Chapter Three
The boys ambled through the neighborhood on their way back to the empty lot the next day. Max tossed a brand-new baseball from Phil's General in a lazy rhythm. "Who's going to the parade tomorrow?" he asked, breaking the silence.
"My parents want me to go," Eli said, kicking a rock down the sidewalk. "Let's ditch and play ball. The parade's so boring."
"It's not that bad," Henry said. "Last year I was a candy thrower, and whatever I didn't throw was mine to keep. I had a whole bag of Choco-Pops by the end."
"We're skipping the parade,” said Wes, “While everyone's at it, we'll be fishing at Fitz's Spot."
"Yeah," said his twin, Perry. "It'll finally be ours for once."
Their casual walk was interrupted by a voice—a thin, trembling cry that stopped them cold.
"God, help me remember! I want to remember!"
A man sat slumped on the curb a few houses down, rocking back and forth with his hands gripping his head. His matted white hair and patchwork clothes marked him instantly. Everyone in town knew him as Amnesia Man. Nobody knew his real name.
Jack’s face lit up with mischief.
"Jack, don't—" Eli warned, too late.
"What’d you forget?" Jack called.
Amnesia Man looked up. His bloodshot eyes locked on them. He stood slowly, shuffling toward the group.
"Know that feeling when you’ve forgotten something?" he asked, voice hoarse. "That’s what I’ve got. All the time. I forgot something... but I don’t know what."
"Did you leave the oven on?" Jack smirked.
Max shoved him. "Shut up."
"What? I’m just trying to help!"
Amnesia Man didn’t seem to notice. He stared past them, his expression distant.
"No... not the oven. Not that. Something big. Something only the gods could know. But they’ll tell me one of these days. They have to."
"We’ll pray for you," Jack mocked—then faltered as the man’s eyes filled with tears.
"Prayer’s the only way," the man said softly. "We’ve all forgotten something. Something important. Something awful."
The boys shifted uneasily. Max gave Jack a hard shove toward the road. "Let’s go."
As they walked, Wes rounded on Jack. "What the hell is wrong with you?"
Jack shrugged. "He’s crazy. Who cares?"
"Nobody likes you, Jack," Clark said flatly. "Doesn’t that matter to you?"
Jack said nothing. Being on Clark’s bad side wasn’t wise.
"Yeah, just leave," Max added.
"I’m not leaving!" Jack snapped. "It’s just some crazy guy. Why does it matter? Everyone makes fun of him. I’ve heard you guys do it too!"
None of them replied, but the mood stayed heavy as they walked toward the edge of town.
Soon, the labyrinth came into view—miles of coiling stone walls, interspersed with crumbling buildings. The labyrinth had risen nearly a century ago, wiping out the neighboring towns and leaving Bend an untouched island surrounded by ghostly ruins.
Clark’s eyes lingered on the jagged skyline of broken towers and winding walls.
But the others weren’t looking at the ruins. They were staring at the pitcher’s mound.
"What the..." Wes muttered. "Do you guys see that?"
Something sat on the mound, but from this distance, their eyes couldn’t make sense of it.
Without a word, Pip broke into a sprint. He leaned over the mound, catching his breath, then called out, "Baseballs! They’re baseballs!"
The others ran to him and found a two-and-a-half-foot-high pile of dirty, weather-worn baseballs stacked on the pitcher’s mound.
Clark stared, unease curling in his chest. "Where did they all come from?"
No one answered.
It should have been a miracle—an endless supply of baseballs—but the sight made Clark’s hands shake. His breath grew short. He tried to hide it. The others were baffled, but none looked truly afraid. Not like him.
Only twice in his life had he felt this way.
Once, when he was five, and his mother had taken him to the school fence and told him about the labyrinth. He remembered crying—but also feeling drawn to it, like he wanted nothing more than to run straight in.
The other time, he had found a snake in the grass. He’d never seen one before. It had horrified him, but when it slithered away, he chased after it. When he told his teacher, she said it was impossible—there were no snakes in Bend.
Wes and Perry were soon dispatched to get something from their house to put all the baseballs in. The boys stood trying to figure out what it could all mean. But none daring to state the obvious.
"There they are!" Jack shouted, snapping Clark back to the present.
Wes and Perry had returned with baskets and laundry bags. Without a word, the boys began gathering the baseballs. Clark understood their quiet—they didn’t want questions to ruin the moment. This was bliss. No more scrounging or chores to pay for lost balls.
But Pip wasn’t helping. He stood frozen, turning the first baseball over in his hands.
"Are you going to help, or what?" Jack snapped.
"I recognize this," Pip said.
"What do you mean?"
"It’s mine. Look—my initials. PRS. I signed it after my first home run this summer. Max hit it over the fence the next day. I remember."
The boys fell silent.
"What are you saying, Pip?" Henry asked.
"You know what I’m saying."
"That’s not possible," Jack muttered. "Nobody goes into the labyrinth. And half those balls are probably buried ten walls deep."
"These are our baseballs," Pip said.
Clark held up one of his own. "He’s right. Wes stabbed this one with his pocketknife when he got bored. I remember."
His hand trembled.
"It doesn’t matter," Jack said sharply.
"Yeah, it does!" Pip snapped. "They’re from there!" He pointed toward the labyrinth.
"It doesn’t matter," Jack repeated. "They’re just baseballs. They’re not going to kill us."
Everyone went quiet.
Then Clark said, "I agree. They’re just baseballs. Let’s bag them up. Come on."
The boys resumed collecting, working silently. The pile seemed endless—like summers’ worth of memories gathered in one place. Then, near the bottom, Max cleared away the last layer and stopped.
"What the hell is that?" Wes whispered.
They crowded around. Beneath the last few balls was a rusted, weathered manhole cover.
"This wasn’t here before," Wes said. Of course it was. They just didn’t know about it until now.
Clark took a step back, dread rising in his chest.
"This was covered up for a reason," he said. "We weren’t meant to find it."
Etched into the lid were the words Pigeon County Sewage.
"Why would anyone care to cover this up?" Henry asked.
"Are you serious?" Pip snapped. "The sewer connects to the labyrinth. Everything tied to the labyrinth was sealed off. Destroyed."
The others didn’t respond. They stared at the rusted lid, the weight of what they’d uncovered sinking in.
None of them heard the footsteps until a voice cut through the quiet.
"If you’re too chicken, I’ll go in first."
It was Sadie.
To Chapter Four