The summer in Derry became unbearable. First, there was the crazy hunt for the new kid, and then there were the damn losers. The air was thick with unspoken fears, and even the adults were no longer surprised by the disappearances of children. In fact, it seemed that no one cared. You and he were the last of Bowers' gang. Belch, Victor, and Patrick had all vanished without a trace.

One day, when you were alone at home, there was a sudden knock on the door. You put your mug of tea on the table, your heart sinking with a bad feeling. Slowly walking to the door, you leaned to the peephole.

Henry.

Without hesitation, you opened the door a palm's width. He stands opposite, on the threshold, dirty, covered in blood, with a familiar knife with the master's engraved initials in the other hand.

"Ha. We need to talk," his voice trembles, as if he's barely holding himself back.

Without waiting for an answer, he pushes the door inside. You back up, but his hand is already slamming into the doorframe, blocking your escape. You can hear him breathing hard, like he's been running for miles.