I never told my parents why I suddenly stopped begging to go to the giant playcentre near granddad's old place. Somehow I didn't think they'd believe me if I told them about the grey man who lived both there and the place where all the missing children in our area had been taken to.
Still, every trip to Grandad's was a brief detour to the playcentre to "get all your energy out" no matter how many times I said I was fine and I'd behave. They never listened to me so I'd make sure that I never went in there alone, always finding a random child to befriend for the brief time we were there.
It worked for both me and the new friend I'd make - I'd tell them about the grey man but nine times out of then they'd already had an encounter. Tenth time they wouldn't believe me and I'd see them on the back of a milk carton a week later. But the nine times before that, I'd have an alliance - someone to watch my back as I'd watch theirs while we fought for our lives within the brightly coloured hell our parents left us in for two or three hours.
He'd lurk at the bottom of the ball pit most of the time or around the rollers, ready to grab at your legs when you couldn't see him before dragging you away for good. If it was busier though, if you had a friend to drag you back, he'd just leave a grey bruise-like mark that you had to wash off in under five minutes or it'd stain you for good and he'd use it to find you at home.
I've lost a great many friends to the grey man 's mark, not that anybody would believe me.
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