Page 50 of Jacob Michaels is Dead

“What do you want?”

I giggled. This was our game.

“What did you make, mommy?”

She smiled widely.

“What do you want?”

“I want eggs and bacon and pancakes!” I crowed towards the ceiling, excited for a new day, full of endless possibilities and wonder.

The way a five-year-old lives each day…with possibility.

“Well,” Mom kissed my forehead quickly, “you must have read my mind. That’s exactly what I made.”

Cheering, I headed over to the table, my mom patting me on the butt as I turned away from her. I sat down, yawning and rubbing my eyes again as my mom got a plate from the cabinet in Oma’s kitchen and went over to the stove to serve my breakfast. That was probably the best thing about being so young—no real responsibility, all the wonders of the world, and your mom served you breakfast. As I sat there, listening to the spatula scrape against the cast iron skillet, I couldn’t help but wonder where Oma and my father were. They always had breakfast with us in the morning. In fact, Oma was usually the first person down in the kitchen. She usually made our breakfast. Sometimes mom did…but not very often. Frowning to myself, I rubbed my eyes with my balled-up hands again, trying to chase the last of the sleep away.

Just as I was turning in my seat to peek at my mother over the chair back, I felt it. The rumbling in the floor. At first, it just felt like a train passing nearby, though there were absolutely no train tracks anywhere near Oma’s house. My eyes grew wide as the rumbling turned into shaking, and the whole house seemed to shake with the movement. A low roar began, then louder and louder until it sounded like a tornado was about to rip the house apart. I looked at my mother in terror as she turned to me, the half-filled plate in her hand, her own eyes wide with concern. No…with absolute terror.

“Mommy?” I squealed as loudly as I could over the sound.

“Stay there, Robbie!” My mom replied desperately, her hand unsteady as she reached out to set the plate on the kitchen counter as the house shook.

The plate clattered to the floor, shattering, food flying everywhere as I grabbed onto the chair, trying not to fall off of my seat. Next, it was the small radio falling off of the kitchen counter, its crash to the floor muted by the roaring and shaking. The roaring and shaking increased until I knew that I would fall from my seat to the hard ground below. My mother held onto the kitchen counter, trying to stay on her feet and also not step on the broken plate shards or chunks of greasy food. Suddenly, as though it had never even started, the roaring and the shaking stopped. We were left in Oma’s deathly quiet kitchen, me holding onto my chair, terrified, and my mother gripping the kitchen counter as though her life depended upon it. Slowly, she turned to look at me, her face ashen, concern etched all over it.

“Muh-mommy?” I peeped.

My mother’s mouth moved, but whatever came out was muffled, as though she were speaking underwater.

Then the roaring and shaking were back, and green light filled the room.

“Robbie!” My mother screeched as someone in a black hooded cloak flew through the backdoor.

Oma had fucked with the only memory I had of my mother. But she hadn’t done enough to make me completely forget it. She hadn’t overlooked trying to inject herself into the memories I had before she appeared…she just hadn’t done a good job. She wasn’t as powerful as she thought.

Are you scared?

No. I’m just lost.

I’d be scared.

I have no reason to be scared. I just don’t know what to do. Things are changing. She’s worried.

What do you think we should do?

I don’t know. I don’t know anything right now.

I wish I could help you.

We could…run away.

Together?

Would you run away with me?

Of course, I…did you see that?

What?