Mike Omer - In the Darkness

“It was a camera.”

“I thought it was a gun!” Only as he heard his words echoing back to him from the motel buildings around him did Tatum realize he had shouted.

Zoe gaped at him in surprise. “Why are you angry? I didn’t say—”

Tatum raised his hand to quiet her, trembling with fury. “Never profile me. You got that? I’m not one of your subjects.”

“I just want you to be ready. If they ask you difficult questions—”

“There are no difficult questions, Bentley. Because I defended myself. Against a man who I thought was armed. I would never shoot an unarmed man. And you should know that.”

“I’m not saying you did anything wrong. I’m just saying they could point out that you reacted more aggressively than you should have.”

“This isn’t about them at all. This is what you think.”

“I wasn’t there.”

“Exactly. You weren’t. And you could try and take my word for what happened there.” He brushed past her, gritting his teeth. His appetite had left him, and despite his recent swim, his body pulsed with heat.

The boy hid in his room. Not the best hiding spot, but when you were scared, you went to your safe place. This was his tortoise shell, his bunker, his haven. Where he could curl, clutching his E. T. doll, guarded by Superman, who stood sentry from a poster above the boy’s bed.

Did they know?

His dad’s binoculars had always mesmerized him. A simple object, though surprisingly heavy. And when he held them to his eyes, wonders happened. The boy could read the license plate of a car driving down the road. Could see the faces of the people entering the hairdresser’s salon at the end of the street. With his dad’s binoculars, he developed a superpower—superhuman eyesight.

There was a rule, of course. Always with Daddy, never alone. But what sort of superhero went with his daddy everywhere?

And besides, Daddy never let him look at the neighbor. And that was his favorite pastime with his superhuman eyesight. Mrs. Palmer lived just across the street, and he could glimpse fragments of her bedroom with the binoculars, a fact that excited him whether she was there or not.

He broke the rule. And the more he did, the more he needed to do it again. Always careful, never when his parents were around. Weekends were the best, because they slept late, and so did Mrs. Palmer. He could watch her uninterrupted.

But that morning, when she’d woken up, about to get dressed, she’d suddenly turned to the window, frowning. For a second she’d just stood there, looking straight at him. He couldn’t have moved even if he’d wanted to.

And then she’d lunged for the drape on the window, pulled it shut, and he knew he’d been caught.

He had bolted to his room, a panicky, uncontrollable response. He was muttering silent prayers, promising God that if Mrs. Palmer didn’t call his parents, he would never watch her again. He’d never touch the binoculars again.

The binoculars. They were still in his hands. He needed to put them back in place, before—

The phone rang, a shrill loud noise from the living room. He could bolt there, answer before his parents. Tell them it was a wrong number. Maybe he could convince Mrs. Palmer that he was looking at birds.

Instead he curled tighter into the corner. His bed stood adjacent to his green desk, and if he sat just right, his feet held close to his chest, he was hidden from the door. If his parents came into the room, they wouldn’t be able to see him.

Another superpower he had. Invisibility.

His mother answered the phone. He could hear her sleepy voice as she answered, her tone becoming sharp and alert as the conversation went on.

He had to come up with a plan, but his mother’s steps and angry voice clarified it was too late.

She called his name, her voice shrill, furious. The sound of a storm approaching. Tears of fear clogged his throat.

The door flung open. For a second his mother just stood in the doorway, muttering to herself, “Where is he.” Invisibility. Best superpower ever.

But then she stepped inside the room, and the spell was broken. Her face was ruddy and furious. She screamed his name again, shrieking about the neighbor. About the binoculars.

He went for the only course of action left: denial. What neighbor? He was watching the birds.

“And now you’re lying to me?” his mom yelled in disbelief.

She grabbed his arm, began dragging him across the room, out of the door. For a moment he tried to struggle, dragged his feet.

But superhuman strength was not one of his superpowers. He wailed and begged and said he was sorry. That should be the magic word, right? Sorry? He was sorry. He was so, so sorry.

She took him downstairs to the basement. He needed to be punished. He needed time to think about what he had done wrong. As if he hadn’t just spent the past twenty minutes thinking nonstop about it.

Other parents, he knew, hit their children when they misbehaved. Robby from his class once told him his dad spanked him on his bottom a hundred times.

But his parents didn’t hit their children. Hitting children was wrong. His parents believed a punishment had to be educational.

His mom always said he needed time to think about his actions.

A broom closet lurked in the basement. A dark place within a dark place.

Please, Mommy—he was sorry. He was so sorry. He would never do it again. He’d learned his lesson. He would apologize to Mrs. Palmer. He was sorry.

She pushed him into the broom closet and slammed the door, latching it. He heard her footsteps as she strode away, climbing the stairs, closing the basement door behind her. The tight space above him smelled of cleaning supplies, dust, mold, and nightmares.

He sobbed and thumped the door and screeched that he was sorry.

It was dark in the broom closet. So dark it was almost like going blind.

This wasn’t the first time he’d been there. He often needed time to think. It always smelled the same. He could always feel the terror clogging his throat as the darkness closed in on him.

Why did Mrs. Palmer have to call his mom? He wasn’t hurting anyone. She could’ve just closed the blinds. Or if she wanted him to stop, she could’ve talked to him. He would have listened. It was her fault he was here. She did this to him.

In the darkness, all he could do was listen, hearing his mother’s footsteps somewhere above him. Hearing the phone ring. Somewhere faraway, a radio, a snatch of static and music.

A third superpower. Superhearing. And he needed all the superpowers he could get.

Because in the darkness, the monsters came.

Zoe was exhausted. After Tatum’s sudden outburst the night before, she’d eaten alone and then tried to go to bed, but sleep had refused to come. She’d mulled over the conversation, trying to figure out what had triggered Tatum. She’d finally decided he was dumb, that all male federal agents were dumb, and in fact, men in general were dumb. When she’d managed to fall asleep, she’d had a nightmare about Andrea and had woken up before sunrise. Luckily, they had a Starbucks just across the road from their motel, and by the time Tatum came to tell her tersely he was leaving for the police station if she wanted a ride, she had drunk a Grande Americano.

The ride to the police station was short and tense. Tatum remained stony and impassive for the entire drive. Zoe tried several times to talk about their strategy when working with the San Angelo police. But his responses were so snappish and unpleasant that she finally stopped trying and resolved to get Uber rides for the remainder of the visit. If Chief Mancuso complained about the additional expense, Zoe would tell her she was welcome to ride with Tatum herself.