The Night the Heads Came

by William Sleator

  And why didn’t the heads do something while The Others were here, before Mom let them into the house? That’s when I would have expected them to make their move. I’m more baffled than ever by the motivation of the heads. What are they really up to? It’s all so confusing. My eyes begin to close.

  I’m awakened by a slight vibration, so subtle it could have been a part of a dream. At first I think it’s morning, because the room is full of light.

  And then I see that the light is not coming through the windows, which are still dark. It’s coming from some impossible place above the ceiling of my room. And it’s not daylight. It’s an intense amber beam focused directly on my bed. I feel like I’m going crazy. I try to scream, but I have no voice.

  I rise into the air.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  The amber light is lifting me up toward the ceiling of my room. My heart is racing wildly; sweat is breaking out all over me. But I can’t scream; I can’t move; I’m immobilized, which only makes it all more terrifying.

  I’m moving faster; the ceiling is getting closer; I’m going to crash into it. But I don’t. I float right through the ceiling, into the attic, and then up through the roof of the house.

  This is impossible; it can’t be happening. Yet somehow I know with absolute certainty that it is happening; it’s not a dream; it’s real.

  Now I can see the peaked roof of the house getting smaller as I rise more and more swiftly into the air. I can see other houses and trees and roads, the landscape spreading out below me as I’m lifted higher and higher. It’s almost dawn; the light is golden on the horizon.

  And now I can see what’s above me too—the amber lights of the small, round craft hovering high in the air directly over our house. And then I am inside it.

  Suddenly I know I’ve been here before. In this place my memory rushes back. It’s all familiar: the rotten smell; the spongelike seat I’m lowered into; the rubber cable around my waist; the sudden, stomach-sinking rush as the vehicle zooms high into the stratosphere. And the creatures. It’s too dark to see them clearly, yet I know what they look like: tall and thin, with arms like tentacles and heads the size of tennis balls with an eye on either side and a mouth that goes all the way around. But even though it is familiar, I am no less horrified. This is what I dreaded would happen again! I’d be screaming and thrashing if I had the power to utter sounds or to move.

  But I’m still immobilized. And I remain immobilized when we lock into the mother ship and the round aperture opens. Paralyzed, I float down the corridor, surrounded by the tall ones. I enter the large room, full of the gently swaying trees. They seem taller and fuller this time, as if they have grown since I was last here. There are garments hanging up to dry and soiled garments and cans and other objects lying haphazardly around on the dirty floor. And I can see more this time. Above the trees, in the center of the domed ceiling, there is something like a huge, delicately faceted stained-glass window with an amber glow. As nightmarish as this is, I am also aware that the window is very beautiful. Is that where Tim saw the gruesome holograms?

  The heads are waiting, as repulsive as ever with their loose folds of skin; their many bug eyes; their wet, drooping mouths, into which they are constantly sliding the wriggling creatures they seem to be addicted to. They do not say anything until I am strapped into the stained reclining chair, and my blood has been taken, and I have then been injected with the drug that makes me a little calmer.

  Again, they speak directly into my brain. Welcome back, Leo. We are sorry about Tim. But we are afraid it could not be—

  And then something changes. The voice stops briefly, replaced by a feeling of confusion. When the voice comes back, there is a frozen quality to it.

  We are not happy with what you did. We can see in your mind what happened. You and Tim made a terrible mistake.

  I can talk now, maybe because of the injection. “How could we know what’s a mistake and what’s not a mistake if you never told us what to do? I did everything I could to protect Tim.”

  So you say, Leo. But The Others do not have the drawings. The Others were supposed to get the drawings.

  I can hardly believe what I’m hearing. “You wanted The Others to get the drawings? Then why did you tell Tim to keep the drawings away from The Others? Why did you stop The Others from getting the drawings when I picked Tim up?”

  We don’t want to hear your excuses, Leo. We are very disappointed in you.

  Horrible as it was the first time I was here, this time is a lot worse. Before, they were genial and pleasant. Now they are angry. And what they are angry about makes no sense to me at all. Why are they saying they want The Others to have the drawings? I think of the violent and catastrophic scenes they showed Tim, their supposed drawing lessons. What kind of bloodthirsty creatures are they? What are they really doing? I am completely powerless, under their control. Sweat is pouring down my forehead, stinging my eyes, and I can do nothing to wipe it away.

  “But why didn’t you get The Others when you had the chance and so many of them were outside my house? Did you let them take Tim on purpose, because you wanted them to get the drawings?”

  They do not respond. They are conferring together, out of my range, their antennae swaying as they look at one another, their eyes rolling.

  Then they turn and look at me. We are trying to decide whether or not to punish you, they inform me.

  The blood in my veins turns to ice water. “Punish me? But how was I supposed to know what to do if you never told me, if you made me forget I was ever here? And if there was something you wanted us to do, why did you tell Tim the opposite?”

  We didn’t tell Tim about the situation because he is a dreamer, an artist. Strategy and war are not his talents; he is useless to us in that realm. But you are a person of action, Leo. We expected more of you.

  “But—”

  Above me the trees are swaying and bending more deeply. Behind them, three-dimensional images flow across the screen—ruined cities, the streets clogged with abandoned vehicles; dried-up oceans and barren landscapes, all wreathed in black, toxic clouds. What does it mean? Is it a threat?

  Listen. We will not punish you—not now, anyway. Because this is what you are going to do. You will bring the drawings to Tim’s father’s office. You will leave an urgent message for him there, to come and pick up the drawings. We do not know where The Others are hiding. But we know his father will check back with his office regularly. And then The Others will get the drawings. You will do this whether you want to or not. Because of the implant.

  Terrified as I am, I am so baffled and upset that I can’t keep from protesting. “But this is crazy! If you want us to do something, why not just tell us why? Tell us what your plan really is! Then maybe we’ll do the right thing.”

  We do not need to tell you, because the implant will make you do it. You are human; humans are dangerous, ruled by greed and emotion. That is why it is better that you do not know any more than necessary.

  A planet rotates on the screen above me, a pockmarked planet devoid of all life—though the smoking ruins make it clear that not long ago there was a great civilization here. The heads blast me with a message more powerful than anything they have said before. Of utmost importance: No other humans must see those drawings. Only The Others must see them. You will wait at Tim’s father’s office until he comes to get them and give them to him yourself—and you will make it clear that you are doing this of your own volition, not because of us. The implant is your helper. And remember—if any other humans see the drawings, the result will be a catastrophe beyond your imagination.

  I notice that the bodies have just taken my blood again, but that isn’t my main concern. I have to find out more. But before I have the chance even to ask a question, the cables have loosened; I’m rising into the air again. I’m shouting at them like crazy, begging them to explain, to tell me what is really going on, asking them why they let The Others get Tim. They have turned away, ignoring me. I
am propelled back to the smaller ship, accompanied by the tall ones. We detach from the mother ship and descend. The beam of amber light takes me from the small ship back down through the roof of the house and deposits me on my bed.

  Morning light is streaming through the windows. For a moment I just lie there, disoriented, full of panic like I have never felt before. I want to stay in bed, to let myself recover, to try to stop panicking and figure out what might really be going on.

  But the heads don’t give me a chance. Before I really know what I’m doing, I am up; I am opening my closet door; I am rummaging through the mess on the floor and unearthing the backpack with the drawings.

  I look out the window. The car is there; Dad has returned. I know Mom keeps her car keys in her handbag, which is downstairs. I move quietly, not wanting to wake them up, because if I do they will stop me.

  I don’t know where Tim’s father’s office is, but that doesn’t matter. The heads will guide me there—the same way they guided me to the spot where I picked up Tim.

  But even though they are controlling part of me, I am still conscious, like I was when I picked up Tim. The difference is that this time I know exactly what is happening to me.

  And because now I do know what is happening to me, my conscious brain is determined—more than anything else in the world—to resist.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  I try to go as slowly as possible, to give myself time to think, resisting the implant’s command to hurry downstairs, get in the car, and drive downtown. It’s a terrible struggle, like trying to stay calm and not to run when all the adrenaline in your body is telling you to get away as fast as possible. And yet—because I know the implant is doing this to me—I am able to move at a crawl. I push open the door of my room; I creep toward the stairway.

  My mind is going very fast. I know for sure now that I can’t trust the heads. They lie. They told Tim they didn’t want The Others to see the drawings, when in fact that is exactly what they do want. That must be why they gave Tim the command never to go anywhere without his portfolio: They were hoping The Others would capture him, so that they would get the drawings. Like the Earth, Tim is irrelevant to them.

  The implant is pushing me toward the stairs. But I need more time. With a tremendous effort, panting, I turn toward the bathroom door. “You can’t stop me from going to the bathroom,” I whisper. I know the heads can’t hear me, but possibly the implant understands a little about human physiology. As I move toward the bathroom, the pressure to go down the stairs lessens slightly. I step inside and close the door.

  So if they want The Others to have the drawings, why did they stop the green van, when Dr. Viridian could easily have gotten Tim and the drawings then, as soon as I picked Tim up? I know there’s an explanation, and it has to do with something they said to me just now, when I was on their ship.

  I move toward the medicine cabinet. I know that’s where the solution is to my immediate predicament—the compulsion I’m fighting to drive to Tim’s father’s office.

  Then I remember what the heads said on the ship. When I give the drawings to Tim’s father, they want me to make sure he thinks it is my own idea and not a command from the heads. The heads want The Others to think they don’t want them to have the drawings. That’s why they said that to Tim. And that’s why they saved us from the green van—so that The Others would believe the drawings were being kept from them, which would make them want them even more. After all, if The Others knew the heads wanted them to have the drawings, then they would be wary of them; they would probably have nothing to do with them.

  I open the medicine cabinet. Dad’s razor blades are on the bottom shelf.

  I see now with absolute clarity that I must not do what the heads are commanding me to do. I know this because of the way the heads lie, the way they don’t explain, and the way they threaten. They made Tim draw these sadistic pictures—pictures with some kind of secret message in them. They have contempt for human beings and for our planet. They want The Others to get the drawings, and they want no other human beings to see them.

  I must do exactly the opposite of what they want: keep the drawings away from The Others and show the drawings to as many human beings as possible. I must refuse to be controlled by the heads’ implant.

  But now the implant is getting impatient; I’ve been in the bathroom long enough. The compulsion to hurry down the stairs and drive away is strengthening, getting more and more difficult to fight. In another few seconds, I know I won’t be able to resist it any longer.

  The need to remove the heads’ repellent artifact from my body is a feeling as strong as the need to take my next breath.

  Even as I am fighting the overpowering urge to get out of here, I reach for an unused razor blade—the newer it is, the sharper it will be. I remove the paper wrapping. Watching myself in the mirror, I grasp my right earlobe with my left thumb and finger, feeling the implant there. I pull it down as far as I can. Holding the razor blade in my right hand, I begin slicing through my earlobe just above the implant.

  The command of the implant is so strong that my upper body is leaning toward the bathroom door, as though being pulled by a magnet, even while I am fighting to keep my feet planted firmly in place in front of the mirror.

  The razor slides into the skin. A line of bright blood appears. I pull the razor deeper. The blood begins to drip out, making red drops on the white porcelain sink. It begins to trickle, then to flow, as the razor moves in deeper.

  It also begins to hurt like crazy. I try to ignore the pain and keep the razor moving. I picture the heads, how disgusting they are, how much I don’t want this thing of theirs inside my flesh. But the implant is still pulling me toward the door, and the pain is intense. I can’t help it; I whimper, I moan, I make louder noises. It doesn’t matter if Mom and Dad hear me; in fact, I want them to see this implant, just in case they have any further doubts about the reality of what is going on.

  I scream, and with one last pull of the razor I slice off the bottom part of my earlobe.

  The compulsion to drive from the house instantly vanishes. With my left hand I deposit my earlobe on the edge of the sink. I quickly squeeze the cut skin together to try to stop the blood gushing out all over the place and with my other hand open the medicine cabinet and reach frantically for the Band-Aids.

  Mom and Dad come bursting into the room. I don’t look at them; I’m trying to get a Band-Aid to stick to my mutilated ear. I hear Mom scream, and then she is beside me, pulling gauze and tape out of the cabinet, cleaning and bandaging my ear.

  “What did you do?” Dad is shouting at me. “Have you gone out of your mind?”

  “I … I cut out the implant,” I say, feeling a little faint now.

  “Implant? What are you talking about?”

  “The heads … put it in, so they could control me. But I won’t let them. So … I had to cut it out.”

  Then we don’t say anything, while Mom finishes with my ear. “Come on, Leo. Sit down,” she urges me when it’s all gauzed and bandaged and pulls me toward the toilet seat.

  I pluck the severed earlobe from the sink as I go. I slump down on the toilet. I feel steadier sitting down.

  “Okay, what’s this all about?” Dad says. They are both very pale as they stare down at me, their faces still creased from sleep.

  I hold out the earlobe. “Feel this,” I say.

  They both shrink away. “Do you know what you’re doing, Leo?” Dad says.

  They think I’m going crazy. “Okay, if you won’t feel it, then I’ll show it to you,” I say. I am still holding the razor blade and the earlobe. I start cutting into the ear-lobe to try to expose the implant.

  But of course this only makes them more convinced I’ve gone insane. Mom reaches for my hands. “Leo, stop that, please!” she begs me. “It’s horrible.”

  “It’s the only way I can prove to you what I did,” I say, slicing delicately at the earlobe with the razor blade. “The heads put somethi
ng in here, something that could control me. I had to get it out, so they can’t command me to do what they want anymore.” Finally I get a hole in the edge of the earlobe and squeeze, and something slides out into my palm.

  It’s a cylinder about a quarter of an inch long, made out of what looks like bright yellow plastic, with a sharp metal point extending from each end. I hold it up. “See this? This was what was inside my earlobe. You think this is natural? I had to get it out. It was going to make me give Tim’s drawings to The Others.”

  Neither of them wants to touch it. But their expressions change as they stare down at it. They look back at my face, their eyes widening. “You saw me take this out of my ear. It’s an alien device that was implanted there. They used it to control me. Now do you understand why I had to take it out? I couldn’t let those creatures be in control of me!”

  “Last night … and now this,” Mom says, her face ashen. She sinks down onto the edge of the bathtub as though her legs won’t support her.

  Dad is staring at the implant again. Then he gulps and looks away. “This is some kind of nightmare,” he says. “It’s beyond belief. What can we do?”

  “I’ve got a plan,” I say. “I’ll need the car.”

  “Where will you go?” Mom asks fearfully.

  “First I go to the cops. And after that I go to Channel Three.”

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  We decide it will be best if Mom comes with me. Dad will take care of getting the phone line repaired—he’ll have to call the phone company from next door.

  Before we leave the house, I find out from Dad what happened when he went to the cops last night. They were skeptical about The Others taking Tim and especially skeptical about Tim’s father being one of them. But they did go to Tim’s house. Tim’s parents were both there, his mother bland and emotionless, his father angry at being awakened when there was no news of their son. Tim’s father denied again that the boy I found was Tim. He accused Dad of hallucinating when he told him about the gray shapes and him being with them. “So what if that strange boy disappeared?” Tim’s father said. “It’s no concern of ours.” And that was the end of it, last night.