you two are supposed to be like family,” he said, leading Lyra away. “Don’t make it worse.”
Lyra scoffed: “Family? Ha.”
They departed, still bickering, leaving Summer seething.
What brat!
Had Matthew not been present, Summer would have been forced into a fight. But she had just learned Matthew observed and learned from others, and given his foster situation, she could not afford to set a violent example.
Sitting, she rubbed her wrist and glanced at Matthew.
He had stood silently, his delicate face unreadable, blue eyes fixed on her as if willing her very features into existence.
She had Lyra to thank—her tirade had revealed Matthew’s past, confirming Summer’s suspicion: he did not understand the meaning behind head-stroking.
Not understanding meant he could not convey affection or intimacy. Summer reflected—whenever she had shown disappointment or exasperation, she would pat his head out of habit. Perhaps he merely mimicked her expressions, attempting to mirror her actions.
Simple imitation is no more sophisticated than training a puppy to sit on command.
“Are you okay? Did you get hurt?” Summer asked, rising and brushing snow from her clothes. “I trust you came to find Lyra with good intentions… but you’re too young, Matthew. Getting lost in these woods could be dangerous. Next time, tell the teacher—or at least tell me, okay?”
Still, how did he even locate Lyra? Summer marveled quietly.
Thankfully, he was unharmed.
Hearing her, he lowered his gaze, shifting it to her hands.
Following his eyes, Summer saw that her fall had left only a shallow scratch on her palm.
“It’s fine,” she said indifferently. “Some disinfectant will fix it.”
[Objective: Matthew Dennish Dark Index –2; Current Dark Index: 87]
Summer froze.
Wait—what just happened?
The sudden system alert left her stunned: nearly getting attacked had purified his darkness?
- Writer
