Spirits of the Night

The shrill cry from deep in the woods alerted Sergeant Buckley to veer north in his navy blue ’98 Chevy squad car.
He had been following this case for some time now, probably a number of days. The parents were constantly calling, never letting him alone. With this much time gone, he didn’t have much hope. But they persisted, nevertheless, to keep on the trail for their eleven-year-old son, DeMarcus.
Demarcus was last seen in a WalMart at 10:25 on a Tuesday morning. His friends had separated from him, never to see him turn up at the arranged time and place in the store. They reported this to the parents and authorities.
“Maybe just a timber wolf from up north thought the sergeant, returning to the present, “Hope it’s not a banshee,” he mused. But then, he became more serious after he failed to see the humor in his own joke.
He watched the northern road begin to turn into gravel, and then, a two track. Cross street horizontal signs disappeared and became tall poles with street names going a vertical direction. Good thing he knew about how lake cabin folks posted their signs, he thought; Otherwise, he wouldn’t even know where he was if he checked a map. A certain apprehension overcame him, and he began to perspire and to hyperventilate. The sky was beginning to turn dusk. He didn’t feel he was in friendly territory, but was he, as a police officer, ever able to claim such security?
It was getting darker. He saw a campfire, or at least, it looked like a campfire. Then, the hair stood up on his neck. Were these spirits he saw? He had to talk himself back into rationality. These weren’t ghosts, but people dressed up in sheets, pointed sheets.
His heart began to race, wishing he’d brought his partner with him. This was pure foolishness; he scolded himself, to travel this route without a partner.
But then, he saw a smaller figure running down the side of the road, with most of his own dark skin revealed, just a pair of shorts and white socks and sneakers.
Buckley pulled the squad car up to the boy very slowly and quietly. He pushed the window button, “What are you doing, son?”
The boy panted. “They’re after me, but I took a run for it. I lost ‘em, at least, for right now!”
“Get in!” Buckley commanded sternly, as his own dark hand released and opened the passenger door. The boy bolted forward into the car seat.
“How did you get to this place anyway?” inquired the officer, the sweat beading up more on his brow.
“These white guys duct taped my mouth and made off with me,” he paused, “but what about you? It doesn’t seem any great place for you either.”
Sergeant Buckley speeded up and made a shrieking u-turn, his heart racing, because of the sudden noise. All of a sudden, behind him, he saw the “ghosts” carrying their torches. He stepped on the accelerator.
“What’s your name, son?” he inquired as the torches in the rear view mirror began to shrink to the size of birthday candles, the two track turned to gravel, and then as he breathed a sigh of relief, the road turned to smooth pavement.
The boy breathed heavily, almost unbelieving at what appeared to be his good fortune, “DeMarcus, Sir.”