He was totally freaked out. The dreams had gotten stuck in his head again, like a bad song that you just couldn't force out. Not until you forgot about it, anyway, and because what had happened was something he couldn't forget, he'd probably have the dreams forever. Evan couldn't believe he'd lived this long with them without going insane.

They always took him back to that night—the one when he and Ada were supposed to meet Zach. Neither of them knew why. Neither had really taken any of it seriously. Zach had just mentioned that he needed them to meet him at midnight in the woods at the back of his house, and even though he'd said that it was a matter of life and death, Evan hadn't really thought he'd meant it. Now, of course, he knew that Zach had. But Evan hadn't shown up at midnight. It'd been the night before Halloween. He was supposed to be at one party but one of his other friends had asked him, last minute, to go out to this other guy's house with him. No big deal—just another sort of get together thing with parents that were out of town. And Evan had entirely forgotten about Zach. He hadn't not gone on purpose, he'd just innocently forgotten that he'd promised to meet with him. So he'd been at the party, and it had kind of sucked, because there weren't many interesting people there. He'd just been sitting around, ready to go, when, around one, Ada had called him. Then he'd suddenly remembered where he was supposed to be, and when Ada started yelling at him on the phone, he'd left the party and driven out to meet her. In the woods at the back of Zach's house.

Zach was already gone at that point, and that was when things got disturbing. The cops had made Evan and Ada recount everything until their tongues went limp and their memories began to blur. Neither had been in any mood, that early in the morning, right after the police were called and picked them out of the woods, to sit and converse with cops. But they'd been made to do it. And then, several times over the next few weeks, they were pestered again and again about what they'd seen, heard, felt, done, until everyone realized that they really didn't know what had happened to Zach—or, if they did know, they weren't going to talk about it.

Evan knew the truth. They didn't know what had happened to him any more than the drive-thru guy who worked at McDonald's knew. Nothing that had happened had made any sense.

That's why his dreams—or nightmares—never made sense either. They were disjointed recollections of what had happened, and no matter how hard he tried to forget that night, it just kept coming back to haunt him. Being in the dark—so dark it was hard to see your hand in front of your face—not even any moonlight. And the blood they thought they'd seen . . . the crawling forest . . . the bodies . . . all things that were impossible to explain. Things that the cops and everyone else wrote off right away as being hallucinations or overactive imaginations. And he and Ada had just stopped talking about the night, wondering, now, if maybe all those disjointed pieces of living nightmare really had just been in their minds. Evan didn't want to go into the fact that two different people couldn't have shared the exact same hallucination—then he'd have to rethink the whole event and recognize that it maybe was possible. And that would open up a whole useless circle of freakish thoughts and ideas.

Sitting in his dark room, letting his thoughts return to that night in the woods with Ada, Evan felt panic start to rise in him. He was sweating and cold, sitting up against his pillows, listening to the heaving of his breath and refusing to look at the door for some stupid reason, like he thought maybe he'd see the shadows of someone's feet at the bottom as they stood outside waiting for him.

Were there such things as ghosts? Would Zach come back to haunt him, if he really was dead? Because if ghosts stuck around due to unfinished business, Zach would definitely have some. Evan tried to switch his mind to picturing the ghost of Zach. That didn't scare him at all. Zach was too unthreatening to make a scary ghost. He was too skinny. Too average-looking. Not mean enough. He'd probably never done anything scary. Never hit someone or carried a knife or touched a gun. He'd be one of those sorry, wailing ghosts that just passed through walls crying and asked politely for help in passing on. Yeah—nothing threatening.

Evan was feeling better. His breathing had evened out. Maybe he'd be able to go back to sleep, especially if he put some headphones on and got lost in music. Where was his airpods? He'd probably left them on the floor somewhere. Would have to find them.

His arm stretched out to turn on the lamp resting on his bedside table. His fingers grasped the little knob, twisted it, clicked the light on. The room was illuminated suddenly—neatly organized desk, clear floor, alphabetized bookshelves. Evan had to squint before his eyes could adjust. When he fully opened them again, he scanned his room for his airpods then spotted them, the only thing lying on his floor in their little floss-box case, over by his bedroom door. He really didn't want to get out of bed, but he also wanted the music, all of a sudden. And he wanted to prove to himself that he wasn't that creeped out by everything. That he was fine. He was all right. He was not ruled by the things in his head. And there was definitely no one outside his door waiting for him.

So, pushing his covers aside, Evan stepped out of bed and walked toward his door. As he neared the airpod case, he saw something else next to them . . . something small, and grayish-white, almost resembling an extra earpiece, but more round. It was right on the floor, by his case.

What was it? He was sort of a neat freak. It wasn't usual for things to be on his floor. Maybe some piece of plastic that had fallen off his computer on the desk above or something. Bending down, he picked up his airpods with his left hand and pinched the small white thing between his right thumb and forefinger, just like he'd held the fly the day before when he'd torn its parts off. To his immediate surprise, he felt that it was soft and squishy, not like some piece of an electronic gadget, which he'd assumed it was. And even more disturbing was the fact that it squirmed. He almost dropped it but for some reason dropped the airpods instead and drew the unknown thing closer to his face, so he could get a look at it.

Vomit rose in the back of his throat when he realized what it was. He was over the flu, but he couldn't help his gag reflex. Swallowing the foul-tasting stuff, he stared in disgust at his trembling hand and the greasy-looking maggot wriggling between his fingers. The panic he'd managed to overcome moments earlier began to rise again from the pit of his gut.

Who cared where it came from—he had to get rid of it.

Fast, Evan flung open his door (forgetting the fear that someone could be out there in the darkness) and hurried down the black hall toward the bathroom. When he reached it, he didn't even bother switching on the light but yanked up the toilet seat, flung the wormy thing into the water, and flushed. In the dim glow of the nightlight that was plugged into the wall over the sink, he watched the liquid swirl and suck the maggot down. As freaked as he was that the thing would somehow leap back out at him and burrow into his face or something, he stared at it until it was entirely gone and then, even when the water in the toilet refilled, stayed there for several moments to make certain the maggot didn't swim back up.

Where had it come from? Maggots festered on rotten meat and feces and old logs. They didn't even really have legs. So why would it have been in the middle of his entirely clean room? How could it have gotten there? Evan didn't have any pets that could have somehow carried or thrown it up. It just didn't make sense.

Instinctively, he shivered and ran his hands all up and down his arms, legs, and chest, like he was brushing off imaginary crawly things. The gag reflex came again but he suppressed the urge to puke and shut the toilet seat. He tuned to leave the bathroom, catching sight of himself in the mirror eerily illuminated by the nightlight. His face glistened with panicked sweat. The last thing he wanted to do was look at himself, though, so he bolted out of the bathroom, down the dark hall, and into his bedroom.

He was in his bed and buried under his covers within seconds, purposely leaving his bedroom light on. Then, with second thoughts, he reached out and switched his lamp off. If there were any more maggots where that one had come from, he definitely didn't want to see them.