The drab light of morning crested over the mountain ridge, bringing with it the twittering singing of songbirds and the crow of the occasional distant rooster. The city wiped sleep from its eyes slowly and reluctantly, with only the occasional car setting out for early dawn shifts. But of course, not all in Boone slept well overnight. Logan Kessler had endured yet another consecutive night of fitful sleep in fragmented bursts, the bags under his eyes setting in deeper and darker in tone. He had passed most of the night staring at the box he kept by his bed, a small cardboard thing that had once housed a disposable camera. Now it held three items instead, and Logan hoped that it would soon house three more. He picked up the box and tucked it under his arm, deciding that now was as good a time as any to test out his new possessions. He packed it away into his backpack and set out.
The house was silent and still in absence of his parents, meaning that he didn't need to justify his strange comings and goings… convenient, that had been. He still didn't understand exactly what had happened to them, but he had his theories. The revolver waiting for him in the box meant that it was a problem future-Logan had solved… and so, the answer would surely come to him in time. He biked out into the tranquil dawn and rode his way down the winding roads to the city's center, stopping at a coffee shop on the corner near King Street. It was not yet open, so he passed the time writing in his small notebook he'd packed in his bag. He still had details to sort out, including several related to the strange arrival of the box in the woods… but he'd received a vital clue just yesterday. The officer's questions seemed to link the warehouse fire with stolen electronics. He'd have to do a little investigating of his own, but, with the Thought-Enunciator, that part had never been easier. He saw the outline of events begin to form in his mind, but quickly found himself floundering while trying to imagine the looping continuity of what was to come… or was it more correct to say what had already come? He flipped to a blank page and began drafting a calendar, marking the days he had been in his cabin and the days he had left it undisturbed.
As the timeline began to resolve, he watched an elderly man flip the coffee shop's front sign to OPEN. Logan was the first in the door, and he ordered a large coffee as he sat himself at a table near the door. More and more people in dress ranging from casual to formal began to file past, the buzz of the workday just only beginning to thrum like a great steam engine slowly churning its way out of the station. Logan reached into his bag and pulled the Thought-Enunciator out, aiming its satellite-like end at the people milling past the coffee shop. Immediately, voices filled his head, loud and clear—the inner monologues of each and every passerby he aimed at.
When was the deadline for Jacob again—was that florist's shop at this light or the next?—Relax, Kim, you're too stressed out about a simple—anyone could just walk right up—she's gorgeous, I should really ask—he'll be moving out in two weeks, just try to hang in there—the absolute worst thing that could've happened—people don't just go missing like that in Boone.
That last one gave Logan pause, his eyes flickering down to the device in his hand. A pang of something raw and burning began in his stomach, but Logan's other hand was already seeking out the second device he'd packed. Moments later, the Empathizer's comforting hiss returned him to a level coolness. He didn't need that grief, that regret… he could shed it at will, like a ratty coat discarded and sold to Trade-In Tom's. Why hold on to something so distressing?
He continued his experimenting, pointing the device at people further and further away from the window. How hard is it to find a goddamn cab in—two loaves of bread, at least a dozen eggs, maybe a Merlot for Sarah, she'd like that, a carton of Marlboro—bullshit, making me come in for this shift—red? No, that's too slutty. The blue? What kind of statement would that—
Logan then couldn't help but burst out laughing as he pointed the device at a man walking across the street. As soon as the device had landed on him, Logan heard the opening crawl from Star Wars in full volume. The man's imperious steps across the street were synchronized to the tune only he and Logan could hear.
"Something funny outside?" the elderly owner of the coffee shop asked.
"Just people," Logan replied, wiping at his eyes. He nonchalantly took both the Thought-Enunciator and the Empathizer and moved to pack them away in his bag. As he placed them inside, he regarded the third object stored away in his bag: the Time Watch.
* * *
Parker awoke slowly as beams of sunlight, shining through his window, began to settle on his cheek. Motes of dust burst to light and back into shadow as they traveled through the path of the peeking beams. Parker sneezed, setting the dust scattering and swirling.
He reflexively reached for the Time Watch that he'd begun stashing under his pillow as he slept; his heart skipped a beat in his chest as his hands returned only bundles of sheets. He bolted upright and began to frantically search the bed, alarm rising. It wasn't under either of his pillows. It wasn't bundled in the sheets. It wasn't on the floor near the head or foot of the bed. It didn't seem to be anywhere at all.
Parker then let out a tremendous sigh and collapsed into his now-stripped bed, laughing at his own stupidity. He hadn't taken it off at all last night… he was still wearing the watch. He lay there in the bed, staring at the watch in close-up, something he'd done countless times since he'd gotten the strange object. He scrutinized its metal band, which fit him unexpectedly well. He looked at the three hands on the clock face, watching them sit unmoving—never moving unless wound. He twisted the small dials that adjusted the date until it read 16 - JUL. Summer felt like it had only just begun… where did all the days go?
Parker was worried for Skinny, sure, but he also seemed least worried among his friends. It was partly because he trusted the boy to take care of himself, but the more compelling half of his lack of worry was that Parker alone had the ability to go back in time and undo any trouble that might have befallen Skinny. He could investigate the boy's disappearance. If there was a threat, he could go back in time to undo said threat. It lent with it a certain sense of invulnerability that must have been something like what Wade felt wielding his Protectionizer. Parker made a mental note to ask him about that later.
He dressed himself and wandered out to the kitchen, where he found a cold plate of eggs and bacon left by his mother. He placed it in the microwave and set it heating, brushing his teeth while his breakfast warmed. Less than thirty minutes later, he was pedaling on-bike towards the agreed meet-up. He'd be a full hour early, but he'd never minded the waiting out in the peaceful woods.
* * *
"Speaking of… there's that Parker boy right now," Jackson Trent said. He was seated in the passenger seat of Michelle's car, the two of them driving down the town's main roadway. They watched out the right-hand side of the car as Parker broke from the road and began biking into the woods on a faintly marked trail. "Wonder where he's off to now?" Though Skinny had only been known missing for not even a full day yet, the parents seemed outwardly as though they'd been searching fruitlessly for weeks. Michelle's hair was disheveled and her eyes were sunken, at once both half-shut for lack of sleep and driven by a manic intensity behind them. Jackson's gaunt face seemed even more so than usual, a harsh shadow of a beard beginning to claw its way out of his greasy face. She drummed her fingers on the steering wheel as she drove. He scratched at his neck and his legs, a nervous habit of a nervous man.
One so frequently bedridden as Jackson Trent might often grapple with a sense of helplessness… in his weakest spans, he'd feel the burgeoning impotence of a man turned victim by his own body. He wasn't a proud man by any means, but still, on those worst of weeks when he was confined to his bed, he'd tend back to that dark self-doubt and shame, as though those feelings lived in his sick bed and would greet him as an old friend whenever he'd return. There, in that bed, he'd relied on his wife's income to keep their family afloat. He'd relied on the care of others to keep himself alive. When his own son had gone missing, he hadn't even had the strength to go walking through the woods to search for him. He felt the creeping tendrils of helplessness worming their way into his mind again… which is why today's errand was so important to him. It wasn't a good idea, by any means, but it was him reclaiming a bit of pride and contributing something meaningful to Skinny's rescue. It was sure as hell better than doing nothing.
"Do you think they'll swing for it?" Jackson asked, though the couple had discussed this precise question through most of the early hours of the morning.
"There's really only one way to find out," Michelle replied. A thoughtful silence fell. "I wouldn't be driving you back to the station if I thought they wouldn't," she added. In the light of their son's disappearance, both had been given the day off from work, and both intended to spend all of that day working to track him down. It all began with this pitch.
The car pulled up to the police station, where Michelle pulled into a handicapped spot at the front. She stepped out from the car and moved to Jackson's side, helping him get up from his seat. She offered her arm for support as the two set forwards. "I'm fine, I'm fine," Jackson answered with a dismissive wave of the hand. "Now let's go find us Miss Nora once again."
* * *
Ronnie groped sleepily for the buzzing alarm clock, his ring clanking against its plastic shell as he pressed the 'off' button. He had recently begun sleeping wearing the thing, a decision that was partly inspired by Skinny's disappearance… if someone was genuinely hunting down the devices, he didn't want to let his out of his sight for long.
By his bedside sat various volumes of the encyclopedia set that had long sat on his parents' bookshelves, an assortment of sticky note annotations now sticking from its front and sides to mark various points of interest in the books. The ring boosted his reading and thinking speed, but its other latent effects were more subtle and slow to manifest. Ronnie was now certain that the ring came with a ravenous apetite for learning as well. What had begun as a gentle, peckish stomach rumble had slowly evolved to a near starvation for information, and fortunately, the encyclopedia seemed to satiate some of that hunger. His real stomach rumbled, however, reminding Ronnie that there was more than one apetite to tend to.
With a sigh, he lumbered to the kitchen and began making himself a breakfast of eggs, toast, and a small bowl of assorted fruits. As he sipped at his orange juice, he leafed through additional pages in the dusty volume covering the letter D, reading now about Diocletian—formerly Diocles—and how he had restored the Roman Empire to order after a near-decent to anarchy in the 3rd century. He finished his toast slice as he read about diodes, a small electrical component that only allowed the flow of current in only one direction. As he savored the last grape, he read on Diogenes, one of his history teacher's favorites—apparently the old cynic had lived in a clay barrel at the markeplace and mocked every one of his contemporaries ruthlessly, including Alexander the Great.
Finishing his meal, Ronnie marked his page and closed the book, returning it to the stack in his room. He then set to washing the dishes and cookware stacked in the sink. As he did so, he let his eyes wonder across the kitchen, settling in on the various photographs framed on the walls and counters. In them, he saw images of himself as a toddler and eventually a young child, slowly growing across the years spanning the photographs. He saw pictures of his parents and pictures of his cousins, and wondered how long it might be until all of these were just photos in a box, with none alive who could recognize the people or stories they represented.
He made a mental note in that moment to go visit his grandmother again later today, and to offer an ear for the myriad stories she kept. He felt he owed those tales the respect of an attentive listen… and deep down, he hoped that someone might do the same for his story when enough years had passed.
He finally mounted his bike and set for the road, heading for Castle Rock.
* * *
Wade pressed the snooze button on his alarm clock for the fifth consecutive time this morning. To him, there was no sleep better than the half-hour of half-sleep he got as his alarm woke him again every five minutes and he got the repeated satisfaction of getting to go back to asleep immediately thereafter. Every morning saw a similar sequence of alarms, and Wade always remained just aware enough to know when the final, un-snoozable alarm had arrived… and he'd often snooze it anyways. Not much a morning person, Wade only managed to make it to school on time thanks to the superhuman efforts of his parents to get him up when it was necessary. In their summer absence, the hours of sleep tended to spread outwards across most of the morning.
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Today, though, it was the sixth ring that had finally won out, causing Wade to force his eyes open and begin reaching under his pillow for the object he'd stashed there. He finally found it and closed his fist around it, dragging it towards him: it was a foil-wrapped set of Pop-Tarts. He propped himself up against a pillow and began to eat the pastries by tearing them into small pieces and eating them like some ancient Roman emperor being fed grapes on a grand, reclining sofa. He made a mental note to shake out his sheet before his mother reamed him for getting crumbs in the bed.
After finishing his meal, he stretched and rose to his feet, drinking from one of the six water bottles of varying levels of fill that stood near his bed. He then reached into his underwear and removed the Protectionizer he'd stashed inside of it, giving it a curious sniff. Finding it more-or-less acceptable, he set it down and began to dress.
After washing up, he made his way downstairs, eager to try out the experiment he'd thought up while trying to sleep last night. He grabbed the matchbook and a sheet of paper, and hurriedly made his way out to the back porch. There, he first checked for any prying eyes who might see him. Seeing none, he lit the paper on fire and gave it a few seconds to more fully catch. Then, squeezing the Protectionizer in one hand, he grabbed the burning page and crumpled it into a ball with his other. He squeezed on the burning sheet until smoke began to rise, and held it another ten seconds beyond that. He then unfurled his hand and found a smouldering, extinguished ball of paper only half-burned. Fire-punch test? Failed, he thought, lamenting the fact that he wouldn't be able to punch people with flaming fists. Could've been badass, he mused. He made a mental note to try it with lighter fluid or something similar, though he'd have to go buy some first. He then walked over to the side of the porch where he'd marked the ground with an 'x' in chalk. He summoned all his might and struck at the ground with a closed fist, his hand bouncing off the floor without breaking either his bones or the floor. Floorsmash test? Still ongoing, he noted mentally, maintaining a sense of certainty that one day, if he kept at it, the floor would crack.
With no minor disappointment, Wade began to pack up for the day, loading some snacks and drinks into a backpack before climbing onto his bike. He set out for Castle Rock, wondering when he could slip a stop for lighter fluid in the middle of a full day of searching for Skinny.
* * *
Shaun had woken up a full hour earlier than intended. It wouldn't be right to say that he was excited for the day, as that implied a positive emotional state and Shaun's was decidedly negative. That being said, Shaun felt ready for the day. He knew that he and his friends would be searching out Skinny and putting their heads together as a team to track him down… it felt positively impossible to sleep well when such work lay ahead of him.
He ate a quick breakfast of a frozen waffle drenched in syrup before setting out on bicycle. He wasn't even sure of where he was heading until he pulled to a stop in front of the place. Skinny's house was quiet and obviously empty… apparently Mr. and Mrs. Trent had business in town searching out their son. He swallowed, only now fully realizing and processing his intent, but he quickly pushed his reservations behind him and set to work. He dragged his bike to the woods behind the home and found an alcove where he could be sure nobody saw him. He then activated his Invisibility Plug, flickering out of sight. The world around him became cloudy as he vanished, almost giving off the impression of being seen through a TV set that was far too dim with poor picture quality. Still, he was able to navigate his way about the house, and as he walked around the perimeter of the home, he had to fight the urge to duck for cover with every car that rumbled past. It's impossible to get used to, being totally see-through, he thought to himself. Instead of chastising himself too seriously, he decided that a little caution was probably a good thing in his current situation. He peered through the windows and confirmed the rooms, one at a time, to be empty.
Still invisible, he arrived to a side door of the home. He placed a hand on the knob and tested it by pulling it ever-so-slightly. Much to his relief, he found it to be unlocked. "We should leave it open in case Skinny comes home," he could imagine the mother saying. He shrugged off the upsetting image and then considered how best to proceed. If a neighbor witnessed a door just lackadaisically swinging open on its own, he or she might be prone to ask questions or investigate. It's gotta look natural, Shaun thought. Like the wind or something is lazily blowing it open.
Holding his breath, though he wasn't quite sure why, Shaun tilted his head and listened to the trees above as they sighed in the occasional breeze. He waited for the wind to gust up again and as soon as it did, he began to slowly slide the door open, accelerating as it yawned wider and wider, trying to give it the impression that it caught more and more of the passing gusts as it moved. He then stepped in and pulled the door behind him, doing his best to imitate the door rebounding from the furthest open position its hinges would permit. He didn't let it click shut fully, as he'd need to make it nonchalantly slide open again as he left, but he instead allowed it to rest against its frame. He removed his hand from the door and found that it held still. Now within the house, he stood there silent and unseen, having no clue whatsoever if his door antics had seemed natural or utterly ridiculous—perhaps even more confounding than a simple open-and-shut would have been. Too late now, Shaun; gotta roll with the punches here, he thought. The visual obfuscations of being invisible made it hard to search out what he'd come here to find, but, with the Trent household having so many large windows, Shaun figured it was better to search invisibly than risk being seen from the street.
He crept his way to Skinny's room in the back corner of the home, his padded footfalls and the ticking of an ornate grandfather clock the only sounds in the house. The air was still and somewhat warm, sunlight softly filtering in through the many windows that lined the walls. He made his way to the opposite end of the living room and found the door he sought. As he pushed it gingerly, it swung open with a tired creak that shattered the dead silence of the home.
Looking around for any sort of reaction, and finding none, he then made his way into the room and set to searching. He rifled through laundry hampers and ran his hands under pillows and mattresses. He rummaged through desk drawers and trash bins and the undersides of furniture. He separated stacks of clothing from Skinny's closet and searched for items pried between shirts or pants, wondering how might I have hidden the Thought-Enunciator if I lived here? It wasn't in the bed. It wasn't in any shoeboxes or stashed within any shoes. There weren't any loose floorboards, so far as Shaun could tell, nor were there any removable vents along the floor. No hollowed books on the bookcase. No Thought-Enunciator anywhere that he could tell.
"Hello?" A gravely voice called from across the home as Shaun heard the door he'd entered from swinging open. "Junior, is that you?"
Shaun's breath caught as he realized that the room was most certainly not how it had looked when he'd arrived… he'd been trying to be thorough in his search, and, so, he hadn't been particularly neat. The bed was stripped and its sheets were balled near the floor. Clothing from the closet was still spread out along its floor, and drawers he'd already checked were open. Worse still, the door to Skinny's room was wide open, letting anyone from the living room see right in to the room he'd turned upside-down. He had to close that door or he'd surely be discovered.
Shaun walked over to the door and peered out, still not seeing anyone. He then gripped the door and tried to slide it shut with him on the inside. As soon as he began to move it, he realized his mistake: the door creaked loudly as it shifted, same as it had when he opened it just earlier. Still not particularly good at stealth, are we?
"Skinny?" The voice shouted, which Shaun could now identify as belonging to Jackson Trent, Senior. He heard footsteps rushing towards the bedroom. Shaun backed away, half-tripping on a shoe he'd moved while searching under the desk. He caught himself against the desk, and the rattling sound seemed to only increase the fervor of the oncoming footsteps. Shaun meekly shuffled his way to the back corner of the room, and there he waited with his breath held. After a moment's pause, the door burst open, Jackson barreling in wheezing and trying to catch his breath. "Skinny?" he called again, looking around the room. His mouth worked silently as he saw the mess left in the room. "Michelle!" he finally called through ragged, shallow breaths. "Michelle! Someone's been here," he yelled, voice cracking.
Shaun stood as silently as possible in the rear corner of the room as he watched Jackson drop to his knees near the door. It'd be hard to get out past him, Shaun thought. Then a second set of footsteps quickly crossed the house, Michelle bursting into the bedroom. Hard just became impossible.
"I think—I heard—they might still be here," Jackson managed, patting at his chest with a closed fist. "A sound," he said, still struggling to speak, but Michelle locked eyes with him and the two seemed to share that layer of near-telepathy that any couple married for long enough seems to develop. She stepped as quietly as she could and made her way to Skinny's desk, where a baseball bat stood leaning against the side. She picked it up and hefted its weight, looking over at the closet. The door was partly open, revealing the mess Shaun had made within, but the door also obscured view to half the closet. The Trents clearly assumed someone lay hiding within. Jackson Trent clamored to his feet, peering over at the closet door as his wife made her way towards it. Shaun took the opportunity to begin moving towards the bedroom's entrance door, keeping his eyes on the sickly man to avoid bumping into him. Jackson was still in the way of the main exit, but if he advanced just another step—
Shaun was falling before he even realized what had happened. As he tripped over the same damnable shoe, he quickly realized that there were two outcomes from this moment: he could continue bowling forwards and likely bump into Jackson Trent, Senior (most likely knocking the frail man straight over), or he could twist to the left and try to fall against the desk at the room's side—a painful and likely far noisier option. As is typically the case for most deer caught in the headlights of an advancing vehicle, Shaun could choose neither and so he wound up accomplishing both. He half-twisted into the desk, setting it rattling (and smashing his arm against it in the process) as he deflected off of it and into Jackson, sending the both of them sprawling over.
Michelle immediately turned, bat still in-hand. Jackson, having not seen his assailant, assumed that he'd been blindsided and reached to grapple at the unseen attacker. He was sprawled on his back, his world reeling, but as he reached over his head for the assailant his arms found purchase and he squeezed.
"What the fuck?" Michelle exlaimed, watching dumbfounded. Her husband's arms gripped at nothing, but that nothing was somehow pulling her husband along the floor as it struggled. By now Jackson's own head had turned to see the struggle against empty air, and he, too, was dumbfounded.
"Don't just watch… hit it!" he shouted. Michelle was shaken back to life and she moved towards the struggling pair, before repositioning herself nearer the door.
"Hit what?" she shouted. "There's nothing there!"
"Just swing!"
Michelle didn't want to risk striking her husband, so she swung at the open air just beyond the struggling pair. The bat whooshed through the air, contacting nothing.
"Closer!" he shouted. "Swing closer!" Jackson suddenly jerked to the left, and then to the right, as the grappled form twisted violently. The next swing whooshed through open air.
Shaun felt the bat brush against his clothing as he twisted out of its path. Next one is probably hitting, he thought, desparately resisting Jackson's grip. For an infirm old man, Jackson's hold was stronger than it seemed to have any right to be. Desperation proved to be a powerful motivator, and, if Shaun had taken the time to look through the Trents' master bedroom, he'd have seen the trophies to kickboxing tournaments from Jackson's youth. Still, Shaun had the advantage of health, and the even more significant advantage of Jackson not even being able to see what he was grappling. Shaun rolled over the old man, who was surprised by the sudden shift of the weight he was grabbing, and he kicked with his free leg at the man's grasping arm. Struck by an unexpected blow, Jackson flinched back, and he extended his leg just as the bat swung overhead towards the ground. It collided with his leg, setting out a scream of pain from the older man.
Shaun felt the grip on him loosen with that wail, and he managed to wriggle his way free as he scrambled towards the center of the room. "I lost him!" Jackson shouted through the pain, finally allowing his hands to prod at his wound.
"I'm sorry, babe… you moved at the last second!" Michelle shouted, moving back towards the door to body block it. She held the bat at the ready, scanning the room for a sign of any movement. "Fucker's not getting out of here," she shouted. "Just sit tight." As she stood sentinel at the doorway, Jackson began to writhe around on the floor, arms moving like a swimmer as he wriggled his way through the room. Shaun realized he was scanning and searching for an invisible foe by contact. Clever, and it meant that Shaun had relatively little time to make his move. He stood there, searching for some kind of idea. Finally, one came to him.
Michelle watched as the balled sheets of Skinny's bed suddenly burst upwards into the air, before being caught by nothing at all. They then seemed to charge forwards of their own accord. As they drew near, Michelle wound up, preparing to swing. They then launched upwards and unfurled in the air, tossed at her head. She instinctively swung the bat at the sheets to prevent it from covering her head, and, as she did so, she felt the telltale rush of air as something breezed past her legs low to the ground. She spun, following the movement, and watched as the door to Skinny's room burst open and bodyless footfalls tore their way across the living room. She gave chase, but she knew that she had lost the phantom the moment it exited the bedroom.
* * *
Nora walked up to the Trent residence, a stack of 100 "missing" posters in hand. She'd felt bad about declining their earlier request—such operations were so rarely ever approved, and certainly not on such a short timetable—so she took the initiative to make posters for the family to begin plastering across town. She even had another 200 printing at the station, to be distributed and spread by officers on every major roadway in town. She approached the front door and was planning out her olive-branch-extending speech when the door suddenly burst open as though violently kicked ajar. Nora's police reflexes immediately kicked in, her hands releasing the stack and dropping to her weapon, but nobody fled the house. The next thing Nora was aware of was the approaching sound of sprinting footsteps, but, curiously, they seemed to lack a sprinting person. Then Nora watched as the falling sheets of paper saying "MISSING - JACKSON TRENT" began to swirl in the breeze of a body running close past—one of them even seemed to snare on something, momentarily, launching away from Nora at high speed, before it slipped off and returned to its normal falling trajectory. It had been disturbed by nothing at all.
What the hell? Nora thought, listening as frantic sourceless footsteps pattered away. Moments later, Michelle Trent appeared in the doorway, baseball bat in hand. The two looked at each other, both equally dumbfounded.
"You look like you've just seen a ghost," Michelle said.
Nora frowned. "Mind if I come in?"