D. MacHale - The Reality Bug

Finally they found themselves standing in front of an old, brick apartment building. It looked like a pretty nice neighborhood, with a view of the East River. There was a park across from the address with little kids running around and a bunch of guys playing touch football. Since it was September, the leaves were just beginning to show autumn colors. But the air was warm and the sky was the kind of deep blue that only showed up in the fall. The whole scene was about as normal and safe as could be.

Except that Mark and Courtney now had to find out what was waiting for them in apartment 5A. With a quick look at each other, they climbed the cement stairs that led to the entrance. The double door looked like it had about five hundred coats of black paint on it. Mark grabbed the brass handle and pulled it open, letting Courtney go in first. Inside was another set of doors, but these were locked. The only way to get in was to be buzzed in by a tenant. On the right wall was a gray metal panel that listed all of the occupants of the building. Mark and Courtney eagerly checked for 5A.

“‘Dorney,’” Mark said, reading the typed name. “Nothing weird about that.”

“What did you think it was going to say?” asked Courtney. “Acolyte Headquarters?”

In spite of his nervousness, Mark laughed. The two stood staring at the name. Next to it was a black button. Neither was quick to push it.

“What are we going to say?” Mark asked.

“How about: ‘Hi! We’re here to interview for the acolyte position.’”

Mark gave Courtney a smirk. Before he could change his mind, he pushed the button. They waited. Nothing happened.

“Maybe they’re out doing acolyte stuff,” Courtney offered.

Mark hit the button again. Still nothing. Mark then said, “I guess we should come back-“

“What?” came a man’s gruff voice from a speaker near the names.

Mark and Courtney shot each other a look. Courtney got her head together first and said, “Uh, Mr. Dorney?”

“Who is it?” the gruff voice demanded.

“Uh, my name’s Courtney. I’m here with my friend Mark. We were wondering if-“

“Go away!” the man barked, and the speaker went dead.

“Now what?” Courtney asked.

Mark hit the button again.

“Whatever you’re selling, I don’t want any!” the voice growled at them.

“We’re not selling anything,” Mark said politely. “We’re here to talk to you about… uh… Bobby Pendragon.”

No response. Mark and Courtney exchanged looks again. Mark reached forward to hit the button one more time, but was jolted by the harsh sound of a buzzer.

“What’s that?” Mark said nervously.

Courtney glanced at the door, then pushed it open.

“He just buzzed us in,” she answered. Courtney stood in the doorway, holding the door open. “Last chance,” she said.

“Don’t say that,” Mark threw back. “I might change my mind.”

He took a quick breath, then turned and walked quickly past Courtney, through the door. Courtney followed, letting the door close behind them.

Next stop, apartment 5A.

(CONTINUED)

The creaky elevator took them up to the fifth floor. Mark and Courtney anxiously watched the numbers above the door light up as they ascended.

“What if it’s Saint Dane?” Courtney blurted out nervously. “He could be, like, luring us in.”

“I thought about that,” Mark responded, almost as nervously. “But why would he bother with us? We’re just a couple of kids.”

“Yeah,” said Courtney. “Two kids he could use to get even with Bobby.”

Mark shot Courtney a look. He hadn’t thought of that. The elevator clunked to a stop and the doors slid open. Should they keep going?

“If he wanted to get us,” Mark said, trying to sound confident, “he wouldn’t have to go through so much trouble.”

Courtney nodded and stepped out of the elevator. Mark was right behind her. The hallway was carpeted and pleasant looking. There were windows on either end that glowed with warm, autumn light. Under each was a table with a pretty flower arrangement. They were probably fake, but still made the place look homey. It wasn’t a fancy place, but it wasn’t run down either. There looked to be around a dozen apartment doors spaced evenly on either side of the corridor. All were painted glossy black like the front door. Each had a brass knocker with the apartment number engraved on a metal plate. Mark walked right and Courtney looked left in search of 5A. The “A” apartment was right next to the elevator.

“Go? No go?” Courtney asked.

Mark’s answer was to reach for the brass knocker. He rapped twice. Not too hard as to sound insistent, but strong enough not to appear wussie. They heard the sound of footsteps inside shuffling toward the door. The person stopped, probably to peer out at Mark and Courtney through the peephole. Both of them sensed this, so they stood up straight, trying to look sincere. A moment later the door was unlatched and pulled open a crack. Just a crack. Mark and Courtney looked to each other as if to say: Now what? Courtney stepped forward and cautiously pushed the door open.

The first thing they saw was the back of a man shuffling away from them-an old guy, wearing a plaid shirt and khaki pants. His hair was gray and clipped short.

“Close the door,” he called without turning around.

Mark and Courtney stepped inside the apartment and closed the door. But not all the way. With a silent look, Courtney showed Mark that she was leaving the door open a hair, just in case they needed to make a quick getaway.

“Come on!” the man shouted at them impatiently. “You got this far, don’t be shy now.”

Mark and Courtney walked cautiously after the man, staying close to each other for support, ready to bolt at the first hint of danger.

The apartment was normal enough. It looked exactly like the kind of apartment one would expect an old man to live in. The furniture was old, but in good shape. There were oil paintings of landscapes on the walls and framed photos of smiling people on polished mahogany tables. There wasn’t a single modern touch to the whole place.

Two things stood out though. First was the books. There were thousands of them. In bookcases, on tables, in stacks that reached the ceiling. Whoever this guy was, he liked to read. The other thing was the plants. The apartment was like a greenhouse. There were dozens of potted plants, as well as viney tendrils, that traveled along the walls and across the bookcases every which way, with no beginning or end.

The apartment in general looked very clean, even with all the plants. This wasn’t some slobby old guy who couldn’t take care of himself. So far, Mark and Courtney learned that the guy was neat, he read a lot, and had a green thumb. None of that helped to solve the bigger mystery of who he was though.

“Sit down,” the old guy said while pointing to an overstuffed couch. He then shuffled over to an easy chair and slowly settled into it. Courtney and Mark didn’t take their eyes off him. As he sat, he had to hold on to the arm for support, as if his legs weren’t strong enough to do it on their own. The guy wasn’t frail, but he wasn’t going to run a marathon either. Mark and Courtney did as they were told and sat next to each other on the couch. Both thought it had the vague smell of mothballs. Neither mentioned it.

Now that they were facing each other, they saw that the old man wore small, wire-rim glasses. His short gray hair was almost military in style. He sat with incredibly great posture, which made both Mark and Courtney sit up straight as well. He stared at them with a steady gaze, as if sizing them up. The guy may have been old, but he looked sharp.

Mark got the ball rolling. “I’m M-Mark Dimond “And I’m Courtney Chetwynde.”