Your dad's eyes bore into you. He's smiling, but there's death behind the smile.
He's sitting at the dining table, eating as he smiles at you. Your brother and mother flank him, and gaze into his face with adoring expressions.
A deep unease settles on your shoulders. This is your dining room, but every wall is draped with dark, purple-hued curtains. A dim glow, like candlelight, suffuses the room. The ceiling, when you glance up, is a well of shadows.
"Will, son..." Your father says as he continues smiling at you, unblinking. "You're a very resourceful boy. I never gave you enough credit. I should have. I see that now. I should have picked you first."
Picked me?, you wonder. Picked me for what?
Your father cuts his food, never taking his eyes off you. The knife and fork clink against the plate, but he never lifts the food to his mouth.
With mounting unease you try to push yourself back from the table, but the legs of your chair are fastened to the floor. And when you try to rise, your strength fails.
Oh God, it's like when the zombies come and I can't run because my feet keep sinking into the floor!
The curtains rustle, and figures step out from behind them. They shuffle toward you with the slow-motion gait of the undead. But they have the faces of your friends: Caleb and Keith, Taylor and Lucy, Scott Bickelmeir. But their eyes and grins are glassy, and their heads wobble on their necks.
Oh Jesus, you realize. They're not real.
"I should have picked you first", your dad repeats. "But it's not too late to pick you last. You'll be happier this way. I am." With a hand he indicates the crowd. "We all are."
Clammy hands close over your face from behind.
--
"AAAAAAAH!!!" You kick and thrash, desperately trying to escape, but something heavy pushes you down. "Get it off!", you scream. "Get it off my face!"
"Easy there", comes a voice out of the dark. It's a deep baritone, strong and resonant.
"Looks like Sleeping Beauty's having a nightmare", says another. This voice is lighter, and there's a snicker in it. "You heard him, Frank, get off his face."
"I'm not on his—"
"Here, let me", a third voice breaks in. It's your father's, and you freeze in terror. "Will", he says. "Will! Wake up!"
You pry your eyes open, and flinch at finding your dad leaning over you. "Don't", you whimper. "Please don't!"
"Will!" Your dad shakes you gently. "It's okay. It's me, Taylor."
You stare at him. The back of your head is very hot, and the front of your brain feels smothered with fuzz. Why is Dad telling me his name is Taylor? you wonder.
Then it all comes back to you—the fight with Blackwell's clone, and what you found under the mask—and almost you swoon again. But you push yourself up, and almost pass out with pain as the back of your head throbs.
You find you're back inside the professor's villa, on the cold floor of the dark foyer. You wince as you look around.
You're being supported behind the shoulder by a dark-haired guy who looks a little older than you. His black eyes glitter, and his mouth is set in a grim line. He reminds you of the basketball players back at school—a muscled jock who doesn't like to be fucked with.
Beside of him is another kid, this one with bright blonde hair. His eyes gleam like his companion's, but his mouth is parted in a wide, white smile.
"Just a bad bump", the dark-haired kid says as he helps you into a sitting position. "Didn't even break the skin. But it wouldn't be a bad idea to see a doctor."
"Are you gonna foot the bill, Frank?", the blonde kid says. "You're the one who punched him out."
"I didn't punch out anyone, Joe. I only put my arm out to grab him."
"And just about took his head off."
"Who are you guys?", you demand, and wince as your head throbs again.
"Good Samaritans, dur", says the blonde one, and he doesn't hide his sarcasm. "We picked you up and brought you inside, didn't we? You can call me Joe, and him Frank. And who are you?" He glances up at Taylor with a hard grin. "Colleagues of Herr Professor?"
There's an awkward pause. You still hurt too much to think clearly, and Taylor is at a loss for words. The air seems to thicken noticeably. "It must be bad, whatever it is", Joe says, "if you don't even want to introduce yourselves."
"My name's Will, and this is my dad", you retort. You're in too much pain to take any shit. "And yeah, we came out to see the professor."
"Is your dad a life model?"
"A what?"
"Your dad. Is he a life model?" Joe cocks an insolent eye at Taylor. "You sit for artists professionally, Mr. Will's Dad? Is the professor an amateur sculptor?"
"What are you talking about?", Taylor demands.
"I'm talking about that thing in the hallway. The life-size statue that looks just like you, Mr. Will's Dad."
Taylor wheels to stare back down the hallway. His jaw drops, and he's very pale when he turns back around.
"Let's take it outside, Joe", says the one named Frank.
"We can do it in here."
"It'll be faster outside."
"But now they don't want to go outside, now that you've mentioned that's what you want to do. Besides—" Joe rears up, and you see that he's built almost as strongly as his friend, with hard biceps and a deep chest under his surfer's mop. "This is our chance to have some fun. When the cat's away, the mice will place some strategically positioned anvils to drop on its head." He cocks a bright but daunting eye at you. "This will be our little secret, guys," he adds as he puts a finger to his lips.
You exchange a long, wide-eyed glance with Taylor. He speaks for you both when he asks. "What's the deal, guys?"
Joe's smile is so broad it threatens to split his head in two.
"Tit for tat, Will and Mr. Will's Dad," he laughs. "For every question we answer, you have to answer one of ours."
--
The ensuing talk is no fun, and you and Taylor get the worst of it. Your head hurts too much to think clearly, and Taylor—who’s a lot less physically impressive with your father's middle-aged dad bod than with his own wrestler's physique—looks pinched and harried. The others, on the other hand, have no trouble intimidating you with hard, bright stares. That goes double for Frank. He doesn't talk, but he doesn't have to. The planes of his face are very hard and he doesn't smile. By the end, you have the impression that he would like to twist your head off your neck, and that he could do it, too.
From Joe, who does the talking, you learn that they are from out of town, come specially to pay a call on the professor, and that they are "professional competitors" of some sort. When you ask if that means they're archaeologists, Frank makes his only real comment: "Archaeologists take things out of the ground. We put things in it."
In return you are forced to confess that you sold the professor a book on alchemy; that you came out to deliver him supplies from your dad's work; and that you freaked out when you found a life-sized statue of your dad in the hallway. You implicitly confess more, probably, when you are unable to explain where the professor is or how you got into his house when he wasn't home.
So badly are you doing, in fact, that you soon call a halt to the talk. "Fuck this. You’re not the cops." On wobbling feet you stumble to where that "statue" of your father lies. "Help me move this," you tell Taylor.
Frank blocks the hallway. "Hold it. You’re not taking anything, dipshit."
"Oh no," you retort. "I’m not going anywhere without this."
"Then I guess we get to keep talking," Joe says. He grins. "'Cos if you ain't leavin' without it, we ain't lettin' you leave with it. It's the professor's property, right?"
You clench a fist, ready to deck either of them in the face, but a single glance from Frank stops you.
You wheel and rush for the front door, hating yourself for running. "So why you want the dingus so bad?" Joe asks as you brush past.
You flip him off and charge out the door. At your truck, you look back to see the two of them watching you from the porch with speculative expressions.
--
The afternoon feels like a disaster, but worse awaits you in the school basement. Sean is perched on the conference table, staring vacantly at a wall, but the professor is gone. Only his ropes remain, coiled beside his chair.
"Sean!" Taylor grabs his brother. "Sean!" Sean turns a dreamy eye onto his twin. "Sean, where's the professor?"
"Hmm?"
"Sean!" Taylor shakes him hard, and Sean's eyes slowly clear. "What happened to the professor?", Taylor demands.
Sean frowns as though gathering his thoughts, and looks around. He stares at you as you hold up the empty ropes. He blinks once, then jumps up with a cry.
"He hypnotized me!", he yells. "The son of a bitch hypnotized me! I was talking to him, and then—" He rubs his eyes. "And then I was untying him! Oh, Jesus!" he groans.
You and Taylor turn horrified faces on each other. The professor loose? And those two weirdos at his house loose as well?
While you were talking, Joe had given you a phone number, telling you to call if you ever "needed help." Maybe you should call him now. But why have anything to do with those assholes? You’d rather look for Blackwell yourself – make him pay for what he did, and force him to fix everything.
Then you smirk. Why not set them against each other? But you’ll need to keep clear watch on one of them – all the more to set them on a collision course.
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