by D.J. Bodden
CHAPTER 1
Jonas looked over his father’s shoulder as Victor took a crowbar to one of the wooden crates. It was full of equipment—military gear, like something out of a war movie. His dad rifled through boxes of walkie-talkies and bulletproof vests, looking for something. Then, as his dad reached to lift something out, there was a loud ding—the sound of an elevator door opening. Victor dropped whatever was in his hand and spun around, fear clearly written on his face.
That’s when Jonas realized he was dreaming. He knew his dad wouldn’t be scared. Neither was Jonas.
“I’m not afraid,” he told himself. “No one is stronger than me in my dreams.” It was something his dad had taught him as a kid.
The first time he’d had a nightmare, when he was four years old, he’d woken to find his dad standing at his bedside.
“Go back,” his father had said, stroking Jonas’ forehead. “Go back and hunt the thing that scares you.”
He remembered the weight of his dad’s hand on his forehead and a feeling of calm. He couldn’t remember what he’d been afraid of, but afterward, he never had trouble sleeping again.
His view blurred, and suddenly his dad reappeared on the other side of the room, partially hidden in shadow. Then he blurred again and disappeared from view. Jonas willed the dream after him.
As he floated along, bodiless, he tried to make sense of what he was seeing and feeling. The air around him felt cool and damp, as though they were in a cave, but the walls were brick. The place definitely felt old, yet the pallets, crates, and cardboard boxes were new, laid out in neat rows, like a warehouse, with just enough room to pass between them.
The next room was occupied by… things. Monstrous shapes with glowing eyes lurked in every corner, and each room his father blurred into, seemed to have more. Jonas noticed his dad looking increasingly scared now, almost a caricature, glancing over his shoulder like a pulp-horror heroine at something just out of sight.
The dream moved faster, crossing entire rooms in a blink, Victor taking stairs upward whenever he could. Jonas followed easily, floating behind him. Soon, however, it became clear that his father wasn’t afraid of the shapes in the dark. The creatures barked, hissed, and screeched, but his dad ignored them. No, it had to be something else, some unknown presence just out of sight.
Several floors above where the dream started, Victor ran out of options. They stood in a large, square room with brick walls, and a high ceiling striped with metal rafters. There was a single door opposite the stairs, with sunlight seeping under it.
“Dad! Not that way!” Jonas shouted, momentarily forgetting it was a dream. Both his father and mother had a condition—a severe reaction to sunlight. It gave them rashes and blisters and could send them into shock. That’s why they only went out at night, and every window in their apartment was covered with heavy black curtains. All except the one in his room. Somehow, he’d lucked out in the genetic lottery. To him, sunlight was just warm.
Jonas watched his dad standing there, frozen, afraid to go back and unable to go forward. The door swung open, revealing a man’s shape silhouetted in the afternoon sun.
The figure spoke a single word. “Victor!”
Victor fell back in terror as a single ray of sunlight struck his leg. Jonas felt a sharp pain in his shin and yelped.
♟
“Jonas, wake up!” Amelia hissed. She kicked him again, and his eyes popped open.
“What happened?” he said, feeling several sets of eyes turn to look at him.
“What happened?” Amelia whispered. “We’re supposed to be studying French, and you fell asleep. That’s what happened.”
They were in the public library, a few streets and avenues over from the block they both lived on. He’d awakened loudly, so he mouthed an apology to the people he’d disturbed before letting his eyes swing back to his girlfriend.
She was a petite brunette, with serious, hazel eyes and a cute line of freckles across the bridge of her nose. Her lips were squashed together in a thin line. She wasn’t pleased.
“Sorry,” he whispered.
“Je suis désolé,” she corrected, narrowing her eyes. “And sorry isn’t going to take your tests for you. What were you thinking?”
“I was dreaming about my dad,” he answered, feeling a trace of hurt creep into his voice.
Amelia sighed, and the lines on her face relaxed. She slid her hand across the table, placed it over his, and squeezed. Then she frowned and pulled it back.
“It’s been a year, Jonas. The teachers aren’t going to let you get away with this forever.”
“They aren’t—” He noticed his voice start to rise, as did several other people, and cringed. “I’m passing all my classes,” he whispered.
“B’s and C’s won’t get you into a good college,” Amelia said, crossing her arms.
Jonas sat back. She’d been doing that a lot more lately: talking about his future… their future. “You’re worried I won’t be able to get into the same college as you, aren’t you? That’s kind of creepy, you know, we’re only—”
“I didn’t—” she said, blushing.
Jonas’ eyes widened as the image of a tall, balding man who had Amelia’s nose and never seemed happy to see him, popped into his head. “Your dad,” Jonas said, smacking his palm against his forehead and letting it slide down to cover his mouth.
Amelia nodded and looked down at her hands.
We’re only sixteen, Jonas thought. College was two years away… a lifetime. “What’s his problem with me, anyway?”
Amelia started to say, “He just—”
“It’s okay,” Jonas interrupted. “I know. Let’s just get out of here.” He gathered up his books.
“Okay,” she said, not meeting his eyes.
They walked home in silence. It was early November, and the leaves were changing. Jonas had always seen fall as a time of preparation: animals overeating for hibernation, students cramming for midterms, and trees shedding their leaves to survive until spring. Now, ever since the funeral, all he noticed were black skies, dead leaves on the ground, and the bite of an early winter.
About halfway to her apartment, Jonas reached out and took Amelia’s hand. He’d tried talking to her about his dreams before, but she didn’t understand. How could she? Vivid dreams were one thing, but some of his felt real. And lately, they all did. He’d read about déjà vu online, how it was little short circuits in the brain, but his dreams weren’t tiny sparks, they were more like electrical storms. Sometimes, it was almost like he caught a flash of what people were thinking.
Amelia was right about one thing, though. Dreams wouldn’t put his life back on track. It had gotten derailed, causing him to lose the warm certainty he’d had as a child. Up until the funeral, he’d thought life was a series of predictable, generally benign, events that led to adulthood – with goals, a good job, and a family. As it turned out, they’d all been walking tightropes with blindfolds and no safety nets. His father had fallen off, and his mother…
“I’m worried about my mom. She’s been spending a lot more time in her room lately. Ever since…”
Amelia’s hand tensed. “Doesn’t she have…?”
“Porphyria cutanea tarda,” Jonas said, automatically. He was used to having to explain it.
“Right… can’t be out during the day… gets sunburns, blisters, and—”
Jonas shook his head. “I’m not talking about that. We have heavy curtains on all the windows, and she still goes to work at night. It’s just that, well, she used to come out and visit in the afternoons, when Dad was still… alive. Now, she stays in her room until it’s time to leave, and when she sees me, it’s like she’s surprised I’m there.”
“She’s grieving, Jonas,” Amelia said, squeezing his hand.
Jonas stopped. “Really? It’s been over a year since she threw his ashes all over the church floor, and she still doesn’t believe he’s dead. That’s not normal!”
Amelia winced.
“Sorry, didn’t mean to raise my voice. I’m just worried. I need to talk to her… tonight.”
Amelia looked at him skeptically. They started walking again but didn’t talk for the rest of the trip. He could have told her about the dream, but that kind of stuff just made her uncomfortable. All of her energy was focused on the real world — school, parents, and plans for the future.
Jonas thought back over the previous year. At least money hadn’t become an issue for him and his mom. They’d stayed in their expensive apartment, and she hadn’t given him the, “We need to make different choices now that your dad’s gone,” speech. But Jonas knew she couldn’t be making that much working as an administrator for a tiny clinic. So, unless she’d inherited a trust fund, his father must’ve made arrangements.
On the off chance she just wasn’t paying attention, he’d decided to save some of his allowance. He felt a little sick every time he used his debit card. In a lot of ways, Amelia was braver than he was. Real life could be a lot more frightening than dreams.
As they approached the front entrance to Amelia’s apartment building, she turned and said, “Thanks for walking me.”
Jonas leaned in and kissed her on the cheek. “Sure, I’ll see you tomorrow, okay babe?”
Lately, he’d started experimenting with terms of endearment. It felt awkward. “Honey” was too many syllables to blurt out, “hun” was too southern, and he didn’t think “love” was honest. He liked her, and they spent a lot of time together, but he didn’t look at her like his mom looked—had looked—at his dad. So he used “babe,” even though it made him feel like a jock.
She rewarded him with a smile, and he felt its warmth on his face, like the sun on a cold day. I did something right today, he thought, returning her smile.
“You’ll call me if you need to, right?” she said.
“I will.”
He watched her walk up the steps to her door. She turned before closing it and blew him a kiss.
♟
Still smiling, Jonas pulled out his MP3 player and selected his favorite electronica playlist. After adjusting the ear buds, he stuffed his hands in his pockets and headed for home. Robert Miles’ “Children” started with the roll of surf and a repeating stair-step of synthesizer notes, making the other pedestrians seem like they were marching to his tune at three or four steps per beat.
As he walked, he let his mind wander, pondering how best to start the conversation with his mom.
He’s dead, but I’m still here, was the first thing that came to mind, but that seemed a little harsh. I miss him too, and I need to know what happened, he continued, trying different conversation starters. Sometimes, I feel like I’m living alone. He swallowed hard on the last thought, took a deep breath, and kept walking.
At least he had Amelia. Other than her, he’d never had a permanent group of friends, just acquaintances—his father had taught him the difference. He’d thought his parents would be there forever, but things hadn’t worked out that way. Amelia had been with him for two years, and maybe that would fall apart too, but she was there now. Jonas just wished he shared her confidence that all of her perfect plans would work out.
His fingers twitched in his pockets as the song looped back with a heavier, faster bass. Music had always been his anchor in the storm. He’d been listening to the same stuff since he was ten or eleven, downloading it to an MP3 player the size of a smartphone. He listened to it while he walked, studied, and even fell asleep to it. And he had no problem listening to the same song five times in a row, even though it drove Amelia crazy.
He froze in mid-step, scanning both sides of the street. Someone was watching him.
He couldn’t explain how he knew, but ever since his father hadn’t come home—died, he mentally corrected himself—he could tell. Not only that, but he could also tell how many were watching, and approximately where they were. It was that déjà vu feeling. This time, it felt like a single person. He stooped, pretending to tie his shoelace, and looked behind him. But there was no one standing where he thought they should have been. Where are you?
An instant later, the music in his ears faded out, and something invisible slammed into him. He staggered back, looking around wildly, as a tingling sensation ran from the top of his head to the base of his neck. It felt like someone was reaching into his skull, searching for something by feel. He tried to run, but moving was suddenly very complicated, like he’d forgotten how.
Then it was gone—the tingling, the pressure, everything, as if it had never happened. He could hear music again, although the Gabriel and Dresden remix of “As the Rush Comes” was now playing, instead of the song he’d just been listening to. Taking out his MP3 player, he noticed he’d gone through more than half of his playlist.
“Are you all right, young man?”
Jonas looked up. It was Mrs. Eidelmeyer, a neighbor that lived on the same floor as he and his mother, though they rarely spoke.
“Excuse me?” he said, feeling confused.
“You’ve been standing there, stock still, since I rounded the corner, and it takes me a while these days.”
“I’m fine, Mrs. E,” he answered, not convinced he’d told the truth. “I just need to get home.”
♟
I’m going to talk to her tonight, he told himself, as he walked into the apartment. He dropped his bag and peered down the hall. Her bedroom door was closed. I’ll do it right after dinner.
He headed for the fridge, music still playing, although he’d turned it down so she wouldn’t hear. His parents could hear a pin drop from fifty yards and had always insisted that he keep things to a whisper. Add that to the list of “Things that freak me out,” he thought.
Pulling out some leftover pasta he’d made the night before, he spooned it onto a plate and popped it into the microwave. His thoughts drifted to Amelia as he watched the timer count down.
Being around her made him feel good. He felt a little stupid for thinking of it that way, but it was true. She wasn’t the hottest or most popular girl at school, but she was more than attractive enough to take his breath away. And when she really kissed him, it almost made him forget that their goals—or his lack of them—didn’t quite match up.
He opened the microwave at the last second to keep it from beeping, another habit he’d picked up young along with cooking, cleaning, and taking out the trash. Not that he’d had to do everything for himself. There had always been nannies to look after him during the day. But he’d still been required to reach a certain level of independence at a younger age than most. Now, it was just part of his routine.
He’d wanted it that way. Maybe it was because he was an only child, but he’d always felt like they were walking on eggshells around him—afraid they’d break him, or something. Their fussing had even seemed overbearing at times because he’d wanted to do things himself. Eventually, they’d given in, however nervously, as Sharon and Nancy after her had taught him how to be more self-sufficient. It didn’t stop them from hovering nearby from sundown until he went to sleep. And if he woke during the night, one of them would be there to calm and comfort him.
He reached into the microwave, poked the pasta with a finger and immediately jerked it back. Too hot, he thought. He grabbed the plate with an oven mitt and set it on the table. He always tried to finish eating before his mother got up, because the smell of food—especially strong odors like cheese, garlic, and fish—nauseated her. She would try to sit at the table with him, if she was up, while subconsciously leaning away from the food he was eating. He felt bad about it because it always made her turn several shades paler than she already was.
Sitting down at the table, he pulled his earphones out and said a silent prayer. His parents had been divided on the topic, but his father said he’d seen enough evil in the world that there had to be some good to measure it against. Whatever or whoever that was, Jonas figured it was in his best interest to be in His or Her good graces. Plus, it made him feel
closer to his father.
He ate quickly, blowing on bites to cool them down. Then he rinsed his plate, put it in the dishwasher, and collapsed on the couch.
I should talk to her now, he thought, glancing over his shoulder at her bedroom door. It was still closed. For a moment, he thought about knocking, then sighed. I’ll just wait ‘till she comes out.
While he waited, he decided to study for his upcoming French test. Even though it was a week away, and he was passing the class, Amelia was right; passing wasn’t enough. He grabbed the book from his bag and started over at the beginning of the chapter.
♟
His cell phone vibrated and he jerked awake. Digging the phone from his pants pocket, he saw it was a text from Amelia.
“FRENCH TEST!!! xoxo”
He groaned. The test was on “friends and family.” When he got to papa, père, grand-père, he’d stared at his reflection in the dormant TV and dozed off, and his mother had probably already gone to work. Still, he couldn’t shake the feeling he was being—
“Jeez!” he said, jumping in his seat.
His mother was sitting on the other end of the L-shaped couch, looking at him.
“You wanted to talk?” she said.
