The Night the Heads Came

by William Sleator

  Their faces are streaked with blood. They are all eating what look like living humanoid creatures and dropping gobs of flesh to the ground. The countryside around the city is barren and arid, and the air is filled with smoke.

  Tim was right about one thing, anyway: His drawings have really improved. They’re hypnotic; the strange technique draws you in, so that it’s hard to look away from them. “These are amazing, Tim. No kidding,” I tell him. “Like—more than professional. Did you really draw these yourself?”

  “Of course I did!” he snaps at me. “I can show you. I can draw one right now. I’ll just get out a pencil and—”

  “Okay, okay. You can do that later. What’s this thing?”

  “The harness other creatures wear so they can get around in that city.” It’s a metallic contraption reminiscent of armor, except that it has a very large balloon on it. “The Gratekteks have them for visitors who can’t fly—they can adjust them to fit almost anything.”

  “Too bad you didn’t have a camera. I mean so you could document that you really saw this and didn’t just make it up,” I say.

  “Yeah, I wanted photos,” Tim says. “And of course all the more advanced civilizations had cameras. But the heads wouldn’t let me touch them. They wanted me to draw everything so I’d learn this style. Look at these. I have to show them to you in the right order so you’ll get a sense of the scale.”

  He shows me a picture of a jungle. It could almost be a jungle on Earth, trees with long, bare trunks and dense foliage at the top creating a canopy. “See this tree here?” he asks me. “The one that’s losing all the leaves?” I nod. “Okay. This next picture shows an enlargement of the bottom third of that tree. See the kind of weblike thread things here at the very, very bottom in the corner? I had to use a magnifier to draw them.”

  He shows me a series of pictures of the same scene, each one an enlargement of the one before. When I see the last one, I make a sound of amazement. The threads are not a spiderweb. They are the tracks of an amusement park ride, sort of like a roller coaster, with bulletlike vehicles on them. All the foliage around them is withered.

  “The creatures who ride in these things are so tiny compared to the trees,” I murmur. “To them, the trees must be like … like …”

  “Gods,” Tim says. “Gods that they kill. The exhaust from their vehicles does it.”

  There’s something gruesome about the idea of these tiny creatures killing these huge trees just for their own amusement. And yet I want to keep looking. I pull my eyes away from the picture—it’s an effort—and check my watch. “It’s after three. We gotta go now.”

  “You have to look at this next drawing,” he argues. “You haven’t even seen any of the really special ones yet.”

  I make myself start the engine and drive out of the gas station. “I know you’re not looking forward to seeing your parents,” I say. “But we have to do it sometime, and the later we are, the worse it’s going to be.”

  For the next half hour, Tim tells me about traveling around the universe. “Of course the heads’ ship goes faster than light—FTL travel for real! That’s why thousands of years was only a couple of years to us. FTL travel has something to do with going through these wormholes in space.”

  “I still don’t remember anything about what the heads were like or their ship or anything else at all,” I say, feeling cheated—and still doubtful.

  “The heads were pretty gross at first, but you got used to that. They’re always joking around and laughing. They like to eat these worms that make them drunk. That’s about the only physical thing they can do. The bodies are completely separate and do everything except think. And the ship is like nothing you would imagine. I mean it’s a whole kind of muddy ecosystem, because they spend so much time there.”

  “You’d think my memory of it would come back, now that you’re actually telling me,” I say, jealous of him. “I almost wish the heads had brought me along too.”

  “Who knows, they may decide to let you come back to the ship again,” Tim says.

  “I said I almost wish it. Don’t give them any ideas,” I say quickly. His pictures distracted me for a while, but now I’m beginning to wonder how much of what Tim saw is real. He got a lot older in two days; there’s no denying that. But did he really see all these planets, or did the heads just make him think he did? Obviously they have some kind of control over his mind—otherwise, he wouldn’t be so frightened of The Others one minute and so blasé about them the next.

  I keep checking the rearview mirror for the green van. I’m very relieved that there’s no green van waiting for us when we reach my house. I’m almost happy to see the police car and that all the lights are on; we may be safe here for a while.

  Tim balks when he sees his father’s car is here too. “Why are the heads punishing me? Why did they have to bring me back here?” he moans.

  I wish I knew. “Come on, Tim. You can’t avoid it,” I tell him. We start up the walk.

  How is Tim going to explain what happened to him? The whole thing still baffles me. Tim’s story really does not make much sense. Even if what he’s saying is true, there are still a lot of unanswered questions. Why is Tim the only abducted person who remembers the heads and their ship? Did they really take him to all those worlds just to make him a great artist—or did they have some other secret motivation? And, most puzzling of all, why did they send him back into the midst of their enemies—these enemies that he is sometimes afraid of and sometimes not afraid of—with all these memories and drawings their enemies desperately want?

  The answer hits me as we reach the door. I panic again, almost wishing Tim hadn’t come back, wanting to stay as far away from him as possible now.

  The Others want Tim and his drawings. Tim is what will bring them out of hiding; he is what will force them to reveal themselves more and more in their continued efforts to get him.

  Tim is bait.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Mom and Dad rush toward me as soon as we step inside. Tim’s father and the two cops jump to their feet and stare at us.

  “What happened to you? Are you okay? Where were you? Why didn’t you call us?” Mom and Dad are saying.

  “Everything’s okay. Look—I found Tim!”

  Now Mom and Dad turn and stare at him too. For a long time, nobody says anything.

  Captain Kroll breaks the silence. “Kind of an old picture of him you gave us,” he says to Tim’s father. “Would have been easier to try to find him if you’d given us an up-to-date one.”

  Mom backs to a chair and drops into it, her eyes still on Tim. “My God,” Dad murmurs. “What on Earth?”

  Tim just stands there holding his portfolio, his eyes downcast, as if he’s afraid to look at his father.

  Now the cops seem confused, looking around at everybody. “What’s the matter?” Captain Kroll says. “What’s going on here?”

  “Yeah, I’d like to know that too,” Tim’s father says, taking a step closer to us and narrowing his eyes. “What are you trying to pull now, Leo?”

  Tim still isn’t saying anything. He’s leaving it all up to me. I feel like kicking him. “Uh … I know it’s kind of hard to take in,” I say to his father. “I was upset when I first saw him too. But now maybe you’ll believe us about the aliens.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Tim’s father says.

  I turn to Captain Kroll. “That wasn’t an old picture he gave you. The reason everybody’s acting like this is that, well … Tim’s a couple years older now than he was when they took him away the other night.”

  “What?” the cops both say at the same time.

  “I wouldn’t … I don’t … But I can see it! No doubt about it,” Dad says, shaking his head. “What on Earth happened to you, Tim?”

  “Uh-huh, I should have expected that’s what they’d do,” Tim’s father says, sounding disgusted. He turns to the cops and gestures at Dad. “Of course they’re playing along with it too,
to try to get their kid off the hook. But it’s not going to work. This impostor he’s dug up somewhere is not my son.”

  Tim still just stands there silently.

  “Oh, come on!” I say to his father. “Okay, he’s taller; he’s lost a lot of weight. I know it’s hard to believe. But try to stretch your mind a little. He’s obviously the same person. Anybody can see that. Ask him something personal, some family thing. Ask him something nobody but Tim would—”

  “This is ridiculous. I’m getting out of here,” Tim’s father says. He starts for the door, where we’re still standing, then swings back to the cops. “Don’t let up on the search,” he orders them, then starts toward the door again.

  “Please, Dad,” Tim finally says, his voice quiet and calm. “Don’t make everything worse; don’t be embarrassing. For once in your life, could you please just try not to be so totally … rigid and superior.”

  Tim’s father ignores him—he’s shorter than Tim now—and instead marches up to me and glares into my face. “What did you think I’d do, let this stranger come and live in my house? You’re not just criminal; you’re sick!”

  “And you’re beyond belief!” I tell him. “Are you blind or something? Everybody else knows he’s Tim. Come on, just ask him something. What are you going to lose?”

  “Get out of my way and let me—”

  “Mr. Coleman!” Captain Kroll interrupts him.

  Tim’s father turns around. “Yeah?” he says irritably.

  “Everyone else does recognize him,” Captain Kroll says, with an edge to his voice—he obviously hasn’t enjoyed dealing with Tim’s father. “Why don’t you ask him something?”

  “You too?” Tim’s father says. “This is not my son.”

  “Your son was wearing a green-and-orange striped T-shirt and a pair of blue denim jeans and carrying a black portfolio on the night he was last seen,” the second cop says, reading from his pad. “And so is this kid here.”

  “You know, you’re right,” Tim’s father says, his eyes narrowing even more. He turns slowly back to Tim. “Those could very well be Tim’s clothes this person is wearing. And you can see they don’t fit him. And maybe there’s some kind of scientific tests you can run on them, compare them to hairs or dandruff or whatever on Tim’s other clothes or something, have a dog smell them or something, I don’t know. But all you have to do is prove these are Tim’s clothes on this impostor—and then you’ll know for sure that Leo got rid of Tim somehow.”

  Now everybody except Tim shouts at each other for a while. Mom and Dad are defending me; Tim’s father is accusing me; I’m telling Tim to come up with something, anything his family knows that nobody else knows; and Captain Kroll is trying to quiet us down. Finally he blows a painfully piercing whistle, and we all shut up and put our hands over our ears.

  “Okay,” Captain Kroll says to Tim. “If you really are who you say you are, you ought to be able to prove it, like Leo says. And nobody is moving or saying another word until you talk.”

  We wait silently. Tim looks at his father for a long time with an odd, speculative expression on his face. “Uh, I’ve been away for so long, my memory’s kind of dim,” he finally says, “but … remember the time we were on vacation in Florida, and we were at the beach, and your toupee blew off—the expensive one—and you had to chase it across the sand and all the people at the beach were laughing and pointing and telling their friends and—”

  “No, I do not remember,” Tim’s father interrupts him, his voice unnaturally even. But we can all see his face getting redder and redder, and even as he is denying the story he can’t keep himself from reaching up to be sure his hairpiece is in place.

  “You know, I didn’t even know you wore one,” Captain Kroll says cheerfully. “That should make you feel better.”

  “I warn you, do not pay any attention to that impostor or you’ll regret it,” Tim’s father threatens, though a lot of the bombast has gone out of his voice. “I’ll check with your superior tomorrow to see how the search is going.” He marches out of the house, slamming the door behind him.

  “It’s a true story,” Tim says.

  “I think he might have been more willing to admit your story was true if you’d come up with something that wasn’t quite so embarrassing,” Mom says. At the same time it’s clear that she—and everybody else in the room—really enjoyed seeing Tim’s father humiliated.

  “Well, back to business,” Captain Kroll says. He addresses Mom and Dad and me. “The three of you are saying this really is Tim—even though Mr. Coleman denies it?”

  “It’s Tim,” I say.

  “Well, he looks like Tim might look in two years—if he lost weight,” Dad puts in. Mom agrees.

  “So why are you so sure, Leo?” Captain Kroll asks me. “This stuff about getting two years older in two days is kind of hard to take, you know. Why are you so sure it’s Tim and not just someone else who looks like him?”

  “He acts like Tim. All he cares about is his drawings. Tim was always like that.”

  “Yes, but … did you make sure? Like what he knew about Mr. Coleman. Is there anything this guy knows that only Tim could know?”

  I think back. I know he’s Tim—I’m his best friend—but I realize we haven’t discussed anything that had happened just between the two of us. Such as what we were talking about in the car before the heads abducted us.

  “Do you remember much about the night when I was driving you to catch the bus to New York, before the heads came?” I ask him.

  “Heads?” Mom says.

  “What do you remember?” I ask Tim.

  “That was such a long time ago, you know,” he tells me. “Years and years.”

  “Yeah, but it was your last hour on Earth. Don’t you remember anything?”

  He sighs. “My last hour on Earth. And now I’m back here on Earth again,” he says bitterly.

  I want to ask him what exactly was so great about his trip that he didn’t want to come home to his own planet, but now is not the time. “Like, what were you eating, for instance?” I prod him.

  “Potato chips?” he asks me, his face brightening. “It must have been potato chips. You got any here? Food, Earth food—that’s what I miss more than anything else. It was about the only thing I missed, if you want to—”

  “Yes, you were eating potato chips,” I interrupt him. For some reason it bothers me hearing him complain about being returned to Earth. I turn to Captain Kroll. “He remembers eating potato chips when we were alone in the car, and he’s right. Anyway, I already know it’s him.”

  “Do you have any potato chips?” Tim asks Mom again.

  “That’s exactly the way Tim always sounded when he wanted something to eat,” Mom says. “Yes, we do have potato chips. And while we’re at it, how about a sandwich? Anybody else?”

  Everybody declines except Tim.

  “Okay,” Mom says, “I remember your favorite combo, Tim. One pea—”

  “Excuse me,” Captain Kroll says. “Why don’t you let him tell you what his favorite is.”

  Tim is almost panting now. “Peanut butter and salami and cheese with banana slices!” he bursts out.

  “This is Tim. Couldn’t be anybody else,” Mom says. She goes over and kisses Tim on the cheek. “Welcome back, Tim,” she says and pushes back her hair and walks into the kitchen. And I’m thinking how lucky I am to have parents like mine and not Tim’s.

  “Too bad Mr. Coleman doesn’t agree about who you are,” Captain Kroll says, looking unhappy about it. “It would sure make things easier on us if he did.”

  “Compare his teeth. Test his DNA,” I say. “Nobody can argue with data like that. Even that jerk—I mean, even his father would have to admit it then.”

  Soon the cops leave, telling us they will be in touch tomorrow. After Tim eats, Mom insists that we go to bed, saying we must be exhausted, and we can all talk in the morning. Tim and I go up to my room, where there are twin beds. But we’re not exhausted; we’re ful
l of nervous energy. Sleep is impossible. I take a Polaroid of Tim, just for the heck of it. Then we talk quietly about Tim’s adventures, and we look at more of his drawings—the “special” ones, he calls them.

  Even in my worst nightmares, I have never seen anything like the first one he shows me.

  CHAPTER TEN

  “This is a special one,” Tim says. “What do you think?”

  I stare at it for a long time. This picture is even harder to make anything out of than the ones I looked at in the car, a mass of jagged lines in many subtly different colors. I know there must be something recognizable in here, but I can’t seem to focus in on it.

  “Try changing the distance from your eyes and the angle,” Tim instructs me.

  I move it back and forth; I shift the angle; I let my eyes blur a little. And then I see it. “Oh, no,” I murmur. I feel very dizzy and have to shut my eyes. When I open them and look at the drawing again, my reaction is the same as if I’ve been slapped across the face. I feel it all over my body. It’s painful, but at the same time I can’t take my eyes away.

  “Well? What do you think?” Tim presses me.

  Partly it’s the feeling of space that’s so alarming. I’m staring directly down into a bottomless abyss; if I took one step I’d be falling down into it myself. The landscape around the abyss is eroded and defoliated, as though some great catastrophe has occurred here. Within the walls of the abyss are the awesome ruins of what was once a great civilization. It’s so complex and detailed that you could go on looking at it for hours and still find more blackened, crumbling passageways, more bizarre alien artifacts strewn around. The streets that are not obstructed by collapsed buildings are clogged with rusting vehicles.

  But most horrible of all are the creatures that are frolicking here. They are headless, toadlike things, with exposed veins and terrible, huge faces on their backs. They play in this wasteland with the same pleasure and excitement as monkeys swinging through a jungle. Somehow, Tim’s drawing technique makes them more disgustingly realistic than any special effects.