Chapter 4 The Strange Glowing Light
1033 Words
"Unknown writer murders his wife, then escapes jail? Tch, tch, tch... What's wrong with people these days?" Grandpa Starveil tutted while scrolling through news headlines, pausing to slurp his tea noisily.
Alistair sat motionless in his wheelchair, staring vacantly through the window. Though his speech was slowly improving—and the doctors kept insisting talking would help—he showed no desire to converse.
Maybe Alis had always been this quiet, because Grandpa Starveil never pushed him. The old man more than made up for it though, constantly chattering away to himself. They made an odd pair—the young master quiet as a shadow while his elderly caretaker buzzed like a hyperactive bee.
"Star...Starveil," Alistair suddenly croaked.
"Huh? What's up, Master Alistair?" The old man zipped to his side so fast he nearly spilled his tea.
"Can you...stop calling me...'master'?" His words came slow, but at least they made sense now.
"Ah! Right you are! I'll go back to 'Alis'—you always liked that better. But after your coma, we all got stuck in formal habits. I'll try, though don't be surprised if I slip..." True to form, Grandpa Starveil's words tumbled out like a broken dam. Living with him, even if Alis wanted to talk more, there'd never be an opening.
"Grandpa...could you...take me to my room?" Alistair grabbed the first gap in the chatter.
"No sweat!" The old man beamed, wheeling him away with a faint creak.
The villa sprawled across four floors: a dining room and lounge downstairs, entertainment spaces and a study on the second level, his late parents' bedroom suite on the third, and Alis' own sanctuary at the very top.
The fourth floor held his bedroom alongside a vacant guest room, silent and waiting. Once, while passing his parents' former bedroom, Alistair's eyes had snagged on a family portrait—himself, his parents, and a girl who seemed just a shade younger.
Grandpa Starveil had enthusiastically detailed how he had a sister, chattering about where she lived and what she did now. But Alistair's mind clung stubbornly to wisps of another memory—a girl whose laughter smelled like ripe cherries.
Could she be his sister? The shadowy figure haunting his thoughts bore no resemblance to the photo's smiling stranger. Until the fog in his skull lifted, he wouldn't bother asking.
After Grandpa Starveil wheeled him back and left, Alistair remained statue-still, thoughts congealing like hardening wax, numb to the world around him.
Then—EEEE—a keening whine pierced his eardrums, screeching toward frequencies that made teeth vibrate. Something in his mind resonated with the sound—then white-hot lightning split his skull open. Or so it felt.
"Ah—!" The agony tore through him. He thrashed in his wheelchair before crashing onto the hardwood with a sickening crack.
The physical pain became irrelevant as snippets of memory flickered like a damaged film reel—blurry at first, then resolving into HD clarity.
The visions assaulted him: an unfamiliar bedroom, a woman asleep in bed, and in the crib beside her, an infant's chest rising and falling with fragile breaths.
Then a man with bloodshot eyes entered the room, his body wreathed in a sinister violet-black aura.
He moved to the bedside and suddenly clamped his hands around the woman's throat, squeezing until her struggles ceased. As he turned toward the sleeping infant, about to do the same when—
Without warning, a swirling orb of viridian energy burst into existence. The attacker recoiled as if facing a vengeful spirit, stumbling back in panic before fleeing the room.
"That writer murder case...?" Alistair's mind flashed to Grandpa Starveil's morning news mutterings.
The luminous sphere expanded violently in his vision, its surface crackling with energy as if straining against the confines of his mind. Just as it seemed about to overwhelm him—
"Alis! Master Alistair! Can you hear me?" Grandpa Starveil's voice jolted him back to awareness.
Blinking, Alistair found himself cradled in the old man's arms, his caretaker's wrinkled face taut with worry. "I'm fine," he murmured, rubbing his temple. "Just... fell from the wheelchair. Left me dizzy." With an experimental twist, he attempted to rise.
Starveil's eyebrows shot up—he knew every tremor of the young master's weakened limbs. Yet before he could assist, Alistair planted his palms and pushed upright with startling strength.
"Well I'll be! You've got strength in them again!" The old man beamed.
"Huh?" Flexing his fingers, Alistair realized newfound power coursed through his muscles. A test swing of his arm moved with surprising precision—his body responding properly for the first time in months. Well... everywhere except his unresponsive right knee.
Not only that, but his mind suddenly felt clearer—like parched flowers reviving after a long drought.
Starveil's face lit up. "Alis, this is wonderful! Can't you tell? You're already speaking more clearly. Keep this up, and you'll be back to normal before you know it."
"What difference does it make?" Alistair's gaze dropped to his useless right leg. "I'll still be chained to this wheelchair."
"Come on, none of that talk," Starveil chided, his voice warm but firm. "We'll tackle this one thing at a time—first the lingering effects of your coma, then the rest. With modern medicine, getting you walking again isn't impossible."
Whether it was genuine optimism or just his nature, the old man made even the impossible sound doable. Alistair said nothing as Starveil eased him back into the wheelchair.
"So, Alis," Starveil asked gently, "any memories coming back to you?"
Alistair shut his eyes, probing the haze in his mind. Though nothing surfaced, at least the usual splitting headache stayed away. He opened his eyes and shook his head. "No. Still blank."
Just for a second, Starveil thought he saw a flicker of green light in Alistair's gaze—but it vanished so fast he wondered if he'd imagined it.
"Grandpa Starveil?" Alistair's voice snapped him back.
"Hm? Oh! No hurry. Your health's what matters. But today's a step forward, isn't it?" His grin widened as something seemed to click. "Ah! Nearly forgot—your sister's coming home soon, just a few days now."
- Writer
