The Creep (Intro)

Tyler Grayson was fourteen years old, a gangly freshman at Westbrook Valley High School in Maplewick, Norbridge. Picture a kid who looked like he'd been stretched in a taffy puller—all elbows, knees, and a mop of dark hair that flopped into his hazel eyes like it was staging a permanent protest. Maplewick was one of those small cities where the biggest news was Mrs. Jenkins' cat getting stuck in a tree again, smack in the middle of Norbridge's rolling hills. Tyler's life was a predictable loop: dodge dodgeball in gym, doodle in math, and dream of the weekend. That is, until some weirdo decided to spice things up.

The school bell had screeched thirty minutes ago, releasing him from the prison of chalk dust and quadratic equations. With his backpack slung over one shoulder like a lumpy sidekick, he shuffled homeward, sneakers scraping the sidewalk. The sun was dipping low, turning Maplewick into a golden postcard—if postcards smelled faintly of dumpster juice. He took his usual shortcut through the alley behind Dawson's Hardware, a grimy little path he secretly called "Stink Alley." It saved him ten minutes, which meant more time for snacks. Priorities, right?

But today, Stink Alley had a guest star: a hooded man lurking near the end, looking like he'd wandered off a low-budget crime show set. Tall, draped in a hoodie so ratty it probably had its own backstory, he was the human equivalent of a shadow with attitude. Tyler's brain screamed walk away, but his feet apparently had a death wish and slowed down.

"Hey, kid," the guy rasped, sounding like he gargled gravel for breakfast. "Wanna buy some weed?"

Tyler blinked. Was this dude for real? "Uh, no thanks," he said, flashing his best I'm-just-a-dorky-teen grin. "I'm more of a gummy bears guy." He pivoted and speed-walked off, mentally high-fiving himself for not tripping over his own feet.

Except then he heard it: the shuffle of sneakers behind him. Oh, great. He darted out of the alley, zigzagging past the corner store's buzzing sign and Mrs. Hargrove's jungle of a yard, stealing glances over his shoulder. Yep, Hoodie McWeed was still there, trailing him like a lost puppy with worse intentions. Tyler's legs burned, his palms got sweaty, and he wondered if this was karmic payback for eating Jake's fries at lunch.

He finally stumbled up to his house—a creaky two-story with blue paint flaking like dandruff—and wrestled the door open, slamming it shut behind him. "Safe!" he wheezed, channeling his inner baseball announcer. He was just catching his breath when—

Knock. Knock. Knock.

Three knocks. He peeked through the peephole, and there was Mr. Hoodie, smirking like he'd just won Creep of the Year. "Open the door, kid," he said, all calm and smug. "We ain't done talkin'."

Tyler stared, hand twitching near the lock. "Dude," he muttered to himself, "I said no to your lawn clippings. Take a hint!"

This guy clearly didn't know when to quit.