And so it was that the Center was boarded up and locked. Weeds grew in the sandy volleyball pits, and the vibrant red letters faded. Six months after its closure and the firing of Jon Eckles, the city council approved the center’s demolition as a derelict building; they cited “safety” as their primary concern. The equipment that had stocked the Youth Center was sold at auction or destroyed along with the building.

A year later, the council approved a plan to build low-income housing on the plot, saying it would increase tax revenue by attracting students from nearby college towns. That same year, ninety percent of the high school’s graduating class of 137 left the town. When the new apartments opened, 97 people had signed leases.

Jim gave a wry smile. “I see a little problem with your idea, Mary.” he said playfully.

“And what would that be, sir?” Mary asked with exaggerated care.

“You’ll have to catch me first!” Jim was gone in a flash, laughing and running.

Without a moment’s hesitation, Mary lunged after him, giggling, but Jim was already far ahead.

They chased each other about the grounds as the shadows grew long and the light golden, either ignoring the pall that hung over the next few days or willfully disregarding it.

“We have been content to watch from afar, to feed. Still, we always expected that someone would arrive,” said one of the Children.

“Just as the ruins of the old world gave birth to us, so too did we beget suffering and chaos unprecedented even in the time of its destruction,” said another, who might once have been a woman. “That was our ultimate revenge.”

“But we knew it could not last, just as the strife that burned for generations before our coming. Now that the wall has been breached, the time has come for the children of the old world to begin the next phase.”

“We have seen the suffering we have wrought echo across a hundred generations, but no more. As in all matters of revenge, we must now move on to death.” The Child who had spoken smiled, the eerie green light of the glass reflected in its eyes. “The Children of Xencobourg will sear our enemies to dust.”

Harry gnawed meditatively on the end of a pencil, leaving deep tooth marks.

“That’s a bad habit,” I reminded him, as I always did.

“And you have a bad habit of reminding me that it’s a bad habit,” came the standard reply.

Everyone has a nervous habit, and Harry simply preferred pencil-chewing. He claimed it was cheaper than smoking, and better for the environment to boot. In front of the bank of computer monitors in his apartment, there was always a fresh batch of pencils in a little jar. I once got a good laugh by replacing one with a yellow pen, which burst and gave Harry a blue mouth for a week.

Don’t get me wrong–I want to be sad about what happened. But how can I be, when every memory I have of Harry is so much fun?

No one is perfect; that’s an established fact. My idea of perfection in a person would be the right combination of personality and looks. A beautiful person with a single-digit IQ is like a Ming vase, pretty to look at but disturbingly empty. An ugly person with a winning personality isn’t bad, but it’s hard to appreciate someone who shatters mirrors and turns mortals to stone.

I’ve often noticed that people who have the power to attract a retinue will usually surround themselves with one of either type. Maria, for example, was regularly accompanied by Annabelle Schmidt and Betsy Purdue. Annabelle set the curve in chemistry class but had terrible teeth and more moles than a country garden; Betsy had near movie-star good looks, but thought General Motors was named after a war hero.

Through skillful manipulation, Maria used them both in different ways to make herself seem smarter and more attractive; I was about to get a more personal demonstration than I would have liked.

The day after Reuben stumbled into my office, I was scheduled to give his class a particularly hard test; naturally, I assumed he’d come by to weasel out of it.

I called my hardest tests “Grannykillers” because I noticed there seemed to be a severe uptick in students’ grandmothers dying whenever I gave one. Sometimes as many as three or four grandmothers would die in a single week; I’d often suppose aloud that they must have been on the same bus. From my colleagues I knew that some students went through five or more grandmothers a semester. To my irritation, no one ever claimed that their grandfather had died—Karen’s kids wouldn’t even get that much use out of me.

It only took me a moment to see that Thursday’s Grannykiller was the least of Reuben’s problems.