Unthinkable (Night Fall ™)

by Shirley Duke

  The search party spread out. Omar and his mom had the western shore of Lake Pinquot and the surrounding woods. Omar knew the area well—he and Natasha had spent many happy hours hanging out in those woods when they were little.

  Omar and his mom walked through the woods in silence. Though it had been a long time, it still felt familiar to him, keeping step with her along these paths. As the woods got thicker, the shade darkened into long, dense patches. His mom shivered, and Omar gave her his coat.

  “Natasha!” Omar’s mom called out. “Natasha, honey . . . it’s Janine and Omar. Can you hear us?”

  “Natasha!” Omar yelled as loud as he could. Officer Monroe had told them that search parties had more success when they called out for the person, but the whole thing made Omar jumpy. He hated calling and not getting any answer. His mom must have felt the same way too, because in a few minutes they were back to keeping their silent rhythm.

  They walked for maybe an hour, jumping at every snapping branch, but mostly just listening to their own soft footprints. By now, the sun was high overhead. Omar’s forehead glistened with prickly beads of sweat, and he stopped for a second to mop his face with his sleeve.

  That’s when Omar noticed a giant rock. He recognized it immediately—it was the rock from his vision. Omar looked around. He hadn’t realized it before. These woods—he’d been here in his vision. They were the backdrop for “Dead in Red.”

  Omar shivered.

  “You want this back?” Omar’s mom motioned to the jacket around her shoulders.

  “No, Mom,” Omar said. He walked slowly to the rock. For a second, he just stood there.

  “What do you see, Omar?” His mom rushed over.

  Omar couldn’t force his eyes down.

  “Omar!” his mom whispered. She pointed at the far side of the boulder. On the ground was a clump of human hair. “Natasha’s hair.” She choked on the words. A few feet away were dark marks in the soil. They led down a path toward the beach.

  “She was dragged from here,” his mom said. She took off running along the trail of drag marks. “Natasha! Natasha!” she shrieked.

  But Omar didn’t yell. He knew already that Natasha couldn’t hear him. During the next few minutes, Omar felt like he was watching himself in a movie. He saw his mother running toward the beach. Against the sparkling water, her body made a frantic silhouette. Then he lost sight of her through the trees. A second later, he heard her scream. Omar ran toward her. He felt his heart pounding. He heard his own quick breaths, branches snapping under his feet.

  Then Omar was holding up his mother with both arms. They were at the shore, standing in the spot from his vision. Omar lifted his head and looked out on the lake.

  There was Natasha. Facedown in the water. Her hair floated out in all directions. The sun glistened off her flamered boots.

  Omar closed his eyes. The story of his vision had come true.

  Omar’smom called Bill, and in a few minutes the police were on the scene. Omar watched them coming—flashes of blue closing in on him from the woods behind him. Run, Omar’s brain told him.

  “I’ve got to get out of here,” he said to his mom.

  “Sure, Omar. You do what you need to do.” One thing about his mom—she understood that everyone handled bad news their own way.

  Then Omar was running, away from the lake, away from the police. The jumpiness in his muscles drained away in smooth, long strides. Omar’s feet pounded on the dirt, then on the paved roads of town.

  “Jon!” Omar stopped in front of his best friend’s house. He started yelling before he reached the doorbell. “Jon! Open up, Jon!”

  “Dude, I’m coming!” Omar heard Jon’s footsteps on the stairs inside. Then the door swung open. “What the—? Omar, what happened?”

  As Omar told Jon about Natasha, Jon slowly sank lower and lower until he was sitting on the concrete stoop outside. Jon looked small, sitting there, his oversized clothes drooping off his shoulders and knees. Jon put his head in his hands, and Omar sat down next to him. For several minutes, the two sat silently side by side.

  “Jon . . . listen.” Omar looked at his feet. “This is my fault. I got Natasha killed. Writing the story on Facebook. . . . It was like it came true.”

  Jon swung around to face Omar. “Man, don’t be ridiculous.” Jon’s voice was almost angry. “It was just a creepy coincidence.”

  “No,” Omar insisted. “If I hadn’t written that story, she wouldn’t have died.”

  Jon shot up. He looked his regular size again, facing off against his best friend. “What? You think you have supernatural powers now? Is that it?” Jon was yelling, gesturing his arms in wide circles. “You think this is about you, Omar? About your story? ” Jon stomped inside the doorway. “Not everything’s about you, Omar.” Jon grabbed the edge of the door. “Life is freaky. Deal with it,” he said, just before he slammed it shut.

  Omar blinked as the wind from the moving door brushed against his face. Then, he realized, a slight weight had lifted off his shoulders. Maybe Jon was right. This wasn’t about him. Life is freaky, Omar repeated Jon’s words in his head. The thought was strangely comforting.

  “Jon!” Omar shouted again. “You’re right! I’m sorry!”

  Jon opened the door halfway. He looked at Omar with red eyes. “Sorry I freaked, man. It’s just that—I’m just in a bad place right now.”

  “It’s okay, Jon,” Omar said. “I’ve got to get home, anyway.” Natasha was dead, but Omar would let that news sink in later. Right now, Melissa needed his mom more than ever, and somebody would need to take care of Gabriel.

  Omar forced himself to wake up early the next morning. He didn’t care if he was tired. He needed some time alone before his mom and Gabriel woke up.

  The sun was just rising as Omar made his way down into the kitchen. His laptop was sitting on the kitchen counter. Omar turned it on and slid onto a stool.

  The story of Natasha’s death was all over the news. The Bridgewater Gazette ran a special in-depth report. Omar skimmed the story on his monitor, looking for any new details. “Finding the killer is our number-one priority,” Sheriff Sean Brady was quoted as saying. “By now the perpetrator has undoubtedly changed his identity and may even be planning his next attack. But our agents are combing the scene for evidence. We are confident that the Facebook stalker will be brought to justice.”

  Omar skimmed down. More quotes by officials: “. . . parents alarmed . . . raises questions about socialnetworking sites.” Officer Monroe said, “Mark my words. I’m going to find this bastard before, God forbid, he preys on someone else’s daughter.”

  Omar was just about to close his laptop when an accompanying story caught his eye. The headline read, “Teenage Neighbor Predicts Attack?” Omar clicked on the story and read:

  “In what appears to be a bizarre coincidence, a Bridgewater teenager apparently wrote a fictionalized version of the stalker’s attack one day before it happened. Omar Phillips is a neighbor and classmate of Natasha Monroe’s. Well-known among his peers for his somewhat disturbing and off-color works of fiction, Phillips had posted ‘Dead in Red’ late Thursday night. In the story, a girl in ‘flamered’ boots describes her ‘date from hell’ in which—”

  Someone was pounding at the door. Omar got up to answer it. As he grabbed the handle, it swung open from the other side. Two hands grabbed Omar by the shoulders. They twisted his shirt into two knots. Then Omar was lifted off the ground. Two inches from Omar’s face was a blurry Officer Monroe.

  “You think this is funny?” Officer Monroe’s spit rained down lightly on Omar’s forehead. “This is your idea of some sick joke?” Monroe shook Omar and then dropped him back down. “You perverted little—” Monroe lifted his right arm, and Omar covered his face with both hands. He waited, heart pounding, for the blow, but nothing came. When Omar uncovered his face, Monroe was staring at him; his pinched dark eyes showed a mix of pure disgust and pure hatred.

  “Mr. Monroe, I’m so s
orry—” Omar began, but Monroe wasn’t listening.

  “I need answers . . . now.” Monroe walked into the kitchen and sat down heavily on one of the kitchen chairs. He leaned across the table, pushing Omar’s laptop onto the floor with one of his elbows. Omar winced. “Where were you on the night of the incident?” Monroe said. He was in police mode now. He even pulled out one of the little notebooks that officers are always using on TV.

  Omar thought a minute. He’d written “Ferry to Hell” after school. Then his mom had taken Gabriel to a friend’s while she filled in a night shift at the restaurant. “I was at home,” Omar said at last.

  “Can anybody verify that?”

  “No, sir,” he said. Then, for a second, everything went black. Omar heard footsteps, breaking branches. He was back in the woods, but he smelled salt water this time. Not now, Omar begged his brain, please, no vision now.

  “You didn’t talk to anyone, text anyone?”

  “I was pretty tired,” Omar said. There was something in the darkness. Omar felt its heat on the back of his neck.

  “Tired? From what?”

  From going crazy, Omar wanted to say.

  Monroe got up and grabbed Omar’s foot. “These the shoes you were wearing?” He pulled off Omar’s sneaker and held the sole up close to his eyes.

  “Yes, sir.” Didn’t Monroe need a warrant or something to do stuff like that?

  Monroe grunted and threw the shoe down.

  “Let me see that.” Monroe picked up Omar’s laptop from the floor and opened it up.

  “When was the last time you talked to Natasha? Do you communicate on Facebook?”

  “No!” Omar yelled. Someone was getting hurt. In his vision, something was attacking in the dark. Omar saw red, glowing fingers around a neck.

  Omar grabbed the laptop out of Monroe’s hands. He jumped away and spoke quickly before the vision overtook him. “Look, Mr. Monroe, I’m sorry about Natasha, but . . . life is just freaky. I would never hurt Natasha. I loved Natasha. I don’t know why I wrote that story. It just came to me . . .”

  Monroe’s head tilted as if he were considering an idea. He walked up to Omar so that the toes of his black shoes and Omar’s one shoe and one sock were touching. Monroe looked hard at Omar for a second.

  He can’t book me, Omar thought. Monroe needed more evidence—and he knew it.

  Finally, Monroe grunted and put his pad back in his shirt pocket. “I’ve got my eyes on you,” he said. Omar felt Monroe’s hot breath against his forehead. “You’re not going to get away with this.”

  As soon as Monroe was out the door, Omar collapsed on the kitchen floor as the vision overtook him. When Omar came to, he found himself at his computer at the end of a story.

  Omar Phillips

  “Death Dive off Bluff Island”

  Sunday, November 7, 2010, at 8:41 A.M.

  “Where r u?” I punched the letters into my phone. The air had an edge tonight. It wasn’t just the usual November-evening chill on Bluff Island, either. I didn’t like this feeling. I didn’t like any feeling that I didn’t understand. But this one made me especially uneasy. And besides, where the hell was Kellner? We were supposed to meet up at Dead Man’s Cave, and Kellner was bringing the brewskies.

  Dead Man’s Cave. The name fit my mood perfectly. I slumped inside its opening and leaned my head against its cool stone side. I stretched out my legs. Just a short distance beyond my feet, the ground ended. The top of the bluff looked frosted tonight, like a horizon to another world.

  I shivered. I remembered the story my brother Dan had told me. Dead Man’s Cave was named after all those who’d come here to end their lives. “Jumpers,” Dan had called them. Every ten years or so, the authorities would find another body. Always a young male, around fifteen. His body would be beaten up pretty bad from the fall, but there was always something else too—burn marks in a ring around his neck.

  I realized I was rubbing my neck with one hand. I laughed a little. “Urban legend,” I thought. I checked my watch. “C’mon, Kellner.”

  Snap! I heard footsteps in the underbrush behind me. “Dude! Finally!” I said, standing up to meet my friend. But when I stepped out into the moonlight, I didn’t see anyone coming up the path.

  More breaking branches. More footsteps.

  “Hello?” I called, turning in all directions.

  “Heeeeelllllloooooooo.” The reply was just a whisper. I could feel warm breath on the back of my neck.

  I spun around. “Cut it out, Kellner!” I lunged at the space behind me, but my fist only punched the black air.

  “Kellner, I’m going to kill—”

  I couldn’t breathe. It felt like a crushing weight was on top of me, but my feet were off the ground. I could see my body, hanging limp. Someone—something—was lifting me up by the neck. I could see my attacker’s reddish arms, as thick as tree trunks.

  The arms started to glow. At first it was so dim, I thought it was the shifting moon. But the glowing got brighter and brighter until it hurt too much to look at it. That’s when the burning started.

  The fingers around my neck seared my skin. I couldn’t breathe long enough to scream. My body registered my horror by writhing and flailing. The giant arms lifted me to the edge of the bluff. For a second, I dangled there. I looked down and saw the water make a backdrop to my legs and feet. Then the burning was gone from my neck, replaced by cool wind blowing against my skin and hair. I was falling. Below, the rocks got bigger and bigger until—SMACK! I heard the crunch of my own bones breaking.

  Omar managed to keep to himself the rest of the day. He pretended he was sleeping in his room. But avoiding his mom and Gabriel was easy anyway. Through his closed door, he could hear the downstairs sounds of cartoons and his mom talking on the phone. Omar knew she was comforting Melissa. He knew he should go downstairs, go help with Gabriel. But his mom didn’t ask for help, and Omar had too much to take in right now: first the visions, then Natasha, then Monroe.

  Omar didn’t know how to feel this bad. He’d never felt this heartsick before, even after Dad left.

  A physical ache radiated out from the middle of Omar’s chest, pinning him to his bed.

  The next morning, school was closed, thankfully. Students were encouraged to come in and talk with grief counselors, but Omar just wanted to be by himself. Around seven o’clock, he managed to drag himself out of bed and go downstairs. A few minutes later, though, his mom and Gabriel were walking around upstairs. Omar groaned.

  “Omar—you up?” his mom was calling, but she knew the answer already. “Can you help me get Gabriel ready?”

  Omar’s mom had found an emergency opening at the day-care center downtown. After she dropped off Gabriel, she’d head to Melissa’s to help with funeral arrangements.

  “You okay all by yourself today?” she asked Omar.

  Okay all by himself? Sometimes Omar wondered if his mother even knew him at all. “Yeah, sure, Mom,” he said, turning back toward his open laptop as if to prove it.

  Maybe he’d even be able to write today, he thought. Maybe he’d write something for Natasha, something beautiful. Omar closed his eyes as memories of Natasha flashed behind them, one after another. Maybe he’d write something good enough to read at her funeral.

  Omar wrote all morning. He’d managed only to do it, to write what he felt without thinking too much about it. When he was done, he read over his work. It was good.

  The sick ache in Omar’s chest was gone, at least for now. For the first time since Saturday morning, Omar felt like eating. He flipped on the TV in the kitchen. He spooned cereal into his mouth, halflistening to a story about fall colors.

  “This just in—” There was a shift in the newscaster’s voice. Omar turned his attention to the screen.

  “It appears that a bizarre and deeply disturbing accident has befallen travelers to Bluff Island this morning,” the newscaster was saying. “Standing by is Michelle Stamford with more details regarding the tragic fate of the 7
:00 A.M. ferry commuters. Michelle—we’re hearing that the ferry encountered some sort of rare and devastating natural disaster?”

  “That’s right, Jim. Authorities are calling it a water funnel, which is essentially a tornado that touches down over the ocean. It’s incredibly rare in this climate.”

  “I see medical personnel carrying stretchers behind you. What kind of casualties are we talking about here?”

  “Well, Jim, reports are still coming in, but it’s sure to be in the dozens, at least. Apparently, the event set off a gas explosion, and passengers in the main area were trapped in the fire. Others were injured by objects carried inside the water funnel—like flying missiles, if you will. I have one survivor here who says many jumped overboard out of desperation—including one mother with her newborn baby zipped up inside her coat. Young man,” the reporter turned to address the person standing next to her, “you’ve seen some terrible things today. What can you tell us?”

  The camera turned to frame the person the reporter had addressed, but Omar already knew who was standing there, what he would say, what he had felt. On the screen in Omar’s kitchen was the narrator from his story.

  Omar dropped his bowl, shattering the glass and spreading cereal across the floor. “Ferry to Hell” had come to life.

  That afternoon the hate mail started. On Facebook, Omar had twenty new messages and thirty new comments on “Ferry to Hell” alone.

  Omar scrolled down through his messages. He didn’t recognize many of the senders’ names or their pictures.

  “You are one twisted freak,” the first message read.

  “This is seriously messed up.”

  “God will punish you.”

  Omar kept scrolling down. More disbelief, more disgust. One person had written simply, “What are you?”