The Light

by D. J. MacHale

  I took a step to run but stopped. This was my house. I was in charge. Running away was not acceptable. I stood up

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  straight, held my breath, and forced myself to look back at the window. Slowly, I turned around to see . . .

  The face was gone. I could breathe again. Whoever it was didn't want any part of me. But who was it? Why was he creeping around my house? I had to know. I grabbed the iron and ran for the back door. There was a creep lurking around in my yard, peering in at me, and he wasn't going to get away with it. I threw open the door and jumped outside, screaming, "Hey! Who are you?"

  I stood outside the kitchen door, breathing hard, ready for I-didn't-know-what. The heavy iron was up and poised to strike. I looked to the window where the guy had been. The wind was blowing hard, knocking around the branches of a bush next to the house. It scraped against the window like it was scratching to get in. A flash of white caught my attention. I think I screamed with surprise. I heard a steady flapping sound and looked to see a white, plastic grocery bag caught on a branch, fluttering in the wind.

  I had found my lurker.

  It wasn't a face outside the window--it was a grocery bag caught on a branch. A gust of wind kicked up, tearing it from the bush. It whipped away on the breeze and disappeared into the neighbor's yard . . . maybe to peer into their window.

  Once my heart stopped pounding, I went back inside and closed the door, double-checking to make sure it was locked. Everything was normal. Even the sounds. It sure seemed as though I had been terrorized by my own overactive imagination. What else could it have been? I figured my ears must have been ringing because I was playing the music so loud, which is why my hearing was messed up. And our house was old. Who knew what kind of shape the ancient plumbing was in? That could explain the pounding and the dripping. It wasn't a monster--it was old pipes.

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  The intruder at the window was the easiest of all to explain away. It was a plastic shopping bag from Trader Joe's. Nothing sinister about it.

  Though I was certain that nothing strange had happened, I left all the house lights on anyway. Why not? Dad wasn't around to tell me to put them out. I went upstairs, took off my clothes, and crawled into bed. Winston hadn't even moved. It gave me more confidence that nothing strange had happened.

  It would be a while before I could power down enough to sleep. Adrenaline takes time to get out of your system. I had really done a number on myself. I figured I had better get a grip or it was going to be a long week. I don't know how many hours went by before I finally calmed down enough to nod off.

  The last thing I remember before my eyes closed was a sound.

  Somewhere in the house, a faucet was dripping.

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  Chapter 5

  I woke up before the alarm.

  Usually I'm knocked out until the buzzer shakes me awake, but not that morning. I felt a slight breeze on my face that gently brought me back to consciousness. It was kind of nice. Definitely better than any alarm sound. I lay on my back, enjoying the feeling as it rustled my hair. I stretched, feeling pretty good considering I had only gotten a few hours of sleep. The weird events of the night before were more or less forgotten. I thought about how I had to get up, eat something, and get to work. I was actually looking forward to it, seeing as I didn't have anything else going on.

  I felt the breeze again. It made me think that an alarm clock that blew warm air across your face would be a cool invention. I filed it under "things to do but probably never will" and reached over my head to pull the window shut.

  My hand hit glass. The window wasn't open. Huh? I

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  sat up straight and looked to the other window. It was shut tight. My bedroom door was closed too. Where was the breeze coming from?

  Brraaaannngggggg!

  The alarm went off. The real alarm. I was definitely awake after that. I hammered it off and sat there wondering why our house had suddenly sprung a wind leak. I decided not to stress and to tell Dad about it when he got home.

  My breakfast was a healthy combination of raspberry-filled Pop-Tarts and chocolate milk. I fed Winston, got out the Ovaltine, and stirred up a king-size glass. It wasn't until I was sitting at the kitchen counter, chewing on the raw Pop-Tart (I never bother to toast them), that I looked to the window over the sink and remembered what had happened the night before. It was already a bright morning. Warm summer sun streamed in. The idea that a mysterious creeper who hated classic rock was lurking around outside seemed kind of silly. I listened. There was no dripping water. All the normal sounds of the house were there, just as they should be. I laughed, remembering how terrified I had been as I searched every dark corner with a heavy iron, ready for action. I felt pretty silly about the whole thing.

  I was reaching for my glass of chocolate milk when Winston suddenly jumped up onto the counter.

  "Whoa!" I shouted, and pulled back quickly. My sudden move startled the cat and she shot past me, knocking over the container of Ovaltine. Brown chocolate powder spread all over the white tiles of the counter.

  "Winston!" I yelled, as if that would have done anything. It wasn't like she was going to come back and clean up. I was ticked. The Ovaltine was supposed to last me for the week. I hated to trash it, but the idea of shoveling it all back into the container to be used again kind of grossed me

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  out. It was officially garbage. I pulled the trash can from under the sink and grabbed a sponge.

  As I was about to turn away from the sink, I felt another short, soft breeze. I wasn't imagining it--the air had definitely moved. But the window wasn't open. None of the windows were open. I went into the living room to check the thermostat. Maybe during my frantic house search the night before I had accidentally turned on the air-conditioning. Those stray puffs of air must have been coming from the air ducts built into the floor and the ceiling.

  When I checked the thermostat, I saw that everything was turned off. Still, I knew it had to be something else that was equally simple, so I shrugged it off and went back into the kitchen to scrape up the Ovaltine. I was about to start wiping up the powder when the puff of wind returned. This time it not only blew my hair, it blew some of the chocolate powder across the counter. I froze in mid swipe and leaned down so that my face was on counter level. Several impossible puffs of air from nowhere blew the chocolate around like a mini storm in a desert. I couldn't take my eyes off it. It was like some odd air vortex was spreading the powder across the countertop.

  After a few seconds the brown powder was spread out over the white tiles. For a second I actually thought it was a cool phenomenon. I was debating about whether or not to clean it up or leave it to show Dad . . . when the breeze returned and I watched the impossible happen. The powder moved, but instead of spreading out randomly, a pattern began to emerge. While much of the brown chocolate blew to the side, some of it remained in place. Slowly, very slowly, the powder that was left behind formed a swirl. Then another. And a third. They were all the same size, about four inches in diameter and connected in the center. It was a simple pattern, but there was no way a random puff of air could have formed it.

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  I had no idea of what I was seeing, or how it could be happening. I wasn't scared--I was dumbfounded. I tried to think of a logical explanation, but nothing came to me.

  Bang bang bang!

  Somebody was pounding on the door. I think I jumped a few inches. Was it the intruder from the night before? It didn't matter that it was a bright, sunny day--I flew right back into terror mode.

  Ding dong!

  The doorbell. That calmed me down. Intruders didn't ring doorbells. Unless they were particularly polite intruders. Still, I didn't take any chances. I grabbed the first weapon I could find. It happened to be a small fire extinguisher. I figured if there was trouble, I could squirt the guy in the eyes and then bean him on the head. Gripping the red cylinder, I hurried for the living room. I didn't want to open the door without know
ing who it was, so I first peeked out of the front window over the couch. It wasn't an intruder, but the guy standing there was definitely a surprise . . . and not a good one. I dropped the fire extinguisher and opened the door to greet Mikey Russo, Sydney Foley's goon boyfriend.

  "Where is he?" Russo snarled.

  He was angry. Or at least excited. Something was up. It made me want to go back and grab the fire extinguisher. Instead I went outside and joined him on the porch. I didn't want this guy in my house.

  "Where's who?" I asked.

  Russo was edgy. He glanced around to see if anybody was watching, then gave me a shove that nearly knocked me off my feet. I stumbled back a few steps and hit the wall.

  "Stop doing that!" I yelled. "What is your problem?"

  "Where's Foley?" he demanded to know.

  I knew exactly where Cooper was ... at the lake house

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  with his parents. But if this creep was looking for him, I saw no need to tell him that.

  "I don't know. Ask your girlfriend," I said dismissively, and backed toward the door.

  Russo grabbed my arm and yanked me forward, getting right in my face. He was strong and stood a couple of inches taller than me. I felt like a rag doll. "You tell him to keep his freakin' mouth shut or he's gonna get hurt," he growled.

  I suddenly understood what this was all about. Unfortunately, my mouth started working before my brain did.

  "Ohhhh ... ," I said knowingly. "You gave him the counterfeit tickets!"

  Bad move. Russo shoved me so violently, I thought I would break through the screen door when I hit it.

  "He told you that?" Russo asked, his face red with rage.

  "No, you just told me," I countered, trying to keep my voice calm. "I knew Coop was in trouble for scalping counterfeit tickets, but he wouldn't tell me where he got them. If you're so worried about him talking, then he must have gotten them from you."

  Russo's eyes turned scary. The guy had a temper, and it looked like I was a second away from paying the price for stoking it.

  "I'll get my dad," I said, pointing inside the house. "Maybe he knows where Coop went."

  There was no way Mikey Russo could know that my dad was on a trip. At least that's what I was counting on. He hesitated. I could sense the wheels turning in that simple brain. He was calculating his next move. He glanced inside, looking for my dad. I felt his anger rise. He was ready to pound me but knew he was going to have to back down in case Dad was there. The frustration was killing him, poor guy. He wasn't used to thinking so much. He let go of my arm and backed away.

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  "Tell Foley what I said," he demanded, pointing at me.

  "Right," I replied. "'Keep his freakin' mouth shut.' Do I have to drop the g in freaking?"

  Russo gave me an odd look as if he didn't get what I meant. Idiot.

  "Just do it," he commanded, then turned and ran off the porch.

  I had come dangerously close to being pounded, but at least one mystery was solved: Mikey Russo was the guy who gave the fake tickets to Coop. For all I knew, Russo had been poking around the house the night before, looking for him. I wouldn't put it past him. Thug. But why didn't he know where Cooper was? Didn't he talk to Sydney? Maybe Sydney was protecting Cooper. She didn't like her brother much, but maybe her heart wasn't cold enough to actually rat him out.

  I went back inside, making sure to lock the door in case Russo changed his mind and decided to charge back and injure me. No sooner had I twisted the lock than I

  remembered the other mystery. The one that wasn't solved. I ran for the kitchen.

  The Ovaltine powder was all over the counter and the floor. The three-ring design was gone. Winston had walked through the chocolate and left kitty footprints everywhere . . . across the counter, on the floor, and into the dining room. I stood staring at the counter, trying to make out the remains of the design. There was nothing. Any sign that it had been there was gone. I questioned whether I had seen it or not. It's easier to think something like that was a trick of the imagination than to believe there were inexplicable forces at work. I stood still, trying to feel for rogue gusts of wind. There was nothing. I stood still for a solid five minutes, waiting. I didn't feel even the hint of a breeze. Whatever the event was, it was over and all there was to show for it was a messy

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  kitchen. There was nothing for me to do but clean it up.

  Later that morning at work I had trouble focusing and ruined three silver bowls in about ten minutes. Engraving was easy, but you had to concentrate and be precise. Unfortunately, I couldn't and wasn't. Silver bowls weren't cheap. Mistakes got tossed, which didn't make Mr. Santoro too happy. I think I had ruined two bowls the whole time I had worked there. That morning I trashed five. It had to be a record.

  "Take a break," Mr. Santoro said, holding back his anger. "Go for a walk. Clear your head."

  "Okay, sorry," I said lamely, and went out to Stony Brook Avenue. I grabbed a Coke from the Garden Poultry deli and sat down on a bench in the pocket park next door. My mind wasn't in the moment. All I could think about was the swirling design that appeared in Ovaltine on my kitchen counter . . . and the bag face at the window. I had to force myself to stop obsessing. It wasn't like it was getting me anywhere.

  I turned my thoughts to Cooper. Mikey Russo wasn't balanced. If he thought Cooper was going to turn him in to the police, he would hurt him. It wouldn't matter that he was Sydney's brother--Coop would be in trouble.

  I didn't want to deal with any of it. Summer wasn't supposed to be so stressful.

  My cell phone rang. Only two people called me on the cell. Dad and Cooper. I was hoping it would be Coop so I could tell him about Russo. Besides, I didn't want to deal with my dad. I wouldn't know what to tell him when he asked how things were going.

  "Hello?" I said, hoping to hear Coop's happy voice saying, "Hey, Ralph!"

  "Is this Marshall Seaver?" came the monotone voice of a guy I didn't recognize.

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  "Yeah."

  "This is Mr. Frano."

  I had no idea who Mr. Frano was. My silence must have made him realize that.

  "From school," he added.

  Oh. Right. Him. I never thought of Frano as "Mr. Frano." The guy wasn't that much older than I was. The fact that he was calling my cell seemed almost as impossible as the mysterious wind that created a pattern in chocolate on my kitchen counter. Almost.

  "Oh, hi," I said.

  Frano spoke in his usual flat, emotionless voice. Over the phone it sounded even stranger because you didn't have the visual of the black-wearing art poser.

  "I discovered another one of your sketches here," he said, sounding annoyed. "I have to clean out the room, so if you want it, I suggest you come by today or else it'll be tossed."

  I was a second away from saying, "Trash it." It wasn't like I needed to save every last sketch I had ever done, but with all that was going on, the idea of going on a simple, mindless mission appealed to me.

  "Don't," I said. "I'll be there."

  "Fine," Frano said, and hung up without so much as a "Good-bye." Creep.

  It wasn't until I was halfway back to work that I realized how strange it was that Frano had called me on the cell phone. How did he get my number?

  I put in another hour of work (without ruining a single bowl, I'm relieved to say) and asked Mr. Santoro for some extra time at lunch to do my chore. He had no problem with it. Mr. Santoro was a good guy, though I think he was just as happy to see me gone and not destroying any more expensive bowls.

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  I rode my bike over to Davis Gregory High, which was actually pretty close to my house. It was odd to see the parking lot completely empty. It made sense since summer school hadn't started yet, but it was still weird because normally it was jammed. Walking through the empty corridors was just as strange. It was a big school with a lot of students. Even when most everybody was inside a classroom, you could feel the energy of the people in the building
.

  Not that day. The place was empty. It felt dead.

  I walked to the far end of the sprawling complex where the gym, music department, and art department were located. I didn't pass a single person. It made me wonder what Frano was doing there all by himself.

  "Hello?" I called when I stepped into the art room. "Mr. Frano?"

  No answer. I figured he had gone out for lunch. Assuming he ate like a normal person. The room was shut down for the summer. Chairs were up on worktables, supplies were out of sight, and the art cubbies were empty. I thought I was too late to salvage my sketch and was about to leave when I spotted something on a worktable across the room. A single chair was on the floor, and a large piece of white drawing paper was on the table. I made my way across the room to see that the table was set up as if somebody had been working there. Charcoal pencils lay next to the paper, along with a gum eraser. I recognized the sketch. Sort of. It was one of mine. Gravedigger. The sketch was a big close-up of his face and shoulders, but there were no facial features, only the familiar outline of his skull-like head topped off by the wide-brimmed black hat. I had shaded in his dark suit, but the face had no detail. Oddly, I had no memory of having done the sketch. I guess that wasn't so strange. I had done hundreds of sketches of the G-man. No way I could remember every last one . . . especially the ones that