Aliens on Aventine Hill

The Fourth of July [Part 7]

Gray lifted the hot cup of tea to his nose, trying to ease the ache in his head with the steam and soft scent as he stared out the dark window.

His skull felt like it was being split in two. Every sound—every voice from the television set, every tick of the clock, every breath he took—hammered a chisel between his eyes. From the corner of his vision, he caught a flash of light.

Just an aura. Gray scrunched his eyes shut—and it disappeared.

He snapped his eyes open, on his feet now, and scoured the darkness beyond the windowpane. It was almost the new moon; no light danced in the river. It could be a flashlight, he thought. The high schoolers came down every now and then, convinced the house was haunted, to dare each down onto the lawn while the others waited in the safety of the treeline.

The house had gone silent.

Gray turned away from the window, his eyes catching on the clock: 10:18

There was a small click—the sound of a lock being undone. Gray whirled around as the back door swung slowly open. No one stepped in after it; no one hung just outside of it. There was simply no one there.

Gray reached to pull it closed but hesitated on the threshold. The night air was cool and pleasant as a soft breeze whispered through the garden. The sky was a deep, midnight blue. He stepped out into the darkness, searching for unusual shadows.

A chill seeped into his bones as he waded barefoot into the dew-covered grass. His pant legs grew damp as he walked. The nighttime sounds slowly seemed to well up around him. There were the crickets, the frogs, even the low sound of an owl, and the ever-present river.

How he hated that river.

There. Again, it was right on the edge of his vision, caught in furthest corner of his eye—a flash of light. Gray moved to follow it, and the back door slammed. He turned to find the house a good fifty feet behind him. How had he wandered so far? He hadn't meant to come this far out.

It was cold.

Goosebumps prickled on his arms as a deep, familiar sort of dread settled into his gut. He couldn't move. Couldn't go back towards the house, or forward into the water. Every muscle in his body had been turned to stone. His feet were slowly sinking into the mud.

The only thing he could hear was the river.

It had used to be such a soothing sound. Its relentless talking, mumbling, babbling to itself wove itself into his thoughts; it murmured in his dreams...

Suddenly Gray couldn't hear it anymore. His ears were ringing, ringing, ringing like someone had thrust a spear through his head. His hands rose up, pressed on his temples, covered his ears, but the noise was in his head. His legs threatened to buckle as his stomach twisted.

Everything was screaming, screaming.

Gray sat on the couch, mug of tea in his hands. The TV was quietly playing an episode of Mission: Impossible. The back door was shut and locked. The wall clock was ticking away. His head hurt. He took a small sip of the tea.

It was ice cold.