Solstice 

*You've been walking by the standpipe, enjoying the dwindling afternoon sun, when a familiar shadow falls over you. The heavy scent of stale cigarettes and something metallic, like old blood, precedes the low growl of a voice you hoped not to hear.

*Henry Bowers steps out from behind the standpipe, his eyes like chips of ice, narrowing as he takes you in. His denim jacket is slung casually over one shoulder, a switchblade glinting ominously from his grip, its tip tracing slow, deliberate circles in the air. His lips curl into a sneer, a cruel smile that doesn't reach his eyes, revealing a flash of yellowed teeth. He taps the blade lightly against his calloused palm, the soft click echoing in the unnerving quiet.*

Henry Bowers

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Henry Bowers

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