AngelFire

by Luke Valen

  I snatched it out of her hands quicker than a frog snatching a fly right out of the sky.

  “Hey!”

  A quick victory smirk appeared on my face almost to say “HA!” just before my body realized the speed at which I had just moved and the pain surged throughout my entirety. I didn’t show it.

  “Whatever. I’ll remember that next time I have to save your life.” She stood to leave. Even when upset, her face still glowed. She whipped around and stormed off. Smart. Quick. Feisty. I like her.

  I turned quickly away from her and began making my way down the aisle and closer to what was once the priest’s private quarters, now my self-named bedroom. A bedroom that did not consist of the average bedroom items. A small, dusty couch was what made up my bed, a few statues of Jesus, and desks made of books lined the walls. The only source of light came through a tiny cracked window at the top of the small room. At this time, it was moonlight. Just before I made it to the entrance of my room, I turned in time to catch Abigail making her way out of the old church. Why had she been so kind to me? Why couldn’t I have played it cool and been nicer to her? She was only asking some harmless questions.

  I was alone again.

  I turned one last time, took two more painful steps, and dropped down onto my bed of a couch.

  “I got that hot water…” Uncle Homer had returned with a tray of three waters to an empty room. “Well, more for me, I guess.”

  Exhausted. The sound of the creaking wood standing strong against the restless waves of wind lulled me to sleep. The candlelight seemed to dance throughout the night so elegantly to the sound of the wind and the orchestra of crickets, warming the cold and cracking wood that held the walls together. The gold and red accents of drapery and artifacts shined with a brilliance that could not be described.

  My eyes, heavy, began to shut as I slipped into a deep and healing slumber.

  —§—

  Click, Clack, Click, Clack.

  The sound of typing came from Abigail’s upstairs room.

  “Where did you run off to the other night?” Cherry asked, sitting cross-legged on Abigail’s gold-and-white Egyptian-style bed as she painted her nails a bright pink.

  “Huh? What are you talking about?” Abigail asked, not concentrating on the question. She was too distracted by her online search for “Ancient Languages.” Her hands glued to the keyboard and her eyes to the screen.

  All her life, Abigail had been very intuitive. She was not one to simply take things for what they were. She had to know how and why things were what they were. Her determination and hunger for knowledge was what had propelled her to the top her class. A rare breed, indeed.

  “Umm, duh. At Chase’s party. You just ran off and left me after I saved your butt from getting arrested.” Cherry’s tone was more than offended, though she continued to paint her nails.

  “Oh, yeah. I wasn’t feeling too good, so I just went home.” Abigail’s face got closer to the screen.

  “Why didn’t you tell me? I would have driven you.” Cherry finished off her left hand.

  “I didn’t want you to worry or to ruin your night,” Abigail lied. “I mean, I saw how you and Chase were talking with each other. I figured you would want to go and find him to make sure he was okay.”

  Cherry perked up, blowing on her left hand. “OMG. I know! He was like a little puppy dog, just begging for it. Ahh, he’s so cute.”

  “Where are you…” Abigail muttered under her breath, looking back at her online search. Images of ancient relics passed through the screen.

  “Huh?” Cherry asked.

  “Nothing. Nothing. So are you going to give him the goods or what?” Abigail wasn’t even slightly interested, but it helped to keep Cherry talking.

  “No way! Well, I mean, not yet. He’s got to work for it. Take me on dates, buy me lunch, you know—wine and dine me. Make me feel like the princess that I am.” Cherry flipped her hair and batted her eyes.

  Abigail clicked on an image. “If you like him so much, why don’t you just tell him?”

  “You can’t just tell a guy you like them, Abigail! It’s against the rules! That’s like relationship suicide. Duh.”

  Abigail swiveled in her chair, listening now. “What rules?”

  “You know, girl rules. If you want a guy, you have to play hard to get.” Cherry seemed to know everything about relationships.

  “Oh yeah?” Abigail said sarcastically, knowing full well that Cherry has never even gotten close to having a boyfriend. She returned her attention to the computer.

  “Yeah,” Cherry said matter-of-factly.

  “Seems you’re not the only one playing hard to get,” Abigail said to herself as she found a familiar image on her computer.

  Abigail inspected the image, curiosity sparked. The image seemed to match the birthmark on Dean’s wrist. Though in the artist’s rendition, the image itself was smaller than that of a mustard seed on what was a fuller image of the Arch of the Covenant. Was that the exact same symbol? Abigail couldn’t tell for sure—the image was too small. Every time she would try to enlarge it, the image would pixelate, making it impossible to tell.

  “Hmmm. Very curious. Very curious indeed,” Abigail said, again to herself.

  “Huh? Why are you talking to yourself? Are you, like, going crazy? What are you looking at anyway, just a bunch of lame old drawings?” Cherry asked.

  “It’s nothing. You want to go shopping or what?” Abigail offered just to get Cherry off her back.

  “Ugh, I thought you’d never ask!” Cherry hopped up like a bunny on Easter. “Let’s go!” She was out of the room faster than Abigail could blink.

  She turned back to the image. “Daddy hasn’t mentioned this one. Ever…” She stared at the image for a few more seconds before shutting off the monitor and leaving the room.

  CHAPTER 4

  TRAINING DAY

  A few days had passed, and I hadn’t left the church yet.

  The images of that horrid creature haunted my mind. I hadn’t slept much, and the times that I did were filled with nightmares. Nightmares so real I could swear I was there again. I would wake in cold sweats with those burning red eyes staring into mine. Something about the way it had looked at me made me feel like I had seen those eyes before—like it knew me. The smell of burning charcoal lingered in my nostrils, making it hard to breathe.

  Some of the nightmares would take me to other worlds. I would be floating in a dark room, so dark not an ounce of light could exist. I would try to yell for someone time and time again, yet nothing would come out, try as I might. Then, the red eyes would appear as big as planets looming overhead, piercing my armored thoughts, listening. I felt as if they were still there even when I woke, watching my every move. Calculating and learning.

  What was it looking for?

  Back at the party, when I had gotten angry, it had turned its head and its gaze had shifted. What was it looking at? My wrist. That’s right; it shifted to see what was happening to my wrist and then vanished. What was that—did that scare it off? But why? How did that happen?

  I was talking to myself, pacing up and down the aisle of an abandoned church—I am officially going crazy.

  I have so many questions, but I can’t talk to anyone about this. Everyone already thinks I am crazy. This would put me in a psych ward for life. I would be there in a white straitjacket, telling everyone of the invisible dark creature with red eyes that follows me and listens to my thoughts. I would be deemed the crazy guy of AngelFire and left to rot till maggots ate out my eyes, alone and scared. And Uncle Homer, well, Uncle Homer is pretty crazy too. He might believe me, but I don’t know where that would get me. Two crazy guys talking about nonsense.

  No. I will not let that happen. I will get down to the bottom of this.

  I know what I saw, and I know what I feel. Something is going on in this town. I needed to prepare. First thing’s first, I needed to figure out how to control myself. I put a guy through a wall the other
night—that’s not normal. Given he deserved it…Okay, here we go.

  I hopped to and made my way out of the castle-like doors that protected my inner sanctum. The light from the morning sun blinded my virgin eyes as they had been hidden away for days in a darkness only lit by candle. The smell of fresh pine needles filled my senses along with the fresh dew from the night before. The air was clean and new, crisp and welcoming.

  “Where you going, boyo?” Uncle Homer’s voice came from the front yard. He was already awake and covered in dirt.

  “Uncle, how in the world are you so dirty already? It’s only”—I checked my watch—“six-thirty in the morning.”

  “It’s already six-thirty! The day is almost gone! Back when I was a youngster in the army, we had to wake up before we went to sleep. I remember this time in Baghdad, me and the boys had to go out and search for—”

  “Tell me later, Uncle! I have to go! The day is almost gone!” I had to cut him off or he would go on rambling for hours about his time in the service.

  “You’re right, my boy! Go on now—get moving, soldier! You come back tonight before supper, and no more black eyes. Keep those hands up. Defend yourself, you wuss.” Uncle Homer yelled with his hands up, as if he were ready to fight.

  I walked past the statue. “All right, J.C., I’ll catch you later. Hold down the fort till I get back—we both know the place would burn down under Uncle’s watch! It’s training day,” I jokingly yelled back to the statue of Jesus Christ that stood tall in the front of the stage.

  Uncle shook his fist at me and then waved goodbye with a playful smile.

  Maybe I was already crazy, huh? At least I wasn’t the only one.

  —§—

  Walking down the sidewalk alone in my long black peacoat, I noticed families playing in the parks as I passed. So happy, so content, so…loving. I wished I had had these memories. The children would play in the falling autumn leaves, laughing and throwing them in the air. Surrounded by pine trees and mountains covered in snow, they were wrapped head to toe in mini coats and large hats. The orange and golden flakes would fall to the ground as the children reached out their hands, covered by oversized snow gloves, in efforts to catch one of these alluring creations of nature. The sound of their laughter was pure and joyful, something I longed for. Their smiles reaching from ear to ear as their mothers picked them off the ground and spun them in the air.

  Making my way down to the old junkyard, the thought of my parents came to me. This was something that haunted my every waking moment. The thought that they didn’t want me, that they’d abandoned me. Why would anyone abandon their child? All I ever wanted was to ask them why? Why didn’t they love me enough to keep me?

  The feeling of jealousy stroked my heart. Who were my parents? Maybe if I knew them—or where I came from—I could find some answers. Answers to what is going on inside of me. What a cruel joke. Something I know will never happen yet I long for with each passing second. With every atom in my genetic molecular makeup, I seek them.

  I am the hidden heartbreak.

  Abigail. Her smile flashed before my eyes. The feelings of jealousy and sadness left me only to be replaced by a warm hope. I didn’t notice it at the time, but making my way down to the junkyard and passing all the love that filled the air and joy that filled my eyes, my body was reacting. My wrist was cold—it was so cold the veins that lined my arm were a road map of icy blue lines. I thought nothing of the cold. The air itself froze my breath with each exhale of air heated from within.

  A couple more yards down the road, I turned the corner, just passing the local drugstore advertising one-dollar blocks of wood. There it was, Old Man Pete’s Junkyard. The smell of rusted metal, leaky oil, and rotting garbage was a dead giveaway. A gentle breeze wafted the smell into my nose like a mean joke.

  No one dared to enter Old Man Pete’s Junkyard. As a matter of fact, no one had ever actually seen Old Man Pete. It was rumored that he had died protecting his plot of land sixty years ago when a group of teens came onto his property and tried to steal his prized possession—a small, black box that crowned the top of a pile of trash. A pile so big it could have been a New York City skyscraper. A rusted, sharp-edged, dirty skyscraper. Some said that his heart was kept in that box and anyone who found it could control his spirit. Others would say that it was Pandora’s box and that all Hell would be set free if anyone were to ever open it.

  Being that this was a small town, rumors spread and the attempts to snatch this small, black box began. Yet every attempt ended in failure.

  The two that everyone knew of are the Gilliam brothers and good ol’ Johnny Lefty. They called him Johnny Lefty because he was always looking left. It must have been a birth defect or something, poor guy.

  —§—

  The Gilliam brothers attempt was doomed before it even started. They were known around town for being the most stubborn, clumsy pair of knuckleheads that walked these streets.

  When they arrived at the junkyard October 2, 1999, the night was cold and dark. The moon lit the yard, as the two approached the fence, they stopped in confusion.

  “Has this fence always had barbed wires at the top of it?” Tommy Gilliam said to Timothy Gilliam. His thick Southern accent could only be understood by his equally thick-accented brother.

  “Shhh! You’re going to get us caught, you dummy!” shouted Timothy.

  “Me! You’re the one who’s yelling, dummy!” Tommy yelled back.

  “Who are you calling a dummy, dummy?” Timothy said, enraged.

  “You, dummy!” Tommy fired back. With that the two went after each other, dropping to the ground wrestling it out like a couple of amateur WWE superstars. The silver celestial spotlight lit their stage. After what seemed like a lifetime—really only about one minute—Tommy had put Timothy in a chokehold.

  “Say uncle, dummy!” Tommy squeezed his arm around Timothy’s neck.

  “Nev…errrr…” Timothy struggled to get out of the death hold.

  “Say uncle!” Tommy squeezed harder.

  “. . . uncle…uncle…” Timothy managed to say through his almost-crushed windpipe.

  “Ha! Who’s the dummy now?” Tommy released his brother, throwing his hands in the air victoriously.

  “Whatever, jerk. Let’s just do this.” Timothy stood, rubbing his neck.

  The two pondered the fence, coming up with less than ingenious ways to get over it. Finally…

  “All right, I got it.” Tommy bent down to the dirt, pulling Timothy by his shirt collar to join him. “Here’s how we are going to do it…”

  Tommy began to draw an intricate plan in the dirt, pointing at key elements all while calling Timothy a dummy.

  “Got it, dummy?” Tommy asked.

  The look of confusion was strong on Timothy’s face. “Yeah, yeah, I got it,” Timothy lied with profound confidence.

  Long story short, the two were seen running for dear life, screaming words of terror and gibberish about six minutes later as they ran past the drugstore around the corner. To this day, the two will still not step within two miles of that junkyard, swearing the devil himself lived there.

  As for Johnny Lefty, the story goes that Johnny was seen entering the junkyard on a warm summer day of 2001 but was never seen coming out. That’s it. No one has seen the poor guy since. Short and anticlimactic, yet intriguing nonetheless.

  All the other attempts usually ended before they began, either out of sheer fear or simply from being stopped by the local authorities for trespassing on private property.

  As time went on, the junkyard had lost a bit of its fear factor and became the hangout for some local thugs and druggies.

  —§—

  I had been coming here for a year or two now, just to break the old routine. There was a large gaping hole in the side of the fence that had once been used to keep vermin like me out. Ducking down and pushing past the sharp, pointed metal, I made my way in. As I looked up, the yard had a certain majestic glow to it this time of
day. The sun bounced off the scrap pieces of metal and trash with an ambiance fit for a king.

  As the sun broke through a hole in the tower of garbage, it touched my face, warming it. I could feel my strength return as if manna from heaven was nourishing my very soul.

  The ground was muddied from the melting snow, and the air was thick with the aroma of gasoline and trash as I searched for my first victim. Each drudging step was a struggle. My feet were sucked into the ground, as if the earth were trying to claim my boots as its own.

  There it was, victim number one. That old Coke machine had been in the same spot, untouched, as long as I had been coming here. Let the training commence.

  Facing off with the machine, which stood an arm’s length away, I took my stance. Legs a bit wider than shoulder width, slight bend in the knees for nimbleness, fists balled up like mini-sledgehammers…Concentrate.

  With all my might, I swung.

  Ding.

  My hand bounced off that unfaltering solid block of metal like a rubber ball.

  “AHHHH!” I screamed, cradling my throbbing fist. “What the heck was that?! It didn’t even move! Not even a dent! AHHHH!”

  Doubt was instantaneous. Did I imagine that whole night? Maybe I had actually just gotten my ass kicked and imagined all the other stuff when I was lying unconscious on the floor.

  No. I know what I saw. I know what I felt. And I know what I did.

  Again.

  “Focus, Dean.” I lined up my target and swung. “AH! AGAIN!”

  I am my own hype man. Swing. Swing. Swing. Swing! Right, left, right, left. My eyes filled with tears of frustration. I know what I did—why can’t I do it now? Right, left, right, left. My vision blurred through the watery agony. The Coke machine was relentless and unforgiving. While it had little more than dents to its body, my hands were bloody and bruised.

  What was I doing wrong?

  I looked at my archnemesis one last time, lined up, and took my shot.

  I swung as hard as I possibly could, putting all my will and force behind this deathly blow and…nothing.

  The damn thing didn’t even budge. The only thing that happened was a possible fracture across all my knuckles. Grasping my hand, I dropped to my knees. Did I really imagine the whole thing?