Free Nieve by Terry Griggs

her legs, and dry weeds rasped and snapped under foot, none snatched at her or tried to trip her up. Knowing the terrain, she dodged swiftly around rocks and bushes, yet watched her step, not wanting to stumble into any groundhog burrows, which is how she’d gotten the sprained ankle that had sent her to Dr. Morys.
    She ran headlong, breathing hard, until she arrived at her secret place, a tree house that no one knew anything about, not even Malcolm. She’d built it slowly over one whole summer, buying nails with her allowance and borrowing tools from the basement workshop, always careful to return them. Loose planks she’d dragged from a derelict shed not far away and hauled them far up among the maple’s leafy branches. It was the perfect hideout, a place to go when she needed to be alone, safe and secret.
    She clicked off the flashlight and leaned against the tree’s trunk, its rough, grooved bark a reassuring sensation against her back, and stared at her home, by now a fair distance away. Earlier, because she’d felt so uneasy, she had turned on all of the lights in the house, and now watched as they went out one by one. She winced as each light was extinguished, as if she were seeing her home vanish bit by bit, consumed by the darkness.
    Nieve was so absorbed in watching this spectacle that she was completely unaware of the arms that were reaching down out of the tree. They reached slowly and silently, stretching toward her, long arms as rough and lichenous as the branches above that in the past had always offered her protection.

–Ten–

Ferrets
    N ieve heard a faint creak in the branch above her, a sound easily enough dismissed. Wind in the branches . . . although there was no wind. The night was as calm as it was black. She heard a soft cooing sound, the sort of sound a mourning dove might make . . . but not at night . . . .
    Instantly, she sprang away from the tree, barely evading the hands that plunged down and snatched at the spot where she’d been resting. She whirled around and switched on the flashlight, gasping to see a pair of mottled, mud-green hands clutch at the air, clawlike hands with thick, pointed black nails that clacked together in frustration – or eagerness. For a heartbeat, she froze. She stared at the hands as they now began to motion her forward. The creature, still hidden in the tree, extended its arms toward her – extremely long arms, scabbed and scaley. Again, she heard that cooing sound, soft and strangely appealing.
    But not appealing enough. Nieve began to back away slowly, keeping an eye on the motioning hands in case the creature made a lunge for her. Then abruptly she wheeled around . . . and stopped cold. Directly in front of her, blocking her way, was a figure that must have risen silently out of the long grass while she’d been turned toward the tree. She didn’t think, didn’t have time to. The flashlight, pointed at the ground, illuminated the figure’s bare feet – four toes on each foot! – and that’s all she needed to see. She swept her arm upward and struck it with the flashlight. The figure moaned and doubled-over, hands flying up to its face. She must have hit it square on the jaw – if it had one – but didn’t wait around to find out. She sprinted off, tearing back through the field, but veering away from her house. She ran and ran, putting as much distance as possible between herself and them , one of which was now chuckling softly to itself as it slithered down from the tree.
    By the time Nieve got to the edge of town, she slowed to a walk and turned off the flashlight, which had begun to dim and flicker. Casting an anxious glance back, she was keenly aware that the dark was populated with unseen dangers – including the fact that she might blunder into a wall, or fall into a hole – but there was nothing for it, she’d simply have to keep her senses on high alert. She began