by Sean Platt
Murder?
What?
I can’t hear anything else.
I finish peeing, pull up my boxers, open the door, and look at him.
The phone is in the receiver.
He’s just sitting there, staring at the curtains.
I go over to him. “What’s going on?”
He’s not looking at me. More through me.
And still, he says nothing.
Instead, he stands, goes to the window, and opens the curtains to the motel lot. Lights flicker outside our window.
He returns to the bed, sits, folds his hands in his lap, and smiles while waiting patiently for the deputies to arrive.
“Dad! What’s happening? What murder are you talking about?”
I want to shake him out of that smile. How can he just sit here when deputies are about to storm the motel?
He finally looks at me, giving me this Joker’s smile I’ve never seen on him before. “I did bad things, son. It’s best you don’t know.”
“What bad things?” I ask, feeling anxious while time keeps bleeding. The deputies will be here any moment. We need to leave, not sit here and wait.
“It’s best you don’t know. It’s best you remember me well, son.”
The way he looks at me when he says “son” sends chills through me. It’s like he’s not even in there. As though he’s talking to a stranger. My dad has flipped the eff out!
“Dad, talk to me,” I say, going over to him, “what did you do?”
He looks up at me, moving in a weird, dream-like slow motion as he eyes me up and down.
Please let this be a dream!
He shakes his head. “Go back to sleep. Everything will work itself out.”
“What about going to Mexico? What about not trusting anyone?”
He smiles, waves his hand dismissively. “Forget all that. I was wrong. I need to set things right.”
“What does that even mean? If you killed someone, you’ll go to prison. I’ll never see you again!”
I start bawling.
Even though I didn’t want to go on the run, especially if that meant leaving school and Willow, I don’t want my father in prison. I’d gladly go on the run if that meant staying together.
“You’ll be okay, Ben.” He pats me on the shoulder. “Believe me.”
Red and blue lights are reflected on his face.
I turn around and see three squad cars outside.
“Dad! What’s going on?”
I’m shaking his shoulders, but he’s still just sitting there, smiling like a moron.
He looks up at me in that same sleepy slow-motion. “You’ll be okay, Ben.”
He stands up and walks toward the motel door.
I cry out, “Dad! Don’t!”
He opens the door.
The deputies yell, “Freeze!”
Dad turns his back to the deputies, meets my eyes, “Sorry, Ben.”
He then reaches into his jacket pocket and pulls out a pistol.
“What are you doing, Dad?”
He ignores me.
He turns to the doorway, to the deputies outside, then raises the pistol.
I leap toward him, desperate to halt the nightmare.
He fires the gun.
I scream.
And the deputies fire back.
**
I drop to my knees as gunfire rips into the door, into the wall, and into my father.
And then nothing, but a high-pitched screaming in my ears as the world seemingly slows to a crawl all around me.
The police outside are staring into our motel room, down at my father, then up at me, their guns drawn.
I look down at my father, inches in front of me, bleeding out on the ground.
I crawl toward him.
He looks at me, with what little life he has left. His eyes are wide, scared and confused.
I want to ask why he called the cops.
Why he shot at them.
I would ask him if he’s going to die, but I don’t want to hear the answer, even if he knows it.
“Dad?” I say because I have no other words.
“Ben?” he says, reaching out with one shaky, bloody hand.
Our fingers touch, and then his hand falls.
His eyes are open, but there’s no light inside them.
No, no, no!
I cradle him in my arms, crying, “No!!”
I can vaguely sense the police staring at us, guns still drawn. I don’t know if they’re coming in or saying anything. And I don’t even care. Let them shoot me.
At the moment, all I want to do is hold him, as if I can somehow bring him back to life.
And then I feel a chill, so cold and deep it's as if I’ve plunged into arctic waters.
I’m shaking, my breath a fog coming from my mouth.
And then there’s darkness. An ebony circle with spiraling azure lights followed by movement to my right.
Movement from where there should be none, where nobody could’ve sneaked in on me, against the wall, between the two beds and large wooden headboards.
I turn to get a better look and see nothing but a dark blur, shadows gathering into form, somehow stepping out of the wall.
The chill runs even deeper into me, and every fiber in my body tells me to get up, to run away before the shadow comes closer.
But where can I go?
I can’t leave my father here, his body left to whatever this thing us.
I sit, paralyzed by fear and curiosity as the shadow takes form, into the shape of a person.
What the hell?
Its movement is fluid, far smoother and more efficient than any person I’ve ever seen, almost gliding instead of walking.
It stops next to us, and I stare up, trying to suss out features in the shadow creature.
It has no head, no eyes, nor mouth, but it seems to be looking at me nonetheless.
It tilts it head slightly as if regarding me.
And I can’t look away.
I see a swelling of bright red light coming from my father.
I stare down, half-expecting him to be stirring back to life.
But he’s not.
Instead, his body is glowing, brighter and brighter as light gathers above him, taking a form like the shadow that came from the wall.
I can’t stop staring as my mind tries to make sense of what I’m seeing.
The light takes the form of a person, stepping away from us, and then it looks back at us, down to my father’s body, then at me.
Dad?
The light turns away, taking the Darkness’s hand.
They walk toward the space between the beds.
“Dad!” I cry out, leaping up, trying to stop him, or whatever is left of him, before he vanishes with the shadow.
He’s already stepping into the wall.
I reach out to grab the Darkness: “No!”
As my hand touches it, time freezes again.
And I’m no longer in myself.
I’m inside of it.
**
I’m no longer human.
I’m inside the thing that came to take my father.
I’m a shadow of a shadow.
A Collector.
One of many others.
A thing that’s always been, but knows not why it is.
A thing that exists in between worlds, in The Void, crossing into our dimension to gather passing souls and usher them back to The Void.
It has no feelings.
It doesn’t know love, nor pain, nor loss.
It has no fear.
Just an … instinct?
Sometimes it picks up on the feelings of a soul as it’s taken. And those feelings remind it of something Before.
But it doesn’t remember anything Before.
It does remember a lot about us, though.
It’s collected our souls before we were anything resembling humans.
I see memories of it collecting, distant ancestors of human
s, animals resembling apes. And before that, other variations of our evolutionary lifespan, going back all the way to the beginning, when we were light.
Carry the Light and deliver into The Void.
Over and over forever.
We’re walking into The Void, an endless darkness.
But it’s not all darkness.
There are other Collectors, shadows among shadows. But with each of them, a Light.
Are the Lights souls, like my father’s, who is holding my — The Collector’s — shadow hand?
There is no ground here, nor sky.
We’re all walking, or floating, in the abyss, floating in a spiral pattern. In the center of that spiral is a bright white light.
As I look at it, I feel something swelling inside me, even though there is no me here.
A loud shriek and chattering respond to my awe — as if it’s suddenly aware of me in its body.
It isn’t happy that I’m here.
Or maybe it’s warning me.
The chattering gets louder.
Then it spreads to all of The Collectors.
The spiral formation stops.
And all at once I feel a million, maybe more, stares in my direction.
The Light in the center of everything explodes without a sound.
**
And just like that, I’m back in my body, back in the shitty motel, back holding my father’s lifeless body.
Back with the police guns trained on me.
And I’ve never felt more alone.
* * * *
CHAPTER 8
Ben Shepherd Age 17
11 Days later
I’m sitting in the pew with Aunt Trudy by my side, holding her hand, waiting for my father’s funeral service to start. I’m supposed to be crying, but I’ve already emptied my eyes in the past week. I doubt I have a single tear left.
Not sure I have anything left.
I feel numb.
Ever since the motel room shootout, and The Collectors, I feel like I’ve been living in a nightmare. The church is nearly empty, at least of people I know. Reporters outside want to ask the questions I’ve been asking myself.
Why did he snap?
Why did he shoot at the deputies?
Was he trying commit suicide by cop?
Nothing else made any sense. Why else open fire? If he truly wanted to kill them, he wouldn’t have missed every shot.
So what did happen?
I’ve seen “experts” on TV suggest everything from drugs to medication to a contempt for authority — even though there’s no evidence for that last one. If he were a terrorist or psycho with a grudge, he would’ve had a manifesto or something.
Aunt Trudy is beside herself with grief. She’s tried talking to me, telling me “I’m here for you” and other things to make me feel better, but she’s just as confused.
She asked me if Dad said anything to me. I told her all I knew — that he’d seemed on edge and I think it had something to do with work. I didn’t mention the argument with Willow’s father, as I don’t think it’s why he snapped, and I don’t want her forbidding me from seeing my girlfriend.
Willow has called a few times, but I haven’t seen her since my Dad picked me up so we could run off to Mexico.
Mostly, I’ve been busy with Trudy, talking to police and black-suited men. They didn’t say who they worked for, but I’m guessing it’s Dad.
The police — and the men in black — turned our house inside out and upside down. I’m not sure what they were searching for, or if they found anything. Maybe they were looking for some evidence that would explain what the hell made my dad snap.
Or cover it up.
I try not to let paranoid thoughts take root. I don’t want to follow in my father’s footsteps. But I can’t help but think that maybe something was going on. Maybe he discovered something he wasn’t supposed to, and running was all he could do.
I keep looking behind me, wondering if Willow will show. None of my other friends have. Not that I had that many.
Apparently, neither did my father.
I look around the room. There’s a handful of strangers and a few people who live on our street. A few came up to Trudy and me, offering words that were supposed to make us feel better, but all of the I'm sorry in the world won’t bring my father back.
Sorry.
Such a horrible word to offer someone in mourning. You’d think after all these years adults would have finally found something more appropriate, something better than sorry.
Sorry is what you say when you spill milk, not when someone dies.
If Willow does show, she better not say “sorry” or I’ll probably scream.
The preacher steps up to the lectern in front of my father’s closed casket. He looks at me, then around the room.
He starts to speak, more words intended to comfort the living. At least he’s not saying “sorry.”
The doors open in the rear. Then Willow enters with her parents. My eyes well up as if I’ve been waiting for her presence to help me cry.
Don’t be a pussy. Man up, Ben!
They make their way around the pews, heading toward us.
I stand to greet Willow.
She hugs me. Tight.
At least she doesn’t say sorry.
Mr. Fairchild and his wife shake hands with Trudy and me.
His wife says, “I’m sorry for your loss.”
They sit.
Willow’s hand finds its way into mine as the preacher talks about a bunch of stuff my father didn’t believe in. I wonder if he thinks my dad is in Heaven.
I wonder if my father’s in Heaven.
If there even is a Heaven.
Is heaven a Void?
Collectors lined up waiting to toss your soul into a white hole?
The priest finishes his bit, then asks if anyone would like to say something.
Trudy unfolds a crumpled piece of paper she’d been clutching since we sat. Stuff she spent all morning on. I wrote something, too, but I’m not sure if I’ll be able to read my words without breaking down.
Trudy approaches the lectern and starts telling a story about how her older brother was always there for her. How when they were little kids, he always let her play with him, stuck up for her, and even beat up some boy who made her cry.
She gets a few laughs, then breaks down crying.
And now I’m crying too.
Willow’s fingers squeeze tight around mine.
Trudy slowly regains her composure.
She can’t finish.
She leaves the lectern.
The preacher asks if anyone else wants to say anything.
I do, but I can’t.
I’m crying too hard, and if I go up there, I doubt I’ll be able to get a single word out.
I continue looking at the ground, feeling awful that the words I’d written for this service, in honor of my father, will never be uttered.
**
We’re standing in the hall outside the church, people I don’t know talking about my father, telling stories about how nice he was to them. But none of them were truly his friends, and they’re telling the lamest stories ever, like how he once changed this old lady’s tire or how he once bought ten boxes of Girl Scout cookies to help this man's daughter win some prize.
Jesus, this is sad.
I’m desperate to get out.
Trudy is trapped talking with a few neighbors.
Thankfully, I have Willow as a buffer. As long as I stand here talking to her, most people will leave me alone. Her parents are with Trudy, trapped, too, talking to complete strangers.
Willow grabs my arm, “come on.”
She brings me through a door into the rear of the church, and out the back doors.
Outside, she pulls a joint from her purse and lights it.
I’m surprised, as I’ve never seen her smoke anything, let alone pot. But then again, even after all this time she’s still sometimes a mystery.
“Um, no!” I say, as if she just asked if I ever shot up a train station.
She laughs. “You need to relax.”
She takes a deep drag, then passes it to me.
I hold the joint gingerly in my fingers, unsure of what to do, feeling stupid.
“Inhale and hold it.”
I do.
Fire fills my chest, and I cough, unable to hold anything.
She laughs, taking it back, then demonstrates the proper way again.
“Aren’t you afraid people will smell this on us?”
“Your dad just died. They’ll get over it.”
She hands me the joint.
I inhale again, holding it, barely suppressing a cough.
“Now breathe it out,” she says.
As I do, she comes in and kisses me.
It’s not a sensual kiss, so much as a comforting one. “This sucks.”
We hug.
I thank her for not saying “sorry.”
We finish the joint, and I feel a bit lighter, a bit calmer. I’m wondering if I’m supposed to feel giggly or hungry or something, but at the moment, I’m not feeling much of either.
She sprays us both with perfume.
“Would you rather smell like Cheech n’ Chong?” she asks.
“Like who?”
She laughs.
I’m not sure why, but her laughter invites some of my own.
We make our way back to the others, and now I’m afraid I’ll start laughing at my dad’s funeral service. That would be awful.
And the more I think about it, the funnier it seems.
I make my way to the restroom, then burst out laughing.
It doesn’t take long before the giggly mood is replaced by a crushing depression as I think about Willow and what will happen next. There’s no way I can afford the Academy now. I’ll probably have to go back to a public school where I don’t know anyone and won’t fit in for anything.
All traces of humor gone, I leave the bathroom and find Willow’s father standing with Aunt Trudy.