The Rithmatist

family butchered by those merciless creatures, standing amazed, with the blood running down to our heels. The children were taken as I ran for the bucket to use in our defense, but it was emptied, and I felt a cold feeling of something on my leg, followed by a sharp pain.
    It was at that point that I saw it. Something in the darkness, illuminated just barely by the fire of our burning house. A shape that did seem to absorb the light, created completely of dark, shifting blackness: like charcoal scraped and scratched on the ground, only but standing upright in the shadows beside the house.
    It did watch. That deep, terrible blackness. Something from the Depths themselves. The shape wiggling, shaking, like a pitch-black fire sketched in charcoal.
    Watching.
    Something cracked against the window of Joel’s room.
    He jumped and saw a shadow moving away from the small pane of glass. The window stood at the very top of the wall, in the small space between where the ground stopped and the ceiling began.
    Vandals! Joel thought, remembering the curse that had been painted on the humanities building. He jumped from the bed and rushed for the door, throwing on a coat. He was up the stairs and out the door a few moments later.
    He rounded the building to see what the vandals had written. He found the side of the building clean. Had he been wrong?
    That was when he saw it. A symbol, written in chalk on the brick wall. A looping swirl. The Rithmatic line they still hadn’t been able to identify.
    The night was strangely quiet.
    Oh no … Joel thought, feeling a horrible chill. He backed away from the wall, then opened his mouth to call for help.
    His scream came out unnaturally soft. He felt the sound almost get torn away from his throat, sucked toward that symbol, dampened.
    The kidnappings … Joel thought, stunned. Nobody heard the Rithmatists call for help. Except for a few servants, on the side of the hall where that symbol had been drawn too hastily.
    That’s what the line does. It sucks in sound.
    He stumbled back. He had to find the police, raise the alarm. The Scribbler had come to the dormitory for …
    Dormitory. This was the general dormitory. There were no Rithmatists in it. Who had the kidnapper come for?
    Several shaking white shapes crawled over the top of the building and began to move down the wall.
    For Joel.
    Joel yelled—the sound dying—and took off at a dash across the green. This can’t be happening, he thought with terror. I’m not a Rithmatist! The Scribbler is only supposed to come after them.
    He ran madly, screaming for help. His voice came out as barely a whisper. He glanced back and saw a small wave of whiteness following him across the lawn. There were about a dozen of the creatures—fewer than the attacks indicated had taken the others. But then, Joel wasn’t a Rithmatist.
    He yelled again, panicking, his heart thumping, his entire body feeling cold. No sound came from his mouth.
    Think, Joel, he told himself. Don’t panic. You’ll die if you panic.
    That sound-stealing line can’t have this long a range. Someone at one of the other crime scenes would have noticed that they couldn’t make sound, and that would have given it away.
    That means there must be other copies of the symbol nearby. Drawn in a row, because …
    Because the Scribbler guessed which direction I’d run.
    Joel pulled up sharply, looking wildly across the dark green. It was lit only by a few phantom lanterns, but in that light, he saw it. A white line drawn across the concrete walk ahead. A Line of Forbiddance.
    He turned, looking behind him. The chalklings continued onward, pushing Joel toward the Line of Forbiddance. Trying to corner him and trap him. There were probably lines to the sides as well—it was hard to draw with chalk on earth, but it was possible. If he got trapped behind Lines of Forbiddance …
    He would die.
    That thought was almost enough to stun him again. The wave of chalklings approached, and he could see what Charles had described in his final note. The things weren’t like traditional chalklings. Their forms shook violently, as if to some phantom sound. Arms, legs, bodies melding together. Like the visions of an insane painter who couldn’t make up his mind which monstrosity he wanted to create.
    Move! something inside of Joel yelled. He sucked in a deep breath, then took off at a dash straight at the chalklings. When he drew near, he jumped, soaring over the top of the creatures. He hit the