Stormwalker

by Mike Revell

  “Dad?” I said.

  He jumped and spun around, making a big O with his mouth. “Owen. It’s only you. You’ve got me jumping at ghosts.”

  “I didn’t mean to surprise you,” I said, noticing the tears in his eyes. “I was just wondering what you were doing out here.”

  His gaze was already drifting back to the paintings. They lined the walls of the shed. Most of them were animals or landscapes, but some were more abstract. I used to love watching Mum paint, and seeing how messy she made it. She didn’t just brush the paint on. She forced it on like she was attacking the canvas. There were huge dry splodges all over them. You could run your hand down one and it would feel 3-D.

  “I’ve been coming here more and more since . . . you know.”

  He still couldn’t bring himself to say it. Since Mum died. They were just words. But I guessed sometimes words could be scary. Mum was dead. It was easy to think it, but much harder to say it. It weighed down your tongue and filled your mind with horrible images that weren’t nice to think about.

  Death was a scary word. But the L-word was the scariest. I didn’t like saying that. It made my stomach churn and my mind explode in a million different directions. It was easier to pretend it didn’t exist.

  “They’re brilliant,” Dad said. “The paintings. They’re really good.”

  “Yeah,” I said.

  Silence fell between us. Talking was hard when there were so many things you couldn’t say even when you were thinking about them. I knew what I could say. What I should say.

  I love you.

  The words were there, but they didn’t come out. Not because I didn’t love him. I did, loads and loads. With Mum I could say it all the time and it wouldn’t feel strange. But with Dad . . . it just didn’t feel right. I was worried that if I said it, I might sound babyish. And I wanted Dad to know that I was grown up.

  I wanted to help him, but I didn’t know how. That was why the counseling was so important. They were trained for things like this, weren’t they? They’d know what to do. Except . . . it couldn’t have worked, because Dad was worse than ever.

  “Did you go?” I said, a sudden thought occurring to me.

  “What?”

  “Did you go to counseling?”

  “Owen, not this again . . .”

  “You said you’d go. You promised.”

  There was a crack of thunder outside the shed. The light flickered, throwing us into shadow, then flashed back into life. Dad was staring at me, his hands on his hips.

  “I know what I said. But I think it’s probably best if I don’t go. It’s . . . awkward, Owen. I don’t want anyone digging into our life. I’ll be all right.”

  “But you’re not all right, are you?” I said, surprising myself with how loud my voice was. The wind slammed into the shed and I thought the light would go out again, but it didn’t. “You haven’t been to see me play in over a year. You’ve stopped asking how I’m doing when I get home from school. You always make excuses not to go out, like with parents’ evening at school. Mrs. Willoughby’s never even met you!”

  “Owen—”

  “You don’t care about cooking anymore. We just have takeout all the time. I hate it! And I can’t even remember the last time you wrote anything!”

  “Owen, listen to me—”

  “You said you’d go!” I shouted, trying to make myself heard above the storm. “They had Artistic Healing and everything. You probably wouldn’t even have to talk. You could just write. You used to love writing. It was all you ever wanted to do, and now—now you don’t do anything!”

  “Will you be quiet?” Dad yelled, and the silence that followed was smashed by the roar of the wind and the constant pouring rain. “I can’t write. Not anymore. It’s . . . it’s too hard.”

  “You can’t just stop,” I said, getting quieter now. The sudden surge of anger was fading, and in its place was just emptiness. Why couldn’t he see? If he just tried, maybe he’d feel better. Writing always made him feel better.

  Dad didn’t say anything to that. He just stood there, his hands on his hips. Behind him, through torrents of rain rippling down the window, the storm raged on. Lightning flashed, illuminating his face—so pale, so tired.

  “Fine,” he said, marching past me to the door. “You want me to write? I’ll write. I’ll go into that study right now and bleed onto that page if I have to. Will that make you happy?”

  He turned and shoved the door, striding out into the lashing rain. The door banged on its hinges, then swung back hard, thumping against the wooden frame. Lightning forked again, sparking across the sky.

  I was balling my fists so hard my nails dug into the skin. I rubbed my palms to get rid of the pain. My knees shook and shook. I’d never argued with Dad before, not properly. Part of me wanted to run out and apologize already, but I couldn’t. Why couldn’t he have just gone to counseling like he’d said?

  I took a deep breath, trying to calm myself down. I stood there staring at the paintings and the minutes stretched until I lost track of time. My Art teacher, Mrs. Bridges, was always saying we should look for the meaning in paintings. Apparently every detail could be important, from the angle to the colors. I didn’t know what the message was in Mum’s paintings. Maybe she was just trying to show that the world could be a beautiful place.

  That was what I was thinking when it happened.

  My stomach lurched.

  Back in primary school, we used to go over a bumpy bridge in our minibus every morning. Down the road to the bridge all the kids used to sing, Faster, faster, faster! Then when we shot over the bridge, our stomachs soared right up into our throats.

  That was how this felt now.

  I gripped the work surface with both hands, taking deep breaths to steady myself. My heart beat faster and faster, as if I’d just scored a goal.

  Then I looked up and blinked in shock.

  It was so dark outside now that the light from the shed turned the window into a mirror. Mum’s paintings reflected back at me. I could see myself clearly.

  Except . . .

  No, I must have been imagining it.

  Even though it was me in the reflection . . . even though when I moved my hands, the hands in the reflection moved too . . . even though I could see that it was me, I also knew that it wasn’t.

  It wasn’t me.

  I moved closer, squinting at my face. My hair was blond. It was supposed to be dark and scruffy, but now it looked as if I’d dyed it. And my nose . . . it was always big, but it wasn’t that big. I held up my hands, hardly daring to breathe. My fingers trembled as I felt round my face, exploring the features. I closed my eyes and counted to three, but when I opened them again, the not-me was still there.

  “No way,” I whispered, the words getting lost in a distant boom of thunder.

  I backed away from the window, panic fluttering inside me. People’s faces didn’t just change. Maybe it was a trick of the light. That could be it.

  In a mad rush, I threw open the door of the shed, making sure to shut it behind me so none of the paintings got ruined in the storm. Then I legged it inside, up the stairs, and into the bathroom. If I could just get a proper look at my face . . .

  No . . .

  I gulped, trying to wet the back of my dry throat. Because now I could see it clearly, and it was worse than I’d thought. It wasn’t me. My face belonged to someone else entirely.

  4

  It took me ages to get to sleep that night. I kept opening the camera on my phone and pressing the reverse lens so I could check my face. But every time I looked, it wasn’t me staring back.

  I took a photo, just to have proof it was happening. I zoomed in, a sick feeling squirming in my stomach, creeping slowly up to my throat. Clenching my teeth to hold it back, I chucked my phone onto the bedside table, trying to force it out of my mind.

  Dad’s footsteps creaked on the stairs. I heard him shuffling up to the door. It opened a crack, and a shaft of light pierced t
he shadows.

  I wanted to talk to him. I wanted to show him what was happening to me. But I still felt embarrassed after the argument, so I curled up to hide my face. I held my breath, pretending to be asleep.

  “Goodnight, Owen,” Dad whispered.

  Then he closed the door.

  He’d checked in on me, even after we shouted at each other. A pang of guilt stabbed at me for bringing it up earlier. It wasn’t like I needed him to do it, but it was nice that he did.

  I rolled over, breathing hard. I forced myself to forget about my face. I had to be imagining it. The stress of everything lately, it was obviously getting to me.

  I tried counting sheep, but every time I got to ten they disappeared and my new face swam into view. If I kept on like this, I’d never get to sleep. And I needed to stay as sharp as possible if I wanted to help the lads beat Westfield next week.

  I forgot about the sheep, and imagined myself into the game. I was putting the ball on the turf, ready to take a free kick. The ref blasted his whistle, trying to tell the Westfield boys to get back. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see Mr. Matthews pacing up and down the sideline, chewing on gum.

  If I scored this, we’d win the game . . .

  The next thing I knew the alarm was bleeping, flashing insistently that it was time to get up for school. For a second I lay there blinking.

  Did I score the free kick? Or did the other team manage to—

  The memory of last night slammed into me. I scrambled for my phone, held up the camera.

  I couldn’t believe it . . .

  The blond hair, the thick eyebrows, the way-too-big nose. It was all gone. I was back to being me again. Back to plain old Owen Smith.

  I sank into the pillow, letting relief wash over me.

  Then I remembered the photo. I must have imagined that too. Right? I sat up, breathing fast, hoping desperately that it had all been in my head. My thumb hesitated over the little gallery icon in the corner of the phone. Bracing myself, I pressed it and the most recent photo flicked up . . .

  And there it was.

  The blond hair.

  The too-big nose.

  The features that weren’t mine.

  The bottom of my stomach dropped away, leaving nothing but a gaping hole. Mr. Herring was always saying the brain was a marvelous thing . . . but you couldn’t take photos of stuff you were imagining, could you?

  Somehow, it must have really happened. But that was ridiculous. It was impossible.

  It’s okay, I told myself, even though it was hard to believe it. For now, at least, I was back to being me. It wasn’t enough to soothe my nerves completely, but it was something. I took a long, slow breath to calm myself down. I deleted the photo to help me forget about it.

  If it happened again, then I’d worry.

  Dad was still asleep, so to keep my mind busy I went downstairs and put the kettle on. I slotted two pieces of bread into the toaster and poured him a glass of orange juice. Then I grabbed a bowl and made myself some cereal.

  “Dad!” I called, after a while. “Breakfast.”

  I flicked the TV on, but there was nothing good on—just the news. This woman was going on about a parrot that could do math, tapping its foot to count out the answers. Some of the sums it could work out faster than me.

  “All right?” Dad said, sliding onto the chair closest to the door. He gulped some orange juice, and his eyes latched onto me. He hadn’t shaved for days now, and the silvery hairs on his cheeks made him look like an old wolf. “You look—”

  “I look what?” I said quickly, touching my cheek self-consciously.

  But I was still me. I was still normal.

  “You look tired.” Dad frowned. His eyes drifted over my face, and it felt as though he was seeing those other features even though they weren’t there. “Look, Owen, about yesterday—”

  “It’s okay,” I said.

  “No, it’s not. You were right. You’ve been right all along. I think I will go to see those counselors, for real this time. Writing last night, it felt good.” He chuckled, as if it surprised him. “It felt really good. The story’s not quite there yet, but it’s coming.”

  He didn’t have to say anything—I could tell from his laughter. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d heard him chuckle like that. And if one writing session made him feel better, imagine how much good it would do him if he kept at it?

  “What’s it about?” I asked.

  “Ah, I can’t tell you that. Not yet. Got to give it a chance to brew first. Wouldn’t want to jinx it. But I’ll tell you what . . . I think you’ll like it. The hero’s a lot like you.”

  5

  By the time I got to school, the shock of the evening before had faded. I tried googling it and I reckoned I’d probably had some kind of panic attack. I mean, it was the anniversary of the Longest Day. And on top of that, there was football.

  Danny and I had always dreamed of playing for Cambridge Academy. If we won the game next week, there was a glimmer of hope: it would always be hard to get trials, but a tiny chance was better than no chance.

  I was just stressed out. I must have been.

  It was easy to forget about it in Art, because Mrs. Bridges constantly watched you and if you stopped working for more than a few seconds, she would come over and ask questions like, “What’s so interesting that it’s stopping you from drawing that apple?”

  In PE we played rounders, and the only thing on my mind was trying to smack it farther than Slogger, which was practically impossible.

  Then English came around.

  I made sure I got a window seat because Mrs. Cole always likes to go on and on for the first twenty minutes. This room had a good view of the football pitches, at least.

  I was just sitting down when she flung open the door and strode in, singing, “Shakespeare!”

  A couple of kids groaned. I knew how they felt. Shakespeare? It was impossible to understand, even with all the notes down the side that explained what was going on.

  Mrs. Cole scribbled Shakespeare on the board in big letters, then underlined it with a flourish. “What’s not to love about that?” she said, bouncing all the way to her desk. She picked up a book and tapped its front cover, beaming round at the class.

  Danny caught my eye. He made a gun with his fingers and pretended to blow his brains out. Trying to stifle a laugh, I shoved my hands over my mouth and turned away—

  Then froze. My gut . . . it was twisting and turning, just like last night. It swelled up like a balloon, floating higher and higher.

  My breath caught in my throat.

  One minute I was staring into the courtyard, and the next there was no courtyard. No classroom at all. No carpet under my feet. Just dry, barren ground. A fierce wind stirred up clouds of dust that hung in the stinking air, making me gag and retch. A sudden Caw! rang out. With a flutter of black feathers, a crow shot into the gloomy sky.

  I opened my mouth to speak, but no words came out. My throat tightened, my stomach clenched in shock. I tried to breathe, but my lungs weren’t working. It was like I was strapped in to a ride I couldn’t see, spinning round and round and round.

  Then, as quickly as the dead world appeared, it vanished.

  My mind whirled, filling with colors. I pressed the palms of my hands into my eyes, trying to shut out the blinding light.

  “M-miss,” I stammered, clutching my stomach. Please don’t be sick, I thought. Not here.

  Now that the rush of colors in my head was clearing, the classroom came back into focus.

  I turned to the board. Shakespeare was scribbled across it, underlined three times. Was I dreaming? I must have been. I couldn’t think of another explanation.

  Automatically, I reached for my face, my hair, and—

  No! It was wrong again.

  I glanced at the window, but it was too bright to find my reflection. Dreading what I’d find, I opened my pencil tin and stared into the gleaming underside of the lid.

 
; “No,” I muttered, my mouth hanging open. I shot out of my seat and clattered into Dean’s table. But even though every pair of eyes was locked on me, they weren’t shocked like I thought they would be. They were just giggling because I’d interrupted the lesson.

  “What’s going on?” Mrs. Cole said.

  “I . . . I’m sorry, Miss,” I said, pinching my hair, the blond hair that wasn’t mine and yet was on my head for the second time in two days.

  “Is there a problem?” she trilled. “Have you got lice?”

  Some of the class burst out laughing. I ignored them.

  “No, Miss,” I said, sitting slowly back down.

  Couldn’t they see?

  I’m going mad, I thought. This can’t be happening. I turned to Danny, but he only shrugged and made the kind of face that said: STOP BEING SO WEIRD.

  “Well, if you don’t mind, Owen, can we get back to Shakespeare?”

  The singsongy voice was gone now.

  “Yeah . . . sorry, Miss.”

  I couldn’t concentrate for the rest of the lesson. I kept glancing at my reflection to see if my features had changed back, but they never did. I thought back to the photo last night and wished I hadn’t deleted it. My face was different in it, I knew it was, and it was happening again now. But if that was true, then why could no one else see it?

  When the lesson finally ended, I grabbed Danny in the corridor. “Do I look different?” I blurted, eyes wide to let him know that I wasn’t messing around.

  “What? No . . . but you’re acting a bit strange, mate. Are you all right?”

  I turned, unable to look at him as the lie formed on my tongue.

  “Yeah. Yeah, I’m fine.”

  By the end of lunch, my features had changed back, but that didn’t stop me worrying. I walked down to PE with Danny, trying really hard to listen as he went through set plays and tactics for next week’s game. But it was so hard to focus on what he was saying.

  I wanted to beat Westfield as much as he did, but after what happened in English, more than anything I just wanted to figure out what was going on.

  “There’s a video of them on YouTube,” Danny said. “I think one of the players’ dads must have uploaded it. They try to play the offside trap, but if we can lure them in, I reckon I can have that number three . . .”