Feral by Brian Knight

swung a sharp left toward town.   The road was uneven and stony, the ride rough and slow.   Shannon cringed as a low-hanging branch scraped the Chevelle’s hood.
    Charity watched the woods with nervous eyes.   All around, the great pines pressed in, rough green walls on each side, blending into the darkness before and behind them, blocking out the night sky above.
    â€œAlmost there?” she asked.
    â€œAlmost,” Shannon said.   “Just ahead here.”   The trail ended, an old house stood in ruins in a cleared lot.   In the glow of the headlights she could barely make out the faded condemned sign nailed to the warped front door.
    â€œWhat is this place?” Charity asked, not bothering to hide a look of disgust.
    â€œIt’s my uncle-in-law’s house.   Crazy Ernie Pitcher, my ex-father-in-law’s brother.   He was kind of a weird old hermit, died when I was a kid and his brother just let the house rot.”   Shannon drove slowly through the yard, around the side of the house and parked in the back next to a long-abandoned international pickup.   “When I was a kid I used to party here with my friends.”   She got out of the car, walked through the weeds and dust to the cellar entrance.
    Charity followed warily.   “I hope it looks better on the inside.”
    Shannon smiled in spite of herself.   “Sorry, kid, what you see is what you get.   Hold on.”   She dropped to the ground before the cellar door and searched blindly along the foundation.   “Thomas wired the cellar once, tapped into the power line and ran it into the basement.   If it’s still here,” she said, then stopped.   “Here it is.”   She pulled the female end of a thick, orange extension cord, faded with age, from the debris around the foundation.   Sticking out under the closed door like a pig’s tail was the male end of a similar cord.   “I just hope this is still live,” she said, and plugged them in.
    Light shone from the edges of the warped door, weak but comforting.
    Shannon opened the door, peeked in warily and, satisfied, stepped in.   “Your room awaits.”
    Frowning, Charity stepped inside.   Shannon followed her down, closing the door behind them.
    As she reached the bottom, stepping down on the old, loose floorboards, Shannon basked in the nostalgia of the place.   This was where, once upon a time, she’d had her first drink, awaking the next morning with her first hangover.   She had spent more time here between her sixteenth and seventeenth birthday than she had at home.   After her mother died, home became a bad place, her father a beast whose last chain had finally broken, and in that nightmare year before she had moved in with her best friend Lacy, this had been her safe place.
    She guessed that was the reason she’d come here, the old comfort.   Her own Bogey Man had never been able to follow her here.
    She knew that wouldn’t be the case with Charity’s monster, but for now it was as good a place as any, and there was light.
    â€œYou came here to escape your monster,” Charity said, then looked away, almost ashamed.   “Didn’t you?
    â€œHow could you know that?" Shannon asked.
    â€œEverybody has monsters,” she said.   “I’m sorry, you don’t have to talk about it.”
    She’s too wise for her age , Shannon thought.   Why do we do that to them ?   Why do we make them grow up before their time ?   Why, Dad ?
    â€œYes, Charity, we do.”   And yes, she did.   Everybody had his or her personal monster, and though she had forgotten about the Bogey Man, she would never forget the monster that had driven her down here.
    Â 
    C razy Ernie’s cellar hadn’t changed at all, except for an extra decade of rot.   The same old fun room, floors and walls the color of dust, the same