by Ryan Dalton
Lightning flashed across the cloudy sky.
A darker mass of shadows detached from the night and charged forward, barreling into him. He flew backward and smacked against the brick. Colors danced behind his eyes and the alley seemed to spin.
The swirling mass of darkness pinned him to the wall, hanging above the ground. It loomed closer, and smoky black wisps reached out to brush against his face. He turned away, trembling.
“Oh god,” he panted. “Please. Please, I swear I didn’t see anything. I swear I didn’t see anything!”
The shadow pulled his body away from the wall, then slammed it back against the gritty surface, rattling his vision. He cried out as something cracked in his shoulder.
The shadow leaned closer and a thousand angry voices shouted at him, the sound digging into his head. “WWWEEE KNNNOOOWWW WWWHHHAAATTT YYYOOOUUU SSAAAWW, PPPAAATTTRRRIIICCCKKK MMMOOORRRGGGAAANNN.” The words crushed his thoughts. “WWWHHHOOO KKKNNNOOOWWWSSS WWWHHHEEERRREEE YYYOOOUUU AAARRREEE?”
He shuddered against the assault on his mind. “H-how,” he stuttered. “How d-do you know my—”
“WWWHHHOOO KKKNNNOOOWWWSSS?”
Patrick screamed, his resistance breaking under the invading voices. “No one! I’m just—” He caught his breath. “Just coming home from a party. I took a shortcut no one knows. No one knows, I swear!”
The voices roared into his thoughts, and he felt himself crumbling inside. “I-I’ll go away,” he cried. “Tomorrow, I swear, I’ll go away and never come back. I’ll never tell anyone. Please, I’ll never tell anyone!”
“NNNOOO. YYYOOOUUU WWWOOONNN’TTT.”
Patrick suddenly dropped to the ground. Leaning against the wall, he barely managed to keep his feet. He looked up in confusion.
The shadow floated back and the air crackled around it. Overhead, the sky rippled with lightning. A pinprick of light appeared between the shifting shadows, pointed in his direction. Then a beam of silvery blue light lanced out from the darkness and struck Patrick in the chest. He shrieked.
In the blink of an eye, a shimmering bubble of blue energy enveloped him. It swirled around him, distorting his surroundings, spinning faster and faster. He felt an instant of panic as everything in the bubble warped impossibly—including him. Something beyond perception opened and sucked him in.
In the next blink, the bubble twisted and collapsed into a pinpoint of light. The tiny glow rippled, winked from existence, and Patrick Morgan was gone.
The shadow melted back into the night.
Chapter 5
“Donald Blake?”
“Here.”
“Kaylee Frye?”
“Here.”
Mr. Carmichael scrawled instructions for their next lab experiment on the blackboard. As he wrote, he called the roll from memory.
“How does he do that?” Malcolm whispered.
“Do what?”
“He’s doing, like, eight things at once, and perfectly.”
Valentine grinned. “Being brilliant has its perks, I guess.”
“Austin Giffin?”
“Here.”
Malcolm arrayed vials of multicolored chemicals next to the Bunsen burner while Valentine clicked away at her laptop.
“I hope you understand this,” he said.
“Don’t worry, I’ll make sure you stay not on fire.”
“Malcolm and Valentine Gilbert?”
“Here,” they called.
“It’s pretty easy.” Valentine showed him the screen. “These are all the steps.”
“Luke Harris?”
“Here.”
“Patrick Morgan?”
Malcolm leaned over and studied the notes.
“Patrick Morgan?”
Amazingly, some of them actually made sense. Malcolm realized that, for the first time, he might not have to fake his way through a science class. He smiled. Even though the year had just started, having a brilliant teacher was coming with perks.
“Still no sign of Mr. Morgan,” Mr. Carmichael said. “Well, if anyone happens upon the young truant, please tell him it’s only civilized to send a fake note when you skip two weeks of school.”
“Dude, he’s missing,” Fred said. “Never came home after my party. Cops came to my house to ask about him an’ everything. You ain’t heard? It’s been on the news.”
Mr. Carmichael’s wry grin faded. He leaned back against his desk for support. “Oh. How dreadful.”
Malcolm leaned over to his sister. “Did you hear about this?” he whispered.
“Yeah, Winter’s been freaked out about it,” she whispered back, her brow scrunched. “Police still haven’t found him. She’s been searching, too, calling all her reporter contacts. But it’s like he just disappeared.”
Malcolm sighed. “Is it just me, or does this town keep getting weirder?”
“Not just you.” Valentine shook her head. “Something’s really not right.”
“Well,” Mr. Carmichael said, drawing himself up. “We shall hope for his safe return. In the meantime, let us continue in the name of science. Miguel Jaco?”
“Here.”
The twins were soon mixing fluids and working through equations, doing their best to put the town’s troubles out of their minds. Malcolm finished stirring the next solution while Valentine plugged in their numbers.
“It’s these next, right?” He plucked two vials from the table.
Valentine glanced up. “This one, yes.” She gestured to his right hand. “Not the other.”
A small shadow fell across the table.
“Can you explain Pauli’s neutrino postulate?”
Malcolm looked up, and Mr. Carmichael fixed him with an impish grin.
“Uh, well, you know, it’s where you, um—” His shoulders slumped. “No.”
The teacher slid over to Valentine with eyebrows raised.
She sat straighter. “It’s about the radioactive beta decay of an atomic nucleus.”
“And how does Pauli account for the missing energy?”
“He guessed that a particle of zero charge and zero mass is released.”
Mr. Carmichael beamed. “Truly, the future is in good hands, Miss Gilbert. And do not be discouraged, Malcolm. In this you may struggle, but I hear you’re quite the prodigy when it comes to history. A subject in which you’d likely dominate, were our roles reversed.”
“I do feel smarter in that class,” Malcolm admitted.
“I quite understand, only when studying theories and equations.” The teacher’s eyes focused on him like a laser. “Yet each day I sense your hesitation, and I have concluded this comes from fear. That will not do. Science may not be your best friend, sir, but it will never be your enemy. So I make you this promise: commit to learning all you can from me, and I will open the universe and its mysteries to you as well.” He held out a hand. “Are we agreed?”
Stunned, Malcolm reached out and grasped Mr. Carmichael’s hand. The teacher gave a smile and a brisk shake, patted him on the shoulder and turned away.
“Mr. Marshall!” he snapped. “Stop that this instant!”
Malcolm turned to see Fred’s Bunsen burner at maximum, the flame over a foot high. A beaker sat in the center, awash in the orange heat.
“Bigger flame means I’m done quicker, dawg!”
“Just do the experiment in the way your betters have instructed, and no argument!”
Fred rolled his eyes and reached for the knob to reduce the flame. Malcolm heard Valentine giggling beside him. Returning to their work, he struggled to contain his own laughter.
He heard a cracking sound, then something shattered and Fred yelped. Malcolm whipped back around to see Fred clutching his left hand, blood dripping from a cut across his knuckles. The glass beaker lay in pieces on the lab table.
“Th
at’s messed up,” Fred said as he examined the wound.
“And there you have it,” Mr. Carmichael said, brow furrowed. “Go see the nurse, young man. When you’ve returned, try not to endanger my classroom.”
By the end of their third week, Malcolm and Valentine were settling into a solid academic rhythm. Mr. Carmichael’s oddities had left the biggest first impression, but he was proving to be both a genius and an understanding teacher.
Other teachers stood out for their own reasons.
At twenty-five, the beautiful Madame LaChance was in her second year of teaching French. A native French speaker born in Marseille, she seemed a perfect choice to teach the class—mostly because she hated everything about the English language.
Mr. Boomer’s take-no-prisoners style of gym class turned average games like dodgeball into epic battles for survival.
Then there was Miss Miranda Marcus, teacher of history and professional oddball. On Monday, she’d given everyone historical nicknames. Valentine was now Pocahontas, likely due to her red hair, fair complexion, and total lack of resemblance to any Native American. Malcolm, a brown-haired boy of average height and build, had been dubbed Old Ironsides after the famous warship. He shook his head, wondering what universe he had wandered into.
“FOR SPARTAAAA!”
Malcolm snapped to attention. At the front of the class was Miss Marcus herself, bellowing a defiant battle cry and stabbing the air with a yardstick, gray hair flying.
“The Battle of Thermopylae!” she exclaimed, spinning and stabbing to punctuate each word. “Three hundred Spartans against an—unstoppable—Persian—force! Who can tell me what really happened?”
Malcolm sat like stone, half afraid to move. He wasn’t the only one. The teacher squinted at the class.
“No guesses? Are you all secretly Persian?” She sat at her desk, smoothing her hair. “Well, much of history comes down to interpretation. It’s a tragedy, but also an opportunity. A chance to investigate the past and discover hidden truths. Which leads me to this.” Miss Marcus turned to the blackboard and wrote Year Project in large block letters. “This is my subtle hint that you’re all about to get a project, which will be due at the end of the year.”
A collective groan went up from the class. Except for Malcolm, who smiled for the first time.
“You will each choose a period and a region, then create a model to demonstrate the changes to that region during your chosen era. For example.”
Miss Marcus set a rectangular box in front of the class. A wedge was cut from the front, showing an old turntable inside. She flipped a switch and the turntable began to spin. A cityscape rounded into view, showing stone buildings and the skeleton of a tall clock tower with the date 1843. As the city spun, the buildings took on a more modern style, and the clock tower was gradually completed.
Valentine gaped at the box, then at Malcolm, then back at the box.
“Last year, young Copernicus presented this model of Big Ben’s construction. Use it as inspiration, but be original!”
The final bell rang. Most students were already packed and fleeing the classroom for their lives.
Valentine slung her bag over her shoulder. “I’m going home to put my head in the microwave.”
“No, come here.” Malcolm led them toward the teacher’s desk.
“What are you doing?” Valentine hissed.
“Getting you an A. Miss Marcus?”
The teacher looked up from her papers. “Yes, Old Ironsides?”
“I was wondering if Val and I could do sort of a joint project?”
“I’m sorry, who?”
“I was wondering if Pocahontas and I could do the project together. Since we’re new, I thought we’d learn the history of Emmett’s Bluff.”
“Forming alliances already, eh, young battleship?” Miss Marcus leaned back in her chair with a grin. “Very clever. I approve. But make sure to impress me. Now, off with you.”
Valentine breathed a sigh as they left the classroom. “You’re a lifesaver.”
“Yes, I’m very valiant. I should wear my shining armor tomorrow. Now, where did I leave my faithful steed?”
“If you mean the bus, I think it’s outside. Away from all the crazy.”
Malcolm shook his head and opened the exit door. “I gotta tell you, Val—I like the studying and projects and stuff, but Miss Marcus is just—”
“Ten pounds of crazy in a one-pound box?”
“Yeah! I mean, when have you seen my mind wander during History?”
They turned toward the bus lane.
“I thought only college professors were that eccentric,” Valentine said. “And what’s with that pin she wears? The hospital symbol.”
“Hospital symbol?”
“Yeah, the little staff with two snakes around it and wings on top. I’ve seen it in hospitals.”
Malcolm pondered. “Maybe it’s a caduceus. Looks like the hospital thing, but it’s the symbol for Hermes. He’s messenger of the gods in Greek mythology.”
“Hmm. Okay, so I’ll stick with our ‘she’s just weird’ theory.”
“Good choice.”
“Although, if she can push your limits, I’ve gotta respect her a little. That woman’s hardcore.”
Malcolm searched for the courage to step outside. His hand rested on the doorknob as he reviewed the plan one more time.
“If you’re waiting for him to knock, you’ll probably be there a while,” Oma teased as she walked by. Despite her age, she glided forward with ease, footsteps not making a sound.
“He’s scary!”
“Yes, very scary. Just go talk to him, dear. You might learn something.” She glanced over her shoulder. “If he doesn’t eat you.”
Counting to ten, he forced himself to turn the knob. Once outside, he walked fast to keep from changing his mind. Crossing into the next yard, he mounted the porch steps and pressed the doorbell. Something clicked and the door cracked open.
“Hi, sir, I’m Malcolm from next door!” he began, loud and fast. “I have a project about the history of the town and I was hoping to maybe interview you about how it’s changed and things that you’ve seen over the—”
“Slow down.”
The door swung wide and Walter Crane stepped into the daylight. Tall and wiry, with close-cropped, steel-gray hair and sharp eyes to match, he pierced Malcolm with a hard stare.
“Take a breath. I’m not a blasted computer,” he chided in a deep, gravelly voice. “What do you want?”
“Um.” Malcolm swallowed. “I was hoping to talk to you for a history project if—”
“I’m busy.”
The door slammed shut.
Malcolm turned to leave, more relieved than offended. His foot hit the bottom step and the door flew open again.
“Malcolm from next door. You Grace’s kin?”
“Yes, sir.”
Mr. Crane stared him down for what seemed an eternity. Grunting, he motioned Malcolm inside, then turned and disappeared into the house.
Malcolm crept inside, half expecting to be kicked back through the door. If he hadn’t already guessed Walter’s background, one look inside would have told the story. Although decades old, it showed not a crack or scuff, and the antiques were arranged with military neatness and precision.
“Close the door, boy,” Mr. Crane’s voice called from somewhere. “I know Grace taught you better than that.”
Malcolm closed the door and followed the voice down a long hallway. Polished wood creaked under his feet as he made his way toward the back of the house. The walls displayed vintage posters, black and white photos, and cases filled with medals and ribbons. Malcolm leaned in to examine one.
“Purple Heart.”
He jumped as the old man appeared over his shoulder. Then Malcolm gestured to a Silver Star. “What’s tha
t one for?”
Mr. Crane looked where Malcolm had pointed and ignored it. He turned and stomped into the next room. “You coming or not, boy? Don’t have all day.”
Malcolm followed him into a study. Smells of old leather and polished mahogany greeted him as they settled into overstuffed chairs, surrounded by old memorabilia. Much of it was unfamiliar until he spotted something on the table next to them.
“Hey, you’ve got a Little Mack!”
Mr. Crane stared at him, blank faced. Feeling awkward, Malcolm pointed at an old coin in a small display case.
“The 1863 General McClellan Civil War token? These are pretty rare. Did it always have that crack?”
Leaning back, Mr. Crane looked him over as if he were evaluating a new recruit. Malcolm shifted.
“Were you planning on asking me any questions?” Mr. Crane snapped. “You’ve got twenty minutes.”
“Uh, yeah. Sorry.” Malcolm fumbled in his pockets until his iPhone and a folded sheet of paper fell out. Activating the voice recorder app, he set the phone between them. “So, to start, I was wondering what the town was like when you got here.”
Chapter 6
Malcolm dove to the floor and rolled for cover. Panting, he pressed his back against the makeshift wall and glanced around the corner. A hail of red foam balls bounced inches from his face. He stifled a yelp and ducked back.
“Dodgeball is war,” Coach Boomer had declared at the start of class. “And today, you’re in the trenches!”
“I’m out of ammo!” Malcolm called across the open “trench” between the stacks of foam mats and football practice barriers.
His sister peered around her own corner, focused as a hawk. A ball smacked against the brick behind them and bounced to the floor between the twins. Malcolm stared at it longingly, reluctant to give up safe cover.
Valentine vaulted from cover and sprinted toward the ball. The enemy caught sight and foam missiles whooshed over Malcolm’s head. Flowing like a cat, Valentine darted past the first attack and ducked under the second.
As the third and fourth converged on her, Valentine leaped forward, tucked and spun into a front handspring. One hand planted on the floor while the other grabbed the ball and pulled it to her chest. The incoming balls bounced wide of her spinning form. Her feet arced through the air and touched back to the floor, and she sprinted toward Malcolm.