It’s not a trope that we see very often, I think. In fact, in considering this topic, I was hard-pressed to come up with more than the following examples of movies involving editors of any kind as characters: The Proposal (2009), Never Been Kissed (1999), My Best Friend’s Wedding (1997), Julie & Julia (2009), The Devil Wears Prada (2006), and any of the Spider-Man movies involving J. Jonah Jameson.
The Internet Movie Database (IMDB) lists 70 titles involving book editors — yet only eight tagged with generic ‘editors’ as a keyword (none of them being Spider-Man?!?) — and I only really remember having watched one other on that list, The Holiday (2006).
I’m tempted to perform a deeper analysis, theorizing that literary editors (fiction and non) rarely appear as protagonists in narratives. I get the feeling that when they do appear as more than background or supporting characters, unless they’re involved in a life crisis, threatened by other-worldly or malevolent forces, or it’s a romance.
Note to self: still need to watch 1408(2007).
Is it just me, or does literature and the media tend to paint the idea of being an editor as something that is … not exciting? As being valued support and/or controlling member of a writing team who tends to stay at the edges of the action, around whom flurries of activity revolve and to whom submissions are made for approval or denial?
I can see how that impression might exist. After all, the task of editing itself tends to be quite anchored, seeing as it involves (at minimum) poring over a document or footage of some kind to check for errors and fix mistakes. It’s not necessarily physical, unless an erasable, possibly magnetic board and removable notes are involved. Possibly a standing desk. And unless the editor is embedded within or leading a departmental team, the role is often shown to be fairly solitary and isolated by its very nature.
How many editor characters have been written and directed as being jaded, straight-laced, and even cruel in their decision-making and professional interactions? Alternatively, some have been developed as quirky, eccentric, overly kind, and eager to experience more, especially those characters who desire to make the leap from editor to writer, or assistant to full editing duties in service of producing excellent books and stories for the world.
How many of us can say we actually personally know a professional editor who can give us an accurate inside look at their lived individual experiences? Are the fictional editors of movies and literature in any way realistic depictions of the profession? Whether the characters are primary or secondary, what do they get right about the job and life of an editor, generally speaking? Is it even possible to generalize what it’s like to be an editor? Or are they idealizations based on the lived experiences of writers themselves?
In turn, how might the portrayals of editors in the various industries requiring them — newspapers, magazine, academic, and book publishers, manufacturing companies requiring production of clean internal documents, publicity firms, journals, etc. — have an impact on the growth and development of the field in the real world?
For example, what proportion of working editors today are BIPOC (AKA people of the global majority)? How many are women, or members of the LGBQT2S+ community? If the representation is indeed lacking of editor characters with these personal, cultural, ethnic, and/or spiritual backgrounds, as I suspect it is, then that’s deserving of attention. And so should be the development of editor characters who are whole, complex individuals rather than the stereotypes and caricatures that we may be accustomed to seeing in pages and on the silver screen.
I remember having a moment, back in teachers’ college, when a fellow student told me that they’d registered for the Teachers Writing Lives elective course, for the educator candidates who aspired to become authors while also in the classroom. I wished I’d taken the course at the time, and I kind of still do. From a basic Google search, it looks like similar courses exist today.
Because if we want to examine and then counter the negative patterns and impressions caused by the most common examples of fictional editors in books and movies, what better way than to pull from our own experiences, fellow editors of real-life Earth? And in so doing, use the narratives we both invent and recall as a means of deep reflection on our practices, our work-life balances, our incorporation of healthy lifestyle habits, our short- and long-term career goals, and a distinctly vital element, our networking.
Oh, that’s one other thing that I just realized is common to among the editor characters that I am aware of in books and films: they are, overwhelmingly, already successful in their professions. Where are the stories of aspiring, struggling, novice, and apprentice editors, other than Ryan Reynolds in The Proposal? Do we need more of those to help inspire the current and future generations who are drawn to correcting words and images, helping documents to shine?
Darned right, we do.
Editing is not an easy task, by any means. It can be as challenging as it is rewarding. One editor alone is lending their strength to a writer’s efforts in communicating their message; a team of editors working with solo or collective, collaborative writers are powerful entities, indeed. But we rarely see them, hidden away in offices and behind desks and boards and computer screens as they tend be.
And in this new era of ChatGPT and AI voicing, the role of the editor in polishing manuscripts is still significant. I don’t know about you, but when a congenial computer voice misreads or mispronounces something in an audiobook or a video, I’m willing to bet it’s because there was an uncaught or uncorrected error in the spelling, grammar, and/or punctuation that the artificial intelligence took literally. And it drives me up the wall. But again, maybe that’s just me.
Cheers, fellow editors. I see you, and I salute you.
When I get my business plan done, I think I’m going to make myself a hoodie emblazoned with EDITOR. Just because I can. And editors are awesome, no matter how they’re portrayed in fiction.
Thanks for reading! And please, feel free to tell me your favourite or most memorable experiences with editing or editors in the comments below. Change names to protect the innocent as needed, of course.
This blog post is a reminder to me to take the time over the next few days and do a more detailed breakdown and analysis of a few editing services’ websites that I find to be highly effective (and not a little intimidating).
Why?
I completed drafting the Customer Expectations and Competition Comparison sections of my business plan, and as a result, I feel both inspired and a little out of my depth. There’s a recognition of strengths that, over the new few days, I can add into the SWOT analysis, and a growing awareness of the areas and skills I need to continue improving. Two decades in education leave me hesitant to say “weaknesses”, because I know these are things that don’t necessarily have to remain liabilities, other than the obvious — those caused by my chronic illnesses.
Looking at the competition brings me back around to the question of whether to cast the wide net or to niche down.
And I kind of want to do a more in-depth analysis of the membership of Editors Canada, developing a spreadsheet that shows the numbers re: specialization, experience, certifications, etc. Location does not seem to be as significant as a factor of success, given how much editing and proofreading occurs online or via email exchanges. How long would such an accounting take, though? There are over 1,300 members. I suppose I could simply narrow my search to the genres and document types that I am most comfortable and experienced in editing. How useful would this list be to me, I wonder? Would it strengthen my business plan, and if so, to what degree?
Meanwhile, back to those highly effective websites… I sense a need to go back through the three I originally selected for comparison (based on their owners’ services, professional experiences, and other details similar to my own) and possibly create a checklist of look-for characteristics and qualities to help guide my own editing service development and its website.
More homework for me… Yay!
I would also like to produce some kind of survey for potential clients, which is challenging given that the majority of my clients to date have been via networking.
But in the interests of market research, and kick-starting my survey, would you mind telling me: if you were looking for editing or proofreading services, what aspects of the website would be most attractive to you, encouraging you to inquire further?
Yes, I’ve done this — I’ve contacted an indie editor and had help with polishing my novel before it was ready to go. And I’ve gone without paying for a fresh set of eyes to go through my manuscript, and dealt with the consequences that followed, which included frustration and delays in getting the book to the public.
Investing in the editing service was definitely worth the cost, even though I had to pinch pennies a little for a short period to do so. And here is why:
I learned recently, while working on my business plan, that the Big Six publishing houses are now the Big Four — there’s Hachette, Macmillan, HarperCollins, and Penguin Random House (PRH), which merged in 2013 and announced another merger in 2021, with Simon & Schuster. PRH was putting out 34% of books sold in America (at least), if not North America, even before they bought Simon & Schuster, and according to HarperCollins, are now expected to control a whopping 70% of the market for literary and general fiction in the US, which we know will have a substantial ripple effect in other nations. The Authors’ Guild in the United States spoke out against that second merger at the time, predicting the following concerns about the new mega publisher and the continued monopoly of the whole:
-it will become more difficult to have a manuscript accepted by one of those renowned houses, particularly for new authors. -cash advances (when they are given) are predicted to decrease in amount. -contracts will be increasingly difficult to negotiate.
Many of us who write will continue to aspire to have a manuscript accepted by a big name, despite these challenges. And yet some established authors are turning to self-publishing to have more control over their work, and the number of works produced by small, independent (indie) publishing houses is increasing exponentially. In other words, there are options for those who want to see their writing in print but feel frustrated or daunted by the traditional industry — especially those traditional houses who will only accept manuscripts when submitted by an agent.
Being listed with an agent is a whole other problem for consideration.
But back to editing, as a worthwhile investment.
It’s all too easy for a writer to regard a finished manuscript as done, clean, ready-to-go, and move forward with a release without having had multiple read-throughs by at least one person with experience and qualifications for identifying issues and helping to clean up problems in formatting, structure and style, punctuation and grammar, clarity of thought, etc. I’ve fallen victim to this rush to publish, myself, and I think it comes from a) being really proud of the work and wanting desperately to get it into the world, and b) being too close to see the issues.
If the manuscript isn’t polished, it’s less likely to be considered by anyone in a publishing house of any kind; if it’s self-published that way, the problems will likely be reflected in the reviews that should otherwise help to drive sales. Some readers are very kind about mistakes; others are brutal in their critiques.
Therefore, paying for editing is not a frivolous expense, it’s an investment in the wordcraft you’ve put your heart and soul into … on one level, a bit of a gamble that the investment will pay off later on through book sales, but on another, a validating experience that allows an outside, relatively unbiased party to ensure your writing is as clean and unhindered by errors as possible.
We know that small issues will always sneak by. I have a copy of Stephen King’s The Stand in which I have found minor mistakes of punctuation. It’s human nature to miss a few. But in the grand scheme, polished published work is far preferable to that which has never been edited.
Artists can choose to have their work framed. Crocheters and knitters can choose to tuck their loose ends in. Woodworkers can use stains and polishes to finish their projects. Writing is no different — authors can choose to have someone take the time to carefully review each page, line by line if necessary, identifying potential and actual problems, and fixing them on the author’s behalf or offering suggestions to make those problems better. The result is a tighter, more cohesive, highly satisfying piece.
And from my experience, editing and having work edited is highly validating all around. It’s worth the investment.
Investing, though — that’s the tricky part.
Many freelance editors (as far as I have become aware) ask for either a fixed or hourly rate, depending on the project. Is there room for negotiation with some projects? What is fair, based on the editor’s professional training and experience, and the time that the project will take?
I’ve been in the position of not being able to afford the editor I wanted. And then I had to decide whether to hold off until I had the funds, to go ahead and try submitting or self-publishing without that extra step, or to find the money somehow.
None of these are easy decisions to make.
But what I can say is that I have regretted not obtaining an editor for myself, and I have never regretted hiring an editing service to help check over and improve my manuscript.
Maybe that just means I’ve been fortunate to have good editors? You know, I don’t think there are many bad or poor editors — everyone who chooses to look over a manuscript is a human being, with a life and things going on, but they’re going to catch things that the original writer has missed, double-check writing choices, ask hard questions, and contribute in some way, no matter what.
Editing is a satisfying, challenging, worthwhile effort. I really enjoy it. I’m excited to continue developing my client list, and to complete this detailed business plan over the next few weeks or months.
And I’m interested to know what you think — if you have ever hired an independent, freelance editor to look over and improve your fiction or non-fiction work, what was your experience like? What look-fors, other than a reasonable rate of pay, would encourage or guarantee you to contract with an editing service? If you imagine yourself communicating with an editor, what would it look like in terms of technology (phone vs email vs Zoom or Skype), frequency, and types of notes and markup?
“Spellbound at Midnight” by Isabelle Kane & Audrey Tremaine — In the sultry Big Easy, Viole Godin is hired to restore Magnolia Place, an antebellum mansion which is crumbling under a mysterious curse. Marie Verret and her dangerously attractive grandson, Lucien, believe Viole is the key to ending the curse one magical Halloween night.
“Room 1309.5” by John M. Mecom — Inspired by the works of Poe and Stephen King, Room 1309.5 is a story of revenge and despair. It is the author’s first story to be published and received honorable mention in the Fifth Annual Writer’s Digest Popular Fiction Awards.
“Mansion of Nightmares” by Walt Trizna — A mysterious mansion, long abandoned, harbors a past that claims those who enter. Then one day, by a stroke of luck, an intruder survives and uncovers its secret.
“Ghost Taxi” by Joanna Foreman — A man drowns heading for freedom in America, but his ghost is trapped. Washed up on the beach, the ghost is an illegal alien, not allowed to cross the street into Miami. A homeless man and a vacationing tourist search for his wife so the ghost can possess her.
“Uncle Vernon” by Jenny Twist — There’s something very peculiar about Uncle Vernon. Nobody knows what he does in the cellar. But he’s quite harmless, really. Isn’t he?
“Half Seen, Half Hidden” by John Steiner — Nine dead. One missing. No suspects and no leads. What happened in the cabin outside Wilson Wyoming? Where and who is Mason Oliver? Deep within ourselves rests a greater mystery. Half Seen, Half Hidden traces the last three days of Mason Oliver and nine hitchhikers. Offering them shelter, Mason takes them to a secluded cabin. There they all sense the others aren’t quite the strangers they seemed, and that they hold something extraordinary in common.
“Telltale Signs” by Tori L Ridgewood — Don’t stay in the Dark Lake Museum after sunset! But Kate Elliot has a deadline to meet. Working overtime, she realizes she’s not alone in the creepy old mansion…
“The Origin of Fear” by Tara Fox Hall — Four college friends mount an expedition to Latham’s Landing — an abandoned island estate infamous for mysterious deaths — to gather pictures and inspiration for a thesis on the origin of fear.
Excerpt from “The Origin of Fear” by Tara Fox Hall:
“You’ll have fun, I promise,” Nikki said, her eyes sparkling.
“This isn’t a trip to an amusement park,” Daryl replied curtly, leaning back in his chair. “We aren’t a bunch of teenagers out for a thrill. When I say no alcohol, I mean it.”
“Speak for yourself,” Sam said, laughing. “Sure, you’re going for some kind of research for your thesis, but the rest of us are going because we think it’s exciting.” He signaled the waitress. “Check, please.”
“I’m not sure,” Marie said uneasily, rooting in her purse. “Breaking into a house sounds like a bad idea to me.”
“If they’d let us go there legally, we wouldn’t need to break in,” Daryl said irritably.
“Like you told us, there have been some deaths out there,” Sam said with a shrug of his shoulders. “It makes sense the owners don’t want to risk any trouble for a little cash.”
Daryl scowled. “Even that damn old man who runs the docks refuses to cooperate. I offered him a hundred dollars. He turned me down cold.”
“You shouldn’t blame him,” Marie said defensively. “He’s just doing his job.”
Daryl grumbled something, then took the bill from the waitress.
“We’re going to have a blast,” Nikki said excitedly, throwing her money down. “The best part is that it’ll be close to Halloween.”
“We can’t do it that night,” Daryl warned. “They’ve got extra security on Halloween, because of past pranks. Police patrol in a boat on weekends regularly, or so the dock man informed me. It has to be a weeknight.”
Nikki laughed. “Everyone wants to visit a haunted house on Halloween, especially a real one.”
“Police have no sense of humor,” Sam muttered. “We can’t get caught, kids. If we do, we’re not going to get off with a warning.”
“I told you, I can get a boat,” Marie interjected. “My brother’s got one he’ll loan me. It’s small, but it has a motor and can fit four. The bigger problem is the currents around Cairn Isle. We have to be careful—”
“Cairn Isle?” Nikki laughed again. “Is that its real name?”
“That’s what the locals call it, because of all the deaths,” Marie said defensively. “But that’s not its real name.”
“What is its real name?” Nikki asked.
“Latham’s Landing,” Daryl said with relish, letting the name roll over his tongue. “It’s going to be crucial to my paper on the origin of fear for my psychology of mind class. With luck, I’m hoping to turn it into a dissertation.”
“How did you ever hear of it?” Sam asked. “I never have.”
“It’s not something the locals advertise,” Daryl replied. “They’re closemouthed about it, these farmers, and they don’t like strangers. Even the historical society that owns the house doesn’t promote it. Their website had almost nothing—”
“What did it have?” Sam asked, interested.
“Just that a man named Hans Latham got rich in the ship business, and that he built this home when he retired.”
“So why go there?” Sam persisted.
“Because it’s a focal point for so much intense fear,” Daryl explained. “Though the local sites didn’t have much to say, the haunted house sites had a ton on this place. Compared to the factories and monasteries those ghost hunters visit, this is the mother lode in term of attributed deaths—”
“Attributed deaths?” Marie said, arching her brows. “Real people have died out there. I know one personally: my cousins’ first girlfriend and her brother. They just wanted to have a look by boat before joining up with some friends on the beach to the west. Instead they capsized and drowned.”
“I didn’t mean that the fear wasn’t warranted, or that the deaths weren’t real,” Daryl replied hastily. “I’m almost out of money, Marie, and I’ve got to graduate this spring. I need a thrilling and controversial paper if I’m going to get a good job offer. I don’t want to have to go back in the Army for another tour. Latham’s Landing is also relatively close by, which is good for my limited funds.”
“I guess we’re not going to stay at the bed and breakfast,” Nikki interjected.
“We can’t,” Daryl replied. “We can’t question any of the locals, or go to the exhibit the bed and breakfast has, not yet. If we stay there, we’ll arouse suspicion.”
“Then what’s the plan?” Sam said.
Daryl looked at each of them in turn. “First, we’re going to the island, to take pictures of everything, and gather data relative to the deaths for which I have documentation. Marie will get us a boat, and we’ll meet two weeks from now on the shore of the nature preserve. That’s October twenty-seventh, at dusk.” He got to his feet. “We can question the locals and do the dry research later.” Daryl strode out, the others following.
“So long as there’s no wet research,” Marie mumbled worriedly, as she hurried after them.
And… Her latest! (At one time, we’d say “Hot off the presses…”)
JUST SHADOWS Anthology Post
From the murky depths of a summer lake to the echoing halls of an insane asylum, evil lies in wait for victims. Innocents might escape by a hair’s breath, if they’re lucky. Then again, they might not. The shadows are waiting. Dare you step into the darkness and be judged?
Dawn was just breaking, fog rising off the small stream in misty tendrils that wafted through the forest glade The forest was dark and deep, still mostly silent, inky blackness. From time to time, rustling sounds issued from thickets, but it was the small rustling of rabbits and grouse, not the prey most men were after today. Suddenly, there came a sharp shriek of a scream owl, startling the man crouched waiting in the tree stand high above.
“They’re just shadows,” Lenny said under his breath to himself, shifting his weight. “How long you been huntin’ these woods? You know better.”
He looked down the barrel, checking the sight one more time. You couldn’t be too careful. It was easy to knock the sight off getting up into the tree stand. God knew, he wasn’t getting any younger. Still, for a man his age, Lenny was pretty limber. Smiling, he settled back, scanning the forest floor. The first day of hunting season was the best day of his year.
****
“Fucking amateurs,” Lenny said angrily hours later. “Assholes!”
The morning had been beautiful, the day creeping in quickly, illuminating the shadows. Like clockwork, a beautiful buck had come right to the stream to drink. Lenny had been squeezing the trigger when a rifle crack had shattered the moment, the buck bolting out of his sights, its flank bloodied. Lenny had cursed, then climbed down the wooden ladder quickly. The crackling of dead limbs coming his way was testament that the stupid ass who’d shot his buck was giving chase. Lenny reached the forest floor in time to stop the young punk in his tracks
“What are you, an idiot?” he’s shouted at the boy. “You can’t use a rifle on deer.”
“Who’s going to stop me, old man?” the punk said with a sneer. “There’s no DEC anywhere around here today. They’re all up there on the state land. It’s party time—”
“You get out of here before I drill your ass where you stand,” Lenny growled harshly. “This is my land. I pay the taxes on it, not you. Get out of here now.”
The punk glared back, but when Lenny’s eyes remained hard and unwavering, the punk’s gaze slid away, then lowered. “I know I hit the animal. I need to track it—”
“You winged him, is all,” Lenny interrupted, gripping his shotgun. “He’ll be fine. But you won’t be if you don’t shut up and get gone. Now.”
The kid turned and walked away, muttering under his breath. Lenny watched him until the boy was gone, then let his shoulders slump in relief. You could never tell these days if a kid was going to snap and start shooting, or if he’d been taught to respect his elders. A lot of men Lenny’s age had found the former true in recent years. It was a relief he’d been right this time.
But that hadn’t been the worst part; that had come later. Lenny had climbed back up into the stand, had lunch, then waited the rest of the afternoon without seeing a goddamned thing. Just as dark was falling, another deer came up, again a buck. Trailing him was a doe. Lenny got into position, and then suddenly, the bark of a dog shattered the stillness, making the two deer turn as one and flee.
Lenny cursed again. That damn neighbor of his, out walking her dogs. Didn’t she know today was the first day of hunting season? Yes, she did—there was her bright orange hat and vest. Christ, she even had orange vests on the dogs. He stayed silent, waiting for her to pass.
He’d waited until the shadows were thick, hoping for another chance, but no deer had come. Pissed off and dejected, Lenny began to reluctantly climb down. This was his first opening day in years that he had noting to show for his efforts. Now dusk was closing on full dark. Damn it, I should have left earlier…
There was a snap as the ladder rung he was holding onto gave way. The ground rushed up to meet him before he could yell.
****
Blinking his eyes, Lenny sat up, trying to ignore his throbbing head. Damn ladder. He was lucky the gun hadn’t gone off; he’d forgotten to safety it before starting to descend the ladder. At least there was a shiver of moon, just enough to illuminate the woods around him weakly. But the thickets and bushes were black as pitch, just shadows with no form.
He hadn’t fallen far, but he’d cracked his head good. The rest of him was just fine. With a groan, he got to his feet, feeling in his pockets for a flashlight. His wife Hera would be worried about him. She’d been telling him for years to get himself one of those new cell phones, complaining that when he was out hunting she had no way to contact him. He hadn’t listened, of course. The last thing he wanted was to have his hunting disturbed. Now she was going to bend his ear every chance she got, after hearing about this. Grumbling, he clicked the safety on, switched on the flashlight, and began walking slowly back to where his truck was parked.
There was a rustling in the thicket ahead. Lenny turned, curious. Maybe it was a deer? Wouldn’t that be funny, he thought sarcastically; a deer coming in so close now, when it was too late to shoot. He aimed his flashlight beam into the thicket, but the weak light wouldn’t penetrate the shadows. All it did was illuminate two eyes shining back at him.
There was a deer in there staring at him. Had to be. Well, there was no point in scaring it. Lenny began to back away slowly.
The eyes held on him, motionless, then very slowly rose in the shadow, until they were level with his height. Then they kept rising up, until they were near eight feet in the air. Again they held still, staring back at him.
Lenny’s skin crawled as he stared back, frozen in his tracks. Even a deer rearing on its hind legs wouldn’t be that tall. This had to be a bear, and the biggest goddamn one he’d ever seen.
The eyes moved in the darkness toward him, leaves rustling with each deliberate footstep.
A bear wouldn’t do that, Lenny thought, backing away. A bear couldn’t walk that far on its hind legs.
The eyes suddenly darted forward, twigs and branches in the thing’s path snapping. Lenny turned and ran, the fast crackling of broken branches coming right behind him.
With every step, he expected to be clubbed by a huge paw, or hear an enraged roar. Instead, the crackling noises just kept pace right behind him. Terrified, he refused to turn, unwilling to face those tall eyes again. But as his breathing turned ragged and his strength failed, Lenny knew he had to. He’d never outrun the thing. He had only one shot, and he’d better make it a hell of a good one.
Panting, Lenny swung around to face the thing, bringing the gun barrel up level as he clicked off the safety. He gaped, then lowered the weapon. The eyes were gone.
He stood still for a moment, fighting to control his breathing, to hear any close noises over the sound of his own racing heart.
There was the hoot of an owl. Nothing else broke the silent night.
Lenny retreated to his car, nervously scanning his surroundings all the way, his gun at the ready. He was badly startled by a raccoon en route, and just managed not to pull the trigger in reflex. When Lenny reached the edge of the woods and his car, he climbed in and shut the door as fast as he could, breathing a huge sigh of relief as he hit the lock button.
God, what had that thing been? Did I imagine seeing it? Maybe the eyes being that tall had been a trick of the light, a raccoon or some other animal climbing up a tree…
He could figure that out later. All he wanted to do was go home.
Lenny started the car, relieved all over again when the engine turned over easily. He put it in gear, then glanced up, letting out an instant yell.
There in his headlights was the punk from this morning. He was staring at Lenny with dead eyes. Part of his neck was missing, blackish dried blood and tissue clumped at the raw edges of the gaping wound.
This couldn’t be happening!
The kid smiled, baring human teeth coated with more of that blackish-red blood. Then he began to raise the gun still held in his hands.
Lenny put the car in gear, then stomped on the gas. The car shot forward, knocking the kid off his feet, the car lurching as it rolled over him. Lenny gunned the engine again, cursing at the slow passage of the car through the high grass of the field.
Damn it, why is this taking so long?
The car made it to the bottom of the steep incline that led up to the main road. Suddenly, the back tires spun, and the car shuddered.
Lenny eased off the gas, then tried again, gunning the engine. The wheels spun, the engine loud in his ears.
Damn it! Lenny thought. The underside of the car had to be stuck on something sticking up out of the ground, maybe the remnant of a fence, or some barbwire, maybe even a stump. He was just digging a hole, giving the car more gas. He’d have to get out and see if he could lever it off.
Lenny grabbed the flashlight, opened the car door, and got out, scanning around for eyes with the beam. Nothing gleamed back in the darkness. Relieved, he shone the flashlight at the car, gaped, and then swore as he inspected his vehicle from all sides.
All four tires were flat. That asshole kid had done it, before that thing in the woods had killed him. There was no way he would get up that incline with one flat tire, much less four.
A rustling sounded in the darkness. Lenny brought his flashlight up, aiming it at the approaching noises. Two familiar eyes gleamed back at him from high in the darkness at the forest’s edge. More horrifying, two more pairs suddenly sprang to life on either side of the eyes, all of them staring at him.
Tori L. Ridgewood 