The Light

by D. J. MacHale

  "Visiting you, my friend. My, you've grown."

  I shrugged. What are you supposed to say when somebody comments on your growth curve?

  "Have you seen Dad?" I asked.

  "No. I do not have the time. I am leaving on assignment to Pakistan this evening. It is you I came to see."

  That was odd. It wasn't my birthday or anything. Ennis seemed nervous, shifting his weight from foot to foot while his eyes darted around, as if looking for something.

  "Are you all right, Marsh?" he asked. Ennis's speech was normally kind of loopy. He stretched out his vowels in a way that made it sound like he was singing. Now his words were clipped and short.

  "Uh, yeah. Fine. Why?"

  "And your father? How is he?"

  "He's fine too."

  "I worry about you two," Ennis said, deadly serious.

  "We're okay. I mean, we both miss Mom a lot. But what can you do?"

  He looked me square in the eye as if trying to figure out if I was hiding something. It was weird.

  "Good, good," he finally said, satisfied that I was telling the truth. "Here, take this."

  He reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out a business card. It only had his name and a phone number.

  "That is my cell phone. Call me if you need me. Anytime. Promise me that."

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  "Okay, sure, but. . . you're giving me the creeps, Ennis. What's going on?"

  "Nothing, nothing, Marsh. I am being an overly cautious fool."

  "About what?"

  He seemed to relax a little. I think maybe he finally believed there was nothing wrong with us.

  "You are my friends," he said, sounding more like himself. "My family. I want you to know that if you need anything, I am there for you."

  "O ... kay. That's cool. Same here. Is there anything you need?"

  "No, Marshmallow, I am fine. Especially now that I know you are too. Please give my best to your father. I will come for a longer visit when I return from Asia."

  He grabbed me and gave me a hug. It wasn't one of those quick handshake-style hugs either. I'm not sure how to describe this, but Ennis held me tight, as if he wanted to protect me or something.

  "You sure everything's all right?" I asked.

  Ennis let go and backed away. "Yes, absolutely. Do not lose my card. And call me."

  "Yeah. Sure."

  "Good." He turned serious again. "Take care of yourself, Marsh. I will see you in a few weeks."

  That was it. He turned and left quickly. I didn't know what to think of his visit. Ennis was always an open book. That book had suddenly turned into a mystery. There was definitely something going on that he didn't want to explain.

  I told Dad about it that night. He didn't know anything more about it than I did.

  "It was strange," I said. "It was like he was expecting me to say something horrible had happened to us."

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  "Maybe he was just checking up," Dad offered. "The guy's a worrier."

  "Yeah, maybe. But why now?"

  Dad shrugged. "You're asking me like there's a chance I might have an answer."

  I liked it when Dad talked to me like an equal instead of a little boy. In spite of our occasional blowups, we got along pretty well. I don't think most parents would leave their teenage kid home alone when they went off on business, but Dad trusted me. Before every trip he'd load up the kitchen with junk food . . . the kind of stuff he'd never let me eat when he was around. I think he did it out of guilt, thinking it would make being alone a little special. That was fine by me.

  The worst I had to worry about was that something might happen to him and he wouldn't come home. I tried not to go there. Traveling was part of his job, and we both had to deal with it. Other than the paranoia, I actually kind of liked it when he left me alone for a few days. It meant no cleaning up; lights out whenever I wanted; no restriction on music volume or song selection; and best of all, 360 on the plasma. Being alone had its advantages.

  The only real responsibility I had besides not burning down the house was to feed our cat, Winston, and scoop out her litter box. Pretty simple.

  The next day he left for Vegas.

  It was the day the nightmare began.

  I went into work to engrave a bunch of brass plates to go on trophies for a football camp. I finished up and was ready to head home when my boss, Mr. Santoro, checked my work and pointed out that "receiver" is spelled with an ei, not ie. You know, i before e except after c. Oops. Tack on another hour to redo a dozen plates. Idiot. I was going to stop at Garden Poultry for a sandwich and fries on the way home,

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  but I was too beat. Instead I rode my bike straight home, opened up a can of clam chowder, and downed half a bag of Doritos. I finished my gourmet meal, topped it off with a can of vintage, sparkling Dr Pepper, dumped everything in the sink, and began my first night at home alone.

  I was psyched. There were so many options. None of them involved washing the dishes. I could start to build one of the model rockets. I could spread out my sketches and work on the graphic novel. I could kick a little Call of Duty butt. I could go through our DVD collection and watch any movie I wanted. Twice. I could go online and spend all night on Hulu. The future was in my hands. It was a feeling of complete power and freedom. So what did I do?

  I turned on the TV and fell asleep in about six minutes.

  Actually, I didn't fall completely asleep. I was watching a show on the Discovery Channel about sharks and kind of drifted off. But not all the way. That's happened to me before. You're asleep but not. You're kind of aware of your surroundings, but you aren't conscious enough to move. It's like being paralyzed. For some reason whenever that happens, it always seems like there are other people in the room. Of course, there aren't. It's all part of the dream. Still, it's scary to be lying there, unprotected, wondering who is walking around your living room . . . and what they might do to you.

  My eyes were closed. I knew I was on the couch. The sounds from the TV were unintelligible . . . and so were the voices I heard in the room. I sensed movement. Somebody was hurrying around. Did Dad come home? Did he forget something?

  I tried to call out, "Dad?"

  Didn't work.

  There were more voices. Whispers. Who could it be? How did they get in the house? Did I forget to lock the door?

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  None of their words made sense. Were they planning something? I couldn't think clearly. I willed my hand to reach down and pull up the comforter at my feet. I thought that having a blanket over me would protect me. No go. I couldn't move.

  None of this was real, of course. It was a half-dream. But it was still unnerving.

  The voices grew louder, more urgent, as if they were running out of time. It sounded like gibberish. It was gibberish. I knew that. It was a dream, right? That's what I told myself and it calmed me down. That is, until I heard a single word break through the haze--a word that was as plain and clear as if someone had leaned over and spoken directly into my ear.

  "Morpheus."

  It was enough to shock me awake. I didn't sit up fast, breathing hard and in a sweat like you see in every movie about nightmares. I simply rocketed back to consciousness. I instantly understood that nobody was in the room. Nobody had spoken in my ear. The sharks on TV were still going for the chum. All was well. As nightmares go, it was uneventful. There were no monsters. No chasing. No falling. There was only a word.

  Morpheus.

  Where did I come up with that? Was it something from TV that I yanked into my dream? Or was it something I had heard once that got stuck somewhere in my subconscious? Either way it meant nothing to me. In a few seconds I had gone from a state of semiconscious panic to realizing absolutely nothing had happened except that I had done a pretty good job of scaring myself.

  I should have gone to bed, but I was wired and it was still early. Turning in at nine thirty was beyond pathetic, so I decided to listen to some music. With the house empty it

&nbs
p; 39

  was the perfect chance to play a little air drums without fear of being caught and looking like a dork.

  When playing air drums, you've got to go with the rock classics. They have the best solos. My current favorite was a song called "(I Know) I'm Losing You" by the Faces and a raspy-voiced singer named Rod Stewart. The drum solo is awesome. Dad had the song on his iPod and I had a dock with speakers in my bedroom, so the stage was set.

  We live in an old three-story house with narrow hallways and inside doors that don't close all the way. Or lock. Not even the bathroom. I hated that. The yard is decent-size, but the neighbors aren't far away, so I had to be careful about playing the music too loud. I didn't want somebody pounding on the door to tell me to keep it down, or calling the police. So I shut my windows tight, pulled down the shades, and pushed the bedroom door closed as best as I could to muffle the concert. I put my desk chair in the center of the room, cranked the volume as loud as I thought safe, grabbed a couple of chopsticks, and a few short seconds later I was performing for a crowd of thousands. Or one, actually. Winston was stretched out on my bed, looking bored. I guess she didn't go for classic rock.

  Music filled the room. I'd listened to the song so many times that I knew every note. Every drumbeat. Every twitch in Rod Stewart's quirky voice.

  This time I heard something different.

  A minute after the song began, there was another sound. It was a beat that drifted under the music. I'd never heard it before. How was that possible? I listened for a few seconds until I realized it might not be part of the song. I quickly reached over and hit pause. The music stopped instantly. The room went quiet. Whatever the sound was, I couldn't hear it anymore. With a shrug I hit play and picked up my performance. In a few seconds I heard the sound again.

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  What was it? I hit pause again and listened. Nothing. I was worried that maybe I was bothering the neighbors and somebody was downstairs pounding on my door. I figured if that was the case, they'd keep pounding. I listened for a few more seconds, but there was nothing.

  When I hit play again, I heard nothing but Rod Stewart and the familiar music. Excellent. I was back in the zone. I closed my eyes and was preparing for the big solo when the rogue beat came back. I quickly punched off the music, expecting to hear the same nothing as each time before.

  This time the sound didn't go away.

  What I heard came from the other side of my bedroom door. It sounded as if someone was pounding on the wall. I froze. The pounding stopped and I distinctly heard the sound of somebody standing up. It was as if they had been sitting on the floor and their back brushed against the door as they got up. I then heard an exhale and the sound of footsteps walking away.

  This was no half-asleep dream. Somebody was in the house.

  What should I do? There was no phone in my bedroom, so I couldn't call the police. My cell phone was downstairs. The room was on the second floor, so I couldn't go out the window. I was trapped, and whoever was in the house knew I was there. It wasn't like I was being quiet. I looked to the cat. Winston lay on her side with her eyes at half-mast as if about to fall asleep. She hadn't budged. She wasn't even on alert. Why didn't the sound bother her? She must have heard it. She's a cat! Cats hear grass growing!

  I sat there for a few seconds, fighting panic. My mind sped to a million explanations. Was Dad home? Was it a neighbor checking up on me? Did Ennis come back? Then, of course, there were the bad possibilities. Burglars. But that didn't make sense. Why would a thief break into

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  a house when somebody was obviously home blasting music?

  I couldn't just sit there. I had to find out who it was. Looking around my room, I found something I could use to defend myself. Since the house was so old, most of the doors didn't stay open on their own, so my mom used heavy, old-fashioned clothes irons as doorstops. One sat on the floor inside my room. I grabbed it. It had to be at least five pounds. If somebody jumped me, they were going to get a face full of steel. I crept slowly toward my door, trying not to step on a squeaky floorboard. I got closer to the door, reached for the knob, grabbed it, raised the iron . . . and yanked the door open.

  If somebody had been there, they would have lost teeth. The dark, empty hallway loomed ahead of me. I wished I had left a few lights on before going into my room, but I hadn't expected to confront an unwanted invader. I kept the heavy iron high, ready to swing. I left my room and walked slowly down the hall, making my way toward the overhead light switch. Whoever was in the house could easily be hiding in a dark corner. I needed to see. A few agonizing seconds later I reached the switch and flipped it on, lighting up the entire upstairs hallway. There were no intruders. No concerned neighbors. No boogeyman.

  Things were making less sense. I had definitely heard somebody pound on the wall and walk away. But that was all. I didn't hear anybody go down the stairs. If somebody was in the house, they would still be on the second floor. They couldn't just disappear. Since the other rooms were dark, the person was either hiding and playing with my head or they were up to no good. I crept into Dad's room and flipped on his light to see . . . nothing. Nothing strange, anyway. I even went into his closet and swung the iron around behind his hanging clothes in case somebody was hiding back there.

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  I searched the guest bedroom, then the bathroom. The thought hit me that I was doing the same dumb thing that people do in horror movies. They always go to investigate. It makes you want to scream out, "Don't look in the basement! Get the hell out of there, fool!" But that was because you knew it was a horror movie and something nasty was going to happen. This was reality. The odds of a serial killer in a hockey mask and a chainsaw finding his way into my house were pretty slim. My common sense told me that there had to be an innocent, logical explanation for what I had heard, and I needed to find it.

  I searched the entire house, turning on every light. It was nerve-racking, but I did it. I went through every room. Every closet. Even the basement and attic. I found that every window and door was locked. Nothing was broken or out of place. Everything was as it should be. As it became clear that nobody else was in the house, I started questioning what it was I had heard. It was a really old home. There were always strange noises going on. The faintest breeze would make the old wood creak and crackle. Was it possible that my imagination had taken some innocent house sounds and created something that wasn't there? It was starting to seem that way.

  I was in the living room, ready to accept that I was being paranoid, when I began to sense a new, odd sound. It was like a steady drone. At first I thought it was something

  electronic wreaking havoc with my eardrums. I stuck my pinkie into my ear and shook it, trying to get rid of the strange sound. It didn't help.

  I soon realized it wasn't a sound at all. In fact, it was just the opposite. What I was hearing was . . . nothing. The house was old and full of random sounds. Heck, the whole world is old and full of random sounds. But all those sounds had suddenly stopped. There was no sound at all. Absolutely

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  nothing. For a second I feared that I had gone deaf. I snapped my fingers and heard that clearly enough. There wasn't anything wrong with my ears. I stood stock-still in the middle of the living room, desperately trying to pick up any sound that would tell me that the world hadn't stopped turning.

  What I heard was the sound of a dripping faucet. It was the kind of sound that would normally get lost amid every other sound in the world. But not then. It was faint but unmistakable. It was a steady drip . . . drip ... drip that seemed to be coming from the downstairs bathroom. I had to check it out. I was drawn to it because it was the only sound that existed. I crept through the living room and down the small hallway toward the bathroom to see that the door was closed. I had inspected the room a few minutes earlier and the faucet hadn't been dripping ... but it sure sounded as though it had started. I raised the heavy iron again, just in case I had missed something. Or someone. Slowly I pushed
the door open.

  Sure enough, the sink faucet was dripping. It was a steady plip . . . plip . . . plip sound that bounced into the standing water in the sink and echoed through the otherwise silent house. I tightened up both valves and the dripping stopped. Silence had returned. But not for long.

  Another dripping sound came from somewhere else. I walked from the bathroom and listened. It was coming from the kitchen. What was going on? Had the plumbing in the house suddenly gone wacky? More important, why was it the only sound I could hear? I moved across the living room. The only other sound was the squeak of my sneakers on the wooden floor. The dripping sound grew louder. I crossed through the dining room to the swinging door that led to the kitchen. As I pushed the door open, the dripping sound grew even louder. I was all set to walk in and turn it off, but when I stepped through the door and looked to the sink, I saw that the faucet wasn't dripping.

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  Huh? I still heard the sound, but the sink was dry. I looked around quickly. Where was it coming from? There were no other faucets. It was like the dripping was just . . . there. It grew impossibly loud, like it was a sound effect and somebody was slowly turning up the volume. The gentle dripping sound had become an incessant, booming echo that bounced off the walls. I was desperate to stop it but didn't know how.

  I was a second away from running out of the room when the sound stopped. Just like that. It was like I had hit the pause button on the iPod. The room fell deathly silent. I was in a vacuum again.

  I'm not sure what made me look back to the sink . . . and the window above it. The empty window. It was night. There was nothing to see on the outside but blackness . . .

  . . . and a pale white face that hovered there, staring in at me.

  It was such a shock that I stumbled backward as if I had been pushed. The sounds of the house suddenly rushed back. The ticking of a clock, the buzz from the refrigerator, the hum of a fluorescent light, the far-off sound of Rod Stewart's voice . . . the house was alive again. I hit my back on the edge of a counter, twisted, and nearly fell down. The weight of the heavy iron in my hand yanked me toward the floor. I grabbed the counter with my other hand and managed to stop my fall. Once I got my balance, I was ready to run out of the room. I didn't want any part of whoever was out there. I had only seen it for a fleeting instant, but that was enough. It was a man with skin that was so white, it seemed transparent. His dark eyes were abnormally large, and in the split second I saw him I knew they were looking at me. I wanted to get out of there and find a closet to hide in.