Black-eyed Angel.

When he was young and very small, and the world was very big, they'd all drive out to that place by the big hill, the one too steep to climb. There was a river running round it on one side, with stepping stones and weeping willows. Next to it was a bench and table for picnics; mum had made the sandwiches and filled the flasks with tea, and brought apples and cake. Dad did the driving and laying out the blanket and was always the first in the water. Susan did that stand-offish older sister thing of leaving the car in her own good time, picking at stuff disdainfully from the spread, and generally disowning the family.
He played on his own a lot of the time; he liked to cut loose and explore, as much as he could. They kept him in sight: it was a time when seven year olds were known to wander and get themselves in trouble, before the spectre of the Paedophile.

The river shifted along at a fair old rate, it was no more than a paddler's depth in most places, but there were occasional deep patches, where the water appeared to slow up, and darken, where the willows and grass hung over the bank and stroked the river.
That was where he'd head for. The air was different. Not cooler, but heavier in some way. Like he was in a different place. That's how he made sense of it, and it seemed to fit.
Reeds waved lazily, down in these deep pools. Filaments of watery plants waggled nearer the river bed, and small silvery-grey fish hovered against the tide then darted away too fast for the eye to see.
There were shadows here, and dark holes under the hanging vegetation, burrows and dens worked into the sides of the bank.
From here, he could see mum, dad, moody Susan, he could hear their voices, but they seemed far away, like he was watching them on the cine camera shows dad put on when they returned from proper holidays.
He was in a special place.

That big shadow by the other bank, he wondered, was perhaps not a shadow, perhaps a hole, or a shoal of fish. It definitely couldn't be a shadow; all around and above it, the water glittered and twinkled.

Perhaps, it was an oil slick, a spillage from a grownup, killing fish and birds and otters. It lay heavily in the depths, like a hole in the water.

It was no oil slick: it would not disperse; the surrounding reeds bent and waved in the current, but the black stayed where it was. Its edges curled back, unwilling to form into sharp lines, but its core stayed thick and inpenetrably dark.
The family laughter echoed from a far away time and place, down the river and past the stepping stones where life remained as it had ever been.
He waded over.

He'd been under too long when they found him, when they pulled him out.
But he spat out the weeds and water, and opened his all-black eyes, and said:

"He touched me, and he is gone.
I hope you never find him.
Do not bring it about.

Then he closed his eyes. When he opened them again they were clear, and he said:

"A man touched me.

And there was mayhem. Left right and all ways, they ran. Then back to him with a "where?

"Where did he touch me? Or where did he touch me?

But he said no more about it. In fact he was very quiet.

They took him away and he was examined. They found weeds and water inside of him.
They let him home.

Later, he would scare his sister, claw through her act of cool disinterest.

All black-eyed and damp, he said: "I will come in those dead times, the quiet and dull, the liminal times when you break away and drift. Then I will come, and touch you.

And then his eyes would clear again, and he would pick up the lego, and she would stare in horror at her little brother.