Free Stonebird by Mike Revell Page A

off.
    And that’s what will probably happen if I try to talk to anyone—
    “Hey!”
    I jump a thousand feet in the air.
    On the other side of the road, something moves.
    No, not something. Someone. Because they’re there. All three of them.
    “Nice story, Liam,” says Matt, kicking a stone at me. “Just one problem. You don’t expect me to believe that garbage, do you?”
    “I thought they didn’t have to be real?” says the small ratty one.
    Matt smacks him on the arm. “Shut up, Cheesy.”
    They close in around me, and suddenly they’re taller than giants.
    I’m halfway home. If I could just distract them, maybe I can make a break for it . . .
    “Maybe it is true,” I say.
    They hiss with laughter.
    Then I run.
    My feet thunder on the road as I peg it up toward Church Lane, and the sound of their footsteps behind me is louder than the rumble of the orcs in Lord of the Rings.
    “Get him!” Matt yells.
    I bound over the small flint wall into the graveyard and hop across a patch of lumpy ground, dodgingbetween the tombstones and the mounds of earth. The grass muffles their footsteps. I can almost pretend they’re not there at all, except—
    “Get back here, you little wuss!”
    Across the grass and over the wall and into the grounds around the edge of the church. I race up to the crumbling wooden door and only then do I stop and turn around. Matt and his friends are panting by the time they get to me. Matt’s eyes are huge and round, hungry. His nose wrinkles, and I can see his teeth.
    “Matt,” says Cheesy.
    But he doesn’t turn around.
    “Hey, Matt,” says the other boy, Joe.
    But Matt still doesn’t turn around.
    The others aren’t coming any closer.
    They’ve stopped at the edge of the grass bank that leads up to the church.
    “Hey, friend,” they say. “Matt . . .”
    Matt scoffs but finally turns to look at them. He’s like a kettle that’s so close to boiling it’s rattling and spewing steam. “What?”
    “Something’s not right,” says Cheesy. “I don’t like this.”
    “You heard his story,” says Joe. “It’s haunted, this place.”
    “I DON’T CARE ABOUT HIS STUPID STORY!” roars Matt, rounding on me again.
    Back, back, back. Shuffling in the direction of the door. If I can just—
    There.
    I feel it behind me and step inside, spinning and running across the aisle. My ears strain for any noise as I duck down behind one of the pews, but there’s no door swinging, no footsteps, no shouts. No nothing.
    A huge sigh of relief floods out of me.
    Slowly I peer over the top of the pew. My palms are slick on the old wood.
    They’ve gone.

16
    Maybe they did believe the ghost stories.
    Maybe they believed my story.
    The gargoyle faces above me are glaring, and the bare branches of the trees are waving through the broken windows, and sitting there on my own with only the emptiness around me, it’s easy to see how they might get scared.
    But there’s nothing to be afraid of here.
    Unless you count a gargoyle that disappears from one moment to the next.
    When I’m sure Matt’s not going to barge in, I stand up. Slowly I make my way over to the crypt. Every breath is cold and quick, and I keep glancing over my shoulder to make sure they aren’t trying to trick me.
    I stand outside the crypt door, listening to the never-ending quiet. The air’s heavy and thick with dust. I push open the door and walk slowly down the stone steps . . .
    Stonebird’s there again, in the dark.
    He’s there waiting.
    “Where did you go?” I ask.
    Come on, Liam . . . talking to a statue?
    But somehow I know he can hear me. Somehow I know he can understand.
    “Is it true?” I say, moving closer, my footsteps quiet on the flagstone floor. “What Grandma wrote in her diary? Did you really come here from France?”
    He doesn’t say anything, of course. He never says anything.
    He’s a gargoyle. A statue. He’s made of stone.
    He can’t move.
    But he did . . .
    And then