Speed of Sight

Ghost Town

Ghost TownJericho was a strange but predictable town where people went crazy trying not to upset anyone. They lived by the clock and clung to dull routines which gave them a sense of safety and security. The rows of square lawns, white picket fences, and brown-gray cookie cutter houses that adorned most neighborhoods gave proof of their devotion to tradition. Most folks preferred old, boring ways to new creative ones. Some forms of creativity had even been outlawed, including a special brand of comic book with colorful pictures and speech balloons that anyone could read and understand. If you got caught with one, you could get sent to jail.

Twelve-year-old Pete Plain knew such comic books spelled trouble, and he wasn’t the sort of boy to risk prison over one. Too well-behaved to break a rule at school or start a fight, he wanted only a calm and peaceful life.

He didn’t look for trouble, but it found him. Before the comic book touched his hands, he felt the danger, but its mysterious powers drew him in and left him hungering for more. His best friend snatched it from him, though, fearful of what Pete had done.

The comic book had taken Pete on a fantastic adventure. He couldn’t rest until he got it back.

*****

His mind drifted back to the morning’s strange events, beginning with the voice he heard inside his head when he woke up.

“Loser!” it kept calling him. “You’re such a loser!”

Pete covered his ears and moaned. “Leave me alone.”

At once, a ray of sunlight streamed through his bedroom window, filling the room with warmth. He heard a click.

Pete’s eyes shot open. At the door, he saw a heart-shaped face framed with tight, brown curls.

His mother’s blue eyes twinkled. “Time to get up and get educated.” She smoothed a wrinkle from her beige business suit, turned, and headed downstairs.

Pete yawned as he threw off his covers. “School is overrated. There should be a law against it.”

Pete hated school because he was shorter than his classmates and his teachers only taught dry facts, not useful skills such as how to handle bullies or get his parents to buy him a dog. The books he had to read were so boring, he took half an hour to muddle through one page. He never won a group game, and in nearly every subject—English, science, music, and even physical education—he made only average marks. He was so bad at sports he thought for sure he’d win the Super Flop prize, but Jimmy Crutchton limped away with that, making Pete feel like a real loser.

He stepped out of bed when something brushed up against his legs, causing him to trip and bang his right knee.

“Ow! How did I get such bad luck?”

Pete hobbled to a heap of clothes stacked on his closet floor and pulled out a drawing he had made of a wrinkle-faced elderly lady, his mean sixth-grade teacher Mrs. Fischer. She wore a tattered dress and held a long red pen which radiated Fs and Xs. It was pointed at the backs of two unsuspecting kids.

“Jack’s teacher is so much nicer. I wish I could be in her class,” Pete mumbled. He also wished his elementary school only went up to fifth grade. Then he’d be in middle school, and he’d have Mrs. Fischer for only one subject. But that wasn’t how things worked in Jericho.

The face Pete put on his teacher appeared fairly lifelike, but most people in Jericho might consider it too creative—not due to its bold colors, but because he drew it freehand instead of following the black-and-white rules in his art book. Pete’s artistic approach to subjects earned him a few minuses, which lowered both his grades and his confidence.

Pete placed the picture on a shelf at the top of his closet. Then, he plucked a pair of ragged blue jeans from his clothes pile, along with a red-collared shirt, and mismatched socks. He got dressed, walked to the bathroom, brushed his teeth, then grabbed his comb from the sink and ran it through his thick brown hair.

One stroke, two, and then three. In the mirror, he saw a shadowy blur pop up behind him.

Pete wheeled to face it, but all he saw was wallpaper—blue and yellow fish swimming in a brownish-gray sea. A twinge of fear raced through his veins, but he shrugged it off.

He must have imagined it.

He ran the comb through his hair a couple more times. As he set the comb down, he saw another shadow appear in the mirror. It rushed by in a hazy blur and vanished in a wisp of black smoke. Pete rubbed his eyes. That was weird.

He glanced at the bathroom curtains, wondering if a breeze had stirred them, creating a shadow. But the window was closed, and the curtains were still.

“It’s probably just nerves, so don’t worry,” Pete told himself, trying to be brave. “Nothing terrible is going to ruin our summer break.” He tiptoed carefully back to his room and did a thorough safety check.

Dresser: check, no shadows there. Closet: check. Unmade bed: double check.

Pete picked his black-rimmed glasses off his nightstand and put them in his shirt pocket. He hated wearing them but wanted his last day at Jericho Elementary to be a good one. Then he searched beneath his bed for his steel-toed orthopedic shoes, designed to keep him from tripping. He had always been slightly accident-prone, and no one could explain the reason why. The doctors couldn’t cure him, so they decided to regulate his movement instead. That was how things worked in Jericho. If someone had a problem that couldn’t be explained, the answer was usually to put more limits on the person. Pete’s hard, pinching shoes were like rules for his feet. Instead of helping him walk better, they drew attention to his problem while making it appear as if it had been solved. Pete had long outgrown his most recent pair of orthopedic shoes. As he snatched them up, he saw another shadow whiz by.

That was getting spooky.

Hands trembling, he shoved his shoes on and snatched up his backpack. As he left his room, a roar came from his closet.

He froze. “Don’t be scared, Pete. I’m sure it’s just a—”

“GRR . . . GRR . . .”

With a startled cry, Pete bolted down the hall. He reached the steps and bounded down them two at a time. The front door was in sight.

“And where do you think you’re going without any breakfast?” his mom demanded.

Pete jumped. “You scared me. Ow!” A sudden, sharp pain from nowhere shot through his foot.

“Calm down, Pete. You’ll be fine.” She grabbed his arm and dragged him into the kitchen to a round, chocolate-brown table where his father sat, engrossed in the morning newspaper. The scattered strands of thinning brown hair that hung over the man’s brow couldn’t hide the frown etched on his forehead.

Pete heard a frightening growl from the floor above. “Th—Th—there’s something in the house, Dad. It’s in my room!”

His father’s brown eyes remained focused on the comics. As a copy editor for the Jericho Times, he had to make sure the children’s page was error-free. Pete yanked at a corner of the newspaper.

“Hey! What do you think you’re doing?” Mr. Plain pulled the paper closer to his face.

“It’s an emergency,” Pete said. “There’s a wild animal upstairs!”

“Nonsense. That mischievous raccoon left the attic weeks ago.”

“But, Dad—” Pete began.

“Shh, leave him alone while you eat,” his mother said, handing Pete a bowl of mushy oatmeal made with skim milk. She pulled up a chair and made him sit.

Pete stood again and pointed to the ceiling. “But don’t you hear those scratching noises?”

“Maybe it’s mice. That’s the price you pay for making your room a rat’s nest.” His mother’s brown curls bounced as she spoke.

“But it’s not a mouse, and it’s not a raccoon,” Pete continued.

“Then what is it?” asked his mom.

Pete took a deep breath. “I don’t know. It’s like I’ve been jinxed.”

Mr. Plain ruffled his newspaper. “Jinxes don’t exist. Stop making up silly stories.”

“But I never make up stories,” Pete argued.

“I know, but you’re disrupting Dad’s routine,” his mom whispered, gently pushing him back down onto the chair.

“That’s because we need to catch the thing before it tears the house apart,” Pete said, staring at the front page of his father’s newspaper. His eyes zeroed in on the caption, “Jericho’s Couples: Happier than Average.” The article explained why families in Pete’s town were better off due to the city’s safety rules covering every aspect of city and home life, from the right way to decorate to the wrong way to hug.

His mom certainly seemed to follow them. She rarely disagreed with his dad, even when he was wrong. Their marriage was as bland as lukewarm bath water. If that meant they were better off, then great, but it didn’t explain the strange animal sounds in their house.

“Something’s growling,” Pete said, “and it’s not my stomach.”

Mrs. Plain smiled at her son. “I’m sure those noises are just in your mind. The psychiatrist I work for calls it ‘phantom echo brain freeze.’”

“I don’t care what he calls it, Mom. I’m not just hearing things,” Pete said.

Mr. Plain set down his newspaper with a huff. “Enough is enough, son. Stop blaming your problems on villains you can’t see and tackle the villain that’s right before your face.”

“‘Villain’ as in this bowl of mushy oatmeal?” Pete asked.

His father cracked a smile, but his mother frowned.

“Oatmeal gives you energy to fight villains. Plus, it’s nutritious,” she said.

Pete grumbled under his breath. He heard heavy breathing, followed by nails clicking on wooden steps. A strange tension filled the air. Pete shivered. It was headed downstairs.

Sharp pains ran through Pete’s toes. “My shoes are too tight.”

“Well, speculating over imaginary beasts won’t solve that problem,” said his dad. “But having Mom take you shopping for new shoes will.”

“Why can’t you go with us?” Pete asked.

“I have a meeting after work and won’t be home till late,” his dad said.

“What?” Suddenly his mom didn’t sound so easygoing. “Why didn’t I know about this?”

“It came up at the last minute,” Pete’s dad said coldly. He folded up his newspaper and shoved it in his briefcase.

The clicking and breathing sounds came closer.

Pete picked up his backpack. “May I please be excused? I have a bus to catch.”

“But you didn’t finish breakfast,” his mom said.

“Aw, stop pushing food on him, Patty. You’re making me late for work.” Mr. Plain snatched up his briefcase and raced to the garage.

“At least you could kiss me goodbye, Sam!” Mrs. Plain rushed after him.

Pete took that as his cue to go and rushed to the front door. As he passed the stairway, he glimpsed a faint shadow. He raced outside, his heart beating wildly. He thought he heard a creepy voice mutter, “Ha, Ha, I’ve got him on the run. And the best part is, he doesn’t even know that I exist.”