Jim strolled, casually whistling, hands in pockets, Will with him. At Miss Foley’s house, they glanced up. In one of the softly lit front windows, someone stood looking out. A boy, no more and no less than twelve years old.  “Will!” cried Jim, softly. “That boy—” “Her nephew …?” “Nephew, heck! Keep your head away. Maybe he can read lips. Walk slow. To the corner and back. You see his face? The eyes, Will! That’s one part of people don’t change, young, old, six or sixty! Boy’s face, sure, but the eyes were the eyes of Mr. Cooger!” “No!” “Yes!” They both stopped to enjoy the swift pound of each other’s heart.

Something Wicked This Way Comes:  Miss Foley's Nephew