The Night the Heads Came

by William Sleator

  “It’s great, Tim. I’ve never seen anything like it. It’s sensational. But why do all your drawings have to be so … horrible?”

  He doesn’t answer my question. “You really think it’s sensational?” he asks me, basking in my praise.

  “You didn’t actually see this, did you?”

  “It was a hologram broadcast. We saw lots of wonderful things on holograms.”

  I hand the drawing back to him, shaking my head. “I think you’ve changed more than physically, Tim. I mean, sure, you were always self-involved when it came to your artwork. But you were never bloodthirsty. You have any drawings at all that don’t have something gruesome in them?”

  “People like gruesome things,” Tim says. “All intelligent creatures do.”

  “Yeah, but every once in a while, just for a break, your audience might want to see something that isn’t just like a horror film.”

  He looks down shyly, leafing through his portfolio. “Well, I do have some different ones. But … they’re kind of personal.”

  “What do you mean, personal? What are you hiding?”

  He looks away, holding a picture in his hand that he seems reluctant to show me. “I … I mean …”

  “Tim, you can’t hide things from me. We’re in a really tight situation, with these Others after us. You have to tell me everything or we won’t make it.” I think for a moment. “Those other drawings you showed me in the car—the city of flying creatures, the city under the tree. Did you really go to those places, or were those just holograms the heads showed you too?”

  “Oh. They were holograms too.”

  “So how do you know any of these places are real and not just fantasy movies that the heads told you were real?”

  Tim thrusts the picture in his hand at me, almost angrily. “They’re real. I trust the heads. And I really did spend a lot of time on this planet.” His voice softens. “I … I really know her.”

  My eyes seem to be learning the trick of interpreting the lines more easily. It’s a drawing of a young woman. She seems almost human. She has no hair, and her face and limbs and body are thin and elongated. Even so, she’s very beautiful. She’s sitting on the ground, with her arms, like tree branches, stretched out behind her, supporting her. She’s looking directly at the viewer. Aside from her strange beauty, the most striking thing about the picture is its luminous quality. The sky seems to be glowing directly behind her, so that she is surrounded by a kind of halo.

  “You really knew her?” I ask him.

  “I really know her!” he says fiercely. “And I’ll be with her again; I’ll go back to her, no matter what!” He pulls the drawing away from me and gazes down at it. His eyes are brimming with tears.

  Now I feel shy. I don’t know what to say. He seems to be in love with this alien girl. That’s a big change too. Before he went away, he was too preoccupied with his artwork—and mainly too self-conscious about his weight—to get involved with girls.

  “Who is she?” I finally ask him.

  “Chaweewan,” he says, his voice husky, continuing to stare down at her.

  Now I know why he’s so unhappy about being returned to Earth. “Where does she live?”

  “A planet called Sawan. It means … it means heaven in their language,” he manages to say, his voice choking up. He gulps and continues. “Before they took me there, I was upset about being abducted. I think they hoped this world, Sawan, would change my mind about what was happening to me. And they were right.” He sniffs and wipes his nose. “Uh, it’s smaller than the Earth and more primitive, because they’re more cautious—you might say superstitious. They won’t use any advanced technology or even anything as primitive as internal combustion engines. So they use animals to get around, instead of cars and jets. It’s all rural. The people live on farms and are all pretty self-sufficient. They know that other creatures, like the heads, have more advanced technology, but they’re not interested. They’re kind of stupid in that way.”

  “Who says they’re stupid? It sounds a lot better than the other planets you drew pictures of. In a way, this place … uh, Sawan … almost sounds better than the Earth.”

  “The heads think the Sawanese are dumb, running away from technology. But anyway, the Sawanese are physically pretty close to human beings, so the heads thought it might cheer me up to go there. It sure did.” He sighs unhappily. “It was the best thing that ever happened to me. And she didn’t care that I was fat.”

  “You were still fat then?”

  “Uh-huh. It was one of the first places they took me. Sawan is smaller than Earth, so there’s less gravity, and it was so easy for me to run, to jump. And I was still in the middle of my growth spurt then. That’s why I got so tall—having my growth spurt on a planet with lower gravity. That’s why I started looking a bit like her. She didn’t mind when I was fat, but she … she likes me better like this. Every time I went back, it was more wonderful with her.”

  “You went there more than once?”

  “Yeah, they took me back several times, to keep my spirits up.” He pauses. “And then, tonight, the heads just suddenly dropped me off here—about as far away from Sawan as you can get.”

  “They didn’t tell you they were going to bring you back here?” The heads—with their contempt for ecological thinking, and the ugly places they mostly took Tim to or showed him, and the way they didn’t explain to him where they were taking him—are beginning to seem distinctly unpleasant to me.

  “No, they didn’t. They just suddenly said, ‘Well, here we are. Your friend will pick you up. Watch out for The Others. Don’t let them get your drawings.’ That was it. And I went nuts. I refused to go. So they gave me one of their injections. That’s why I was sort of out of it when you picked me up. That’s why I wasn’t very upset about what they did—until now.” He clenches his fists. “They will take me back to her; they’ve got to!”

  “Shhh!” I tell him. “My folks will know we’re awake.”

  Then we just sit there for a while. Tim’s being a little unrealistic, thinking he’ll ever see his alien girlfriend again, but I don’t tell him that, not wanting to make him more upset. Anyway, I’m more worried about other things he’s told me. The more I think about his story, the more scared I am.

  Finally I ask him, “Do you have any idea at all why the heads brought you back here at this particular time?”

  He silently shakes his head, still blinking back tears.

  “Well, I do. I don’t trust the heads one bit, after what you’ve told me about them. This is a trap.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he says indifferently, looking down at the picture of Chaweewan again.

  “The heads are using you, Tim. Don’t you see that?”

  Again he says, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “They gave you exciting adventures. They gave you the first girlfriend you’ve ever had. They got you to think they were good guys. But they didn’t tell you anything about their real motives. And then they drop you back here, completely ignorant, in the middle of their enemies—their enemies who are always looking for information about the heads and who are dying to get their hands on you, because you were with the heads for so long. Don’t you see what they’re doing?”

  He shakes his head, wiping his eyes, not the least bit alarmed by what I’m saying.

  “Forget about Chaweewan for a minute. The heads are setting a trap for The Others. And they’re using you as the bait.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  I want to scream. “It’s obvious! You’re a worm on a hook!”

  He shrugs. “So they’re using me as bait. They’ll rescue me before The Others can hurt me.”

  I sigh. “How do you know that, Tim? They’re putting you—not to mention me—in a dangerous position. And what they care about is getting The Others, not your safety.”

  “They wouldn’t let The Others hurt me,” Tim says, refusing to li
sten to reason. “And they’ll take me back to Chaweewan too.”

  “You’ll see,” I tell him, feeling sorry for him but also irritated at his refusal to face facts.

  My prediction comes true sooner than I expected. The moment after I speak, I hear the soft purr of engines and the delicate crunch of tires on the gravel driveway. My room is at the front of the house. I race to the window.

  The light over the front door is on. I see the green van drive up, followed by two other cars. The cars are full of dark figures, who emerge quickly and silently and take their places around the house.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  “The Others!” I tell Tim, not whispering now. “They’re surrounding the house!”

  “Huh?” He looks up from the picture, finally a little startled. “How do you know?”

  “It’s the same green van that was following me when I picked you up. And other cars too. There’s a lot of them, Tim. This must be what the heads have been waiting for—a lot of them all together in the same place.”

  Tim just sits there looking puzzled. I don’t wait for him to take it all in. “Don’t leave this room unless they try to get in here,” I order him. I close and lock both windows.

  I hurry out of the room. “Mom! Dad!” I yell. “Get up! This is an emergency! We’re surrounded!”

  I hear muffled expostulations from their room, but I don’t wait. I pound down the stairs. I know the front and back doors are locked, but I check them just to make sure. Then I start on the downstairs windows. It might be pointless—The Others are aliens; they could have some way of getting in through locked doors and windows—but I don’t know what else to do. I don’t turn on the lights, because I don’t want them to be able to see what’s going on inside. All I can see outside are vague, dark shapes. They’re clustered around the front windows. They seem to be just standing there.

  “What’s going on, Leo?” Dad demands angrily.

  I turn from the window. Mom and Dad are in the middle of the dark living room. Behind them, Tim is coming slowly down the stairs, cradling his portfolio in his arms.

  “Tim, what are you doing down here?” I’m furious. “I told you to stay upstairs. And you shouldn’t have brought your drawings with you!”

  “I … I can’t go anywhere without my portfolio,” he says, and I wonder if that might be a command from the heads, through the implant in his ear.

  Before I have a chance to tell Tim to go back upstairs, Dad steps to the side and reaches for the light switch.

  “Don’t turn it on!” I tell him. “They’ll be able to see us.”

  “Who’s they?” Dad snaps at me. But he doesn’t turn on the light.

  “Come and look. There are three cars out in front, and the house is surrounded.”

  “Huh?” Mom and Dad hurry over to the window.

  “See? See how many there are at the front windows?”

  Mom backs away and turns to me. “Who are these people?”

  “I never had a chance to tell you.” I explain what I figured out at the meeting, about the doctors changing our memories. I tell them about being compelled to pick Tim up and that the same van was following me with Dr. Viridian in it and how he tried to get at Tim. “These creatures here, The Others, are the enemies of the heads—the heads are the ones who abducted Tim. The Others want to get Tim, because he was on the heads’ ship for so long, he knows stuff about them. They also want Tim’s drawings. And I think the heads are setting a trap. They sent Tim back so The Others would congregate, to try to catch Tim. And now—they’re here.”

  The doorbell rings. Dad starts toward it.

  “Dad, you can’t open it!”

  “Now look, Leo, we have to find out what these people want,” he says, still moving, obviously not believing my story.

  I jump in front of the door and spread my arms.

  Dad points his finger at me. “Get out of my way, Leo!”

  The doorbell rings again, and in the next instant someone is banging on the door. “Tim!” his father’s voice says. “It’s me, your father. I want to talk to you. Let me in!”

  Dad’s hand drops. “But … he didn’t recognize him before.” He just stands there.

  “Tim,” I say, my mouth dry. “Do you think maybe your dad could be one of them too?”

  Tim is slowly shaking his head. “But how … how could he …”

  “Maybe that’s why he claimed you weren’t his son,” I slowly say. “Because he doesn’t want the cops to know you came back. Because if they don’t know you came back, then they won’t notice if you … disappear again.”

  Tim doesn’t say anything. He squeezes his portfolio against his chest, backing away from the door.

  The banging on the door starts up again. “I want to talk to my son!” Tim’s father yells.

  “He’s Tim’s father,” Mom says.

  “Wait!” Before Mom and Dad can move, I desert my protective position at the door and rush to the phone. “We have to call the cops.” I lift the receiver—and then slam it down again. “The phone’s dead,” I tell them. “Now do you believe me?”

  “The phone’s dead …” Mom says, sounding confused, as though the concept is beyond her.

  “They cut the line so we can’t call for help,” I tell her.

  “I want to talk to my son!” Tim’s father shouts and bangs on the door again.

  “At least they don’t seem to be able to get in on their own,” I say. I turn to Tim. “How much do you know about The Others? Is there anything else you haven’t told me?”

  “I just know they’re the enemies of the heads. And they’re shape changers. That’s all they told me.”

  More banging on the door. “I’m sorry … for what I did before,” Tim’s father says. “I know it’s really you, Tim. I just … couldn’t accept how you’ve changed. But now I understand. Please let me in so we can talk.”

  “Am I hearing things?” Tim mumbles. “I didn’t think ‘I’m sorry’ was part of his vocabulary.” Tim moves closer to the door. “What do you want to talk about?” he shouts.

  “We just want you to come home, where you belong. Your mother and I are so worried. Come on, let me in! I don’t like standing out here screaming in the middle of the night.”

  “This is ridiculous. Of course he has to talk to Tim,” Mom says, and before I can stop her, she dashes to the door and flings it open.

  She screams. In a rush, the shape-changing Others flow through the door on either side of Tim’s father—who still looks like Tim’s father and remains standing in the doorway. The formless gray shadows swarm around Tim in a kind of whirling vortex. Mom keeps screaming. Dad and I try to pull Tim back, but we can’t touch him. The Others look like you could reach right through them, but they are not like clouds; they are solid, a dense wall around Tim. They pull Tim—with his portfolio—out into the night. His father, legs spread, standing in the doorway, throws back his head and laughs and then slams the door shut. In a split second, the cars are pulling out of the driveway.

  “Dad, quick! The car keys! We have to follow them.”

  “Not you, Leo,” Dad says, his voice implacable. “You’re too vulnerable—because of what happened to you before. I’ll go myself.” He dashes up the stairs to get dressed.

  Mom sits huddled in a chair, and I pace; neither of us turns on a light or speaks. I feel scared and helpless. But Dad is right. There’s an implant in my ear. If I’m out there in a car, who knows what the heads might make me do?

  In a few minutes, Dad rushes down the stairs.

  “It’s too late to follow them now,” I tell him.

  “I’m going to the cops. They need to know what happened,” he says. He hugs Mom and tells her everything will be fine. He orders me not to leave the house, to stay and take care of Mom—and not to let anybody in, even if I think I know who it is, until he comes back. And then he’s gone. I hurry to lock the door. We hear the car drive away fast.

  Mom sighs. “We should both try to get some r
est,” she says and pushes herself unsteadily out of the chair.

  I can’t imagine sleeping. But I take Mom’s arm and go with her up the stairs.

  “I’m sorry I opened the door, Leo,” Mom says.

  “Well, things might still turn out okay, maybe,” I tell her.

  But I don’t believe what I’m saying. They have Tim and his drawings. How could it be any worse? I push open the door of my room.

  And there, on the bed, are the drawings.

  My knees go weak with relief. I can hardly believe Tim had the wits to do this. But somehow he was thinking clearly. He saw the possibility that The Others might take him. And so he brought his portfolio—and left the drawings here.

  There must be information or a message in the drawings that the heads don’t want The Others to see. I’m very eager to look at them more carefully—even though most of them are so gruesome—to see if I can find the message myself. But I stifle the impulse. The most important thing is to hide them. I rummage around in my closet and find an ancient, tattered backpack and carefully put the drawings inside it. I look around the room, considering. Then I bury the backpack underneath the mess of old shoes and camping equipment and tennis rackets at the bottom of my closet, making sure the backpack is way in the back. I turn out the light and lie down on the bed with all my clothes on.

  I know I won’t be able to sleep. What’s happening to Tim? Are they hypnotizing him to unearth the memories the heads suppressed? Are they giving him drugs to make him talk? Are they doing something worse to make him talk? And where are they? I can’t believe they just went to Tim’s house; that would be too obvious. They must have a more secret hiding place, somewhere the heads can’t locate them, even with Tim’s implant. And anyway, Tim didn’t say the implant was a tracking device; he just said they could control you with it sometimes.