The Wanders

By JB Murray

When Garrison’s younger brother goes missing, his search takes him through the woods in their sleepy little New Hampshire town, to a place no mortal has been before.

In England, Jakob turns to the one man who might help rid his sister of the malevolent demon possessing her. Though it soon appears, Aleister Crowley might have a much darker agenda in store for them all.

Anxious to put some distance between him and the partner he can no longer trust, Reynolds returns home to help search for a missing boy. Fate, however, has other plans. Plans which make Reynolds question not only reality, but whether he can survive the task set before him.

All three tales entwine in the supernatural landscape of The Great Beyond.

• Language: English
• Publisher: JB Murray
• Release date: Aug 17, 2020
• ISBN: 9781644561225

JB Murray

Poised to write since learning the alphabet, rural New Englander JB Murray crafts prose like the way he devours literature: with his dog by his side, a scotch in his hand, and a cigar smoldering in an ashtray. Aspiring to be a full-time author, Murray nurtures his creative energy by consuming a vast array of literature; studying as if he were an apprentice of the great Edgar Allen Poe. He balances his life by carving out time for his musical ventures, spending time with family and friends, enjoying nature, and the occasional Netflix binge.

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

Brookwise, New Hampshire

Night drops in on the old New England town of Brookwise, as it is wont to do following the chill of a snowy, February afternoon. The sun has just set, casting the slightest hues of pinks and oranges that slither through the cracks in the overcast blanket of dusk. Soon, the little town’s world will be devoid of any light. The moon, in its first phase, sits a slender, hooked thing, up behind the clouds.

It’s cold, as it should be this time of year. The temperatures dipped somewhere below freezing earlier, but it’s hardly enough to invoke a reaction from any seasoned New Englander. One might consider it a little nippy, jacket weather for certain, but no need for gloves or a scarf. Unless you planned to be out in it for some time. But that chill waned as the sun rose and took its rightful place in the heavens as the day crept from morning to afternoon. And with it came the snow.

The snow carried through most of the afternoon, starting before lunch, and continues to spit as the clock ticks toward dinner time. The blankets of white, pure and untouched cascade over the small town, draping over the remaining leaves, the thick needles of pine and the yellowing grass below. It cloaks the imperfections of a withering season, hinting to a sense of newness, rebirth. Winter: a never-ending love and hate relation with those who work and play in it. Though some might feel the same about summer and the ensuing heat and humidity. Either way, it bears a reminder that time is ticking. The winter is a small reprieve from the other seasons. Necessary yes, in so many ways, but all-together, just another phase of life. No big deal. Except for the Holly brothers.

The two boys spend most of their time during the other seasons praying for an early winter. One with lots and lots of snow. Winter is more than just a season to them. It’s a defining mark in their everyday lives. An expanse of time reserved solely for the young and playful. And the cold? The cold is such a little thing. An inconvenience at its worst. Nothing so large a coat and a pair of boots can’t conquer.

After racing through homework, the two spend their afternoons out in the white, running around, sledding; throwing snowballs at elusive enemies and fiends; building snow forts and conquering a world imagined, as only boys can. Kings of their own realm, warriors through and through. Brent the Brave, and Garrison the Grand. Though, when he was much younger, Garrison preferred the role of wizard to warrior. Now at fourteen, he’s grown out of such things, realizing the improbability of magic, even in an imagined world, and settles upon wielding a sword instead. At least, a sword carved from the branches of an old oak tree his father cut down a year before. He toiled with that branch and a pocket knife his father gave him, whittling away until he’d made a blade fashioned of wood.

Occasionally, Annalise, who lives down the road, ventures up to the Holly house to join the boys. Never the damsel. No. Sometimes a knight, sometimes a witch. Annalise carries herself with the confident stride of a tomboy, never embarrassed by the games they play. In the early years of their games, Garrison gave it little thought. But something changed this winter past. Annalise turned thirteen, and Garrison noticed her in a different light.

He would spy her when she wasn’t looking, poised with a sword or wand in her hand, at the new curve in her hips, and the budding of her chest. Her neck seemed longer, and he spent many a night falling asleep thinking of her lips. He couldn’t say why exactly. Well, ok, maybe that was a lie. He might only be fourteen, but he was aware what it was about those things that drove him nuts. Hormones. Plain and simple. His dad hadn’t yet had the talk with him, but this was 2006. Boys his age found more than enough information on the internet.

Last year he tried talking Annalise into playing the princess. For, if he was a knight, tried and true, couldn’t he win the princess? Couldn’t he at least steal a kiss? He never revealed these things to her. Never suggested the true purpose behind his request. But she was too much of a tomboy to settle for the role. He’d laugh thinking about it. He found her irresistible. She wasn’t like the girls at his school. Now entering his freshmen year, they were all, well, horrible! Sometime during the summer, the girls at school transformed into creatures he couldn’t stand. And understood even less. Maybe they all got a little too much sun over the break. Maybe their brains had baked. He didn’t know exactly, but they’d changed. That he knew for certain. Because over the summer, the girls that used to laugh and talk with him became more enraptured by their cell phones, their Myspace and the clothes they wore. They were even turning up their noses at him now. All except Annalise. So, maybe that was what growing up was all about. He was in no rush. Let them laugh and point fingers if they caught him playing in the snow. Besides, it wasn’t only for him. Garrison also held fast to his imagination for the sake of his little brother.

Brent was four years younger, by age at least, and younger still in the head. He suffered an accident when he was five, falling from the log pile out back of the house. When sleep alludes him, sometimes Garrison still sees the accident unfold, whether his eyes are shut tight or he’s staring up at the ceiling. Other times, the events of that day come crashing into his dreams without warrant.

The boys were outside on one of their adventures. Their mother said she’d be down in the basement doing laundry, and asked Garrison to keep an eye on his younger brother. They went running from the house, galloping around the yard, chasing an imaginary dragon. Garrison swore he only lost sight of Brent for a second or two. He’d been hiding behind the side of the house as Brent was coming around the other side of the wood pile so they could surprise the dragon. Or at least that was the plan. But when Garrison stepped out to slay the imaginary beast, Brent wasn’t where he was supposed to be. It was far too late when Garrison spied Brent at the top of the woodpile. Brent was kneeling to get a bird’s-eye view of the dragon. Peeking out over the edge; planning an attack from above. His head turned left, and pivoted to the right, as if he were watching something pass beneath. Then Brent stood, poised for an attack. Garrison panicked, thinking his brother might try to pounce on the scaly beast. He yelled Brent’s name. Brent turned. And Garrison watched in disbelief as a larger piece of kindling slid from under Brent’s foot and sent the boy tumbling off the pile. He missed falling on the back of the ax head, the one secured in the chopping block. But didn’t miss the chopping block itself. The blood was instant and overwhelming, staining both the block and the snow surrounding it. Garrison couldn’t believe there was even that much blood in the whole body, let alone in one’s head. He screamed bloody murder. Soon after, his mother came bolting out of the side door, running over to her two sons, one standing in complete shock, the other lying limp on the ground, eyes closed, unmoving.

Garrison was convinced he’d killed his brother. Certain the accident was all his fault. It took a long time for his parents, with the help of a psychiatrist to assure Garrison it was only an accident. That he hadn’t been responsible. But he felt responsible. Even today. He’d been asked to keep an eye on his little brother. And yet, he had been the one who yelled and startled Brent from the pile.

After what seemed like a never-ending stint in the hospital, his brother came home. But he’d never been quite the same. Often a little slow. Some minor speech problems, with an occasional stutter. And he seemed… younger. That was the only way Garrison could describe it. He thought it might be a long time before Brent grew up. If he ever did. The accident stole years from the boy, years he didn’t have to offer up. And so, Garrison resolved himself in staying young also, keeping his brother company, and imagining all kinds of adventures as if he too were much younger than his years insisted.

The Holly brothers follow tradition today, like any other, and upon finishing homework, set out into the newly fallen snow for an adventure. Garrison wants to stay inside and master a few of the new video games he’d gotten for Christmas, but Brent insists, as Brent often did on days like this. Their mom tells them not to be too long, as dinner is in the oven and their father should be home early tonight.

The boys toy with several ideas for an adventure, but fail to settle on one. Brent follows Garrison out the front door and soon gets lost exploring, forgetting himself in the fresh snow. Their small home sits amid what seems, to boys of that age, a never-ending forest. The trees closest to the house, are old overgrown things. A couple maple. A few oak. They stand tall and sentinel, like guardians of the world below them. Further out, the wood grows denser, laced with the same kind of maples and oak, dotted here and there with the white bark of a few birches. Brent often noted aloud to anyone who would listen, his fascination with the birch, and how the black markings on the bark looked like tiger stripes. Past the surrounding maple, oak and birch, stretch an endless wood of pine. They’d grown long and tall over the years, their lower trunks bare of any foliage, their uppers creating a blanket of needling green which blot out most of the sky, especially this time of year with the thick cloud cover. Nature’s design, lending itself to the appearance of an endless depth of the wood. Close to the house, the few large trees provide shade here and there, but let the sun through. But further from the house, the wood grows dark, and darker still the deeper one went. Spooky? Especially at night. Garrison spent many a night, sitting up in his room after the family went to bed, at the window, trying to peer through the darkness and discover something, anything. But once the sun set, the veil remained till morning.

This is one of those afternoons. Nearing dinner time, what little sun could be had slips lower in the sky, and the murky dark creeps up on the Holly house. There aren’t too many nights when they would go out and play following dinner this time of year. In the summer, things are different. The sun slept less, and the shadows take longer to set. But this isn’t the case now. And that’s why Garrison concedes to the adventure.

He watches his brother for a moment, as the boy takes step after step, the white climbing above his knees, a look of fascination on his face. Garrison wonders how his brother, with his broken head, perceives such sights. Everything looking so fresh and new. One could almost argue, when there was new snow fall, even the looming dark of the wood appeared less intimidating.

Garrison decides to let his brother be. Brent seems content at just looking, wandering about. So, he doesn’t press the boy to play a game. Of course, it’s also growing too late to take on a true adventure. He wanders from Brent and sits on the front porch. His mind ponders what Annalise might be up to now. Was she running around in the new snow? He doubts it. Maybe she’s sitting by her bedroom window, watching it fall? Maybe she’s wondering what he’s up to! He should ask for her number. He really should. Well, he technically already had it. They’d been friends for years now, their parents long having exchanged numbers. But that was different. He hadn’t asked for the number. Would it be any different? He thought it might! And what if she said no? Well, now this was a whole other world he had given no thought to. She might say no. And then what? It would crush him! They wouldn’t be able to continue their friendship in the same way. The friend he’d grown up with; had plenty of sleepovers and shared family trips with, might be lost because of it. She’d stop coming around and their parents would wonder what transpired. He’d have to confess the situation to his mother, and how he had ruined everything. My god! Maybe he should just keep this crush to himself?

Garrison sits there thinking these thoughts, his face making silly expressions with every new one that pops into his head. Across the yard, his little brother watches. Brent laughs inwardly at his big brother. Silly faces. Silly, silly Gary! The faces make him laugh. Brent tries to make those faces as well. He wishes he had a mirror so he could see if he’s doing them right! They feel right. They feel funny. He thinks Gary would laugh if his brother could see him. Inside he laughs again, before launching the snowball he’d been constructing in his hands at his brother, who, taken by complete surprise looks pissed! Oh no! Gary’s mad! Brent worries, but Gary’s face softens, and he smiles at Brent. He’s not mad! Not mad at all!

Oh! Garrison says as he stands. Oh, you’ll get yours!

And with that, Garrison bends down and collects enough snow to construct one of his own. Soon, the war is on. Snow flies in all directions. It starts toward the front of the house with Garrison taking the high ground once he’s made a small collection of snowballs. He climbs on the front porch taking shelter behind the lawn furniture his father never put away; the furniture his mother still nags him about. Brent cries out a no fair as each snowball he throws goes crashing into the patio chair, leaving his older brother unscathed. What rubs Brent the wrong way most, is not only that he can’t hit Garrison, but every so often when his big brother pops up and tosses a snowball, his position makes it hard for him to miss. Brent huffs as he misses his next couple of throws and takes a few on the chest in return. Two more collide into his back as he turns to retreat. Brent slides behind the side of the house, taking cover and making it impossible for his brother to hit him. He waits. Soon, Gary will have to leave his fort and take the offensive. He peeks around the corner a time or two, allowing Garrison to see him clearly. With any luck, his older brother will assume that’s where he’ll try to stay hidden. Brent knows it’s only a matter of time before Garrison will skulk around the side of the house in pursuit. This war is far from over. There is far too much snow for it to end this early. The snow will fly until their mother calls them for dinner, or their father. But they’ve not yet seen the headlights to their father’s SUV come down the long, winding drive. And so, it’s game on!

Garrison ponders a moment the last time he saw his brother peek around the corner of the house. His internal timer keeps track. He knows if he comes down from the porch too soon, his brother will surely be waiting for him, arm cocked, and hand loaded with a face full of white. It’s possible, having seen his older brother duck behind the patio furniture that Brent thinks he’ll be safe along the side of the house; provided necessary cover. Garrison bets his little brother is digging in, even now. Time for a change of plans.

He collects the four snowballs he has left, and slinks off the porch, quiet save for the slight crunch of snow beneath his boots. Garrison turns to his right. Planning to go around the opposite side of the house and catch Brent unaware, he jogs with his back against the wall and rounds the building. He’ll sneak up on Brent from behind while the boy patiently waits for his big brother to show. But surprise, surprise!

Garrison walks the length of both the right side of the house and the back, ducking as he approaches the rear deck, in case Brent set up shop on the back porch. Satisfied the porch is empty, he continues along his way. At the edge of the house he pauses, taking in a big, deep breath, hefting a snowball in his right, his throwing arm. All at once he spins around, turning the corner and unleashes three of the four snowballs before realizing he’s throwing at a non-existent target. He stops short of throwing the last and turns on heel, expecting Brent to come from nowhere with an assault of his own. But Brent isn’t there. Garrison takes the opportunity to bend down and constructs several more. Crouching down, taking his time assembling the perfect snowball, he looks around the back yard. The wood sits thirty or forty feet out, its tree line gradually darkening. To his left a barrage of play sets, from swings to monkey bars to all kinds of homemade, wooden designs his father assembled years ago. Just to his right, that cursed wood pile, newly stacked and ready for winter. But Brent is nowhere to be found.

Garrison stands and takes a deeper look around. He’s accosted with an overwhelming nervousness, the kind only a fourteen-year-old boy can attain, as if the world around him might swallow him whole and chew on his bones. It’s the kind of nervousness birthed from a dad who tanned his hide a time or two when he was younger after getting into mischief; a kind of nervousness born of the guilt he still felt for what happened to his brother before.

Brent? Garrison calls the name out, loud enough that his little brother might hear, but not so loud his mother might catch wind. Brent? Where are you?

Other than the chilly wind, silence fills Garrison’s surroundings. He drops the few snowballs clutched in his hands, now feeling frantic. He walks back around the house, thankful to not see the headlights of his father’s SUV coming down the drive yet. In the front of the house he calls out his brother’s name again, more in whispers this time. He knows his mother, with her hawk-like ear might hear him from out front. He checks the front porch. Nothing. He walks around the side of the house. Nothing. Out back again, he checks the back porch. No sign of his little brother. What the h- e- double hockey sticks? He scans the backyard once more as if he hadn’t done it several times already. And then it dawns on him. The woodpile.

His boots crunch the white as each step hastens while rounding the wood pile. For a moment, he sees nothing. But then, there, nearer to the wood; nearer to where the light and dark converge in one simple line around the perimeter of their dwelling; nearer to the shadows creeping in, stands his brother. Brent’s back is to Garrison, his hands at his side, unmoving. Garrison is unnerved even more by this than by his brother’s first disappearance.

Brent? He calls out again. Brent stands still, unaware. Brent! A little louder this time. Nothing. Brent? He chokes this last one out as he comes around his little brother’s side, bending to see beneath the kid’s hood.

Brent is pale, white as the snow on the ground. And he is fixed! His eyes are vacant, pupils dilated to their fullest. They’re almost black. No. That’s not right. Garrison leans closer and sees his brother’s eyes have indeed gone entirely black. But they aren’t just painted. No, they are dripping and swirling. As if gasoline were spilled into a puddle of water. They are alive and dead all the same. Garrison waves a hand in front of Brent’s eyes, but his brother doesn’t blink.

You see it, don’t you Gary? Brent asks out of the blue, in a voice not entirely his, a voice born of maturity. Not the voice of a kid who fell on his head and sometimes has trouble saying his own name. Don’t you see it Gary?

Garrison, startled at first, takes a few steps back. His brother’s voice is not only more pronounced, more mature, but deeper. As if an older Brent has taken hold, puppeteering his little brother. Puppeteering the voice at least, as Brent’s posture remains unchanged. Garrison follows Brent’s gaze off into the trees. He sees… nothing. Just the wood. Just the speckles of snow glistening in the remaining day’s light and disappearing into the forest ahead, swallowed by the shadows. He looks back at his brother and at the wood again. No. There is nothing there to see.

Garrison turns back around to tell his brother that no, he sees nothing. What should he be seeing? But Brent is walking now. Has turned back toward the house, trudging through the snow. Garrison shakes his head. What the?

C’mon Gary! I betcha time ta eat! Brent tosses over his shoulder, sounding as he should, a young boy, hijacked by an even younger boy’s speech.

Brent! Hey kiddo! Wait, a sec!

Catchya can Gary! Catchya can! Brent excitedly trots off, daring his older brother to catch up.

2.

So… Their father begins, scooping a huge helping of mashed potatoes from a bowl with a big wooden spoon. The spoon clangs with the plate as he heaps it next to his pork chop. What adventures did we get up to today? He drops the bowl back near the center of the table, looking from one of his boys to the next. Then scoops another helping with the spoon.

Not much really, Garrison answers. He looks across the table at his younger brother. Brent is enraptured by the pork chop on his plate, and unlike the rest of the family, has an issue with picking it up and gnawing it from the bone. Instead, he picks at it with two forks, gently pulling the tender meat into little strips which he sets to the side near his green beans. Not touching. No! That would cause something of a stir in the young boy’s mind. Never touching.

Nothing much? Brent? His father sits, his hand poised with some potatoes on the spoon above his son’s plate. The boy doesn’t answer but sits back in his chair a little. An invitation. Carefully, his father drops the starch unto the plate, making sure it doesn’t touch the rest of the food. Did you do anything exciting today? Brent simply shrugs.

What about Annalise? His mother asks jovially. It seems like forever since we’ve seen her!

Maybe, Garrison says, stuffing food into his mouth and hoping they can’t see the skin flush on his face. But it hasn’t really been forever, he adds while chewing.

You know… His mother starts, trailing off a bit as if he were supposed to get the hint on his own. "You could call her up sometime. It’s not like she has to come over. You two could just… talk?" Garrison lowers his head like a dog who’s been caught peeing in the house and peeks out from under his eyebrows.

And what would we talk about Ma?

I don’t know. Stuff? Garrison lowers his eyes, and his mother looks over at their father, giving him a wink and a smile. Their father shakes his head, and returns a smile, somewhat amused at the discomfort at the table. You could talk about school.

School? Come on Ma! We don’t even go to the same school!

"No, but you both still go to school." She giggles.

Yeah, and then what?

All I’m saying is. It might be nice to give a call once in a while. You know, and chat. That’s all. No harm, no foul.

No harm, no foul. How many times growing up had Garrison heard her use that phrase? And what did it mean, really? He thought it meant to suggest that giving it the ole’ college try would always end amiably. Bah! Doubt it! No harm… no foul. Seems silly. There’s always harm and foul. Especially when dealing with girls. He’s sure of this! And just call her? From out of the blue? What was his mother? Crazy? Yes, this he was sure off. That woman was off her rocker! As his Gram used to say.

And if he called… what would they talk about? Other than playing dragons and wizards and such in the backyard, and going for the occasional bike ride, he wasn’t sure they had anything in common. In all the years they’d known each other and been friends, they’d never really spoken. Not about, other stuff, anyway. Where would he start? Surely, he would cock the whole thing up if he tried!

Feeling a little warm under the collar, Garrison’s palms and pits start sweating. Surely, someone snuck off while his mind reeled about Annalise, and cranked the thermostat. Ha! That would be a laugh. Unless his dad had done it. Nobody in the house, let alone the rest of the universe was even allowed to come within several feet of that thing. His father clung to complete and utter control of the thermostat, with promises of torture and misery to anyone who dared challenge him on the matter! But still, Garrison was sweating.

Well anyway, she’s a nice girl.

Give it a rest Trish, won’t ya? His father calls from the end of the table. Leave the boy alone. See how uncomfortable he looks!

His father gives him a wink as if he just saved the day, instead of shining a big, bright spotlight on the subject instead. Garrison could just die! Especially when his mother smiles at him from the side, raising her eyebrows as if she knows better. As if, she knows every secret wish he harbors about Annalise.

3.

The boys finish dinner and help their mother clear the table. Mostly Garrison that is, as tonight, Brent seems further away than usual. But there’s no cause for alarm. Sometimes the kid just gets like this.

Brent strolls into the living room after dropping his plate in the sink and sets himself on the recliner. The tv plays, but Brent’s gaze goes beyond the screen. Lost in his own thoughts. The doctors say it’ll happen from time to time. In that event, their prognosis is right. But somehow Garrison feels this differs greatly from those other times. There seems to be a disconnect that isn’t typically present. No, but even that isn’t right. With Brent, when he goes into one of his little spells … he just seems out of it. As if his mind’s launched into the stratosphere for a few moments. Tonight however, he doesn’t seem as aloof, or disjointed. He appears quite present in mind, as if he were working out the answer to a vexing mathematical equation and has little time for anything else. Here, but not here.

The family nestles up to the television, having gone through the usual questions about whether homework is done. Of course, it is. Their parents know this. But still they ask. Have they cleaned their rooms? Of course. They hardly ever leave it a mess. Garrison is not a fan of tripping over things, and Brent? Well, Brent likes things in their place. And his older brother tries to stick to the norm as much as he can for the sake of his little brother.

The television holds little entertainment as usual, but the family is glued there, watching this and that, in their winter family time as the clock ticks on. Eventually, Brent’s eyes start to droop, seated in the big easy chair. Garrison knows it’s time to get him up to bed. Their mother feels the need to bring up the matter of calling Annalise one last time, as the boys trot up the stairs to their second-floor bedroom. Garrison shakes his head in disbelief, glad the dimly lit stairs hide the redness creeping up his neck and ears.

Once upstairs, Garrison helps his brother with their nightly rituals. The brushing teeth, and putting dirty clothes in the hamper, and pulling on pajamas. Sometimes Garrison reads to his little brother from books of his own. Garrison is a fan of the classics, especially the scary ones like Dracula and Frankenstein. But also gets a kick out of the likes of 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea, The Time Machine and such. He doesn’t know if Brent enjoys them or not. But the kid never complains when being read to. Tonight, will be different though. There’ll be no book for Brent. He’s locked into that equation in his head something fierce. And so be it. No harm, no foul, as his mother would say.

Garrison tucks his little brother into bed, wondering what the hell the kid is thinking. But knows it’s of little use to try. He could ask, but he’s confident Brent will have little or nothing to say. Garrison leaves the room, the door open a crack, and heads back downstairs for a little more television. Hell, it’s only just after seven-thirty. His mother, as usual is thanking him for putting Brent to bed. She argued once how it wasn’t his responsibility to do such a thing, regardless of the guilt he put on himself for the accident. But Garrison said he didn’t mind. And really, he had already convinced himself he would spend the rest of his life looking after his baby brother. Whatever it takes! That’s what big brothers are for!

It’s sometime in the middle the night. Garrison drags his eyes open; sleep having collected in their corners. There’s a noise he’s not entirely familiar with, which pulls him from slumber. It emanates from across the hallway, from Brent’s bedroom. But he is dreadfully tired. And so, closes his eyes, listening for a time. He assumes the sound is something else, something born of the house, or of the winter blowing outside, soon to dissipate. His breathing grows heavy as sleep drifts in little by little. But the sound never wanes. It continues, and so he opens his eyes once more and rolls onto his back.

Looking through the window above his headboard, Garrison sees the night has cleared. It is no longer snowing, he guesses, as there doesn’t appear a cloud in the sky. The crescent moon, though out of view, sends streaks of light across the treetops. The stars are bright. Orion looms overhead. His bow aloft, poised and ready; his three starred belt glowing in the night sky. Garrison knows it’s just about midnight, maybe a little later, as Orion sits in the right-hand side of his window frame. Had it been earlier, the constellation would be positioned more to the left.

The sound still echoes across the hallway; low, droning, somewhat vocal. A mantra really. Incoherent, bereft of discernible words, but reverberating none-the-less. Garrison pulls his covers up tighter for the briefest of moments. He doesn’t want to get out of bed. He’s found that coveted spot where everything is either cool or warm enough, and his limbs are nearing a pleasant numbness. Besides, his parents must be listening. They must hear it? Soon, they’ll jump from their beds and scamper down the hall to Brent’s room to investigate. The clock ticks seconds away. Minutes. No. Maybe they don’t hear. They aren’t coming.

A little guilt-ridden for not climbing from bed sooner, Garrison pulls himself from it and shuffles along the rug a few feet until his toes find the openings to his slippers. He walks the length of his room and tugs on the door handle. As the door widens, the droning sound coming from his brother’s room increases volume. It vibrates through the small opening of Brent’s door, coming in loud and clear.

Garrison crosses the hall on tiptoes, though he’s not sure why exactly. For beginners, the floor is carpeted. And of course, the journey is only a matter of a few feet, hardly enough to arouse the suspicion of anyone in the house so enraptured by sleep they couldn’t possibly hear it, let alone save Garrison the trouble so he could just go back to bed. He pushes the bedroom