by Sean Platt
“And what happened?”
Luca broke down. “They took the comic and put it in the toilet. Then Johnny Thomas peed on it.”
Dad’s jaw twitched. Luca could tell he was trying to stay not mad. He knew that even if Dad lost it, he wouldn’t be mad at him. He pulled his son toward him, then held their embrace, rocking back and forth until Luca stopped crying. Once soothed, he said, “You’re OK?”
Luca nodded.
“All that stuff I said this morning, that’s good advice. But I have some other advice, too. Would you like to hear it?”
He nodded again.
“Never allow yourself to be bullied, Luca. Sometimes, the best way to deal with a bully, the only way, is to take them down. Sometimes, if a bully’s picking on you, the best thing you can do is to make a tight fist, then hit them as hard as you can, right on the bridge of their big, fat, bully nose in front of a crowd of kids and without any teachers around. With most bullies, you’ll only have to do this once.”
Luca cried some more, but only because he was happy and knew his father was right. He was a little scared to fight, but excited to be tough and not run away. “Thanks,” he said.
Dad smiled. “Anytime, Son. Wanna practice after dinner?”
“What,” he asked, “things to say, or punching?” Luca couldn’t help but laugh; it was tiny and felt good when leaving his mouth.
“Both,” Dad said. He stood, tousled Luca’s hair, then left the room.
The rest of the evening was better. Anna came in just before dinner, hungry for Luca’s attention. They played with Boo, and Anna even let Luca have the larger puppy. They did baby talk and barking for about 10 minutes until Luca was ready to end it, then Anna talked him into playing for another 10 minutes, this time My Little Pony, which he pretended to mind, though Luca didn’t really mind at all (and never did). He still didn’t know what Dad had told Mom, but she made hot dogs and hamburgers — Luca’s favorite — even though it wasn’t hot dog and hamburger night, so he figured she had to know something. After dinner, Luca went outside with Dad, and they practiced saying things and punching.
Luca felt better than he had in days. Still, as he slowly drifted to sleep, his thoughts returned to where they’d been in the car:
Life would be so much better if Johnny Thomas was dead.
Luca slept, cycling through many dreams that he didn’t understand.
He was him, but not him.
Anna was her, but not her.
Mom and Dad were them, though they weren’t his parents at all.
Nothing made sense.
Everything was black, then white.
There were too many colors, then nothing at all.
There was a terrible car accident, the worst kind; it left a long, yellow car crumpled like foil on the roadside, where Luca kneeled in damp grass sobbing, wiping his eyes, all alone. His parents and sister looked like smashed pumpkins in the burning car a few feet away.
Luca woke screaming, terrified and covered in sweat.
He lay in bed, nursing his whimper, unsure if he was still sleeping. He felt some of the dream’s nothingness follow him back to the waking side.
Some of the feelings from other Anna and Mom and Dad (and other Luca) felt so real that they scared him from bed.
He slowly shoved his terror down, past his throat and chest and stomach, until it was near his toes. Then he wiggled them away, tore the covers from bed, and plopped his feet onto the carpet. Luca crept toward the door, stepping on a Lego on the way and biting into his lip to hold the scream in his mouth.
I want Daddy.
He crept out into the hall and felt like praying when he saw the light in Dad’s office. Luca slowly walked the hallway, trying not to run, then opened the door at the end and spilled yellow light into the mostly black hallway, then slipped inside his dad’s office.
A man sat in Dad’s tall office chair, but it wasn’t his father. The man was old, and stroking the head of a large husky.
Luca was still terrified, but felt happy to know this wasn’t real; he had to be dreaming.
“I’m dreaming, aren’t I?”
The old man smiled, stroked his beard, then looked down at the dog, who whined. The man smiled at the dog, and the dog smiled back. Then he turned back to Luca. “Well, yes, of course.”
Luca swallowed. “Who are you?”
“My name is Will. Do you remember me?”
“Should I?” Luca asked. Every cell inside him said he absolutely should.
I know this man.
“No, I suppose not,” Will said.
Luca stood through the silence, waiting for the old man to say something else. But he said nothing. Luca was about to ask the old man how he knew him, and why he was in his house, or at least inside his dream, but before he could say anything, the husky opened its wide jaw and made words instead.
“What about me?” the dog asked, startling Luca.
He fell back three steps until he was standing in the doorway. Even in a dream, the talking dog seemed odd, and like Will’s smile (and the other Anna and Mom and Dad) it seemed eerily familiar.
The husky wined again, then added, “Do you remember me?”
Luca didn’t, until he did.
Suddenly, with more certainty than he had ever found in a dream, Luca knew. For a second he saw everything, then the everything disappeared. It left a name on Luca’s lips. He said it out loud before his brain took it away. “Dog Vader?”
“Yes,” the dog said. “But you can call me Kick.”
The everything returned to take it all away.
Luca’s world disappeared.
The boy opened his eyes in the pitch black of his bedroom, terrified.
Eight
Marina Harmon
Malibu, California
September 2013
Marina stood on the pier, staring out at the setting sun and leaning into the cool breeze as it whipped at her long, blonde hair and sent a cold chill stirring inside her. She lifted her hand and took a sip of hot Starbucks, allowing the warmth to do its work, and give her a spark of the energy she burned through too fast.
She liked walking out to the pier every so often. It was worth it for the sunset. There was something calming about the sea, and the sun dipping down to claim it. It always brought peace to her mind.
This evening, however, the setting sun only reminded Marina of the phrase that wouldn’t leave her mind.
“The Darkness is coming.”
It had been her father’s final words, a message from the Great All Seeing two years before.
She’d been waiting ever since for her own message from the Great All Seeing, ever since she’d taken over the Church of Original Design. Her father, the late self-help author J.L. Harmon, had first heard the Great All Seeing then founded the church in the 1980s. While Marina had been meditating daily as instructed, she had yet to receive a message from the Great All Seeing herself.
Before, the being had only spoken to her father. It was through J.L. Harmon that the being’s messages were interpreted and passed out to their followers. But now, two years after his death, Marina was feeling the pressure — of both heading the multinational, multi-billion-dollar church at age 37, and for delivering the Great All Seeing’s messages to their eager followers.
Some within the church had even called for her removal, saying that she was no prophet. No leader. And if she were being honest with herself, and her fellow church leaders, she would agree. Hell, she didn’t even believe in the religion a few years ago.
While she’d been the church’s vice president for four years, and the face of the religion for the last two, Marina wasn’t comfortable with the church’s many aspects of management, nor the politics of running it, especially when it came to dealing with the church’s leaders in other states and countries. It was too much, and at times, it felt that perhaps this was The Darkness the Great All Seeing had warned of. If Marina failed to navigate her position’s politics, she was doomed
to crash upon the rocks.
The last thing she wanted to do was disappoint her father in whatever his next form would be. Marina wanted Daddy to be proud whenever she met him again, wanted him to know she wasn’t the fuck-up she’d been in her 20s. That she’d found her way back to the light and true way of being.
Marina’s phone rang. She reached into her pocket, hoping it was her boyfriend, Steven. It wasn’t. Instead, it was the agent Veronica Barrow.
She considered letting the call go to voice mail, but hadn’t heard from Veronica in a while and was curious why she was calling, hoping that someone in the church hadn’t done something stupid to leave it with another black eye.
Marina took a deep breath and picked up the phone, “Hello.”
“Marina! How are you?”
“I’m good,” Marina said, inviting no banter, wanting Veronica to get to the point. Fortunately, Veronica was a blunt woman who preferred not to dawdle, but would, if she had to, for the sake of politics. Hearing no need for banter, she said “Hey, I need a favor.”
“What is it?”
“I need you to give your blessing to a writer I work with, Rose McCallister. The Maris Brothers are interested in optioning a book she wrote, The Billfold, and I know they consult with you before working with anyone … to see if the potential partner meets your standards. I want you to vouch for her.”
“You know I can’t vouch for someone I’ve not met.”
“Well, that’s why I’m calling. I want you to meet Rose, and the sooner the better. I want you to see how amazing she is. I want you to give her your blessing.”
“I don’t know,” Marina said, not wanting to add another meeting to her already full schedule. “I need to check with Carrie. When do you need to know by?”
“She’s only in town for a few days, so the sooner the better. Please, Marina, this book is a scorching-hot property. The Maris Brothers will hate themselves if this book goes to Epic.”
Veronica was suave enough not to finish her following thought: They’d be even more pissed if they learned that Marina could have brokered the deal, but didn’t. Marina normally had little patience for power brokers and influence peddlers, but Veronica was good and Marina liked her — she was a loyal rarity in Hollywood, and had helped more than a few Original Design members by quashing some ugly incidents that had happened through the years.
“OK,” Marina said, trying not to sigh or seem inconvenienced. “How about lunch tomorrow, my house?”
“Perfect!” Veronica said. “We’ll see you then. Thank you, Marina.”
“You’re welcome,” she said, then killed the call. She texted her assistant, Carrie, to let her know of her lunch plans.
Marina checked her voice mail to see if Steven had called, then hung up disappointed.
They had planned to meet for dinner at the Bouchard down the road at 8 p.m., but Steven was supposed to call once finished with his meetings for the day.
He had joined Marina’s church six months ago, entering her life at the perfect moment, as if sent by fate to help her manage the day-to-day she found so tiresome. Marina had met Steven at an ayahuasca ceremony, introduced to her as “especially enlightened” by their mutual shaman, Master Puissant. She was amazed at how quickly they had hit it off.
In many ways, Steven was too good to be true, and despite a life of privilege, Marina wasn’t used to feeling so happy. She had never met a man she could be with for longer than three months. People had a way of disappointing her, especially men.
Marina had never met anyone like Steven, a self-made millionaire who earned his fortune on a few, smart dot com businesses that he sold before the bubble burst. He now spent his spare time as an angel investor. His business acumen was the sharpest she’d seen since her father’s. He was handsome, charming, and — most importantly — in no way intimidated by her as so many other men had been. Instead, Steven seemed genuinely curious about both her and her church, which he’d known little of before meeting her, and only from what he was told by Master Puissant.
It was rare that Father allowed outsiders into their fold, and would never have sanctioned her whirlwind relationship with Steven, let alone his involvement in the church as her right-hand man. But Marina’s new beau had taken to the church and its beliefs as quickly as they’d taken to one another.
It wasn’t as if he was perfect; Steven was working through plenty of issues: abandonment stemming from his lack of a father, anger from his childhood, and other unspoken demons that haunted his soul. Steven claimed that Marina, and the church’s Restoring Sessions, had helped him heal his most open wounds — had, in fact, saved his life.
That kind of honesty and raw exposure was rare, particularly in men who had accomplished so much in their life. But with her, Steven said, he no longer felt fear.
Where is he?
The phone finally rang with Steven on the other side.
“Hey, Honey, where are you?” Marina asked.
“Sorry — my meeting with Gerald ran long.”
“Anything I need to worry about?” she asked.
“No, and remember, you pay me to worry about the little things — so you better not be paying me for nothing.”
“You’re right,” she said. “So, are we still on for dinner?”
“I’m on my way,” he promised, then kissed his receiver before leaving the line.
Marina took a sip of coffee, and returned to her car, tossing the empty cup into the garbage on her way. She climbed in the back of the car, then told her driver, James, where they were headed.
She slid into the limo’s seat, and tried to soften her mood. Even though she was on her way to see Steven, she couldn’t shake the ominous feeling bristling her body as she stood on the pier.
The Darkness is coming.
Epilogue
IT stood in front of the bathroom mirror staring at ITS face, wondering if perhaps IT hadn’t altered ITS appearance too much, made ITSELF too handsome.
There was something IT had liked about Boricio Bishop’s rugged looks, the scars, and the ruined eye. Boricio was handsome and ugly at once — a rare feat that had managed to both woo and intimidate at will. But after a few months of living in Boricio’s husk, IT had decided the scars and patch didn’t allow IT to blend in as IT needed to.
Also, too many people knew Boricio Bishop’s shell.
So IT changed his face, fixing the eye, removing the scars, and allowing himself to again grow hair — blond, this time — short and closely cropped.
Now IT was known as Steven Warner. And with Warner’s good looks, and Boricio’s sharp wit, IT had become even more powerful and persuasive, working to take over the church from within.
IT wouldn’t make the same mistakes IT made on the other world.
This time, The Darkness would bide ITS time, gather forces, and find the vials that would tip the scales in ITS favor before taking control of the planet. This time the right way.
While The Darkness had won the battle on the other world, it was ultimately a Pyrrhic victory, leaving The Darkness with nothing to feed off of once the humans were consumed.
IT smiled into the mirror, perfecting ITS authenticity before leaving the bathroom and joining Marina for dinner.
Steven Warner leaned in and kissed Marina softly on the lips.
She smiled, “What was that for?”
IT said, “For all that you’ve given me.”
TO BE CONTINUED …
::Episode 20::
(SECOND EPISODE OF SEASON FOUR)
“Old Friends”
Prologue
Will Bishop
The Alaskan wilderness
1978
Will Bishop stared down at the laminated map, pressing it to the frozen tundra. Ice licked its bottom as he tried making sense of the map, clashing with what he saw below.
“That cave ain’t on the map,” he yelled through his full ski mask, shouting to his unit’s men through a howling wind.
Renny looked back
and forth, trying to make sure they were still looking south. “Shit!” he stared down the slope. “Think he’s in there?”
“Only one way to know,” Will said, folding the map and shoving it back into his thick jacket. He looked at his unit’s other five men, each hunched under their 60-pound Yukon packs, worn from three days spent searching for their missing pilot.
The pilot, Lt. Joshua Harmon, of an Air Force scouting plane, downed in a whiteout six days back, was missing from the site, probably having walked off from the crash and a mostly intact plane. The pilot’s locator was malfunctioning, so following a failed attempt by a team with dogs, Will and his unit were sent to find him.
Though Will wasn’t the unit’s commander — that would be Renny — he was the unit’s psychic, and the primary reason for them conducting a ground search rather than canvassing the terrain from above. Will’s abilities didn’t work nearly as well from the sky, but the ground paved a neat path for his instincts to follow. But it was hard to focus when he could feel the unit’s doubt and annoyance with him increase with every hour they didn’t find Harmon.
To make matters worse, a blizzard was approaching. If they didn’t turn back and head to base soon, they’d have to stay in the cave or dig igloos and hunker until the storm passed. Judging from their last call into headquarters, it could be 48 hours before another plane could reach them — one rescue operation to serve another.
As the unit drew closer to the cave’s open mouth, visibility was shredded by a wall of blinding white. The storm had moved faster than they expected.
“Come on,” Renny urged the group forward.
Will focused on the colorful jackets ahead, blue and red in a sea of white, as Renny led them toward the cave.
The cave was wider up close, large enough to fit their unit two times wide. Roman aimed his flashlight along the ceiling, then to the cave’s rear. Though wide, the cave wasn’t more than a few hundred feet deep.
