The Seers: Dark Inheritance

The colors swirl before my eyes and I have to blink several times before I realize it’s the sky, a brilliant sunrise illuminating the endless expanse above with hues of blazing gold, soft pink and pale yellow. The branches of green treetops reach for the kaleidoscope of brilliant tones above it, and suddenly, I’m aware of my own presence, staring up at the scene from an insignificant spot on the ground. A faint whisper sends a chill up my spine, and I force my eyes from the grandeur above me to search for the source of the voice. It calls again, louder this time, but I still can’t make out that one word the voice continues to murmur. So I follow the sound through the trees, winding deeper and deeper into the forest that is rapidly becoming darker and darker beneath the thickening canopy of trees. Everything is still, too still for all the wildlife found in the thick of these vast mountains. And it’s quiet. Unnaturally quiet.

I know I should turn back, but instead, I continue on, as if some unseen force is compelling me to move forward. I push my way deeper into the mountains, fighting through the leafy branches of rhododendrons, my bare feet squishing on the plush blanket of ferns and moss. When I emerge from the forest, I find myself standing in a clearing-a clearing filled with brilliant light, so white it’s blinding, and riddled with colors my eyes have never seen before, colors I can’t even name because they don’t exist. It takes a moment for my eyes to adjust, and when they finally do, I realize the light is surrounding an angel so beautiful that I fall to my knees in wonder, unable to look away from her brilliance despite the aura that burns into my eyes. And then she smiles at me with rose pink lips, soft and inviting against the dazzling luminosity of her skin. Her eyes are closed, and she beckons me with a motion of her hand.

Gentle swells of heat wash over me and I rise to my feet automatically, unable to deny her request, as if the light is drawing me forward. But before I can take more than a few steps, her eyes snap open, endlessly green-and wide with fear. When I follow the direction of her stare, I see the darkness. It’s moving forward slowly in a thick, impenetrable cloud. The angel silently pleads with me, her eyes frantic and afraid. She reaches out to me in a quick, desperate movement, while mouthing words that are impossible to hear above a loud, throaty hissing that resonates from the approaching gloom. It’s a sound that sends tremors up my spine, a lightning bolt of awareness that chills my skin with gooseflesh. I instinctively leap forward to protect the angel, to shield her from the darkness; but once my feet hit the ground, they are rooted there, bound, rendering me helpless to her. She knows it, too. Tears that sparkle like diamonds stream down her cheeks as the darkness moves closer. But when her lips move this time, her voice, as well as that single murmured word, is clear.

“Darien,” she whispers. But she says it like a prayer.

And then, I feel her sweet, warm breath in my ear…

I lurch forward in my bed, instinctively squeezing my head like a vise between my hands when I finally tear away from my restless sleep. I scan the room through the pain, taking in the familiar furniture, the open closet, the football trophies, and know that I’m safe. But the headache is even worse this morning than it was yesterday. As my breathing evens out and the violent throbbing of my brain slows to a dull ache, I focus on pushing the lingering memory of the dream away from me-terrifying images of light and dark that chill me from the inside out. And more than that, I can’t shake the feeling that I’m on the brink of some monumental change or discovery. But I don’t feel the excitement or anticipation that usually accompanies change. Instead, the feeling is thick and heavy and runs bone deep.

Dread.

CHAPTER ONE

Nothing has changed when I drag myself to school, which is as much a source of relief as it is irritation. I don’t know why I thought school would be any different just because Pops died, I guess because everything else has altered so significantly since his passing. Perhaps I’m just suffering from post-funeral paranoia and depression, or maybe I’m still freaking out about my strange dream. So far, no life-altering catastrophes have befallen me. On the contrary, everything is exactly the same. Same huge building that looks more like a prison than a learning facility. Same yellow-white cinderblock walls. Same dim hallways, poorly lit by fluorescent lights. Same flood of students watching me expectantly, whispering behind me, or saying good morning, as I move robotically through the halls, searching for Logan and Eli, just like any other morning.

I find them leaning casually against the far wall of the commons area where we eat lunch every day. A cafeteria may not be a crucial gathering place in some schools, but in the mornings at Fairway High School, the commons area is the Mecca of the adolescent social scene-where students are made and broken, popularity is won and lost, and couples unite and split. I make my way through the crowd, pausing now and again to nod politely to the ravenous pack of girls that circles me territorially each morning, hoping to possess the undying affection of Fairway’s star quarterback and team captain-well, at least for a week or two, anyway. And just as I’ve been doing for the past few weeks, I ignore them, trying to reach Eli and Logan before the offensive sound of the bell tears through my ears. My head is already throbbing, worsening every second with the static of hundreds of chattering students. Not to mention that the irony of a bell that sounds like a rodeo buzzer is just too much to handle on some days.

Eli and Logan are surrounded by their usual harem-a dozen cheerleaders dressed in uniform for tonight’s game mixed with a few girls from the color guard clad in their team shirts, along with several Paris Hilton clones donning their short skirts (which is a frostbite risk in October), fake tans, and bleach blonde hair. Not that Eli and Logan mind in the least. In fact, neither of them concentrates on much other than football or girls, which is exceedingly tiresome, but since they’re both wearing their jerseys, I’m hoping that football will be first and girls second on their priority list today. I’ve missed four practices in a row and need to know if I’ll be played or benched at tonight’s game-and it’s always wise to get a feel for Coach Dooley’s mood before approaching him. Apparently, according to Coach Dooley, the death of the most important person in my world is not a legitimate excuse to miss one practice, let alone four in a row. But the fact that I saw Coach Dooley at the funeral gives me hope that perhaps the man has room in his shriveled shell of a heart to think of issues other than winning a state championship.

“Darien, dude, get over here,” Eli says, excitedly pushing himself from the wall. His massive lineman’s shoulders part the sea of girls surrounding him so he can put an enormous hand on my shoulder and pull me into the overly perfumed abyss. “We were getting worried you were never coming back to school. Coach almost had a heart attack when you didn’t show this morning. I thought you were coming back to practice today.”

“I figured he’d be mad,” I say, but not with any real concern. “I just couldn’t drag myself out of bed this morning.”

Eli looks at me accusingly, rendered silent for once, his brows wrinkling in a way that communicates he can’t believe I would do something so out of character. And missing practice is unheard of for me, but the fact that I’m a complete disaster right now is none of his business.

“Headache,” I add to my defense.

It’s not the complete truth, yet it’s not exactly a lie, either. In truth, I’m numb and tired, drained from lack of sleep. And even though I’m trying, I can’t muster up the proper enthusiasm for football it would’ve taken to roll out of bed at five in the morning for practice. I might open up with the truth if it was real concern Eli was feeling. But I know it’s not. Eli is worried about his scholarship.

“Well, just make sure you get your butt to Coach’s office right after school. You know how he is. If you don’t look a little pathetic, he’ll bench you out of pride. And your butt on the sidelines will cost us the game tonight, so you need to convince him to let you play. Beg if you have to. I think he knows he can’t afford the gamble this late in the season, so if you just talk to him, I think he’ll come around. He’ll probably be in his office watching last year’s footage for the hundredth time, so just go say you’re sorry.”

“I guess I can do that,” I say halfheartedly.

The thought of groveling to a man who can’t possibly understand what it’s like to lose both parents, and later, the grandfather who raised you like a father, is vastly unappealing. But as Pops used to say, sometimes you just have to suck it up and do what you have to do for the greater good. And he wouldn’t want me to miss this game. I’ve been working hard for four years to get a football scholarship, and I refuse to sit the bench on the biggest recruiting night of the season. I rub my eyes as my head begins to throb again.

“I wish I could shake this headache.” I don’t mean to complain out loud, especially not in front of Logan and Eli, but it’s really pounding now.

“It’s just the stress,” another familiar voice says beside me.

Logan has moved away from a leggy blonde and is on my other side, his movements always so quick and lithe. If you were to compare Eli to the Hulk, then Logan would have to be Spiderman. He looks down at the floor guiltily, his shaggy blond hair hiding his eyes.

“I know the past couple of days have probably been rough. Sorry I didn’t, you know, come to the-well, you know how I feel about hospitals and death and stuff.” He pauses and catches my eye with a look of concern. “How are you holding up, anyway?”

“Fine,” I lie. “Don’t worry about it.” I try to swallow, but my throat feels thick and dry.

To be perfectly honest, I can’t talk about it. I’m completely incapable of talking about Pops. In fact, I can’t even allow myself to think about him right now. I just want things to be normal, whatever normal will be now that he’s gone. And the last thing I need is to get all emotional at school, especially on a game day.

“Okay, good,” Logan says, thankfully changing the subject, “because we have something better to talk about anyway.”

They both pull me a few feet in front of the harem in a loose huddle that apparently qualifies as privacy, or their version of it, anyway. I raise my eyebrows, already knowing where this conversation is going to lead. Now that they’ve determined the football crisis will be solved by simply apologizing to Coach Dooley (which will inevitably be accompanied by an ear-bleeding lecture on responsibility), we can now safely move on to the topic of girls.

Waiting like any good harem, Eli and Logan’s groupies hang in the background, whispering, texting, or reapplying lipstick, probably casually eavesdropping on the conversation that will reveal their next big competition. Not that it matters. Eli and Logan aren’t exactly known for being one-woman kind of guys. This fact never seems to upset the girls, though, which is inconceivable to me, but hey, what do I know? Apparently, monogamy is no longer in style.

“Okay, D, get this,” Eli begins excitedly. “There’s this new girl. She moved here from somewhere up north, like Chicago or Boston or something.” I don’t bother telling him that Chicago is in the Mid-West, as it will take too long to explain. “So anyway, we were helping my dad stock shelves at the hardware store last Saturday, and she walks in with some guy. I guess he’s her dad. Scary dude, though. I wouldn’t mess with him. But anyway, she comes down our aisle, trying to find some of those antique-looking doorknobs or something. I tried to talk to her, but I don’t think she likes me very much. I told her I would be more than happy to help her with any needs she might have, and she completely blew me off. But I’m not kidding. She’s a definite nine.”

“A nine?” I ask, failing to follow him. Whenever I’m away from Eli and Logan for significant periods of time, I always have to readjust to their caveman lingo.

“Nine out of ten,” Logan interjects as if I’m five. “She’s pretty hot, D. Wait till you see her. She has these huge green eyes you can probably see from a mile away. And long bright red hair, and she’s really little, but she has this awesome body…”

He keeps going, describing every inch of this poor girl to me, as Eli jumps in and adds his detailed assessment of her bra size. I try to block them out, wondering why they don’t get slapped nearly as often as they should. For the life of me, I can’t figure out what they see in all these girls-or what the girls see in them. But I guess it’s the same thing they all see in me-a number, a jersey. When I became starting quarterback at the end of last season, thus assuming my big-fish-in-a-small-pond status, all the girls had swarmed around me just like they do around Eli and Logan. But after a few dates, I figured out most of these girls are just looking for a hookup with the quarterback, and none of them have an original thought in their pretty little heads. Call me old fashioned, but I’m definitely looking for something different, something better. But none of those girls are any worse for the wear. After all, they have Logan and Eli-who are still yammering on and on about the unfortunate red head.

“Look, guys, I hate to interrupt you, but I need to find Marius, and I need to get to chemistry to look over my notes before I fail my midterm.”

I turn to walk to class but I’m stopped short by a sudden wave of dizziness. As I stand still, trying to focus on a spot ahead of me, I realize Eli is still talking to me.

“-that all you ever think about? Dude, you’re such a brain, it hurts my head. You’ll play tonight, right?”

I don’t answer. As soon as I turn back toward him to respond, Eli jumps apart in my vision, blurring into Logan, their blue and gold jerseys swirling like an Impressionist painting. I blink, completely confused.

“D,” Eli warns, “make sure you play tonight. I shouldn’t have to remind you that this game determines districts. And my scholarship depends on getting to the state tournament.”

“I know,” I force, blinking again. I’m starting to get agitated, but then, my vision clears, and I release the breath I didn’t know I was holding. “It’ll be fine. I’ll talk to Coach.”
I wave them off over my shoulder as I hurry toward the science wing, praying I’ll pass my chemistry midterm, while questioning my decision to enroll in all advanced placement courses. Apparently my desire to defy the negative stereotypes of football players vastly outweighs my sanity in most cases.

The morning passes quickly, which I acknowledge as some kind of divine mercy. Even my chemistry midterm isn’t as horrible as I had imagined, and my fourth year French class passes painlessly. We aren’t allowed to speak English in there, and lucky for me, Madame Devereaux hasn’t covered death etiquette yet, so I’m not bombarded by a dozen ill-timed gestures of sympathy I’ll have to block out. But I’m not so lucky walking through the hallways between classes. I keep getting stopped by people I don’t know, and the sincere expressions of condolences are overshadowed by the less reverent, more untactful professions of sympathy, and I find myself wishing the whole world would go mute so I can get a moment’s peace. Each time someone says “so sorry,” or “I’ll be keeping you in my thoughts,” or “didn’t your grandfather just die or something?” the wound that has patched itself up in order to survive the school day is ripped back open, bubbling and festering with fresh agony that leaves my throat thick with anguish.

Unfortunately, lunch isn’t much better. I wolf down my cheeseburger automatically without really tasting it before dumping my trash and going outside to assume my usual spot beside Eli and Logan, who are leaning against the courtyard wall (apparently, popularity entails lots of leaning). Cooper Ward, the sarcastic worm they’ve been hanging out with recently, nearly pushes me out of the way to squeeze beside Eli, as if he couldn’t have just said excuse me or something. He transferred to Fairway a couple of weeks ago, and I can’t stand him, but I keep my opinions to myself and try to grin and bear it because I know Eli likes him. Today, however, with the memory of Pops’ death still fresh, and the ceaseless pounding of my head, I don’t know how well I can tolerate him. I search in vain for Marius but then remember he’s visiting a local college whose coach is interested in giving him a baseball scholarship. But when I look at my watch, I realize he should be back by now. I’m really not co-dependent or anything, but Marius always knows the right things to say. And I know I can use some of his wisdom right about now to keep me from backhanding Cooper.

Marius Tucker has been my best friend since I moved in with Pops and Gran just after the accident. A tractor-trailer ran a red light and crashed right into our tiny Honda. My parents were killed instantly. In the blink of an eye. Gone. Just like Pops.

It was a miracle I’d survived it. The rescue crew had found me strapped in the backseat without a scratch…

“Earth to moron,” Cooper says, elbowing me sharply in the side. “Jeez, Darien, I’m talking to you. Anyway, check this out.” I take a deep breath to calm a belligerent impulse to retaliate. I really had tried to like Cooper-only to fail miserably. Eli and Logan call him funny. I call him flat-out obnoxious, ill-tempered, and rude. He’s always instigating trouble and starting fights that Eli inevitably has to get him out of. By nature, I’m not a particularly violent person, but every time Cooper opens his mouth or moves or even breathes, I want to knock out his professionally whitened teeth. He slaps my chest absently with the back of his hand. “Seriously, dude, watch this. It’ll be funny.”

With a poorly disguised roll of my eyes, I stare across the courtyard in the direction Eli and Logan are pointing. I hadn’t even noticed they had been yelling, but now that I hear them, my brain pulses violently inside my head, the kind of pain that has me automatically lifting my fingers to my temples and squinting my eyes against the sun.

As I focus my gaze, I realize that Eli and Logan are laughing with Cooper, pointing out a kid, probably a freshman, who is ambling across the courtyard, trying to hold up a backpack that probably outweighs him by twenty or thirty pounds. I look in the boy’s direction, now aware that Eli is yelling at him.

“Hey loser!” Eli shouts. The kid stops and looks in our direction an instant before the three idiots beside me erupt into hysterical peals of laughter. “Yeah, you know I’m talking to you!”

The boy’s features turn sullen. His eyes shift to his feet, along with his head, and he turns to sulk back into the building, the weight on his shoulders heavier now than before. My chest heats with anger, and I am about to tell the jerks to shut up and leave the poor kid alone when a sharp pain shoots through my temples, down to my ears and up behind my eyes, doubling me over with my head in my hands.

The pain is hot, ripping through my head like an electric current. Tears moisten my eyes, and when I blink them away, the grass beneath my feet seems to flicker, to spark like a television channel that’s about to fizzle out. I look up, realizing that Cooper is patting me on the back, probably thinking I’m doubled over in laughter (thus proving he doesn’t know me at all), and I feel like I’m trapped in one of the terrible dreams I’ve been having lately. The sky, the trees, and the boy across the courtyard blur, colors molding together like a psychedelic kaleidoscope, then separating, sharpening, and draining as dull as a black and white movie. I blink furiously only to see dark flashes of movement in several places around me like moving shadows.

I look up at the sky to search for planes or birds, clouds or even kites-anything that might cause shadows. But then I realize the dark splotches aren’t moving across the ground-and they aren’t transparent. They’re dark, solid shapes, one of them moving behind the boy across the courtyard-as if clinging to him like some sort of cape. I’m about to ask Cooper if he sees it too, when I collapse to my knees with the same sharp pain. This time, however, the hot current seems to move out my ears, completely leaving my body. I blink again and again until finally, my vision goes back to normal and the pain dulls to a consistent ache.

“Dude, what’s your problem?” Logan asks, staring at me with one eyebrow arched in confusion. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost or something.”

Maybe I have.

“Yeah, Crain, are you okay?” Eli asks, and I vaguely hear them discussing me amongst themselves as if I’m not there, but I’m too preoccupied to care.

What just happened to me? This was like no pain I’ve ever felt in my life, and I’m beginning to think there is more going on with me than just a stress-induced headache. What about the colors and the shadows?

“Crain, did you hear me?”

“It’s just my head,” I answer weakly. “It’s like my vision blurred and there were these black shadows everywhere.”

“I wouldn’t worry about it,” Logan chimes in. “My mom gets migraines, and sometimes she blacks out. It starts with little black splotches like that. She can’t even have lights on in the room when she gets them.” I hold my palm to the side of my head, as the throbbing grows more pronounced. “I can get you something for that,” Logan adds with a smirk. “I can consult our friendly Fairway High pharmacist and have you all fixed up in time for the game. Give me ten bucks and I’ll be back in five.”

I’m about to just say no to drugs when I double over again, this time feeling sick, my heart pounding loudly inside my skull. My vision flickers, and a shadow moves by my feet. I start to panic, but then I realize this shadow can be explained by the familiar voice echoing inside my pounding head.

“Darien, are you all right?” I feel Marius’ hand on my shoulder. “What happened to him?” he asks the guys behind me.

“I dunno,” Cooper replies, always halfway amused. “He was fine, and then he started breathing all weird and holding his head like a pansy. I think he’s losing it. Either that or he’s about to barf all over your shoes. But I’m pretty sure he’s just being a pansy, crying over a headache. Some quarterback. I mean, seriously, I think he’s mental.”

“Man, shut up,” Marius snaps, cutting him off. He sounds far away. “Whatever’s wrong with him, your stupid mouth isn’t helping. Darien, look at me. You all right, man?”

I look up at him, still bewildered, my eyes probably wide with near hysteria. His brows are creased, his forehead wrinkled with worry, his dark eyes intense with concern. His skin is still the same color of coffee with heavy cream, just like normal. No blurring, no flickering, nothing. My vision is normal. But something isn’t right. No. Something is terribly, terribly wrong with me-more than the occasional panic attacks I get, more than a headache, more than a stressful week. My thoughts are frantic as I recall the strange shadows, and I turn and streak away from my friends as fast as my legs will carry me, back through the double doors and into the dim glow of the school building.

I’m not quite aware of where I’m going, and the only thing I can hear are the soles of my shoes squeaking on the tile as I move swiftly through the halls. I’m crazy. Cooper’s right. I really am losing it. Or maybe I’m sick. Maybe I should go to the nurse, but then, the coach might bench me. In a split-second decision, I decide to go on to calculus and lay my head down before the quiz; but when I round the corner, I collide with something light, not nearly as strong as me, I determine, when I feel the object bounce backward and see it blur away from me, thudding to the ground with a quietly shocked, “Ow.”

Refocusing my attention, I realize that I’ve just plowed into a petite girl, who has fallen to her knees beside a pile of scattered books, rubbing her head where it must have collided with my chest. Her face is hidden behind a shiny veil of dark red hair, and her pale hand looks small and delicate against her forehead.

I lower myself to the floor and help her stack the books. “I’m really sorry,” I sputter quickly. “I was in a hurry and wasn’t watching where I was going. My fault entirely. Are you okay?”

She doesn’t say anything, and I know she can feel me staring at her expectantly, so for a moment, I worry that I might have hurt her. But when she looks up at me, I’m thankful I’m already on my knees because that’s exactly where I would have dropped had I been standing. To my indescribable shock, a familiar set of vivid green eyes is blazing into mine, the brows above them creased in a mixture of pain and bewilderment. To describe the girl as beautiful would be an injustice. Her hair is thick and lustrous, hanging just below her thin shoulders, and her skin is a shocking ivory, like porcelain, white against full, rose pink lips. Minus the radiating light, I’m staring with wonder into the glass-green eyes of the angel from my dream, the girl who whispered my name. Suddenly, I’m short of breath and my heart lurches forward, a warm heat rising in powerful waves through my body.

“I’m…sorry,” I repeat stupidly, though I’m not sure my voice projects above a shocked whisper.

“It’s okay,” she says, never unlocking her eyes from mine. I don’t think she’s even blinked. “I wasn’t paying attention.” Her voice is smooth and quiet, a soothing lullaby. Her eyes still haven’t shifted, and I wonder if she feels the inexplicable intensity that I am feeling, as if something has wrapped around me and is pulling me forward, drawing me toward her.

Her heart-shaped face is set in the strangest expression-her lips parted slightly, her brows set in a near frown above her beautiful, unblinking eyes. I notice from the corner of my eye that her hand is hanging in mid-air, as if she has changed her mind about reaching for her books. An unfamiliar feeling spreads through my chest, and I feel feverish. Taking a deep breath, I force myself to inhale and exhale, but hot currents are flooding through my arms and legs and tingling like static electricity, lightly shocking every nerve in my body. I continue to marvel at her, my mouth still hanging open, as she examines me with a strange curiosity, as if she recognizes me but can’t place how she knows me. Finally, I remember how stupid I probably look and close my mouth before I have to pick my jaw up off the floor.

“Here, let me help you up,” I say, rising from my knees and taking her books.

She’s still staring with her arm stretched halfway out, and as beautiful as she is, her eyes burn into mine in an unsettling manner. Without considering she might not welcome my help, I grab her wrist and pull her to her feet.

“N-” she begins to protest, but it’s too late.

As my hand slides down to grasp her palm, her skin is hot on my flesh, and the dim glow of the hall floods with pristine light so bright, I can feel my knees shaking beneath me, threatening to buckle. The light swirls all around me, dazzling my eyes with its soft colors like a prism catching the sun on a cloudless day. I feel light, weightless, every fearful and anxious worry in my mind replaced by a peace so complete, I can feel moisture pricking my eyes. Slowly, I’m aware of a tugging sensation on my hand, and the light ends almost as quickly as it flashed before me. The girl had ripped her hand from my grasp, and is tugging at the books I’m holding in my other arm. Automatically, I surrender them to her, and refocus my gaze back on her flawless face, which is now riddled with fear and horror-almost identical to my dream.

But when the meaning behind her expression sets in, I realize what just happened. The moment I touched her palm, the light had overwhelmed me. That brilliant light was emanating from her. But that’s impossible. Right? I can’t find the words to form the questions I should be asking this girl. Any verbalization of my emotions is held back by my numbing confusion. By the time I think of what to say, she’s running down the hall, the clicking of her shoes on the tile floor growing more and more distant until she disappears into another hallway. I stand gaping after her for several moments, unable to wrap my brain around what has just happened. Stranger yet is the earth-shattering connection I feel with her-and the ripping panic that settles in my chest the minute she disappears from my sight. But perhaps the most profound realization of all is that my headache is completely gone.

CHAPTER TWO

Apparently, I had been suffering from some sort of dream-induced paranoia this morning when I woke up from my nightmare because things are finally looking up. Admittedly, I’m still a bit shell-shocked from my strange encounter with the mysterious girl in the hallway, but my headache is gone and hasn’t returned in more than six hours. Silly though it may be, I can’t help myself from wondering if the strange, beautiful girl is some kind of witch with healing powers…or maybe, just like in my dream, she’s an angel… sent here to rid me of a headache? Right. Very likely. An hour had passed following my encounter with her before I finally convinced myself I’d imagined the entire thing. The passing of my headache is a coincidence. A very pleasant coincidence. Nothing more.

The rest of the day had flown by splendidly-well, excluding the entire hour Coach Dooley spent lecturing me about what it means to be a leader. He had pulled me out of my advanced placement English class-perfect timing, as usual. Mrs. Sweeny had assigned research projects and since I wasn’t there, I got stuck without a partner to complete a fifteen-page research paper and ten-slide presentation on The Canterbury Tales. On second thought, maybe I’m being a bit too optimistic.

But at any rate, after displaying genuine remorse for having missed practice, Coach Dooley bestowed his forgiveness and announced that I’d be starting in tonight’s game against Northside. Not that I was all that surprised. Coach Dooley always puts on a good front, but when it comes right down to it, the thought of wearing a state championship ring on his finger tempts him more often than not to swallow his pride. Since our first game at the beginning of September, I’ve played with an injured shoulder and a cracked rib, at Coach Dooley’s insistence. And with our flawless team record this season, there isn’t much that’s likely to keep me off the field. And just like Eli had insisted, all was forgiven once I had confessed and repented of all football-related sins. Now, I strain to listen to Coach Dooley above the roar of the crowd and the brassy music of the band playing the Fairway Fight song as the familiar smell of funnel cakes and popcorn provide the perfect finishing touch to the atmosphere. The first three quarters of the game had passed flawlessly, and in the biggest game of the season, we’re ahead 23-10 in the final quarter. So unless something goes horribly awry, we’ll be advancing into the district finals next week. I’d taken a few rough hits in the first quarter, mostly due to my out-of-control adrenaline, but amazingly enough, when I spotted Gran and Marius in the front rows of the small stadium and heard the crowd chanting my name, I finally found my focus and got my head in the game. Now, with only a few minutes left on the clock, I’m focused on surviving this horrific week on a positive note.

Coach Dooley, strangely resembling a red-faced cartoon bull, is screaming the final play while we huddle around him in our final time out, and after we clap our hands together in break, we all run back out onto the field and take our positions.

I call the play, and padded bodies disperse in all directions at my command.

The snap is perfect, and I chamber my arm, the ball a perfect bullet waiting for the trigger pull that will shoot it toward the desired target. I squint into the stadium lights, searching for Logan, waiting for him to race into my line of vision with his lightning speed. I back up three paces and shuffle a few feet to my right until I see him, perfectly positioned for a final touchdown. Just as I’m leaning slightly backward in preparation for the launch, a searing pain surges through my brain and I have to fight to stay on my feet and ignore the white hot agony that hits me with the force of a great nauseating ocean. I force my eyes to stay open and will myself against the discomfort, trying to ignore the black splotches appearing in the corners of my eyes, dark shadows just like I’d seen earlier. But then my breathing becomes quick and labored while my heart begins to creep slower and slower, until I think it might stop altogether.

I’m disoriented and dizzy, as if I’ve played hard without enough water, though I force my eyes to remain on Logan, who is still running, now at the twenty yard line-and wrapped in a shadow. I blink in confusion, as everything moves in slow motion, and the crowd’s cheering echoes in the distance, as my vision flickers and fades from color to darkness, blurry to sharp. I blink my eyes furiously until my vision sharpens, and I think it’s going to pass. But then the shadow behind Logan clears up, takes form, and…I’m not sure what I’m seeing. I squint for a better view, but just when I’m taking it all in, my vision blurs again, and the figure transforms back to shadow.

Then, I’m vaguely aware of several people shouting my name to my left, and out of the corner of my eye, I see several Northside players blocked to the ground in front of me. Remembering I’m in the middle of a play, I force my attention back to Logan and his shadow, who are now approaching the ten yard line. My guts are wrenching, and my head is still pulsing in synchronization with the slugging rhythm of my heart, but somehow I manage to launch the ball toward Logan. I watch the oblong shape for several seconds as it spirals perfectly skyward, but then I’m jolted from the side with the force of a joint rocking train. Simultaneously, I hear an ear-splitting crackling, followed by a flaming heat that suffocates my head and neck, drowning me with its blackness.

When I open my eyes, Coach Dooley’s pudgy face is a few inches above mine, and I’m aware of someone moving behind me. Disoriented, I try to move my head to look around, but it’s frozen. My hands shoot up to my neck in panic, gripping the soft foam that encircles it.

“Calm down, son.” Coach Dooley’s voice echoes through my ears, reverberating several times in my pounding head. He grabs both my hands and pushes them back to my side. “You’re in the locker room now. Game’s over, but you’re gonna be fine. Everything’s fine.”

Most adults are such liars. Because obviously, I’m not fine, considering I’m spread out on a table in the locker room, wearing a neck brace, but I don’t challenge Coach Dooley’s version of a comforting speech. Because something else is…off. I blink twice to orient myself, only to realize my vision is screwed up again. But instead of seeing the blurred variations between color and black and white, what I’m seeing can only be described as a mixture between the two. I can see the color-but it’s muted, as if all the vibrance and brightness have been sucked out of the world-as if my eyes are no longer capable of seeing the vivid hues of color. As my eyes dart around the room, I notice the bright blue and gold lockers are dull, taking on a grayish milky tint. The color is there, recognizable, but it’s like I take no pleasure in it anymore. Kind of like being on a diet-eating for fuel, not for fun. Everything I see is just…bleak, overcast.

Yet as muted as the colors appear, my vision is that much better-like I’m opening my eyes for the first time to view things with a sharpness I’ve only ever dreamed of. All traces of the previous blurriness are gone, and I’m staring in shock at things I should never be able to see-the individual fibers in Coach Dooley’s Fairway Hornets hat, the large dirt-clogged pores of his sweaty skin, a small scar just above his upper lip that I should’ve noticed before, considering how often he yells in my face. I’m caught somewhere between horrified and fascinated, but I manage to snap out of it. Coach Dooley is eyeing me suspiciously, obviously wondering if the heavy hit I took has knocked the wiring in my brain loose.

I can feel myself begin to tremble as I blink again and again, waiting for my vision to correct itself just as it had earlier in the day. Only it doesn’t. I blink several more times, hoping everything will go back to normal each time I open and close my lids.

“What happened?” I ask Coach Dooley.

I try to remember but everything’s foggy, so I only catch flashes of memory. I remember the headache and the white hot pain before throwing the ball…and a shadow, there was some sort of shadow. Cold drops of perspiration bead on my forehead before trickling down the side of my face. My question hangs in the air for a moment, until a different voice answers from behind me.

“You took one heck of a hit,” the voice says. I try to turn my head without success. “Don’t move. I’m almost finished with the examination. You’ve got quite a knot on your head.”

I automatically bring my hands to my head, feeling the swollen flesh protruding from my skull. The spot is tender but has the promise of feeling worse in the morning. Great. Finally, the plump lady moves into my line of vision. I can tell that she’s blonde, and judging by her uniform, she works with the EMS crew.

“Is your vision blurry?” she asks.

But as she speaks, her voice is accompanied by a strangely familiar hissing. The sound is low and breathy, thick, like the wheeze of a heavy smoker. I narrow my eyes in concentration, searching for the source of the other noise. I hear it again, this time from the opposite direction.

“What is that?” I ask, my eyes scanning their limited field of vision.

“What’s what?” Coach Dooley looks behind him and then to each side.

“Didn’t you hear that?”

“Hear what?” The blond lady asks.

“I don’t know, it’s like a hissing or something.”

“Probably just the radiator,” Coach Dooley concludes. “Lord knows we could use some maintenance in here.”

But then I hear it again, and I know it’s definitely not the radiator. I watch the expressions of my caregivers, but they don’t blink, they don’t move, and obviously, they don’t hear it. The blond lady takes a small light out of her pocket and asks again if my vision is blurry.

I take a moment to look around again, while the woman standing over me waits none too patiently for an answer. She has a day-old coffee stain on her white shirt, just barely visible now that it has likely been treated with a stain stick. The soapy residue has settled over it in a dry, crusty film. My eyes dart toward the lockers, and I can see the tiny numbers on the combination locks. I can also see every indentation in the ceiling and count the individual legs of the fly corpses that never escaped from the light fixtures. I shouldn’t be able to see any of it. And while I know I should take the opportunity to panic, since the medical technician is here, I’m more fascinated than anything at the moment. But nothing is blurry, which is her main concern.

“Actually, um… everything’s really… sharp,” I reply hesitantly. “But the color is weird. Everything’s muted and darker than normal…” I trail off.

The lady moves closer to my face, lifting my lid. She tells me to follow her finger with my eyes while she stares into my pupils one at a time with the light.

“Everything looks fine,” the woman says to Coach Dooley. She shrugs. “His pupils aren’t dilated, but he does have a concussion. The strange colors may be a side effect.” She looks down at me then. “If it doesn’t clear up by morning, I would recommend that you go to the emergency room or to your family doctor. Coach, make sure he stays awake for a while, and then when he goes to sleep, his parents should wake him up every two hours or so and check on him regularly.”

“I’ll be sure to tell his grandmother,” he says.

I’m about to ask what the strange colors could mean if they aren’t a side effect of the concussion, but I’m once again distracted by the strange hissing. It sounds closer this time. I look around frantically, searching for the voice. I know it can’t be the radiator. I’ve heard that radiator on its worst winter days, and this noise sounds nothing like the rattling clang and hiss of the sputtering heat. This hissing sounds more like a throaty whisper, like someone-or something-is speaking. Honestly, it sounds like some nightmarish creature lurking in a horror-movie basement, but it’s not like that’s even a remote possibility. I am being ridiculous, and I have suffered a blow to the head. So I shake the thought away with a chill.

Then the foam around my neck pulls apart with the ripping sound of Velcro, and the air is cool on my skin. I turn my neck slightly, testing the level of discomfort. To my surprise, my joints are only a little stiff, despite the crackling noise I heard before I blacked out. I can hear the EMT packing up her bag just before the door rattles shut behind her.

“What happened to Logan?” I ask Coach Dooley, as I try to sit up. “Did he complete the pass?”

The hissing is growing more pronounced each time I hear it. Now that my neck is free, I can better see where the noise is coming from.

And that’s when I see it.

My heart convulses angrily in my chest, and I involuntarily lurch forward on the table before shoving back with a great heave of panic, feeling nothing but air until I hit the floor with a heavy smack that jars my pounding head. But I barely feel the impact before I’m scooting away frantically, stopped only by the locker room wall.

“Crain, what the red-hot hell is wrong with you?” Coach Dooley blurts.

His leathery complexion purples with irritation, and he takes three long strides before towering over me. His expression is a mixture of anger and curiosity. But I barely see him. It’s as if I am trapped in someone’s darkest nightmare. Behind Coach Dooley, clinging to him like a leech, is a…some kind of…creature-and somewhere in the back of my mind, I remember the figure that attached itself to Logan on the field and realize this must be what I saw. But it’s different up close, and I find myself hoping for a foolish instant that I don’t wet myself in front of my coach.

The creature is tall and skinny, and though it has long reptilian arms and legs, it somehow manages to coil around Coach Dooley like a serpent, constricting so tightly, I can’t figure out how the man is still breathing. Its face, which peeks out over Coach Dooley’s shoulder, is like nothing I’ve ever seen before, not even in horror movies. Its bones are sharp and jagged, and its skin is scaly and sick, and its face is all bony angles with deep hollowed out holes, endlessly dark pits where its eyes should be. It turns its head in my direction as if it can see me and opens its mouth, revealing several rows of razor sharp teeth that are dripping with thick, yellow saliva. The creature is solid and strong, but it seems blurry at the edges due to a thick, putrid smoke that expands from its skin. And just when I’m certain I’m losing my mind, it releases a low, guttural hiss, moving its mouth as though it’s speaking, only I can’t make out any words.

I’ve never known this type of fear in my life. I can’t move, I can’t speak, and I can’t breathe. I can only stare in sheer terror at the creature and tremble with a shock that’s so overwhelming, my entire body feels numb and tingly. And I’m itching. Why are my palms itching? I absently scrape my nonexistent fingernails across my palms. Coach Dooley crouches beside me, offering his hand, but I’m too busy staring at the reptilian creature behind him, all scales and bones and dark, fathomless eye sockets. From between its razor sharp teeth, it releases a low, guttural whisper, and now that it’s only inches from me, I stare straight ahead, deep into its empty pits. It cocks its head in recognition, like it knows I see it. Then finally, I find the strength to move and I point behind my coach with a trembling finger, my eyes never blinking, never moving from the creature, which has uncoiled itself and is now hovering behind him like some hellish fiend from a nightmare.

With a confused expression, Coach Dooley rises from his crouch and looks behind him, now standing only inches from the creature. The thing is hovering just above the ground with its sinewy arms extended, its bony fingers sharpening to claws at the ends. Coach Dooley is face to face with the creature, standing so close, he should be able to feel the heat of its putrid breath. Only he doesn’t seem to see it; in fact, he’s looking beyond it. A low oath rises in my throat as Coach Dooley takes a step forward, but the words catch before they reach my mouth. Coach Dooley doesn’t see the creature or hear it or smell it. Instead, he walks right through it, as if it isn’t there at all.

Maybe it isn’t. Maybe I’m insane. At this point, that’s the most logical explanation, after all. This creature is something straight out of Hollywood, some sort of special effect that can’t possibly exist outside Rob Zombie’s imagination. So I have to be hallucinating. The thought of insanity actually comforts me, which says a lot about my state of mind at the moment.

Coach Dooley turns back toward me, his eyes questioning mine. No sooner has he turned than the creature extends its arms and bends its bony fingers toward his head. It’s long, thick, yellowed claws attach themselves and seem to penetrate the coach’s head beneath his hat.

“Crain, what do you see?” he asks, apparently without insight of the creature attached to his head. “You’re really starting to freak me out. Maybe I need to call someone…”

“No!” I shout, feeling my eyes widen.

I swallow hard, still staring, trying to accept the fact that I’m hallucinating, that Cooper Ward must have been right about me all along. I am sick in the head. I am seeing things that aren’t really there, dreaming up creatures that can’t possibly exist. I’m insane.

Crazy. Crackbrained. Loco. Screwy. Off my rocker. A few bricks shy of a stack. Padded-room psycho. Straight-jacket material.

Acknowledging that Coach Dooley had just asked me a question, I shake off my self-deprecating thoughts as I watch him repeat himself.

“Crain, I said are you seeing something?” He looks over his shoulder again but still doesn’t see.

“N-nothing, Coach,” I stutter, rubbing my itchy palms across my pants. “Not anything at all.” I am still staring at the creature, whose every movement is accompanied by that strange throaty hissing, like it’s growing more and more agitated that I can see it. “I’m just feeling a little strange, that’s all. I’ll be fine in the morning. I just need sleep.” Maybe if I rest, this will all be over. “I’ll just go home and sleep.”

I take Coach Dooley’s hand, and he helps me up. I try to control my wobbling knees, but I feel weak, and I tremble when I am standing face to face with the creature, its breath hot on my face. But I know that unless I want a one-way ticket to the closest mental facility, I have to ignore it. So I look it straight in the eye sockets as it peers at me over the coach’s shoulder with an unsettling intelligence. It stinks like the sewer, like the sulfuric acid we work with in the chemistry lab. Yellow saliva drips onto Coach Dooley’s shoulder. I am terrified, but I know I have to act normal unless I want Coach Dooley to call Gran-and she doesn’t need the extra stress. Besides, despite the creature’s less than friendly appearance, it doesn’t appear to be doing any actual harm. Yet I doubt a creature such as this one would exist for any other purpose than the darkest of agendas. Regardless, I swallow the lump of fear in my throat and walk past Coach Dooley to grab my bag from my locker before heading to the shower.