Uncanny Day (19 page)

Then came the next big swing. It slammed through the hardwood floor, missing my left shin by inches. Dad's knuckles blared white as his fingers tightened around for a better grip. Shock took hold of my body, the pounding pain in my ribcage intensifying with every breath. Dad was poised to splatter me. I didn't know what to do. I wanted to escape, disappear, go anywhere.

He raised the sledgehammer over his head. All I could do was stare into his wide, bloodshot eyes as they bugged out in an uncontrollable rage I would never understand.

That's when it happened—the Event. Within those few seconds before Dad swung, I did escape, but I was transported to the last place I ever could have imagined: Dad's mind.

Chapter Forty-three

ON THAT NIGHT OF all nights, something changed.

I wasn't ready to die, but I didn't have a choice. By pure instinct I shut my eyes, awaiting the blistering pain that was to come. When nothing happened, I opened them and found myself in a simple room. No Dad. No pain, only silence, but I was there.

The floor was a smooth concrete. The walls were pure-white eight-foot panels. On the one to my left hung a single four-pane window, and there just ahead of me, in the center of the room, was a wooden chair. A streak of dust-filled light shone through the window and landed, spotlighting the chair.

Next, a heart-stopping smell hit me: hard liquor and aftershave, a mixture that reeked with familiarity. It took me a second to get my bearings, yet for some strange reason, I knew I was inside Dad's mind. Everything around me just seemed to shout “Dad.” The room itself was just as simple as he was, yet void of things, just as he was. It was horrifying to think what went on in that room—the thoughts, and the emotions.

The part that scared me the most was wondering—if I was truly there inside his head, what was happening to me outside Dad's mind? The likelihood that Dad was probably pounding every one of my bones to crumbs at that moment was pretty good. I felt anger boil in my veins. I wanted to tear down the walls and beat the concrete floor, but above all, I wanted to smash that perfect, glowing window.

Without thinking, I picked up the wooden chair. Summoning what felt like superhuman strength, I hurled it at the window with a yell that reverberated off the walls.

The chair floated almost in slow motion, like something out of The Matrix. It hit the window, shattering glass and wood everywhere. I turned my head to shield myself. Turning back to see what I'd done, it was as if the wall had grown a jagged black mouth. From the darkness beyond, I could hear a low whistle of wind. Suddenly an invisible force hit me square in the chest, knocking me on my back. The noise that whistled now blared like a siren. It felt as if my eardrums were being sliced in half with a razor blade. Lying on the ground, I covered my ears, trying to protect them from the wail. I couldn't move. Then the pain in my ribs slowly began to rise again, but it wasn't only my ribs that ached now; I hurt all over. It felt like my bones were going to snap. I didn't know how much more I could take. I squeezed my eyes closed, and then, miraculously, it was over. The noise was gone, and the inner pressure ended.

Goose bumps spread over my arms, legs, and down my back. I opened my eyes and realized I was back in my house, back in the hallway, back in my own head. Best of all, I was alive. I'd made it out alive, but so had Dad. He was on the floor too. The sledgehammer was out of his grasp, lying next to him.

My eyes went from the hammer to Dad. Would he get back to his feet and finish me off? He didn't move or take his eyes from me. I took a quick check of myself. I was still whole, still in one piece.

As I looked at him now, something was different; something had changed. Gone was the unrelenting, bloodshot rage in his eyes. Instead they shone back in fear.

Scrambling to his feet, he exploded out the front door. It was the last time I saw him. I built up the strength to call 911, and when the EMTs arrived, I said nothing when they asked about my parents' whereabouts.

A few nights later while still recovering in the hospital, I heard that the cops had picked up Dad wandering around the neighborhood barefoot, mumbling nonsense to himself. They said he had cuts in his scalp and some of his hair had been pulled out, but there wasn't a drop of alcohol in him.

It wasn't long before social services stepped in. Somebody from the neighborhood had called them before, so this wasn't the first instance.

Once I was released from the hospital, I moved in with the Mitchell family and Dad was signed in to the Murray Institute of Mental Health. After that, the event was tucked away and never spoken about again; I didn't tell a soul. No one would believe me anyway, and furthermore, I wanted nothing to do with the man I called my father. He was nothing more than a mental blob of rage and hate, in my opinion, who had never given me anything but broken ribs.

And now he was on the loose.

Chapter Forty-four

THE DODGE'S SEATS WERE cold as I clicked my buckle in place and the engine roared to life. My head was spinning and I felt like there were cotton balls in my ears. The walk to the parking lot and the crisp air and night silence had brought a welcome feeling when compared to the hot dance floor.

It had been Rick who had called Kate's phone, explaining to Dean that we needed to come home immediately. Why was that? What did Rick know about Dad and his escape? Did Dean have more information than what he had told me?

I asked him that very question.

“No, he just said we needed to come home now.”

We had left Kate and Celia at the dance, even after Kate just about tore my head off pleading for us to take her with us. This didn't involve her, and I didn't need her wearing her reporter hat and turning this whole thing around in some twisted way.

I apologized to her and told her I'd tell her everything later. Noticeably upset, she'd given me a kiss on the cheek and said to be careful, and then Dean and I were off.

My mind was a freshly opened jigsaw puzzle of thoughts and emotions that ranged from pitch-dark motel rooms, a bully blacking out in a fight, my high-school crush dancing with me and giving me a farewell kiss, head-pounding music, and the rush of adrenaline that surged in my veins now at the notion that my dad was out there somewhere. Free.

I heard Dean say my name.

“What?” I answered a little too sharply.

He looked back at me with worry written on his face. “I didn't say anything.”

My thoughts lunged back to the dance and how I'd heard my name there too, and then back further when I'd heard it inside other people's heads. What was going on?

Dean blew through a stop sign just before Hampton Street.

“Whoa, you missed something back there.”

“Who cares? It doesn't matter.” Dean just about bit my head off with his response. He was obviously tense at the situation and wanted nothing more than to get home as soon as possible.

Gravel spit up as we rounded the turn down our street. Approaching the house, Dean slowed the car. It seemed darker, and for that matter, the whole street was black. Not one lamppost was lit. Had there been a power outage?

Dean extinguished his headlights and slid the gearshift into park a few houses down from our own. I could sense his uneasiness and anxiety; I felt it too. Reaching over, he unlocked the glove compartment in front of me. He rummaged around for a minute, tossing out papers and wrappers. At first I thought he was going for a gun or something—heck yeah, some firepower—but then he gripped a flashlight and flicked it on. Like the school president kept a gun in the glove box.

“Let's go,” he whispered, and we exited the car. Our breath piped out in steam above our heads in the night air.

The Mitchells' two-story house was very modern, but here now, in the gleaming moonlight, it looked abandoned and old.

We crept up the driveway and to the front door. It was ajar about half a foot. Not a good sign. I started to shake and couldn't tell if it was because I was cold or nervous—probably both.

“Dean!” I said under my breath.

He nodded his head, acknowledging the gap that led inside.

Dean tried looking in through an outside window. Nothing. Maybe Rick and Tracy weren't home. Maybe they were at the police station waiting for us. Although, why would Rick have told Dean and me to come home?

I stepped up to the front door, cautiously widening it with my fingertips for us to enter. Dean followed behind me and stepped inside.

Chapter Forty-five

IT WAS STARK QUIET inside; nothing moved. No hum of electronics or ticking of clocks, no voices or the indication of a presence of any kind.

We moved into the living room and Dean scanned the space with his flashlight. Nothing was knocked over or disturbed. No sign of a struggle, which was good, but where were the Mitchells?

Dean and I swept the rest of the lower level, coming up with nothing.

“What gives?” I asked.

Dean shrugged and said, “Come on. Let's check upstairs.”

This time he took the lead, moving one stair at a time. Something flicked on inside my head. It was at a low hush at first, but then I could feel them rising inside.

No, not now
.

The mumbling chatter filled my head, blocking out all other sounds, if there had been any in the house to observe.

I rattled my head, hitting it with the palm of my hand. The voices subsided.

Dean made it the top of the staircase and waited for me.

“What's wrong?” he whispered.

I didn't answer—just shook my head and tried to refocus. Leaning my arm against the wall, I took in deep breaths and centered myself from inside. Like hands digging into sand, my mind walls surrounded the voices and captured them, tossing them out like a bag of garbage.

Flicking my eyes open, I was amazed at how quickly I'd vanquished them. I felt steady again.

“I'm good. Let's keep moving.” With my mind intact again, my fears started to calm as I reached the top of the staircase next to Dean.

Before us was a long hallway and nothing but darkness. Dean tipped up his flashlight and illuminated our path. In the beam something flashed back at us. It was the small glimmer of a revolver that sat in the middle of the hallway.

A gun. How did it get here?

I pointed at it silently. Dean reached down and picked it up.

“It's Dad's.” He checked the chamber. “Three rounds missing.” He looked back at me.

“Missing, or do you mean fired?” I posed.

Dean blanketed the hallway with light to search for bullet holes. Then we saw it at the other end of the hall.

A dark figure sat slumped over, half of his body leaning against the wall.

“Dad!” Dean shouted, but I knew it wasn't Rick.

“No, Dean, wait.” I reached out and grabbed Dean's arm, holding him back. “That's not your dad.” I swallowed. “It's mine.”

Chapter Forty-six

NOTHING BUT SILENCE—WE didn't move.

“Has he been shot? Is he dead?” Dean asked the same questions that popped into my mind.

We were frozen there in the hallway. If my dad had been shot, where were Rick and Tracy? Why hadn't the police shown up? Why were we in there alone?

Then the silent house filled with the sound of gruff and breathy laughter. The slumped figure pulled himself to his feet as if he were a puppet working on strings.

There stood my psychotic father, a toothy smile on his face as if he'd just risen from the dead.

When he spoke, his mouth didn't move. I could hear the words in my head. He just looked at us with those bulging, bloodshot eyes, as if to pierce us with them. Welcome home, boys.

Dean looked at me. His expression told me he was hearing the voice in his head too. Quickly, Dean leveled the gun at him. “Where are my parents?” he yelled, the flashlight shaking.

Again came Dad's voice, but with the smile still cemented in place.
They're alive, if that's what you mean, Dean
.

“How do you know his name?” I shouted.

Another wispy laugh.

I know all their names
. He let the last “S” sound stretch out like the hiss of a snake.

“Wha … what do you want?” I struggled to get out.

A moment of silenced passed. The hallway between us felt like it was tilting on some wayward axis. Dad's arm stretched his finger, flicking like a dagger out at me.

Just you
.

Still holding both the gun and flashlight on Dad, Dean stepped in front of me.

“You're going to have to go through me.”

Dean stood tall in defiance.

Easy
, Dad said, and with another fluid gesture of his finger, Dean was lifted off his feet and his back was pinned against the wall, his arms spread and feet dangling. He yelled in pain as his body hit with a boom that shook the house.

The gun and flashlight dropped to the ground, but a beam still shot out at Dad's feet as they stepped—no, almost floated—toward me.