Glimpse (3 page)

“That was no hallucination,” I insisted. “No way. That was something else.”

“Dean.” He leaned forward until our eyes were at the same level. “There was nothing there.”

I glanced back at the floor. My mom shuffled into a sitting position and looked around the room, blinking.

“Welcome back, hon,” Dad said. “Feeling better?”

My mom blinked some more. “I heard a scream. What happened?”

I shrugged.

“You should get changed, Dean,” Dad said as he helped Mom up. “But come back down right after. We should talk some more.” I started up the stairs as my dad added, “Don't worry, son. What you're experiencing is entirely normal and you'll be just fine.”

Normal?

Screaming, twisted women who appear out of nowhere are normal? I think not.

Unfortunately for me, it turned out I was right.

 

Thanks to my shaking hands and the fact that every creak and groan from the house made me jump, it took a while to change my clothes. But by the time I got downstairs, I had started to feel a bit silly about the whole thing.
Of course it was stress
, I decided. Though I figured it was more from getting trampled at the electronics store than anything else. My parents sat me at the kitchen table and grilled me for what felt like hours, but finally they were satisfied I was okay. My dad even believed I'd be fine without counseling. “But you're to keep me up to speed on how you're feeling, Dean,” he insisted. “If I think you're not coping well, I'll want to set up some time with one of my colleagues. Got it?”

After screaming in the foyer, I wasn't in any position to defend my sanity. I agreed with a shrug, not really expecting that anything would come of it.

Once Dad had calmed down about my mental state, Mom insisted I see a doctor for my injuries. Immediately.

So we spent the rest of the day in the ER. We waited three hours to be told what I could have guessed on my own. I had a bruise on my rib and some cuts on my face, but other than being shaken up a bit, I was fine. “You did good today, Dean,” Mom said when we pulled back into the driveway. “I'm proud of you for helping that man. A lot of people—a lot of adults—would have turned a blind eye.”

“Thanks, Mom.” She was starting to tear up, so I got out of the car as quickly as my bruised rib would allow, which turned out to be painfully slow. My sister was sitting at the kitchen counter playing with something inside a shallow black box when we walked in. She saw my face and flashed a wicked grin.

“Nice face. Dad said something about you getting beat up by a couple of girls behind a toy store or something? That's rough.”

“You're funny.” I walked to the fridge and poured a glass of orange juice. “Oh, yeah,” I added, “Mom told me to warn you not to touch anything metal for a while. She thinks you have enough static electricity in your hair that a spark might cause the whole house to explode.”

Becky said something back to me, but I never heard her. I only saw her mouth moving. For the second time that day, the color drained from around me. My pulse quickened, and I couldn't bring myself to swallow my mouthful of orange juice. I caught the slithering movement of something to my right and turned.

A large man with thin, dark hair had appeared out of nowhere just behind Becky's shoulder. She seemed entirely unaware he was there. Suddenly, the man's face and posture deteriorated until he looked more like a zombie than a man. And that's when he screamed. The orange juice sprayed from my mouth and nose, and the plastic cup bounced on the tiled floor. The man was gone before the cup bounced a second time, and a wave of color righted the world around me.

I coughed and choked for several moments. When I finally looked back at Becky, she was white to the point of near transparency, and her eyes bulged. “W… what w… was that?” she asked.

My heart surged.
I knew I wasn't crazy
. “You saw it.” I pointed a shaking finger at my sister. “Don't mess with me, Becky. Did you actually see him?”

“H… him who?” she stuttered. “You look as if you've just seen a ghost.”

“That's about how it felt,” I muttered. I took a couple of slow breaths and grabbed a damp cloth to wipe up the mess I'd made.

“Are you… okay? What did you see?”

I used the cloth to wipe away some of the juice from my clothes before looking back at my sister. She leaned in over the counter.

“A man. He looked like a… I don't know. Like a zombie.”

“You saw a zombie?” Now she seemed to be on the verge of laughter.

“Did I say that? I said he looked
like
a…” There was no point in continuing. Becky wasn't going to believe anything I had to say. I tossed the cloth into the sink. “What do you care anyway?” I marched out of the kitchen and up the stairs, wincing with each step but refusing to let the pain slow me down. I didn't stop until I slammed the door to my room behind me. I lowered myself onto my bed and pressed my palms against the sides of my head.

What's wrong with me? Am I going nuts?

The same two questions rattled around in my head until finally, and with great relief, I fell asleep.

 

I wish I could say that I stepped up, met this period of weirdness head-on, and worked through it. But I can't. When I woke up the following morning, I stayed in bed until noon, and then I really only left the room so I could get some food. Becky gave me a pretty wide berth for the first time in my life, so that was good, but the way she looked at me made me feel even more like a freak.

Colin and Lisa called—no doubt to see why I hadn't been at school on Friday—but I didn't take the calls. Instead, I let Saturday pass with as few human interactions as I could manage: an awkwardly long talk with my dad about facing my PTSD with confidence and a dozen or so intrusions from my mom. But when Sunday morning arrived, I felt almost entirely normal. No additional hallucinations, no world turning gray, nothing. I actually felt well enough to eat breakfast with everyone.

“How are you feeling, Dean?” Dad asked. He looked up from the newspaper with a raised eyebrow.

“Better,” I said truthfully. “I think this PTSD stuff might have run its course.”

Dad looked doubtful, but nodded all the same. “I'm glad to hear it, son.”

“Me too,” Becky added. “It took me over an hour to get all that orange juice out of my hair. I'd prefer it if that never happened again.”

“How's the bug collection coming along, Becky?” Dad asked.

Becky beamed. “Great. I'm sure I'll have the collection complete before camp, and it will probably be the best one too.”

“I'm sure you're right, sweetheart,” Dad said, “but don't rub it in the faces of your fellow campers. That's not the best way to make friends.”

“Dad,” Becky said, still smiling, “I'm not the kid you need to worry about when it comes to making friends.”

My sister drove me nuts, but I felt better knowing that despite the hallucinations, she was treating me the way she always did. Still, I sensed something was wrong. There was a lingering nervousness, like everyone was trying really hard not to upset the crazy kid in the room. Not that I could blame them. If I saw one of them wig out the way I had, I'd probably go buy the straightjacket myself. If it had been my sister, I'd have paid double to make sure it had a few extra buckles and maybe a hood.

Nah, I couldn't blame them. But I was fine. Better.
It'll take one more day
, I decided.
Tomorrow things will go back to normal.

I told myself that again when I was finishing up some homework later that evening, deliberately ignoring the little voice in my head going on about “wishful thinking.”
Tomorrow. Everything will be better tomorrow
.

 

“Dean!”

I popped awake at the sound of my mother's voice and nearly fell out of my chair. I pulled at a piece of paper that was stuck to my face and realized I'd fallen asleep at my desk.

“I can't believe you're not awake yet!” my mom shouted from the doorway. “You have to be at school in”—she paused to check her watch—“thirty minutes. Now you're going to have to walk.”

“W… what?” I blinked away the lingering confusion. I had somehow slept through my alarm too, which was beeping incessantly beside my empty bed. I dropped my head back down to the desk and exhaled. “What… what time is it?”

“Late, Dean,” Mom said, pulling me up by my shoulders. “Very late.” She turned me to face her. “How are you? Do you feel okay? Well enough for school?”

“I can't miss school, Mom. I'll fail my exams. Besides, I feel fine. Much better. I promise.”

She rubbed her thumb under my eye. The sting reminded me that it was still black. “Well, you still look like you were beat up by a gang or something. You're really going to be okay walking to school? If you're nervous about it—”

“Yes, Mom. Go. I'll be fine.”

I grabbed a clean shirt and ran to the bathroom to shower. When I finished, the house was empty. I checked my watch: 8:15. I'd have to run, but I'd make it. I swung open the door and just about peed my pants right there on the porch. At first I thought I was having another hallucination. The woman had pasty skin and stringy blond hair. Mascara had clumped her eyelashes together as if she had taped two frozen spiders above her eyes, and she had the same blank expression the other hallucinations had in the moments before they screamed.

I jumped back and cringed.

“Are you Dean? Dean Curse?” the woman asked.

None of the other hallucinations had talked. I sighed in relief. “You're real.”

“Pardon me?”

“Nothing. Sorry. Yeah, I'm Dean.”

“Oh wonderful.” She pulled out a notepad and pen. “I'm Regina Nelson from the
Gazette
.” She cleared her throat and added, “Would it be okay if I interviewed you for a piece?”

“I'm not interested.” I made my way onto the porch and turned to lock the door. When I turned back to the reporter, I was greeted with the flash of a camera. “Wha…?”

“How many muggers were there, Dean?” she asked, cutting me off and stuffing her camera into her handbag.

“T… two,” I said. I gestured to her bag. “I don't want to be in the newspaper. Maybe you'd better interview the guy who was actually mugged.”

She jotted a quick note and lifted an eyebrow. “I tried. He's not doing too well. And by the looks of your face, I'd say you didn't have an easy go of things yourself.”

“It wasn't a big deal.” I checked my watch: 8:25. “Darn it! I'm going to be late. I'm sorry, ma'am, but I have to go.” I started running, but yelled over my shoulder, “Please don't use my name in the paper!” When I hit the end of the driveway, I broke into a sprint and made it all of five steps before the pain in my ribs slowed me to a light jog.

I gave up. I'd never make it.

***

The buzzer announcing the start of first period sounded from the PA just as I ran through the main entrance. I was late.

I inched open the door to my history class and tried not to notice when the room went suddenly silent and all eyes, including the ones belonging to Mrs. Farnsworthy, turned to me.

Mrs. Farnsworthy had to be at least fifty. She wore pleated skirts and solid-colored cardigans every day without fail, as if they were part of some dress code that only she knew about. She had a strange accent too, though you only really noticed when she said certain words, or when she got really upset. It always reminded me of the Soviet terrorists you see in old James Bond movies. She placed her hands on her hips and beat out a steady rhythm with her foot.

“Are you about ready to start, Mr. Curse?”

I gulped. I nodded as I sank into my chair.

“Good. Because we wouldn't want to inconvenience you by starting before you're ready.”

“I'm sorry, Mrs. Farnsworthy. I'm only late becau—”

She waved a dismissive hand. “I don't want to hear it.” She smoothed her hair with her palms and then returned them to her hips. “Maybe you can tell the class who fought in the War of 1812?”

“W… what?”

“1812, Mr. Curse. If you're going to come late to my class, I'll assume it's because you've already read the material and didn't think it necessary to come on time.”

I had no idea what happened in 1812, but racked my brain to come up with something that wouldn't make me seem overly stupid. Colin was trying to whisper the answer from the desk behind me, but he sounded more like a hissing snake and only made me more nervous.

“Um… Vietnam and… uh… Korea?” I had a feeling that I was wrong when most of the class started laughing. In my defense, history just wasn't my thing. And plus, if your history teacher spoke like an ex-KGB spy, and she was glaring at you from across the room as if she were preparing to attack, you'd have a hard time answering too.

“Vietnam and Korea?” She cocked her eyebrow. “No, Mr. Curse, though perhaps the British and the Americans would have preferred it that way.” Her expression soured. “One more interruption”—she raised a single finger as if I had no idea how many
one
was—“just one more and you'll have detention. Understand?”

I nodded and hunched in my chair.

“Where were you?” Colin whispered after Mrs. Farnsworthy returned to her lecture.

I shook my head and made a subtle gesture to tell him to be quiet.

“Okay, tell me later,” he said. “But if she comes after you, remember to stop, drop, and roll. I'm pretty sure that's not just for fires. It works for crazy teachers too.”

I coughed to stifle my laugh, only to have Mrs. Farnsworthy glare at me from across the room. Apparently, in her book a cough was enough to get me detention.