Induction, Chapter Two

Chapter Two: Strange Sightings

Four Months Later

Beep. Beep. Beep.

I swipe my phone screen, silencing the 9:00 a.m. alarm, then return my attention to my laptop. Scrolling through the articles, from six months ago and later, on a forum called Strange and Unusual Sightings. Most of the posts are obscure and vague at best, despite the authors’ conviction they’d spotted Bigfoot or a UFO.

I don’t comment or interact with any of the posts. I’m here for answers, and if I start posting and asking my own questions on this forum, wouldn’t that make me just as crazy as DeeDee87, who swears Bigfoot walked through her backyard?

The picture on her post is grainy and dark. She’s circled in red what she says is the freakish humanoid, but the “thing” resembles a powerline pole next to a tree. A streetlight down the way offers the glow of an eye.

I click off her post and scroll through a few more. I’ve read most of them. These people haven’t seen anything resembling the beast I encountered. The closest thing to a mountain lion the size of a four-hundred-pound grizzly is an oversized wolf some guy saw, but that was up in Canada.

I’m starting to think maybe I do belong among these people.

With a heavy sigh, I type in my email website. The homepage has articles—most about politics, the rich and famous—but one catches my eye. Another girl has gone missing, since last night. My cursor hovers over the article. What number is this one now?

A series of loud quick knocks rap against my door, and I clench my jaw. My heart thuds in a panic. God, I need sleep.

“Mika! Get up,” my older sister, Carol, calls. Her voice stern and words clipped. Her blatant irritation heightens my dread. “You still need to empty the trash from last night.”

“I’m up.” My voice breaks with fatigue. I sigh, trying to ease the weight that never ceases.

I click on the inbox icon. Third in the inbox is an email from Vic, which came shortly after 3:00 a.m. when I first checked my email after I gave up on sleep and fell down the rabbit hole of the Strange and Unusual forum.

Vic’s in Peru right now for a school trip and doesn’t have cell service, so he’s reduced to sending emails when he can. He’s attached a picture, and a small smile tugs at my lips. He stands next to a llama, the loose hair from his ponytail sweat-pasted to his forehead as he grins from ear to ear. The llama, on the other hand, looks less thrilled, its eyes squinted in annoyance and ears drawn back.

I start to type a response, asking if he got spit on.

“Mika!” Carol yells, knocking again.

“I’m up!” My voice doesn’t break and my frustration builds. But I don’t let it simmer. I can’t. I’m the reason everyone is angry, and I accept that. A mountain lion the size of a grizzly? Not a real thing. Distracted drivers at night? That’s a real thing.

Four months since the accident that killed my brother. I’ve healed from physical wounds. I’ve returned to work at Scott’s Latte Stop, riding my bicycle since no one—including myself—wants me to drive ever again. And I research. I look for evidence of what I saw. Needing to prove that what I saw is real.

No luck so far. Just Bigfoot and werewolf sightings.

Another sigh and I sit up, the box spring squeaking. My left shoulder is stiff and sore, a constant reminder why Carol is irritated with me. I rub the muscles, trying to ease the tension.

I look around the bedroom. My work clothes—polo shirt with Scott’s Latte Stop embroidered over the left breast, and black jeans—lie in a pile by the closet. My dresser’s bottom drawer is ajar from when I retrieved my pajama pants last night. My journal on the bedside table is open to a sketch of the mountain lion. More of a doodle really. Unrefined lines, exaggerated triangles for teeth, scraggly fur, and angry circles for eyes.

This creature is the reason sleep eludes me, even with a dose or two of melatonin. It haunts my dreams. My nightmares. Along with my younger brother’s scream.

I wince, shoving my fist against my mouth, biting down on my knuckle. Tears prick my eyes.

His death is my fault. At first, I blamed the beast, the giant mountain lion that no one else believes exists. No one saw it except Aaron and me. Not even the couple who’d called 911.

When I told Vic what happened, he said he believed me, but that’s what best friends do, right? They stick up for each other no matter what.

I know what I saw, but doubt—heavy, bone-deep doubt—has me second-guessing. I did get a concussion that night, but I know I saw the beast before the crash. Aaron did too.

An animal that big had to leave tracks. I hit it with the SUV too; there should have been blood or fur on the bumper. I remember the dark, almost black blood leaking from its nose. But there was nothing. No evidence except of a distracted driver—me—spinning into the opposite lane and getting T-boned by a truck.

This has been related by my parents, Carol, and the news articles—articles I’ve read over and over again that make it seem that what I saw is a work of fiction I made up to alleviate the guilt over Aaron’s death.

My thought from earlier returns: I really do belong with the people on the Strange and Unusual Sightings forum.

When I force myself out of bed, my movements are slow and methodical. I brush my short, dark brown hair, working out the knots that formed in the few hours of restless sleep. Except, of course, for the side of my head where they had to shave my hair down to the skin to suture a laceration that looked worse than it was.

A four-inch-long scar mars the side of my head. The hair is finally growing in around it. If the hairstyle wasn’t such a gruesome reminder of the accident, I think I would keep it. But the strands won’t grow fast enough for my liking.

I glance around the room for my hoodie, only to catch my reflection in the full-length mirror hanging on the door. One wouldn’t be able to guess the hell I went through just by looking at me—average height, average weight, and sixteen years old. Dark, baggy circles hang constantly below my eyes, but maybe that’s just part of having a job. Between that, the dark clothes I wear and my punkish hairstyle, most probably figure I’m emo or goth.

I dress in a T-shirt and jeans. My hoodie is nowhere to be found, so I dig through my dresser and pull on the first long-sleeve shirt I come across.

On my way to the kitchen, I peek in the living room to see Anita curled up on the couch, gaming controller in hand. Her headset is on, and every once in a while, she talks with the other players. I look at the screen, watching her swiftly maneuver her warrior princess through treetops and dodge arrows.

She’s delved into the gaming world since Aaron’s death. They likely provide her an escape. She suffered whiplash, a mild concussion, and a few cuts and bruises from the accident. She was the least injured, along with Mom. Dad broke his collarbone.

Going about my morning routine, I sense that familiar tightening in my chest. I prepare my breakfast in the kitchen: cereal and a glass of orange juice. I skirt around the island to the dining room and hunker down at the table, sitting in the corner. One little colorful loop at a time, I eat my cereal.

Carol’s voice drifts down the hall from her room. “I’ve been carrying my bear spray. It’s basically Mace.” I listen, taking another bite. “Yeah… It’s clearly a serial kidnapper. This is the fourth girl taken since July…”

Right. The fourth one. I focus on my cereal, not wanting to let my thoughts wander. I can’t help but imagine who took the girls and what he’s doing to them. I shudder, hunching closer to the wall, as if it could swallow me whole and I won’t have to bother existing.

A shadow looms over me. I don’t look up. From my peripheral, my older sister is standing at the end of the table, arms crossed and glaring down at me.

“I’ll take it out on my way to work,” I say, dipping my spoon in the milk, watching a certain piece of cereal that I will consume next. I stare at food a lot these days. I haven’t looked my family in the eye since the accident, not needing to see what I can hear from their voices.

“Can you please take it out now?” she says. “We made chicken last night, and it stinks already.” Her tone implies a command, not a polite request. My frustration rises again. I close my eyes, bite my cheek, and inhale slowly through my nose.

“Okay.” I push my bowl to the side, take a sip of orange juice, then stand.

Carol retreats to her room, carrying a collection of animal anatomy and veterinary terminology textbooks. Considering she’s always been better with animals than with people, she’ll make an excellent animal doctor.

I pull out the bulging bag, wrinkling my nose and holding my breath, but not before catching the rancid stench of rotting meat. I tie the bag closed and replace it with an empty one that smells something like lemons and pine, an obviously artificial scent, but far better than the natural rotting chicken.

Outside, I take a deep breath of the frigid November morning. The odd mixture of autumn and winter in the air, dried leaves and fresh snow. Remnants of yesterday’s snowfall dapple the yard, safe from the sun in the shadow of the eight-foot-tall, wood-paneled fence bordering the yard.

Our family’s old black lab, Licorice, greets me with lazy tail wags, unbothered to actually get to her feet as she lies in a patch of pale sunlight. I set down the bag and walk over to her. Her tail wags faster, and she lifts her sweet, graying face to receive pets. I scratch behind her ears, massage her back, then rub her belly. At least, she’s happy to see me. Dogs are cool like that.

I kiss her head, then resume my trash duty. At the gate, I struggle with the latch. The darn thing has been sticking over the past couple of weeks. I keep forgetting to mention it to my parents.

Or, to be accurate: I feel I can’t mention it to them.

“Should fix this stupid gate myself,” I mutter. You can learn anything from the Internet.

Except if grizzly-sized mountain lions are real.

I lift the latch, and the gate swings open away from me. Bordering the south side of my home, the forest stretches in an expanse of pine and aspens. Part of the forest is state-owned, a small portion is public land, and a good mass of it is private. I don’t know the owner.

My siblings and I have come up with different ideas about who owns the land—it’s actually a game we’d play, to see who can come up with the most nonsensical ideas.

A thing of the past now.

I toss the bag in the large bin and drag my feet as I head back to the gate, examining the scuffed toes of my shoes.

A low growl rights my attention. Licorice stands at the gate, head low, staring toward the forest, her hackles raised. Her lips twitch with a warning snarl.

“What do you see, Lick?” I whisper. Goosebumps break across my arms, and a tight, tingling feeling runs down my spine. I glance in the direction the dog is staring, and do a double take. My breath catches in my throat. “Oh, my god.”

At the edge of the forest, maybe five hundred feet from my house, surveying the sparse grass and loose gravel, stands all four hundred pounds of predatory muscle.

The mountain lion.