by Ryan Dalton
“Then what? What is it?”
He shook his head. “I can’t. I just—I can’t . . .” He seemed to grope for more, but nothing came.
She stared at him. The knot in her chest began to harden, turning darker. “So, that’s all, huh?”
He finally looked up at her with reddening eyes. His silence stretched on, and her resentment solidified.
Fine. Setting her jaw, she nodded and walked to the door. “Forget it.”
“I—” he called feebly. “I didn’t . . .”
She fled to her bedroom and shut the door. As soon as it clicked shut, she leaned against the painted wood and sagged to the floor, face in her hands. The knot in her chest turned to tears.
Why?
Malcolm flipped through TV channels. Worry for his friends kept pushing into his mind, and he searched for anything that might distract him. He could still hear Winter screaming.
Soft steps made their way down the stairs, and Neil retrieved his book from the chair. “Feeling better?”
Malcolm stretched out both arms, displaying a dozen bandages. “Oma turned me into a mummy.”
Neil nodded. “Hey, would you look in on your sister later? Just make sure she’s okay.”
“Happened again, huh?”
Neil looked away.
“You know, one of these days you’re going to have to face this.”
Neil’s eyes flashed. “Oh? When did you become the parent?”
“Dad,” Malcolm gave him a level look. “She doesn’t even know what’s wrong.”
“And you do?”
“Yeah. But you won’t admit it, and she’s too hurt to figure it out. I mean, someone has to be the adult. Right?”
Neil stared him down. “Be careful.”
Malcolm felt a pang of regret and glanced at the carpet.
“I may be down, but I’m still your father.”
“Yeah, and things are fine between us, but Val barely feels like she has a father anymore.” He stood and rested a hand on his father’s shoulder. “You know I’m right, Dad. She needs you. Try harder for her.”
Malcolm patted Neil’s shoulder and headed for the kitchen in search of something sugary. A moment later the den lights switched off and Neil’s footsteps hit the stairs. Malcolm waited in anticipation until his father’s door closed with a click.
Go. Switching off the kitchen light, Malcolm slipped through the front door. The porch light was off, and moonlight snuck through breaks in the cloud cover, bathing the street in an ethereal glow. A chilly wind rushed through the trees. He pulled on the jacket he’d left by the door and darted across the street.
The old house towered over him, its front window glaring into the night like a skull’s eye socket. Was that face behind the glass right now, staring at him?
Malcolm returned the house’s glare with one of his own. “I know it was you today.” He clutched the gate handle. “I know you did something.” Its only answer was that same sense of wrongness.
He itched to walk through the gate, to examine the house up close. Was there a way inside? Heavy dread clamped around his heart, leeching away his determination. Even if there was, this wasn’t like his books, and he wasn’t that guy anymore—the guy who took chances and did things and lived.
“Who are you, huh?” he whispered to himself. Drawing up, he stared a challenge at the house. His hand flexed on the handle. “Come on, do it.”
The handle began to turn. The fear drove deeper into him, wrapping itself around his heart. Malcolm pushed and beat against it, but it refused to move. His hand wavered.
His shoulders slumped. Sighing, he let go of the handle and looked down in shame. Turning his back to the house, he trudged home.
Back inside, Malcolm aimed for the darkened stairs at the rear of the house. Halfway there, he stopped dead in his tracks. The back door was swinging open.
A shadow slipped silently inside. Had someone followed him back? He snatched the nearest solid object, raised it like a club and flipped on the overhead light.
Oma Grace stood in the doorway, wearing a black track suit and a startled expression. Seeing Malcolm, her alarm turned to a smile.
“If you’re going to swing that, young man, be sure you miss. It’s my favorite.”
Malcolm glanced at his hand. He held a tall porcelain figurine of some Victorian lady. Grinning sheepishly, he set it back down.
“Sorry, Oma. I thought you were . . . uh . . . something scary.”
“Mm-hm.” She swept past him and picked up the figurine.
“What were you doing outside? It’s after midnight.”
“Oooh, I might ask you the same thing.” She set the object on a higher shelf. “If you must know, I was visiting Mr. Crane next door. The man needs conversation, and I’m one of the few friends he has. But it’s bedtime for both of us now. Go on, shoo!”
She pushed him playfully toward the stairs. Laughing, he started the climb. “G’night, Oma.”
“Sleep well, my boy.”
In his room, Malcolm tossed his shoes and jacket to the floor and grabbed a book, ready to read about the Middle Ages until he drifted to sleep. He glanced at Valentine’s door, where light still glowed at the crack above the carpet, and mentally kicked himself. Dad had asked him to check on her, and she probably would need to talk.
“Val?”
Out of habit, he turned the knob and pushed inside.
She was sitting up in bed, half-buried under a fluffy comforter while a small lamp glowed on her bedside table. Her head snapped up in alarm, and she slid something under the covers.
“Knock much?”
“Sorry. I know something happened with Dad. You okay . . . ?” He trailed off, realizing what he’d seen, and examined her face. She was tense about something, and her hands were buried under the covers. “Is that what I think it is?”
She shifted. “Is what?”
His eyes narrowed. “You know what.”
Sighing, Valentine pulled out a small book covered in worn brown leather.
“I thought you were going to pack that away.”
“I am,” she said. “Just not yet.”
“Val, that isn’t helping anything. Didn’t you want to start moving on?”
Her eyes caught fire, and she clutched at her pendant. “I’m perfectly capable of reading a book and moving on with my life, unlike some people,” she snapped. “When was the last time you did anything besides read a book? Because that’s all you do now. You don’t want to make friends or live a real life. All you want to do is hide. Or is that what you call moving on?”
The words scorched him. He paused to find a calm voice. “I’m not going to respond to that, because I know you’ll regret it tomorrow.” He closed her door, wishing he’d just gone to bed.
Back in his own room, he flopped onto the bed and grabbed the nearest book. Valentine’s words echoed in his head, burning deeper. Through his front window, the house with no doors continued to mock him.
A surge of pressure built up inside as months of memories played through his head. A lightning storm matched perfectly by flashes from the house. A window frosted as sheets of energy fell from a clear sky. White-hot bolts raced after him, shattering trees and hurling his friends through the air. He flinched, once again seeing Valentine’s limp body tumble to the ground.
The pressure grew to a burning. “So, all I want to do is hide, huh?” He stared hard at the house, then at his reflection in the glass. “Who are you?”
Malcolm snapped the book shut and dropped it onto the bed. Leaping to his feet, he donned shoes and jacket, then pocketed his phone and flashlight. His eyes fell on the Damascus steel daggers hanging on the wall. He crossed the room and plucked them from their mounts.
Gazing at them, he tested their weight in his hands. The banding on each blade glinted like flowing water. This
is crazy. Do you even know how to use them?
He forced away the fear. Sure I do. Don’t grab the sharp end. Malcolm slid the blades into their sheaths and clipped them to his belt—one on each hip, hidden beneath his jacket.
With the lamp switched off and the door closed behind him, he stalked toward the stairs.
Chapter 9
Malcolm clutched the iron handle and stared up at the dark window again. Thick clouds hurtled across the sky, casting inky shadows. He tried not to shiver in the gusting wind.
Do it. NOW.
He turned the handle and pushed, stepping inside the fence before he could change his mind. Thunder cracked overhead. He took a second step, and the swaying grass brushed near his waist. A third step, and the house loomed closer. Its faded white wood almost glowed in the moonlight.
Malcolm turned right and paced along the fence, searching for . . . well, he had no clue what. Something was very wrong here, so something had to be out of place.
The house looked tall enough for three stories, and each side seemed about fifty feet wide. A circular window sat at the top of each side, easily big enough for a person to fit through. Malcolm noted that each was one solid sheet of glass, and they didn’t look the slightest bit warped or cracked.
After walking a full circle, he moved away from the fence and angled closer to the house. The wind howled and whipped at his clothes, and a heavy chill touched the air. It leeched into him, and each step forward grew more difficult, as if the presence of the house made the air thicker and heavier.
It’s just a house. Only a house. Malcolm latched onto the thought that Valentine had been drilling at him for weeks. But if it’s only a house, why do I feel this way? He forced himself forward until he stood inches from the west wall.
Pulse pounding, he swiped his fingers along one of the white planks. It was oddly warm.
A stiff gust hammered into his back. Malcolm reached out to steady himself against the house—and there it was. Under the pressure of his hands, he could feel it now.
“What in the . . . ?”
The house was vibrating. Subtle and easily missed by a casual touch, it seemed to pulse, rising and falling in a steady rhythm. He started walking again, tracing his hand along the house, and every inch vibrated with the exact same rhythm. No way. Just . . . no, he thought. But here it was.
Malcolm leaned in and placed his ear against the wall when a bolt of lightning stabbed across the sky. He jumped back from the wall and stared up at the window, waiting for a pulse of light. Nothing happened.
Somewhere along these panels, there had to be a hidden door. To have a chance at finding disguised cracks or hinges, he’d need to see every detail. He pulled out a Fenix LED flashlight, flicked it on, and leaned within a breath of the wall.
When he saw the truth, it was like a kick to the gut. Malcolm suddenly felt the full weight of what he was doing and what was happening around him. The night air seemed colder, the blustering wind more menacing, and he couldn’t shake the feeling of being watched. He had expected a door, but this?
“It can’t be,” he whispered.
The entire wall was covered with impossibly small glass lenses and layers on layers of microcircuitry. They nestled into every inch of the wood, overlapping in intricate patterns.
It’s like the circuit board of a computer.
He stepped back, shaking his head, and saw the pattern seemingly melt away. No wonder it looked normal from the street. Who could’ve done something like this?
This was more than a weird house—much more than he’d imagined. If he wanted, he could still walk away. Should walk away.
A tense moment passed as he stared at the house. The wind and the cold pushed him, urging him to go home. He steeled himself.
“Yeah, right.”
Malcolm dug out his phone and held the camera up to the wall. He thumbed the shutter button, and after a discreet click he had a crystal-clear image. Satisfied for the moment, he flicked off the flashlight and pocketed it.
A deeper hum began to emanate from the house. Malcolm tilted his head and leaned his ear closer to the wall. The vibrations increased, pulses cycling faster and more intensely. The hum grew to a high-pitched whine, and he could almost feel the air vibrating around him. Lightning flashed overhead.
A bright circle of light burst from the wall. Malcolm cried out, shielding his eyes, and a wave of force crashed into his body. He flew back and hit the ground with a thud. Shaking his head to stop the world from spinning, he sat up with a groan and patted the soft grass in appreciation.
He looked up at the wall and froze. A spinning orb of blue-white energy passed through the wood like it was air, leaving no mark. Taller than Malcolm, it rippled and crackled and flashed like lightning trapped inside flowing water.
The surrounding darkness warped and stretched toward the sphere. Shadows spun around it, wrapping it like a blanket of living darkness. Underneath, the brilliant orb shrank, twisted and winked out of existence. Only the shadow remained.
Wide-eyed and trembling, Malcolm gaped at the roiling pillar of shadow. It turned, and he knew it was looking at him. A deafening roar shattered the quiet night, tearing at his mind like a thousand voices shouting in fury.
The shadow raced toward him. Malcolm scrambled to his feet and backpedaled as fast as he could. The shadow closed the gap in seconds and lashed out, knocking him backward. He clanged against the iron fence and sharp pain blossomed in his back.
“YYYOOOUUU WWWIIILLLLLL NNNOOOTTT IIINNNTTTEEERRRFFFEEERRREEE!” The voices screamed into his head.
Malcolm tensed and mentally shoved back against the assault. The advancing shadow stopped in its tracks, as if surprised. Seizing the moment, Malcolm yanked out his cell phone and triggered the camera.
The shadow swiped at his hand, and the phone flew away in pieces. Darkness wrapped around his outstretched arm, and then he was airborne. His body cut through the air and flopped to the grass halfway back toward the house. Forcing himself to his knees, Malcolm pushed past the pain and drew the knife from his left hip.
With blinding speed, the shadow charged forward and smashed into him. Malcolm tumbled backward and smacked full force against the wall of the house.
The air crushed from his lungs and the knife flew from his hand. Knees turning to jello, he fell back against the wall and sank to the ground. He gasped, desperate to find his breath.
Three copies of the shadow swam in his vision. Malcolm kicked out as it approached and connected with something hard. Wisps of shadow yanked him off the ground and pinned him against the wall. He shook his head and the three shadows coalesced back into one.
“YYYOOOUUU WWWIIILLLLLL NNNOOOTTT IIINNNTTTEEERRRFFFEEERRREEE WWWIIITTTHHH UUUSSS.”
The onslaught tore at his thoughts. He stubbornly opposed it, clinging to his own mind and struggling to stay calm enough to think. Was there anything he could use? Ideas sprang into his frenzied mind and managed to click together. It didn’t matter if they were true. He had to try something.
“Another kid goes missing, and you might get more than you bargained for!” he blurted.
He could feel the shadow examining him now. Had he actually been right?
“You know who I am, where I live. I disappear, where do you think they’re gonna start looking? People know I’ve been watching this house!”
The shadow’s hold tightened.
“There’s a way out of this for both of us. Just show me what you’re doing in there and the mystery’s over. No more questions, no more snooping.”
As Malcolm spoke those insane words, his right hand crept slowly underneath his jacket. With his eyes adjusting to the dark again, he could see the attacker’s silhouette against the moonlight. Its shape was familiar—almost human. The bands of shadow clinging to him could almost be arms.
The grip on his shoulders loosened. Malcolm dro
pped to his feet and leaned against the wall for support. He could barely stand, and every breath lanced pain into his side.
“NNNOOONNNEEE OOOFFF YYYOOOUUU MMMAAATTTTTTEEERRR,” it said. “III HHHAAAVVVEEE SSSEEEEEENNN HHHOOOWWW TTTHHHIIISSS TTTOOOWWWNNN EEENNNDDDSSS. IIITTT WWWIIILLLLLL HHHAAAPPPPPPEEENNN SSSOOOOOONNNEEERRR TTTHHHAAANNN YYYOOOUUU TTTHHHIIINNNKKK.”
It stretched toward him again. He could barely make out something metallic in its grip. A pinprick of light flashed within the shadow, pointing in his direction.
“YYYOOOUUU WWWIIILLLLLL NNNOOOTTT BBBEEE—”
Malcolm ripped the second knife from its sheath and slashed at the shadow. The blade dug into something solid and came back red. Screams of agony rewarded him.
He slashed again, driving the shadow back a step. With his free hand, he drew the flashlight and flicked it on. The beam blazed into the shadow, and the shadow backed away with a thousand shocked cries. The pinprick of light pointed at him again.
Setting his jaw, Malcolm dashed forward and slashed. The blade bit into something again, and the light disappeared. He drew back and struck at the shadow’s center with all his might.
A jolt traveled through the knife and up his arm. With a loud pop, sparks showered from where he stabbed. A voice shouted—one voice. The mass of shadows shrank and coalesced into the shape of a cloaked man. He struck out and Malcolm bashed against the wall again.
All strength gone, Malcolm oozed to the ground. He tried to lash out with the knife and realized his hands were empty. The dark man approached, Malcolm’s dagger blade glinting in his hand. They stared at each other, both breathing hard.
Cloak and night hid his attacker’s face. Malcolm glared where the eyes should be and summoned his last bit of courage. He beckoned the man closer.
“Come on, then. Let’s get this over with.”
He tensed, praying he could still defend himself. The dark man stepped closer.
KA-CHIK!
Malcolm turned and found himself staring at the barrel of a pump-action shotgun.
“Drop it and back away,” Mr. Crane commanded.