Fusion: A collection of short stories from Breakwater Harbor Books’ authors

by Scott Toney

  We were nearly there when one of the windows rattled frantically, the same way as the night before when I was sitting locked in my room.

  Someone’s hand was clinging to the surface on the outer side of the window, as if they were trying to push the window like a door to let themselves in. What the hell is that?

  In panic, I took the bag off my back, and clutched it in front of me as a protective shield. The diary inside would keep me safe. I really hoped it would. The hand’s fingers started scratching the glass more fiercely, and I squeezed my eyes shut.

  “Hey,” Sandrine called. “Are you okay?”

  I couldn’t hear the scratching anymore so I ventured to open one eye, then the other. She stared at me, her eyebrows knotted in alarm.

  I didn’t move or speak.

  “Is something wrong?” she asked.

  “N-no?” I tried to act as if nothing had happened.

  I didn’t care what Sandrine might think about me. My behavior could be put down to nervousness before entering the Principal’s office after all.

  “Let’s go then,” she said, a bit annoyed.

  I ventured a look at the window, but the hand was gone.

  It has to be my morbid imagination, I tried to soothe my nerves, still holding my bag with a bit too much force.

  Sandrine knocked gently on the door, and a muffled voice followed, “Come in, please.”

  We entered a rather shabby-looking office, with a threadbare fitted carpet and ochre washed-out wallpaper that gave the room the sepia quality of old photographs. Even a few silver cups sitting atop an old bookshelf looked inconspicuous in this gloominess.

  Except for the Principal, there was a broad-shouldered man of about forty, grim-looking, a pen and notebook in his hands.

  Both men switched their attention to us, and my stomach gave a severe jolt as the policeman looked me up and down. I had a strange feeling that his eyes saw more than I wanted.

  Principal Crosby gave me a wan smile and pointed to an old vacant swivel chair opposite the chief’s place. “Take a seat, please.”

  I searched the principal’s face for any kind of a clue as to what was going on. His red-rimmed eyes and a forehead lined with worry didn’t mean anything good. No wonder, with the news of a second boy gone, no one would feel swell, would they?

  Still I was amazed that this humble man was the father of a jerk like Stan. I couldn’t see any resemblance between him and the Evil One. Boy, I was grateful for that.

  As I sat down into the uncomfortable chair, I sniffed an odor of nicotine coming from the man next to me.

  Mr. Crosby turned to Sandrine with another mirthless smile. “Thank you, dear. You may go back to your class.”

  Sandrine nodded her head, and tiptoed out of the office.

  Principal Crosby took a handkerchief out of his pocket and mopped his forehead. Another bad sign. “Callum,” he broke the silence, “this is Chief Officer Geoffrey Coleman. He’s currently investigating Greg Thornby’s and Nathan Rushmore’s disappearances.”

  It surprised me a bit that Mr. Crosby remembered my name, though probably it was because of my mom’s visits and complaints about Stan beating me.

  My palms sweated as I took a look at Chief Coleman. The scariest thing about him was that he looked absolutely ordinary to me, but there was something about his eyes saying, ‘I know you are keeping something from me, and I want you to own up.’

  “As far as I know, you and Nathan sit at the same desk,” Mr. Crosby said.

  “Yes.” I nodded, then added, “Sir.”

  The Principal nodded as well. “What can you tell us about Nathan?”

  I described him as an outgoing person who always helped me out.

  Chief Coleman cut me short. “Has he ever mentioned to you that he wanted to leave home for awhile? Maybe there were some problems between him and his parents?”

  “Not that I know of, no. Mr. and Mrs. Rushmore love him,” I said.

  I fidgeted in my seat, wiggling from side to side.

  “Yes, they do, and they’re worried about Nathan,” he went on in a deep, husky voice, “so we are going to search for him as soon as possible.” He shifted his weight from one elbow to the other. “Do you remember when you saw Nathan the last time?”

  Though that was an easy one, my tongue was dry. “Yesterday morning. Just before the classes,” I said.

  The officer jotted something down in his notebook.

  “Did he mention where he might be going?”

  “He said he was going to the woods.”

  “He wasn’t going to his classes then.” The officer raised an eyebrow at me.

  “No. Well, he does that sometimes. When he’s bored.”

  “Hmm, is there any specific place in the woods where he could go? Perhaps some place where you gather together?”

  “We went to the Swamps a few times.” I didn’t mention the Underground. Sure we could check it without the police. If I told Chief Coleman about our hideout, Nathan wouldn’t approve.

  Then it hit me: the Underground didn’t matter. Nothing pretty much mattered, except the fact that I might never get to see Nate alive again. Before that time I’d never even considered that. I lived in a world where only strangers got hurt, only strangers died. Not the ones who mattered the world to me.

  The chief frowned. “The Swamps then,” he muttered, jotting it down in his notebook. All along I’d had a feeling he might know something to catch me off guard later. The more questions he asked, the less confident I became.

  “So you are saying you saw Nathan yesterday morning?” he asked.

  I agreed another time.

  “I think you need to tell him, Geoffrey,” Mr. Crosby cut in.

  “Yes, I will, Oliver. Everyone will find out anyway.” I didn’t like it where both of them were going. “Callum, Nathan returned home yesterday night. Then he went to his room. This morning Mr. and Mrs. Rushmore reported him missing. We came to their place and searched his room. There was blood on his pillow. Someone must have broken in and kidnapped him, although Nathan’s parents didn’t hear anything.”

  Blood on his pillow. Suddenly, the room spun around. I knew what the officer’s words meant, and a lump lodged in my throat.

  Nathan was dead. Simple as that. Who could have done this?

  Tears threatened to well up in my eyes. I blinked a few times to stifle them. I didn’t want Mr. Crosby and Chief Coleman to see me cry right there, though I was shaken by the officer’s words.

  I answered a few more questions like a soulless machine, my thoughts focused on the images of a hand pressed against the glass, on the image of a faceless shadow forcing my friend out of the house. I felt sick.

  “We are going to start an official investigation today, Oliver, but its progress might be hampered by the thunderstorms that are coming,” the officer said at the end of our meeting.

  Principal Crosby thanked him for the assistance, and after their firm handshake Chief Coleman left.

  Glued to my chair, I didn’t move. Left alone with Mr. Crosby, I was eager to be with anyone else rather than him, but the man wasn’t in a hurry to let me go.

  When I looked up at him, I thought he must have aged a couple decades within half an hour, the lines on his forehead so deep. I knew he wanted to say something, but every time he opened his mouth something stopped him. At last he said, “I’m sorry Stan is treating you like this.”

  I looked down, back to my hands, still wondering how these two people could be father and son.

  “And I’m sorry about Nathan,” he went on. “If you need anything, Callum, you are always welcome here.”

  “Thank you, sir,” I mumbled.

  I grabbed my bag then stood up to leave, and with the corner of my eye I noticed Mr. Crosby drying his eyes with the back of his hand.

  Chapter 5

  Entry #44

  October 29

  There are so many things I miss in life. They are like the pages missing from
this diary—I’ll never know what was written there. The same way I’ll never learn what it means to have a father. Even that bastard Stan has one. But in our house any talk about my father is taboo.

  Sometimes Mom says I act like him, but that usually happens when I do something she doesn’t approve of: stay locked up in my room all the time, not sharing anything with her, pick on Bev (and who really picks on whom here?).

  I don’t think she’s fair with me. I mean I’ve never seen Aiden. His name: that’s pretty much the only thing I know about him. Why does Mom make me feel guilty about me being like Aiden? I guess I’ll never know.

  The news of Nathan missing and blood found in his room spread like fire across our town. Lucky as I am, the fact that I was the last one to have seen him spread faster than influenza virus. During the classes and in the cafeteria everyone eyed me with a mixture of suspicion and sympathy.

  Stan and his gang stopped stalking me for a while, but every time we bumped into each other, he gave me a smile of a million-dollar man. That bastard.

  Nathan had been missing for five days, and Mr. and Mrs. Rushmore were distraught about the lack of news. Principal Crosby and Officer Coleman arranged a parent-teacher conference where they highly recommended against letting children stay outside after dark. Of course, no one was allowed to go to the woods.

  That clashed with my recent plan to go to the Swamps, and I knew that whatever Mom would tell me, I would find a way to go there.

  But it wasn’t Mom or Bev that stopped me. The rain persisted with each passing day, and there was no way I could go out in such weather.

  This morning I woke up to the same unfriendly world and only wished to be away from everyone. Today was Friday, and Mom sometimes let me stay at home when I pretended to be sick. Hoping to grab some food, I cautiously went towards the stairs, but Mom was there, and she heard my steps.

  “Good morning, Callum. There’s no need to hide.”

  How do moms do that? I thought.

  “Good morning. I wasn’t hiding, by the way,” I replied, stomping down the steps to show her I meant it.

  Mom moved a plate with sandwiches closer to me. I sat down and the chair creaked slightly under me.

  “Where’s Bev?” I asked, surprised not to see her around.

  “Already at school. Tea or juice?” Mom asked with a wan smile.

  “Juice, please.” I looked her in the eyes. Eyes filled with worry. “Any news about Nathan?” If there was, she’d already have told me. But I needed to make sure.

  “No.” Mom got up to take a pitcher and poured me some orange juice. “I called Alice and Ben. The police still have no clues where he might be.” She put the glass in front of me and sat down, cupping her face and sighing deeply.

  “Before I leave for work, I want to ask you something.” She took a seat opposite.

  A piece of the sandwich lodged in my throat, and I felt myself choking. I grabbed the glass to take a sip, my eyes stinging.

  After a few moments of hesitation she ventured, “Nathan and you were inseparable ever since we came here. If you know where he might be, you’d better tell Geoff— I mean, Chief Coleman.”

  I kept silent. Mom looked at me—I could feel her eyes boring into me—and the last thing I wanted was to look back. It was surprisingly difficult to find something else in the room to focus on.

  “I told him all I knew, Mom.” I didn’t know why I concealed the Swamps story. I think I still wanted to believe Nathan was alive, and each day without news was killing my hope.

  “Okay.” She sighed.

  Drumming my fingers on the polished surface of the table, I cringed and said, “I don’t want to go to school, Mom.”

  First I thought she didn’t hear me, but then she reacted. “I’ve already called Mrs. Collins and told her you’re unwell.”

  “Thanks,” I mumbled and went upstairs.

  I locked the door, even though I knew no one would violate my privacy. It just felt safer this way.

  The weather didn’t improve a bit; the only thing that changed was the intensity of the rain. Now it was a nasty drizzle, and passers-by—a few of my schoolmates among them—used umbrellas as shields against the clinging moisture.

  At least now I could go to the Swamps.

  Two voices waged a fierce war inside my head. One warned me not to go out there, and I would be glad to stay inside, if not for the other voice that tempted me, ‘He is there. You’ll find him, Callum.’ It beckoned me stronger, in a more pronounced way, and I decided to listen to it.

  I was ready to leave right away. There was only one problem: I couldn’t get out till Mom left for work.

  I took my iPod and sat down on the wide wooden windowsill, looking out of the window. About ten minutes later Mom came out and headed for the garage. The sound of the car engine came muffled but still discernible. Then the car appeared, leaving traces in the mud as she backed down the driveway.

  I plugged headphones into my ears and pressed the Play button, enjoying the dark energy of Eternal Tears of Sorrow. I leaned my head against the windowpane, its cool, misted surface having a soothing effect on me.

  All of a sudden, the music stopped and I opened my eyes. I realized I didn’t know I’d kept them closed. Why did the music stop? The iPod screen was blank, unresponsive to my attempts to turn it on.

  “You can’t be dead,” I groaned. I clearly remembered checking the battery before playing, and it was full.

  As I took off my headphones, two things happened at once. I noticed something odd about my hands. First, the skin turned chalk white, with strange circles, triangles and letters appearing all over them, like tattoos. I rolled up the sleeves to find more of the strange symbols sprawling over my skin. Second, I felt deadly cold, as if all around me had turned to ice.

  What the hell? That can’t be right.

  I took a breath and suddenly it hurt under my ribs as if someone had thrust daggers there and started twisting them. Paralyzed with fear, I stopped breathing altogether.

  What’s going on? Tears rolled over my cheeks.

  I cowered from the uneasy feeling creeping down my back.

  No longer able to hold my breath, I exhaled just a bit, thousands of needles prickling my chest. My larynx burned as if I’d just drained a tube of sulfuric acid.

  I moved forward to climb down from the sill when something crashed against the window, its frame rattling violently. I ducked and shielded my face with the tattoo-covered arm, but nothing else happened except the agony of making a sudden move. After a few seconds’ silence I braced myself and turned to see what it was, my eyes falling on an irregular web pattern of the broken glass.

  Was it a bird? I’d heard stories of birds hitting windowpanes being a bad omen. I waited, still scared to death to fully exhale, to feel that excruciating pain under my ribs. I moved just a little bit again, and the next thing I knew, a violent force crashed into the window, throwing me on the desk below and then down on the floor. Pieces of glass ripped my flesh like shrapnel. I pushed myself up, palms cut by the shards on the floor. When I looked up to see what had broken the window, I no longer cared about the pain or the blood trickling down my fingers.

  The hand lay on the desk, its fingers covered with blood and twisted as if to grasp something. To my relief, the pain under the ribs stopped and I could breathe again. I stood watching the hand. I wasn’t like those people in horror movies who were eager to go into a dark room where they heard some noise or hissing. No, I wasn’t like that.

  Turning on my heel I sprinted out of the room, but there was someone in the corridor, right in my way. The girl. She stood there, watching me. This time I could see her face. If she weren’t dead and her skin weren’t cadaverous, I’d call her pretty. If ruined all of it.

  I knew it was the girl who had visited me about a week earlier.

  “Be my friend, Callum,” she whispered, her voice causing goosebumps over my skin. “Let’s go with me.”

  She took a st
ep in my direction, and I stepped back.

  “You set me free. Come with me.” She watched me without blinking, getting closer.

  “No!” I screamed at the top of my lungs.

  Then I woke up, my shirt drenched in cold sweat. The music was still playing in my earphones. I took them out of my ears.

  Muffled sunlight filtered through the window. The glass wasn’t damaged, no cracks, no hands, no blood. My skin didn’t have that cadaverous tinge anymore. I rolled my sleeves to make sure it was just a dream. No marks or symbols marred me. I let out a deep sigh of relief.

  Yet my heart thumped in my chest. Sitting on the exact spot where the hand had lain in the dream freaked me out.

  I climbed down the windowsill, my legs shaky.

  What are those symbols on my hands? I thought. And the girl. How come she knows my name?

  “I’m afraid I’m missing something. Who are you? And where do you want me to go with you?” Then I asked my empty room a question that sent shivers down my spine. “And what is it that I set you free from?”

  I knew what I had to do. It was time to get out of here and go to the Swamps to find Nathan.

  -------------------

  *About the Author*

  Ivan Amberlake is an urban fantasy writer whose debut novel "The Beholder" was selected for review by HarperCollins on December 1, 2011. He is currently working on Book 2 of The Beholder series called "Path of the Heretic" and a continuance of Diary of the Gone. Ivan has a Masters Degree in Linguistics and works as a teacher. His greatest passion is writing.

  Life Ever After. Nina’s Story: Part 1.

  by CLAIRE C RILEY

  Part 1.

  1.

  “Where did they come from?” Ben looks at me with a look somewhere between annoyance and disdain.

  “The shoe shop, obviously,” I say with another one of my trademark eye rolls. Sure, I know what he’s really asking, but who the hell is he to tell me how I can spend my money?

  “Nina, don’t be a bitch about it. You know what I’m saying.”

  See. Even he knows that I know that he knew… whatever, you get the point.

  “We’re supposed to be saving.” He puts down the shoe and looks at me seriously. I can tell that he’s trying his hardest to contain his anger, but the fire in his eyes only makes me want to prod him with a sharp stick all the more.