The First Chapter

    But that's not your style, is it?

    You will grow spiteful. You will park your van behind a derelict water tower so you can sneak past the security checkpoints on foot. However, despite wearing your lucky track jacket, your efforts will be thwarted once again, this time by four parallel runs of electrified chain-link barriers, a thicket of razor wire topping each. You will have no choice but to return to your home (your van) and never pursue such a folly again.

    But it will take more than lethal fencing to stop you, won't it?

    Your step-mama didn't raise no quitter. Your Coach may have been right about a lot things—about how majoring in theater was like bringing a unicycle to a drag race, how putting a tattoo on your ass OF your ass would not seem as funny or ironic after high school, how socks are much easier to match if you only buy them in bulk—but that doesn't mean she's right about you. You will roll up your sleeves, grit your teeth, and try harder than you have ever tried at anything in your life! And you will come to discover that, when you actually put your mind to something and give yourself permission to hope, Coach is still right about you. Oh well. Maybe next time.

    But!

    Since it will be the anniversary of the death of your pet rat snake, you will be feeling unusually spiritual, and you will fall to your knees in prayer for the first time since childhood. Lucky enough for you, divinity will peer down upon your pathetic soul, will feel pity for you (and maybe a touch of guilt as well) and will choose—just this once—to intervene in the life of a mortal. The molecules in your body will dematerialize and transport themselves through the obstacles unharmed. You will momentarily appreciate the religious significance of what just occurred, but then, being the staunch Atheist that you are, you will chalk up the unbelievable coincidence to the Infinite Monkey Principle and be on your way.

    This rare favor from God (or probability) will be almost wasted, for the Bleak Hills await you, a stretch of land cursed by impenetrable fog and darkness. Your only hope to safely navigate this terrain is to stumble across one of the many spotlights dotting the area. Each light is focused on the same point, so follow any beam to arrive at the only shelter within thirty miles, tucked tightly into the folds of the hills, an ancient fortress made of stone.

    Over four centuries old, this building has been repurposed many times and been called by many names...but it wasn't until our own generation that the site acquired its most memorable and fitting design: that of a maximum-security juvenile detention center.

    Originally, some claimed the defensive measures of the facility were too extreme for children, but those complaints quieted within a year of their commencement. You see, the center institutionalized during a tricky era for adults. "Child maltreatment" was a term in its infancy, and parenting practices were under public scrutiny. The age-old disciplinary tactics of spanking and shaming were being perceived as abuse and, more importantly, as illegal. Parents, Teachers, and Babysitters all stopped punishing children out of fear of lawsuits or disgrace. And, without any effective means of discipline, children ran rampant. There were riots in the schools, fires in the playgrounds―sandals at church for Doug's sake. It wasn't long before those who fought to soften the discipline of children wondered if they had, in actuality, done something unforgivable.

    Then one day a group of Correctional Officers (a denomination of Lawmen who hold beliefs very similar to Mall Cops) entered from parts unknown and knocked on the door of City Hall. They offered a solution. Two weeks later Townville City opened the gates of their newly-acquired facility in the Bleak Hills, and adults were handed a legal bazooka in the war against brats. Left and right, unruly children were detained and shipped away on rusty pink buses, most never to be heard from again. The response among children was immediate and extensive. Soon, any adult as far away as Landford could make a kid return the boogers to her nose just by hinting at a trip up 101.

    The juvie center was a unanimous success, but every person who allowed it to remain operational secretly felt uneasy about its existence. Imagining what took place behind those stone walls made even grown adults shutter, and these same adults refused to address how this daymare―not to mention its actual realization―would affect children. So, in typical adult fashion, they solved the problem by ignoring it.

    And that's why the facility remains in operation today, just out of sight of the city, buried in those hills, suppressed like a nightmare.

    The name of the place isn't really spoken out loud anymore, but that's because it really doesn't have to be. Over the years, that name has transcended speech and is now almost solely spoken through the terrified telepathy of children. Students in a Principal's office will glance at each other, and that name will scream in the air between them. Truants at the skate park will hush when they hear sirens ignite nearby, and that name will fill the vacuum that was once their egos. Little girls will hear it whispered behind their ears whenever they try on Mommy's off-limits jewelry, and little boys will hear it whenever they try on her expensive bras. Once you know the stories, you won't forget the name. You can try and ignore it, but some part of you will always be aware of it, like a throbbing in the distance.

    Crumshack, it's called.

            Crumshack.

      Crumshack.

CRUMSHACK.

OH, HEAVENS, how dreadful. I hope we won't be spending too much time at that horrendous-sounding place.

    ...

    Hm? Oh! Right. I'm up.

    ...

(Okay, let's see here.) Yes. Right. Storytime. Time to actually...commence the plot and characters and things of.

    That.

    Nature.

    No more just saying words and describing things. Great. Fantastic, fantastic. Perfect. Fantastic. Perfect.

    Well, um...

    Once upon a time...on a...on a dark and stormy night...in the middle—the middle of nowhere...

    ...

    In a land where...

    ...

    Nope.

    ...

    Naw, nope. I can't do this. Thought I could, but I can't.

    ...

    Just stop. Stop it! Stop reading. We're done here. I quit. I hope you enjoyed the book, because we're done. The end. That's right. One chapter long. Short and sweet, am I right? Like a candied Dwarf! Ha-ha! God, kill me.