by Dan Rix
“She’ll be okay,” I whispered.
We continued to hold each other, unselfconscious in our embrace. The feel of his warm body pressed against mine melted my thoughts away, and for the briefest of moments, there was peace in my mind. I wanted to stay in his arms forever and forget everything I’d done, everything that had ever happened.
“That healer fucked with her,” he breathed into my hair. “I swear he did some kind of voodoo shit to stop her from sleepwalking, and oh, he fixed her up real good . . . Now she doesn’t sleep at all.”
“Who did she go see?” I said. “When she was gone?”
“She won’t tell me. She won’t tell anyone.”
I pulled away from him so I could see his eyes. “I need to ask you something. It’s going to sound weird, but it might have to do with your sister.”
“Okay, what?”
“What does your dad do?”
He raised an eyebrow. “Defense contractor. You already asked me that.”
“He’s under contract with that branch of the Air Force, right?” I strained to remember. “Air Force Space Command . . . and they’re looking for dark matter?”
Emory shrugged. “He goes to Vandenberg Air Force Base a lot. He can’t tell me much—nondisclosure agreements and all that.”
I waited for more, but he was done. “He can’t tell you anything?”
“He tells me some things.”
“Like what?” I pressed. “Has he told you anything about dark matter? Or why they’re collecting it?”
“I’d like to see how this ties back to my sister.” He leaned back against his car. “So apparently there was this meteor that passed through our solar system a few years back that had this weird stuff in it—dark matter. It slammed into the asteroid belt and a bunch of pieces broke off, and that’s what they’ve been tracking. Every once in a while, one’ll hit, and they rush in and grab whatever they can and bury the rest. Apparently it’s toxic and highly radioactive.”
I swallowed the rising lump in my throat. “Why do they want it?”
“I’m just going out on a limb here, Leona, but usually when the military’s gathering something up like this, that means they’re trying to weaponize it. I don’t ask those kinds of questions. My dad’s a brilliant and very principled man, and he wouldn’t be doing something unless the cause was just.”
“I’m not questioning that,” I said. “I’m asking because I’m wondering if Ashley was ever exposed to dark matter?”
Now his eyes narrowed. “Why?”
I lowered my eyes and said, “Because this stuff they’re calling dark matter, it . . .” I took a deep breath, “I could see how it could . . . change someone.”
A realization shone in his eyes. “Wait, last year, one of the meteorites . . . I remember Dad flew out to the impact site, it was on the East Coast, and he . . .” Emory swiped his hand across his face and squeezed his jaw, chewing his fingernails, “he brought her back a gift. It was right after that when her sleepwalking started getting worse.”
“What was the gift?” I asked, breathless. “Do you remember?”
His confused gaze met mine. “Yeah . . . her diary.”
Twelve hours later I stood in the pitch dark outside Ashley’s bedroom, trying to calm my agitated nerves with deep breaths. I was going in.
Into her room.
Slowly, the house’s heat spread through my cold skin. But it didn’t thaw my core, which the mid-October night had frozen solid.
Once again covered in dark matter, I’d climbed onto the roof like I’d done on Monday. Emory had left his sliding glass door open a crack, luckily—since I was out of ideas on how to get in otherwise—and I’d crept into the house through his bedroom.
According to his alarm clock, it was 3:03 a.m. No one stirred.
Open her door.
Just open it and take a peek.
She would be sound asleep in bed, like a normal person. I hoped.
A shiver started in my shoulders and shook me all the way down to my toes. Dark matter had gotten to Ashley through her diary, just like it had gotten to me through the meteorite.
Now she was back from the dead.
There had to be some connection.
A blinking light in my periphery distracted me, and my gaze slid sideways to an open door behind me. A tiny light blinked in the darkness. As my eyes adjusted, I made out a laptop computer sitting on a desk, fans whirring and indicator lights flashing. Her dad’s office.
Hmm . . .
Next stop. First Ashley’s bedroom.
I focused back on her door and took a final, shaky breath, then reached for the knob. It inched around ever so slowly under my sweaty palm, until the latch came free with a metallic pang. I cringed and stayed perfectly still. Her room remained silent. Maybe she was asleep.
I eased the door into the room, making sure it didn’t creak. A reading lamp cast a murky orange glow through the bedroom, and I tensed up as the view swept from the footboard of her bed up to her pillow—empty.
I froze. Her bed was empty. Where was she? By now I’d gotten the door open enough to squeeze inside. I stuck my head in, feeling my invisible hair sweep across my face. Next to me, the mouse cage exuded a musty odor. I craned my neck to see behind the door, and my breath cut off.
Ashley sat on the floor in her pajamas, legs hugged tightly to her chest and chin tucked between her knees. Her hair fell in a golden curtain across her face. She was awake, gently rocking forward and backward. She hadn’t heard the door unlatch.
Holding my breath, I slipped farther inside her bedroom so I could see her face. Her hopeless eyes stared vacantly at the floor, her expression ghostly and sad. What was wrong with her? Poor thing.
Why couldn’t she sleep?
Seven days without sleep . . . I could scarcely imagine it.
I sat down cross-legged in front of her. The rug depressed under me, and the floorboards creaked. Her gaze flicked to me, and her eyelids moved through a sluggish blink. She scanned her room with a hint of fear, but otherwise did nothing. Slowly I released my breath.
I continued to watch her, wondering what exactly I hoped to discover here. Was she a zombie?
Zombies probably didn’t sleep.
I should probably start looking for that diary.
“It’s gone,” she murmured.
Her voice startled me, and my heart took off in a mad sprint. But she wasn’t looking at me, wasn’t talking to me.
She lifted her chin and cupped her face in her hands, staring out above her fingers in horror. “It’s gone, it’s gone, it’s gone,” she moaned.
What’s gone? I wanted to say.
“I want it back,” she said, rocking again. “Give it back.”
I peered around me. Who was she talking to?
“My soul,” she whispered. “You took it . . . give it back.”
No other sound in the room. Ashley let her hands down, and her lips parted in disbelief. Tears welled in her eyes. “What do you mean you ate it?”
Ooh. I didn’t like where this was going. I shifted, feeling icky all over.
“That’s not fair,” she whimpered. “That wasn’t part of the deal . . . you promised . . . What’s the point of . . . of . . . even being like this? I can’t even feel what’s left anymore!”
I turned away, feeling sick. What was left. Of her?
The parts that didn’t taste good.
Ashley squeezed her eyes shut. “At least let me sleep,” she moaned.
Emory poked his head in the door. “Ash, you okay?” he said gently. “Who you talking to?”
“Go away, Emory,” she said through gritted teeth.
“That Ambien didn’t help?”
“Go away, go away, go away.”
“You want me to read you a story?”
“GET OUT!” she screamed, and she clenched her hands in trembling fists, knuckles white.
He watched her from the doorway for another moment and pulled the door shut.
As I gaped at Ashley, the horror began to sink in. No, she wasn’t dead. She was something much, much worse. Was this all my fault? Was I the reason she was like this? Had I done this to her?
I couldn’t take it anymore.
I stood on shaky legs and teetered toward the door, my heavy footsteps creaking the floorboards. I didn’t care. Struggling to breathe, I reached for the door.
My fingers closed on empty air.
I reached out farther . . . and my hand plunged all the way through the door to the cold air on the other side. I gasped and yanked my arm back. I could only stare, too stunned to move, as wave after wave of panicky adrenaline flooded my body. My heart clanged in my ears.
My hand had just passed through solid wood.
Tentatively, I reached forward again. This time my fingers brushed the metal knob, and my lungs heaved a huge sigh of relief. With Ashley too busy sobbing behind me to notice, I opened the door and slipped into the hallway. By then Emory had gone back to bed. I backed against the wall to catch my breath, probing the length of my own torso to reassure myself it was still there.
What was that?
Dark matter. I had to get it off. Now.
I reached for my nose to peel it off, but hesitated. Not in the house. I darted down the stairs and unbolted the front door, then squeezed the handle—
A green LED blinked on the side of a device mounted above the doorframe. I froze. Parallel to it and fixed to the door itself was a magnetic strip. An alarm. They’d installed alarms on the doors in case Ashley had another sleepwalking episode. My only way out was through Emory’s bedroom.
I raced back upstairs.
But now my racing heart had slowed a little, and I could think clearly again. I paused on the landing and probed my rib cage, then a picture frame on the wall. I could still touch things. Whatever had happened was clearly just a fluke. Just a one-time thing.
I stood outside the dad’s office.
The open doorway seemed to pull at me.
As long as I was here, I might as well investigate.
I stepped into the pitch black office and waited for my eyes to adjust. Plugged into a huge monitor, a laptop whirred on the desk. Bookshelves lined the walls, crammed with thick, impressive-looking volumes. A typical office, I supposed.
I pushed the door shut behind me and clicked on the light. When no one came charging in, my body relaxed. I touched my arm again just to be sure—still there—and began to move around the bookshelves, trailing my finger along the spines.
There were reference books on astronomy and physics, statistics and game theory, computer programming. From what I remembered, Emory’s dad worked for a defense contractor called Rincon Systems—doing what, I had no idea. Nor did his collection of books tell me.
I moved on to his desk, which again told me nothing—sticky notes bearing gibberish, notebooks scribbled with impossible mathematical formulas, tri-folded accounting sheets, photos of his perfect all-American son and daughter.
I tipped up his laptop screen, which flashed and gave me a password prompt. I typed in password, 1234, and Ashley before giving up. If I ever needed to get on his laptop, I could sneak in here while he worked and watch him type it. I shut the laptop and rummaged through the papers scattered across the desk.
They seemed to catalogue inventory and equipment orders, stuff that made no sense to me—high-temperature surface insulation tiles, carbon dioxide scrubbers, radiation shielding, IBM avionics computers. As I rifled through the sheets, one phrase kept jumping out.
Vandenberg Air Force Base.
They were sending this stuff to Vandenberg Air Force Base. Huh.
I rearranged the sheets exactly how I’d found them and went for the drawers next, only to find them locked. Growing frustrated, I threw another glance around the office. Why was I even here?
What was I looking for?
A filing cabinet stood in the corner. Again, the top drawer was locked. But the bottom one screeched open with a metallic clunk. I spun toward the hallway, alert to anybody stirring.
Silence.
Turning back, I thumbed through the labels of five hanging file folders—Kaidu River . . . Mali . . . Charleston . . . Parque Nacional . . . San Rafael Wilderness.
My fingers stopped, and I pulled out the folder for San Rafael Wilderness, a little curious, since Megan and I had hiked there at the end of summer. Inside I found a thick stapled packet dotted with photos of rock fragments, topological maps, tables filled with numbers. The packet flipped open to a photo of a crater.
This was a report of the meteorite impact.
I glanced back at the other folders. Kaidu River . . . Mali . . . they were all locations. These were the meteorite impact sites. I continued through the one in my hand and came to a transcript of an interview.
My interview.
I scanned the page, breathless.
Maj. Connor: How close were you to the impact site?
Hewitt: Five hundred feet. The sound took about half a second to get to us.
Maj. Connor: What happened after the impact?
Hewitt: (inaudible) went to investigate.
Maj. Connor: Please continue.
Hewitt: There was this big crater, and everything was steaming and red-hot, and some of the plants around it were burning. Then I went down into the crater.
I closed the folder, not wanting to continue, and my lungs felt strangely heavy as I replaced the folder in the drawer. Another label caught my eye.
Charleston . . . wait, wasn’t that in . . . ?
I pulled out the Charleston folder and fanned through it, finding a very similar report for a very similar meteorite impact, this one in Charleston, South Carolina.
South Carolina.
This was the site Emory’s dad had visited.
My eyebrows drew together. Ashley claimed she had visited a healer in South Carolina. Was there a connection? Or was I overthinking this?
I’d seen enough for one night.
I turned off the light and eased the door open, stepping back into the hall. After the blinding light, I saw nothing but pitch black. I felt around me for the walls as the shape of the hallway materialized into view.
Along with a dark figure.
The terrifying jolt set my heart racing. I froze. Caught.
Slowly, the figure coalesced into a clear silhouette—Ashley.
She was naked, her outline contoured against the light from her open bedroom.
I hadn’t heard her come out. For a long time she stood there creepily. I didn’t dare move. She stared straight ahead as if in a trance, breathing heavily, the whites of her eyes hovering in the blackness.
She hadn’t seen the door open.
Why had she taken her clothes off?
“It’s Leona,” she whispered, “Leona Hewitt . . .”
But she was only talking to herself.
She was clutching something in her hand, and I strained my eyes to make out what—a bottle of nail polish? As I watched, she uncapped it and poured its contents onto her palm, then touched her palm with the tip of her index finger. She held up the finger and studied it.
At once the finger began to shrink.
Dark matter.
She was making herself invisible.
“It’s Leona Hewitt . . .” she said again, swiveling her wrist. She watched her fingers vanish, then her hand, then her arm. I backed away, suddenly frantic. Ashley Lacroix was making herself invisible.
Her torso shrank before my eye
s.
Soon her head floated in midair, severed from her legs. Nothing in between. A hollow smile crept onto her lips.
“Leona Hewitt . . . ” she whispered, “must die.”
My heart went eerily still at her words. Her face shrank to just a nose, and then she was gone. The nail polish bottle fell to the floor, making me jump.
I was alone in the hallway.
Alone. But not alone.
Terrified, I backed into the wall. My eyes darting around, trying to see something that wasn’t there. On my left, the landing groaned under an invisible weight, and footsteps creaked slowly down the stairs. A moment later, I heard the metallic thunk of an unlatching deadbolt, the scrape of a security chain . . . then an earsplitting alarm.
She was going out to kill me.
Chapter 10
The alarm continued to screech.
Emory’s bedroom door burst open. Wearing only boxer briefs, he tore into the hallway and bounded down the stairs. “Ashley!”
His parents came out next, yelling as they rushed down the stairs. The Golden Retriever started barking.
Using the commotion as cover, I slipped outside behind them.
“Ashley!” Emory ran to the middle of the street, cupped his hands around his mouth and yelled at the top of his lungs, “ASHLEY!”
His parents stood on the porch, bellowing her name left and right. I squeezed past them and crept down the driveway.
“Dad, check the backyard,” Emory barked, sprinting toward a hedge. “I’ll check the neighbors’ yards. She can’t have gone far. Mom, call the police.”
They wouldn’t find her. She was invisible.
But I knew where she was going, and I knew I had to beat her there.
My house was over two miles away. Ashley didn’t have a license or a car—she was only fifteen—which meant she would be travelling on foot. My bicycle would get me home way faster, but I couldn’t risk her spotting it, thus throwing away my only edge—I knew she was invisible, she didn’t know I was too.
