Spawn Read Online Free PDF Page B

Colin, was an ideal target.
    “I said, what’s so fucking funny?” he persisted.
    “You, burning your mouth,” Miles told him. “You shouldn’t be such a pig.”
    “Fuck off,” rasped Graham and got to his feet, kicking the ball about, dribbling it close to the brothers, bouncing it off Miles’s legs every so often. They finally took the hint and got wearily to their feet, dropping the remnants of half-eaten sandwiches back into the plastic Tesco bag.
     
    Paul Harvey kept perfectly still amongst the trees and bushes, his breath now slowed to a rasping hiss. He watched the three boys kicking the ball about and a twisted grin spread across his face.
     
    Graham decided to show off his shooting ability and lashed a shot in the direction of the makeshift goal but a gust of wind caught the ball and it went flying wide, hurtling into the trees beyond. Graham planted his hands on his hips and looked at his companion.
    “Well, go and get the fucking thing,” he shouted, watching as Miles sloped off in the direction of the trees.
    Paul Harvey saw him coming.
    Miles pushed his way into the bushes and onward until he was surrounded by trees. For the first time that morning he noticed just how quiet it was inside the copse. His feet hardly made a sound as he walked over the carpet of moss, glancing around in his search for the ball. It obviously must have gone further than usual. Even its bright orange colour seemed invisible in the maze of greens and browns which made up the small wood. He stepped up onto a fallen, rotting tree stump, hoping to get a better view. At his feet a large spider had succeeded in trapping a fly in its web and, for a moment, Miles watched the hairy horror devouring its prey. He shuddered and moved away, his eyes still scanning the copse for the lost ball. He stepped into some stinging nettles and yelped in pain as one of them found its way to the exposed area between his sock top and the turn-up of his jeans. He rubbed the painful spot and wandered further into the wood. Where the hell was that ball?
    He stood still, hands on his hips, squinting in the dull light. Mist still hung low on the floor of the copse, like a blanket of dry ice, it covered his feet as he walked. Droplets of moisture hung like shimmering crystal from the few leaves which remained on the trees. They reminded Miles of cold tears.
    Something caught his eye.
    He smiled. It was the ball, about ten yards away, stuck in the top of a stunted bush. He hurried towards it, suddenly aware of the unearthly silence which seemed to have closed around him like some kind of invisible velvet glove. He shivered and scurried forward to retrieve the ball, tugging it loose from the grasping branches of the bush.
    Something moved close behind him, a soft footfall on the carpet of moss. He spun round, his heart thumping hard against his ribs.
    A sudden light breeze sprang up, whipping the mist into thin spirals.
    Miles started back towards the openness of the rec, away from the stifling confines of the copse. He clutched the ball to his chest, ignoring the mud which was staining his jumper. The odour of damp wood and moss was almost asphyxiating, as palpable as the gossamer wisps of fog which swirled around him.
    Something cold touched his arm and he gasped, dropping the ball, spinning round, ready to run.
    It was a low branch.
    As he bent to pick up the ball, Miles could see that his hands were shaking. He straightened up, a thin film of perspiration on his forehead. And it was at that moment he felt the hand grip his shoulder.
    This time he screamed, trying to pull away but the hand held him back and he heard raucous laughter ringing in his ears.
    “All right, don’t shit yourself,” said a familiar voice and Miles finally found the courage to turn. He saw Graham Phelps standing there, his hand gripping Miles’s shoulder. “Just thought I’d give you a bit of a fright.” He laughed again, pushing Miles towards the clearing ahead of