"He's such a gentle boy." They say. You watch him out of the corner of your eye as he sits beneath the trees.

"He's so quiet." They sigh as you study him from afar. "Always reading and writing and studying.” You can count on one hand the number of times you’ve heard him speak.

"He's so kind.” They murmur as he spends his mornings in the school’s meager garden, watering the seeds and feeding the squirrels.

"So sweet and kind and quiet." They all tell you as they heap praises on the sandy haired child in all of your classes. “Such a unique child.”

You know better.



He was born for summer. When it comes around, a blinding smile never leaves his face. His green eyes glow with maniac life. He disturbs the children as he smiles at them with the perfect teeth that seem to swallow his face. He skips class about once a week and returns with dirt streaked on his face and leaves tangled in his straight hair.

You notice in the back of your mind that he avoids the iron pipes that run along one wall while the school is under construction at all costs.

You see him in the neighborhood, walking through the forest he knows like the back of his hand. He often stands in the brink of the woods and just watches. Sometimes them and sometimes you.

You know you ought to leave town before the next summer comes.

In the winter, he fades away. Pale skin, lifeless eyes, as if the color is being drained with every passing day.

Winters are always quiet. They pass in a slow daze as you watch him walk morosely home. He doesn't hide in the forest anymore. Sometimes he lies by the trees, mourning the life that's gone.

As the snow fades, life returns again. He starts to smile, and you find it shocking that no one's disturbed by the eerie grin that swallows his delicate face. He starts to smile, and no one ever questions that it must be an animal that's killed the cat.

He talks quietly with the police, a sad look in his large green eyes as he describes the missing girl. White blonde hair, he says, and very pretty. They ask a few more questions, mostly "How did you know her"s and "Where could she be?"s. You listen from where you stand in the hallway, casually searching through your locker for a missing pen, a piece of gum, math homework from last week. He exits the classroom turned interrogation room, and you face your locker, not wanting to meet those terrifying eyes.

Every summer, you note. Every summer another child disappears, and the general description is put out as blonde and beautiful. The police question the class and always seem to just let it go. A serial kidnapper, runaways, no one can ever figure out who, what, when, or why.



You're not sure when he realizes you know. He watches you, calculative, as you walk down the street. You're with your friends, so he doesn't say a word. You never go out alone in the summer, you make sure of that.






The summer winds down, and from the front window facing the street, you can see him walk into the woods, a look of dread in his eyes, for the final time for months.

Leaves start to fall, and you relax slightly. This summer was not the one you would be taken. A girl was gone, a shame, but it wasn't you.

He glares at you from his new seat across the room at you. Again, in all of your classes.


I know. His eyes scream. Run now, and maybe you’ll escape.

I'm not afraid. You're eyes whisper back.

But you are. You are terrified of the quiet boy, the one who writes and reads, the one who can coax the squirrels to eat out of his hand, the one who the trees bend towards as if trying to shield him.

This winter, it's worse than ever. There is loathing in his eyes as he steps into the first snowfall. He glares at the icy crystals as if they've done him personal harm. By the time he gets to school, he is stumbling up the steps, exhaustion taking over. He never falls though, you note internally as you walk to school behind him. Not too close behind though. Not close enough for him to notice you walking alone.

This winter, it's worse than you could ever imagine. He can hardly muster the energy to glare at you anymore. Depression sinks in, and he is silent instead of quiet, slow instead of quick and sure footed, eyes as hollow as a dead tree. He fades, wilting away like a flower. You start to forget your cause for despair.

As the warm winds start to blow away the last of the snow, you start to fear again.



You don't walk past the woods in the neighborhood anymore, just in case. You walk every day, knowing this season could be your last.

They never find the children that go missing. You close your sky blue eyes, feeling the lashes hit right underneath each eye as you whisper a quick prayer. You've never been religious really, but you figure it's as good a time as any to start.

You know. You figure it out a year ago, and now he knows you know. He can't leave you alone anymore. School is winding down, and you have almost resigned to your fate. He smiles at you, teeth bared in victory.

In the back of your head, you wonder if your face will be on milk cartons or telephone poles.

They happen in the first week of August or the last week of June, sometimes both. Every year, when summer is at its peak or hardly just begun, a celebration of the season. You count down the days until that dreaded week in August, as June's passed in silence. You avoid the roads, the trees, anywhere he might be. It's hard to avoid seeing him.

He is everywhere. Look outside the window and he's there, in the woods that stretch alongside all the houses. Look out the next window and he's in his house, staring out his window right at you. Close your eyes and you see him smile.

It drives you insane. The waiting. He never makes a move, only watches.

Then he disappears.

You haven't seen him in a month, since late June. No one knows where he's gone, remembers who he is. His parents don't seem to remember him, your friends can't recall his face.





That night, you go out looking.

You don't go in the woods- the source of his excitement and power. You stick to the roads and fields, searching throughout the night.

As you walk into the wheat field, same field you've played in as a child, hid and laughed, you see him.

He isn't waiting as part of you had expected.

You walk slowly over to his still form, crouching next to him on the ground.

He lies on the ground, sprawled out. Despite the fact that it's summer, the time he is always at his peak, he is pale. You tentatively reach out to check his pulse. It's slow, much too slow.

You sit back, mind racing. This boy- this creature you've dreaded. Isn't sleeping.

Dying Your mind supplies.

You gather him into your arms, standing up. He's light, much too light.

Maybe his bones are hollow. You muse as you walk out of the field. Like a bird.
You walk down the back road, not taking any chances. Your parents think you're asleep, but you don't want to risk anyone stopping you.

They'd think you're mad.


And maybe you are. You think about it as you shift your arms silently. His head lolls, limp in your arms. You're not sure if it's your imagination or not, but he feels colder than he had when you first picked him up. He's breathing, but only barely, just the slightest rise and fall of his chest informing you that he is still alive.

You would have thought he was a corpse if you didn't know he was breathing still.

You're not sure what happened to him. There wasn't any blood. He wasn't attacked. You find yourself wondering who-what could do this to someone like him. Someone as quiet and shy and dangerous as him.

The wood snaps underneath your feet as you carry him into the woods. His lips look slightly blue, but it could be the moonlight through the trees. You look up at the full moon, and somehow, aren't surprised.

His eyelids start to flutter, and you know he'll be awake soon. You continue to walk, stepping over rocks and around trees until you see what you knew you'd find- you've been researching for months, years- as soon as you knew.

You enter the circular clearing, stepping over a small rock. As you look around, you see they circle the clearing, making a perfect ring of stones. You walk to the center of the circle and kneel down, placing him down on the soft grass. It is green and full, alight with the power of summer. It smells like fresh air and flowers, so clean and alive you want to stay forever.

But you don't. You stand up.

Glancing into the trees ahead, you see two silhouettes in the moonlight. Two pairs of eyes glint at you, watching your every move. You stare back, unflinching. They turn away, vanishing into the woods.

You release the breath you didn't know you were holding and look down at the boy at your feet.

His eyes fly open as you watch him, and for a moment, you see real fear reflected. This frightens you. What could strike fear into the heart as one like him? He isn't like you- like any of you. He is different. What could make him fear?

He stands up in one fluid motion, staring at you with wide eyes the color of the grass at your feet. For once, it's summer and he isn't smiling.

After a moment, he nods at you once. You stand still, not moving a muscle.

He nods again deliberately before turning around and sprinting back into the woods, a bit slower than usual, but still gone in moments.

You turn around and start the long walk home.

No one disappeared that summer.

He wasn't in school that year.