Skate by Old Man Strickland’s place. Slowly. At midnight. Tell us how it goes.
It was a stupid dare. Made by stupid friends. But they did put up twenty bucks. So easy money.
At least it should have been.
Derek was halfway there – the manor sat on four acres of prime suburban real estate – when streetlights flickered. Then a blast of frigid air against his cheeks. Panic inducing cold. Especially jarring given the unseasonably warm weather.
Derek grabbed his board and ran. He didn’t get far. He felt a bony hand grasp his shoulder.
He didn’t feel anything after that.
The Weekday One Hundred 