Peter was astonished, not just that Miranda-Julia left them like she did, but that she kept up those angry goose steps until she was all the way out of sight. After that, it was just him and the boy. Peter picked up the girl’s bag and jostled it gently up and down. It was fairly heavy.
Derek was now recovering from his disconnected state and was starting to feel the pain his body had endured. The boy examined the wounds on his arms with disbelief. The extent of the injuries might have frightened a more excitable child.
“Oh God, those look horrible,” Peter said, wincing as he spoke. “Do you live far away? Those need to be treated. I don’t know where the doctor is. Where do we go?”
Derek pulled his legs in and crossed them. He groaned a little as the soreness expressed. “Let’s just go back to my mom’s store. She’ll take me somewhere, when she’s done freaking out.”
“Okay. Jeez, that looks bad. What about Miranda?”
Derek’s eyes cast downward. There was a hint of shame. “Next time I see her she’ll act like nothing happened, and it’ll be okay. We just have to never talk about it. Ever. She can hold grudges.”
“Yeah, I believe that. Well, she’s mad for a good reason, you know. Really, really mad. I’m pretty sure I’ve never been that mad.”
“Yeah. Me, neither.”
“You usually have to combine people to get that much anger.”
“Yeah.”
“She’s not wrong, though. I mean, I think you probably did something kind of irresponsible. It sounds like it, Derek.”
“Yeah, I know.”
“So there’s a cave up there, huh?” Peter asked.
Derek started a little. “Did I say that?”
“Yeah.”
“I don’t know why I said that. There wasn’t a cave. There isn’t.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. There’s nothing up there.”
“That’s weird. Why’d you say it, then?”
“I don’t know.”
“But you went up in the woods. Why’d you go up there?”
“I don’t remember.”
“You said you got scared and ran away from something.”
Derek’s eyes narrowed with concern. “Don’t you believe me?”
“Yeah, yeah! I believe you. I’m just putting this all together in my mind. I just don’t get what happened, is all. I thought I understood. Now I’m confused.”
“Oh.”
“I guess, maybe, you were confused when you said that stuff.”
“Yeah.”
“Well, let’s get you home, huh?” Peter said, comfortingly. “Here’s your shoe.” Peter handed him the wet thing and Derek put it on, not bothering to tie the sloppy, wet laces. Peter stood over him, then reached out and took the boy’s hands. Derek nodded and accepted his help. With a sharp intake of breath his legs straightened and his knees popped in anger. Peter ran to fetch the boy’s bag, but Derek reached out for it when he returned.
“Please,” he said. “Can I have it?”
“Are you sure? Your arms are really hurt.”
“Yeah, I’m sure. I’ll take it.”
Peter shrugged and handed the cumbersome thing over to the boy. “What are you keeping in there?” he asked.
“School books.”
“Looks like an atlas or something.”
“Yeah, it is. A world atlas.”
They started walking down Bunyine Road and Peter paid close attention to what Derek said. He tried to keep up the chatter in hopes of finding something out. It started friendly, but quickly became something awkward. As they got further away a dire emptiness took hold. Soon enough, it was like they were just two people walking the same way. Peter might as well have been following a hundred yards behind. Their crackling steps kept getting louder until the sound was almost obnoxious. This left a little space for his mind to wander.
He didn’t believe Derek’s story. However, he wasn’t sure if that meant the boy was lying, or if he was simply confused. Either way, the story was in tatters. If he was being dishonest, why? If he was mistaken, how? Let’s deconstruct this. Firstly, what caused those wounds? From the look of them, it’s definitely possible that they were self-inflicted, just like Derek said. Assuming that’s how it happened, what could cause that? It was an intriguing question. What could possibly terrorize a boy that much? Send him dashing through the forest in some desperate, primal, fight-or-flight scenario? He would have to have been in a crazed state of mind, wouldn’t he?
Peter was beset with this conundrum. Was it a bear? If so, what was that cave business about? Why would he lie about that? Maybe he has a nervous disorder. Maybe it was a blackout. He didn’t say he couldn’t remember, though. Not yet, anyway. He might say that next. He hasn’t really explained it. Peter wasn’t going to press the boy for an answer, though. Then, maybe…
Maybe there really was a cave.
Was he over-thinking this? Sometimes life was painfully explicable. He couldn’t help it, however, he loved a good mystery. If he didn’t have an abnormal amount of curiosity in him, he never would have accomplished anything. It took months of sleepless nights and a kind of fascination that seemed, on the surface, like absolute, clinical obsession. It was a kind of mental illness in of itself, really. A good one. It was a dedication to uncertain ends that oftentimes didn’t pay off. Even if it wasn’t sensible, that old feeling was being revived in him. He felt it in his stomach. I’m coming back here. That’s definitely going to happen. Peter couldn’t imagine not returning.
The scene at Rose Windward’s store was as frenzied as Derek had predicted it would be. When her boy walked in covered in bloody wounds, it sent his mother into wide-eyed maternal madness. She took him in the back and cleaned his injuries as best she could while Peter explained to Alyssa precisely what had happened. She listened and nodded, sincerely concerned. Derek could be heard trying to sooth his mother’s hysterics with calming words, telling her again and again how much worse it seemed than it was.
“Well then, what do you think happened?” she asked.
“I don’t know,” he answered truthfully. He was coming down from his former elevation. The new mystery he’d uncovered was becoming more mundane now that he’d spoken of the incident to his more level-headed wife. She’d made some suggestions that brought this whole enterprise down to Earth. He’d noticed their car was parked out front when he arrived, filled from top to bottom with wooden furniture. He pointed over his shoulder with his thumb. “Did you have trouble moving that stuff?” he asked her.
She was still brooding over Derek, but she popped back to reality. “Uh, no, not really. Rose helped. I’m strong. Stronger than you, anyway,” she said, poking him playfully.
“God, I wish you were kidding. All those one gallon bottles of milk I’ve seen you life one-handed. You’re stronger than a sasquatch. How many rooms is all that gonna fill?” he asked. He could feel phantom backaches in expectation of all that lugging and dragging.
Alyssa laughed, tossed him a pitied look. “How many rooms? Peter, how many rooms do you think would fit in this mini-van?”
“Oh. Right. So I guess we’re gonna be coming back again, huh?”
Alyssa’s mind went back to Derek. “Do you think he’s going to be all right? Should we see if they need anything?”
“I guess we should ask. He walked all the way home, though, didn’t he?”
Alyssa nodded. “It’s a good thing you found him.”
“I didn’t really do much.”
“Well, not doing much is kind of your thing.”
Rose came out of the back room. She had trembling, soggy eyes. She approached Peter, her posture was tense, and she gently placed a hand on his arm. Her face was a picture of gratitude. “Oh, thank you so much for bringing him back. I really appreciate it.”
Peter smiled. “He’ll be fine, Rose.” He patted her forearm. She nodded appreciatively.
“I know,” she answered, putting on a front of rationality and calm. She was ready to burst into hysterics, again, at the slightest complication. Peter had a feeling that Derek’s welfare was the only thing that could get her this worked up. “I’m taking him to the doctor. Those cuts on his arms are just awful.”
“Is there an emergency room around here?”
“No. Not close by.”
“Oh, wow. You’ve got, like, a town doctor around here, or something, don’t you?”
Rose nodded. “Again, thank you,” said Rose, and walked toward the back of the store.
They went outside. Peter dropped down in the front seat of their van. His feet pulsed from all the walking. “Ugh. I feel sixty years old. The kids around here aren’t normal, they walk everywhere. Kids in the suburbs won’t walk to the bathroom. I’m surprised bedpans aren’t back in use.”
“Oh, you just need to get out more, you old codger,” Alyssa teased.
“I think you mean stay in more.”
He started up the car and threw back the parking brake, soon they were on their way.
Peter poked his thumb over his shoulder. “Did you guys move all this stuff yourself?” Peter said.
Alyssa smirked. “We somehow managed without you.”
“Thank, god. I didn’t want to help. ”They both laughed. His mirth was genuine, but Peter was actually worried about having to do physical work. “How many more trips do you think it’s gonna take?”
Alyssa shrugged, shook her head. “How many rooms could fit in this car, Peter?”
“Oh, yeah. Right.”
“I don’t know, but we need a lot.”
Peter’s brow creased. “Hmm. Say, Lyssie, you never cheated on me, right?”
She was almost startled, but then she remembered this was Peter. “No. I’ve been taking all those Ambien, though. I could have, like, ten boyfriends and not even know it.”
“Seriously? Not ever? Maybe with a broad-shouldered guy? Someone who can lift a plank table without my help? Someone with a pickup truck?”
“Ha! Nope. Sorry.”
“Well, any local guys caught your eye? Guys who might be interested in starting something up with you, just for a short time? You know, just until we have the second floor furnished?”
“No. You’re making a lot of sense, though.”
“Seriously. No questions asked, as long as he’s willing to work.”
Things were pleasantly quiet for just a little while. They both had things to ponder. The steady shake of the car induced thought. Alyssa spoke up, some precious new idea prickling at her. “What did you think of Rose?”
Peter thought about it for precisely three seconds. “I like her. She seems nice. She kind of reminds me of Blythe Danner, you remember? She played the mother in that movie with the two sisters. It’s in the 40’s, or something, and there’s this whiny kid complaining about his childhood. I forget what it’s called.”
“Brighton Beach Memoir.”
“Yeah, that’s the one! She reminds me of her. How the hell did you know that?”
Alyssa gave a non-committal nod. “I had HBO, too. But, yeah, kinda. She’s got that sort of plain-but-strong-willed kind of thing going.”
“Yeah, she is kind of plain. I guess she’s what you’d call a handsome woman.”
“Oh, come on! That’s awful!
“You’re the one who said she was plain!”
“I wasn’t talking about her looks. I meant her attitude. Her clothes. Anyway, how was it spending all that time with the kids?”
Peter shrugged. “It was okay. Turned out to be kind of a hassle in the end. All that walking.”
“Do you like Miranda-Julia?”
“Oh yeah! She’s great! I can’t wait till she’s old enough to drink and we can start going on benders. We’re gonna tear shit up!” Alyssa laughed, but then Peter's voice dropped a little in volume and enthusiasm. "There's something kind of weird about her, though."
"Weird? What's weird?"
"Well, sometimes...sometimes she doesn't sound like a kid. It's like there's something extra there."
Alyssa shrugged, squeezing his shoulder. “What about Derek? Did you like him?”
Peter’s squashed down a scowl that might have been more truthful than anything he would likely have said. “Umm. He’s okay, I guess. Kinda dark, you know? We chatted a little on the walk back. It might have been the hideous wounds. I think he might be like that all the time, though.”
Alyssa breathed in deeply. Peter steadied himself, recognizing this as his wife's natural preamble for heavy news delivery. “Listen, I know this is going to sound a bit weird, but I want you to spend some time with him.”
Peter winced, not recognizing this as typical news, but something vastly unfamiliar. “Who? Derek? What the hell for?” He looked at her in disbelief.
Alyssa resisted the urge to become defensive and turned on her honey voice. “He doesn’t have a father, Peter. He needs some kind of a male influence.”
“What? Alyssa, what makes me qualified? I mean, how male am I, exactly? I don’t watch sports. I suck at everything. I’m an engineer who can’t fix stuff, for god’s sake. Heck, I read that Jane Austen book last year, you remember that? I read it and I really liked it, too. Remember, I said I wished someone would write a sequel? I’d call it Pride and even Prejudicer?”
“Well, that’s just what makes you a great guy. You’re perfect for this. He doesn’t need some kind of alpha male role model. He needs someone who’s sensitive and smart.”
“Role model? Oh, give me a break. Lyssie, you can’t be serious.”
“Peter, please. I really, really want this. I really like Rose, and I think it would make her happy. Come on, make the furniture lady happy. Pretty please. I'll be your friend for life.”
Suddenly, Peter felt like he was defending his right to do nothing with his days, so he implemented a smear campaign. “You barely know him, hon. He’s depressing. He’s a bummer. He really is! Kids like that are why schools have metal detectors, nowadays! You never know when they’re gonna come in with a cheap Israeli machine gun and then it’s all ACK ACK ACK ACK ACK!”
“Cut it out. There’s nothing wrong with Derek.”
“That doesn’t mean I want to have a bromance with the kid.”
“You’re fun, Peter. That’s one of the reasons I love you. I don’t remember what the other reasons are right now, but they’re not nearly as good.”
“Seriously, honey, nobody respects you for being in love with me.”
“He needs to have some fun. He lost his father, and Rose says he doesn’t have a lot of friends. I think what she really means is none.”
“Lots of boys don’t have fathers. I barely had one. During baseball season, anyway. Boys without fathers buy acoustic guitars and write boring, bitter songs about abandonment. You like that band Pearl Jam, honey? You love that 90’s stuff. All that sensitive rocker crap. That band wouldn’t exist if any of them had any proper male influences. What if Derek is the next Eddie Vedder? I’m gonna ruin that? Dammit, I don’t even like them, but I don’t want to live in a world without Pearl Jam!”
Alyssa shrugged and yawned. There was finality in it. All things were final at this time of night. “Buy him an acoustic guitar, then,” she said, then sank back in her seat. Peter was shocked, looking back and forth from the road to her. He just couldn’t believe that was the end of the conversation.
If there is anything more exhausting than intense pain, Derek, in his short life, had never experienced it. He was tipping over in the car, his head thudding against the passenger-side window as they rode home from Dr. Paulson’s house. His mother’s fretting had sharpened her senses and the old Buick stayed perfectly centered in the lane, taking the turns with a slight screech. When they were home, and Derek was limping to the front door of their old house, she came up behind him and put her arms underneath his, helping him as best she could.
The Windward home was not at all as impressive as their ancestors’ mansion. It was not without its charms, however. It was a typical American farmhouse and had once been an active dairy farm. It stood on a slight hill that led down to the dirt road which it faced. If one knew that there had once been a barn and two smaller structures on this property, then it would become obvious where they had once been, for the remaining home seemed the last stragglers of a thinned herd.
A long wood fence swooped all around it. The house might have succumbed to the type of dilapidation one was accustomed to seeing such places in, but the aggressive upkeep since the Windwards had arrived had kept it from falling into a lackadaisical condition. Rose had lived there for four years before Derek was born. In that time, before his death, her husband, Michael Windward, had made vast improvements. It had degraded only a little, since then.
There were lace curtains at every window, a porch out front with a swing, and a high, peaked roof. Its exterior was painted egg white. It was the kind of place that charmed passersby, on those rare occasions there were any on this unpaved dirt road, and had them searching for a FOR SALE in the front yard. But most who imagined owning such a place did not include living there year-round in their fantasy. Certainly not when the snow came.
Derek walked with heavy steps up to his bedroom and rolled onto his bed. He lay face up, his hand on his throbbing forehead. Rose had considered asking him if he wanted her to draw him a bath, but as she worriedly watched him limping up the staircase, she decided to leave him be. Doting on Derek was not the way to make him feel better. It never had been. Just as she had feared, though, his bed was instantly a sloppy mess. He left his damp shoes on and lay down, letting out a long, relieved breath. He did not reasonably expect to be still awake a minute or two later, so he closed his eyes to embrace a grateful oblivion, if it would come.
A look around at the walls, shelves and cabinets of Derek’s room would tell you very little about him, directly. One might have to surmise that he was very uninteresting. There were no posters of his favorite movies or musicians, no clusters of trinkets to remind him of places he’d been, or of fond days worth remembering. Clothes were not scattered on the floor or dangling half out of drawers, and there was no television, stereo, or video games. It didn’t look like the residence of a twelve-year-old boy, more like a place of meditation. There was very little besides a bookcase, a bed, and a dresser. It differed greatly from the rest of the house, which was densely furnished to his mother’s tastes, every wall papered with vermilion roses and every corner a display for a vase or proud antique. It felt as if her store of decorations had run out right before she’d reached his room. The bookcase seemed to be the only vibrant spot in the whole room, a spectrum of bindings and titles of all colors brushing a little life onto this blank wooden canvas.
Yes, not like a boy’s room, it seemed. But if a boy’s room, then one who’s very different from most. Perhaps, if one were to judge it more kindly, it was not strangeness, but the lack of it. It was as if the occupant had much on his mind and little need to harangue it with distractions. It was the domain of a boy who lived mostly in his head.
Right now, however, Derek couldn’t recall a time when he had been so needful of sleep. As he lay there, awaiting the arrival of unconsciousness, his thoughts refused to quit their awful reflection on the day behind him. His rest was being held captive by worry. All day long he had wanted nothing more than to be right here in his bed. When he was fleeing for his life this morning, he was really running for his bedroom, his arms reaching, on instinct, for the doorknob. But now that he was here it felt like something was different, that something was missing. It took him a moment to realize what it was, and as he did, fear began to bloom like the thorny stem of a weed.
This room, which had, until today, been his haven, felt now like it had been blown wide open. The walls torn down, the roof ripped off and flung away, leaving him bare to the night sky. It was unfair. This was his home. The Bunyine had no business being here. Did it actually know where he lived? If it didn’t, Derek knew, it would find him sooner or later. It had said his name, and to know that was to know all, Derek believed. It made the boy no stranger to the beast, but an expected adversary. He wished Miranda-Julia was here, but he couldn’t call her. She would still be angry, and hearing the phone slammed the instant she heard his voice would only make him jittery.
He suddenly felt overwhelmed. This wasn’t the first time he’d been scared, not by a long shot, but in the past it was enough to flip on the lights or drown out the quiet with his noisy, old ceiling fan. He thought of all that he’d learned since he’d discovered Douglas’ journal, so many unbelievable things. Facts which had made him feel privileged to know, and now he wondered whether or not it was worth this nightmare his life had suddenly become. He now wished he could go back in time, any time, really, even yesterday, before he’d seen the Bunyine and this had become so terribly real. The thought felt something like an inner warmth, consoling him and filling him up.
After hauling in the furniture, Peter spent the rest of the evening pacing. He had nothing better to do. Their things hadn’t arrived, as of yet, so he didn’t have his desktop computer, with its huge screen, on which to fritter away the hours, or his video game console on which to fritter away what was left. Alyssa was utterly taken with the arranging of the kitchen and was beyond noticing his distress. That’s just what his wife was like. Always busy. Always occupied. Pretty soon, when their things arrived, she would have even more to distract her. Peter rolled his eyes. On their way were boxes of fan paraphernalia: books, videocassettes, posters, vinyl records, buttons, magnets, a lunchbox, plus various other novelties. Every single item bearing the name of her favorite music group. Oh, God, Alyssa’s Pink Floyd albums are gonna be here soon. I like them, but dammit, there’s other bands! Peter chuckled. Pink Floyd on Mini-Disc! She’s the only person on Earth who still listens to them. Singing along to THE WALL on her 1998 aqua-colored Sony Portable Mini-Disc player is...okay, it’s pretty cute. It’s adorable. It’s the most adorable thing on Earth, actually. I can’t wait for that stuff to get here. Hurry up, Pink.
He eventually made it up to the attic with a glass of wine in hand and stared at the window for a while. He sloshed it around from cheek-to-cheek. The mystery of Derek’s was still on his mind, however, it was not to the point of complete distraction. Though there were peculiarities that the boy’s story didn’t address, his interest in the whole affair seemed to be deflating.
An idea struck him that they should get a pet. Then he could take care of it, rather than worrying about himself. I’m gonna get a dog. Alyssa's furniture seems to be making her happy, helping her adapt to a new environment. So I'll get a dog and see if that works. Why not? Alyssa’s got her wood, and it seems to be working. This will be my wood. I’ll even name the dog Spruce just to make a point that the dog is my wood. I’ll name him Spruce, Pine or Brazilian Maple. Of course, we need the wood, the house needs it, and we need a dog about as much as we need to find a hobo sleeping in our basement.
Having thought things through, yet, having drawn no conclusions, Peter spun around to leave, off to seek the meaning of life in a different part of the house. Perhaps the basement? He found himself stalling as his eyes were drawn to the North-West corner of the room. He could have sworn he’d seen something move. It looked like a person shivering, but not as large as a person. He became immediately tense, nevertheless, he stepped a little closer to to the place it had been, but it was too dark to make anything out. He hadn’t turned on the room lights when he came in, navigating by the shine of the waxing moon. He squinted at the darkness there, not certain that he was seeing anything. It looked like something may, or may not, be hanging there in the dark, something turning and twisting above the floor, as if the darkness were boiling, bubbling and splitting like dividing cells. He couldn’t recognize any particular shape, it was like a wall crawling with bugs. But this wasn’t on the wall, it was above the floor near the corner. It was faint, so faint that it could have been something with Peter’s not-so-reliable sight rather than something much harder to explain.
Peter was startled enough to speak as if something were there to hear it. He thought it would help to sound like he was not intimidated. “Mr. Ghost?” he said. “Um…Mrs.?”
There was a sudden flash of light, a flash bright enough to startle Peter silly. “Agh!” he yelped, and dropped to his knees. He was utterly confused for a few seconds, the world twirling, having transformed, in one swift move, from complete blackness into a supernova, then back again. A minute later, he sat there with his glasses cast off, rubbing his eyes around in their sockets until there was nothing left of the flash that had stung his retinas. He soon realized he wasn’t hurt, just incredibly mixed up, and he got back to his feet. The glass of wine, and its contents, were all over the wood floor. The room had returned to its latter state, but things were not the same by a long shot. Peter crossed his arms and stood there quietly. That was not normal. It wasn’t nothing. There’s something wrong with me. There were so many possibilities, and none of them were acceptable to Peter. I have a tumor, I’m pretty sure. What else would it be? Nothing comes to mind. There's that movie with Travolta. He saw lights that weren’t there, and it turned out to be a tumor. Whoever wrote that screenplay probably didn’t just make that up. That’s a real symptom of brain cancer, most likely.
Peter turned back to the window. He didn’t want these thoughts. He wanted to shut the door on them, travel back in time to a couple of minutes ago when there had been nothing more dire than ennui to contend with. The best way he knew to forget a problem was to ponder a question. To attack a lesser issue and get wholly absorbed in it. Forcing himself to think about an issue had always been Peter’s method of coping with upsetting things. When his grandmother died, he’d started working on building a perpetual motion machine. The invention was a big success. He didn’t succeed in building it, but he succeeded in getting over the biggest hump of the grieving process. It was a big success in that sense. What would be his perpetual motion machine this time? There was a ready made mystery, one that already had sort of taken him already. Something had bothered him about what happened with Derek.
Though the mystery of the cave had ceased to be as enticing as it was this evening, he was seeing it right now in a way he hadn’t been doing a couple minutes back. He needed it. It was a distraction. It was faint, like a weak star that was impossible to see, even with the most powerful lens, but it was there, nonetheless, and you knew it. He’d had hunches before, but this wasn’t even a hunch. Even if it served no purpose but to distract him, there really was something out there in the woods. Something happened to Derek. The mystery was doing its job already. He could feel it in his stomach, a little glowing particle that poked at him like a baby kicking to be born. He took a few steps toward his dazzling window, and he believed in something, for a moment, just because he wanted to.
In his sleep, when it finally came, Derek dreamed of Moon Window. It had become something he would anticipate all the day long - pondering what he could accomplish at the dream house, thinking up a new strategy to gain entrance. This night, he found himself there, once again, bobbing out of the treetops and over what was now the Huffy property.
As always, it was sunny. The good dreams were always sunny. His feet only met the ground sometimes, and when they did, it was as if they were tangled and rather useless, like pumping at bicycle pedals that had no chain. So what was propelling him had more to do with his eyes than his feet. It was not exactly like floating in space, at least, he didn’t think so, because he was always drawn downward again. He had become so familiar with the way of the motions here at the dream house, that when he woke in the morning it felt wrong to have his bare feet slap firmly on the floor.
The house was no different tonight. There was no way in. The doors and window panes were airtight, as if frozen in time. Sometimes, he started to think that he could make something happen, make something change, like it was that kind of dream. He’d get his fingers hooked in a cranny and pry something loose, like a brick, a nail, or a chunk of cement. One night, he had plucked up a blade of grass and thrust it like a knife, and the pointed tip scraped the mortar between some bricks, leaving a flaky gash. He then tried to cut the glass on the windows, but that didn’t work, nor did it work on the wood of the porch or window jambs, so he didn’t bother trying that again. How many centuries would it take to get in that way, anyway? Whittling his way in through brick and mortar with a blade of grass?
He never saw anything on the ground floor, but he always began by looking there first. It was a ritual that he knew was important, somehow. After, sometimes he found he could climb up to the second story on the porch’s pillars, pulling himself up on the tiny little pockmarks on the wood with his fingernails and flinging himself up and over onto the deck. Sometimes the decks weren’t there, strangely enough. Like some prankster yanked them out from under him. There was some kind of mind here. Derek knew that for certain.
The house’s top deck was sometimes not there, so he was left to search the second story windows without anything underneath him. It was only up here, through those windows, that he ever caught a glimpse of any life inside the house, but life was not always there. What little he’d seen was distorted so much that it did not look human to him, so discerning man from woman, or child from adult, was doubly impossible. Once up there, he would slide his nails on the surface of the window and hold himself there by the bumps on his palms clinging to microscopic nooks and crannies in the glass. His body weighed as little as a paper bag with a magazine in it, so his muscles barely needed to tense. Nevertheless, he would slip, little by little, as whatever force this world had in place of gravity gently dragged him down. Sometimes, it felt like a hand gently wooing him downward, as if it had simply been abiding his snooping out of friendship.
One creature was thin and bright white, like it was drawn with broad slashes of chalk on a blackboard. Its joints were knobby and its arms were long and low, and hung all the way to the floor like an ape’s. It skulked around on the inside, limping in circles, maneuvering around the vague, dark clumps of furniture that Derek could just make out in the dim light. Its body lurched when it paced, like it walked on two broken legs. It had noticed him once, turned around and its eyes had locked on him from all the way down the hall. It clomped across the width of the house and pressed its eyes right up to the glass. Up close, its skin was porous, with a deathly pallor. Some of its features were indescribably alien, and shifted about like clockwork components. It made Derek jump back with a start. He’d floated away, over the trees beyond the property.
Had it actually seen him? Or was it just a behavior that happened to coincide with his being there? Derek wondered if anything he saw through the window was really as it seemed. It might just look heavily distorted through the glass, so it could be normal without it in between them. After all, what kind of living thing had a face that was in constant flux like that? It was either some kind of abstract cartoon, or it just seemed like that from where he was, like the color of the sky depends on where you’re standing.
There was a second being up there, too. Its shape bulbous on the bottom and thin on the top, like an overturned brandy snifter. This one was blood red, but he’d never seen it up close, because no matter where Derek approached from, it was always on the opposite side of the house. When he could see the red one, it was always from this same vantage, lurking in the recesses, as if ashamed of itself. It didn’t move around like the other one did, it remained always where it was. Just the previous evening, a wind had caught Derek from his left side and pushed him along as if he were tethered to a rope, so he’d hurried from window to window, guiding himself with his eyes, skipping like a stone and landing on the glass as delicately as an eyelash brushing a moth’s wing. He had seen the same thing in every room, mirrored perfectly, and it frustrated Derek. He would have to make his way inside to see who they really might be, and what they might be like. They could just be people, like him, asleep in their own beds, sharing this house with him, from afar. Why not?
He decided to give up for the night. His back, right on his spine, was starting to hurt terribly. It was an imposition from back in the real world. He wasn’t sure how long he’d been there under the bridge this afternoon. Truthfully, he remembered very little. His state of mind after fleeing from the Bunyine was scattered, untrustworthy. The things he did recall were probably not reliable. It was more than just fear he’d felt, there was something else in it, like a part of him had been pushed past its breaking point. The scare had been beyond overwhelming. He’d lost control of himself. He suspected, although it was just a feeling, that he would never be that afraid, again. Not if he lived forever.
Derek woke in the dark. He looked around his room. There was, as usual, little there to see. His clock declared that he’d been asleep for most of the night and dawn was not far away. He may have been out for hours before he’d gone to that other place. His stomach whined and flexed inward. He was so hungry. He had actually not eaten since the day before, but he decided not to go downstairs. His soreness was just bearable if he stayed in bed. So he stretched out again, his limbs quivering as they anticipated rest. He knew, somehow, that he would not be dreaming again this night.
Though Derek couldn’t know this, as he slept, something terrifying had stridden boldly into the Windwards’ yard. It had stepped up to the old pignut hickory tree, just outside his window and twenty feet below him. It then opened its large mouth and sunk its jaws into the brittle bark, tearing much away and exposing the bare wood underneath. The thing slowly chewed, then swallowed, gulping everything down its enormous gullet. A paw of unbelievable size and menace took a swipe, and the meat of the tree exploded all over, splashing it with splinters. The creature turned away and stalked off back into the night, mindful, as always, of the sinking moon and the sun that threatened to rise.
In the middle of the night, in his sleep, Peter Huffy disentangled from his wife and rolled onto his stomach. They both slept, once again, on an air mattress on the floor of the attic. However, the arrangement which had been so charming the night before, as they’d sipped wine and kissed amidst the ambiance of candles, had ceased to be so endearing in its encore performance. Especially for Peter. It was hot, and he tossed and turned in his underclothes for nearly an hour before falling into a troubled rest. It was now well into the a.m., and Alyssa was fast asleep. Somewhere around three in the morning, he began to scrape at the floor beneath him, struggling like a dog absorbed in a fantasy of digging holes. What Peter was experiencing was the distending of his mind to accept a voluminous, new premise that was much more than a dream.
He found himself standing in daylight, right at the center of Sparkle’s market square. His night eyes were baffled as thick bars of sunlight poked at his irises, upset by the sudden brightness. He felt tickles of wind on the back of his neck and the weight of his body on his heels. It was all far too real. If he was dreaming, then he was doing it in a way that was new to him. As he rubbed his eyes, he realized with disappointment that his glasses weren’t on his face. This was a thought he’d never had before in a dream. He hated being without them, so he was pleased when his eyes had finally adjusted, that everything from the sky above to the street beneath his feet was all wonderfully in focus. More than in focus. There was splendor all around him. The colors and shades of every little nick and line on every surrounding surface, from painted wood signs to rainbow slashes on slick glass windows, all shouted in praise, as if making their own light.
And all primary colors, too! What a thing to see! The whole world boiled down to fundamentals, like a panel from a comic strip in the Sunday funnies. But no newspaper had ever had colors so rich, so full, so real, as these. Out in the distance he could see the telling brown of trees in the distance, but just a few scattered copses. These few trees were among the only occupants of this world that strayed from the primary palette. He looked at his hands, amused by their obstinate tan. Though colors were simpler here, he was the same as always. Because of this, he seemed out of place. Above him, the light of the sun was the liveliest of yellows, like the perfect time of day frozen in place so that you could always have it. Peter was overcome.
“My God, what is this?” he said, turning in place, stupefied by this new world all around him. “Wow! Am I awake?”
That was when an unfamiliar voice cut through the veil of Peter’s reverie. It was warm, youthful, yet, with a wizened fraying at the edges. “Hmm...awake?” it said. “No, I’d say not. Don’t let that make you think that you are dreaming, however.” It was an English accent, not a modern one, and slightly colored by travel and the mastering of other tongues. “It is, in fact, you who are the dream here, Peter.”
Peter turned to the speaker and saw a fit, young man, maybe in his mid-20’s, sitting with one leg up on the empty plinth where the square’s statue of Douglas Windward normally stood. The young man was lounging at the center of the dry fountain, enjoying a corn cob pipe that doled out a thin tendril of smoke. He seemed as carefree as an elderly gent watching from a porch swing. He wore vintage clothes, maybe a hundred years old — trousers, suspenders, and a white, woolen button-up shirt — but it was all in real world colors, just as Peter was. The contrast was otherworldly. It made him seem like he was standing on top of things, like a fly on a television screen. A three-dimensional figure in a two-dimensional world.
The younger man had brown hair and a broad smile, along with features that still retained the fleshiness of youth. He was, in a way that’s very hard to convey with words, quite impressive. His smile was a tell. It suggested confidence and competence. His eyes detailed a most profound portrait of intellect, as if he were patiently waiting for the world to catch up to him, but wasn’t expecting it for a while. Out on this somewhat modern street, dressed as he was, he made Peter think of a university student in costume for a class production. The young man stood up and held out a hand in greeting, and before Peter accepted the hand, he knew who it was. It was fairly obvious from the start.
“Why, D. D. Windward! You old badger! How are ya?” said Peter. “The guy from the statue, right?”
The man smiled, warmly. “Douglas is fine. Peter Huffy, correct?” Douglas responded, gently amused. Peter returned the smile, but he suddenly felt underdressed. He peeked down at his body: he now was fully clothed in similar, vintage attire. They were not copies of Douglas’, but they looked like they were from the same precise era. He was very relieved, and he saw no need to question any magical force that provided period clothing at no cost. Strange, though, he could not remember ever feeling self-conscious in a dream.
“Well, I’ll be!” cried Peter. “I thought you were dead.”
Douglas considered this, then nodded. “Yes, actually. And how have you been?”
Peter was at a loss. “How? I don’t know. I’m pretty lost on the ‘how’ thing, right now. I’m sure I’m not asleep, though. So … I guess I’m insane. ‘Cuz this all feels very, very real. Dreams don’t feel like this.”
Douglas seemed pleased, as if this were cutting to the quick of the matter. “Quite right, dreams do not, but you are, in fact, not dreaming, Peter. As I’ve said, this place is very much real. You, however, are not.”
Peter shook his head. “I don’t get it.”
Douglas beamed, then gave Peter a jolly slap on the shoulder. "My! It's nice to be speaking to another man! What a thing this is, eh! How long has it been? How long?" Douglas laughed, looking as if he wanted to do a somersault in celebration.
Peter was thrown by the younger man's sudden joy. There's was something a bit sad in it. Sad in a way Peter couldn't quite place. "People aren't usually this happy to meet me."
Douglas checked his behavior, becoming the gentleman, once again. “I do apologize. This all must be very confusing for you. Your mind must be all-of-a-twist.”
“Kinda. Er…kind of. Actually, I’ve had lucid dreams before. There’s usually women in bikinis and stuff, or a harem filled with girls I knew back in college.”
“Yes, I’m sure.” Douglas said, with a temperate nod. “Bikinis and all that sort of thing.”
Peter winced. “Wow. The way you talk. You sound a little like Richard Dawkins. I’m just…really confused right now, and you make me feel a little inadequate.”
Douglas didn’t react, he just continued puffing on his pipe. “Do tell.”
“Boy, I feel strange. Kind of nervous. Too nervous. I know you’re not doing it on purpose. You probably make everyone feel this way, by just being you. I’m usually pretty smart, though. I mean, in my way. I mean, just say ‘variable-conductance sensor’ and I’ll go off for an hour. I actually know what that does. I’m not what you’d call cultured, though. I evolved for a specific environment, and I can't survive outside of it.”
Douglas smiled kindly, again, then playfully poked Peter’s chest with the stem of his pipe. “You’re far more than just smart, Peter. You’re a good man. Thank god for that. You and I are going to do something momentous.”
Peter crossed his arms. “Wow. Sounds great. What, exactly?”
“You won’t be thinking how great it sounds when you wake up. In fact, you’ll wish you were never born. You will be different, though. How much different? I cannot say. However, this is just the first step.”
Peter’s brow creased, perplexed. He had not the slightest clue what the young man was trying to say to him. “You know, Douglas, I come from a time when people speak in a tad more straight forward manner.”
“I’m sure.”
“So we need to work on that. I really like your house, though. Seriously. Those high ceilings and stairs. It’s like it was made for a cyclops, or something. I could put a Ferris wheel in that dining room. It really is a special place.”
Douglas nodded and smiled. “I wish I could say more. Alas, there are certain rules about what I can, and cannot, say.”
Peter became thoughtful, scratched his chin. “Well, I can live with that, for now. I like a good mystery, anyway. I do. Read everything Doyle ever wrote.”
Douglas balled a fist and nudged Peter in the shoulder. It made Peter feel twelve feet tall, so he just stared back dumbly. “Fare thee well, my friend,” said Douglas. “I would anticipate some discomfort.”
And then it was done. The dream, if that’s what it was, came to an end and Peter woke with a start. He lay there, dumbfounded by wonderment. He wanted to wake his wife and tell her everything. But tell her what? It was just a dream. She would only turn away, muttering promises of murder, come the morning.
Just a moment later, however, if you had been standing outside the Huffy household, or even a hundred yards distant, you might have pricked up your ears at the sound of Peter’s voice at full holler. His lungs wholly expressing, as if his skin was being ruthlessly flayed with a searing blade. It wouldn’t take a lot of imagination to visualize him stumbling around the attic, clutching his head, begging his wife to end his suffering by any means necessary. That’s what was happening, after all. And just as Douglas had predicted, Peter wished he’d never been born. And for just a fleeting moment, his wife did, too.