I heard the faint sound of distant thunder.
It would be remembered as the summer of storms. Nearly every week, massive dark clouds rumbled down over the western mountain range and drenched the valley. The fields outside of town were green from all the rain, and the creeks were muddy and full, bulging at the seams.
While I heard the distant thunder, it wasn’t enough to get my attention, and I continued tormenting the ants. I glanced up at the parking lot and noticed that my mother wasn’t there yet, which was unusual because she almost always came to pick me up well before practice was over. She normally parked up from third base and sat on the hood of the car, her feet on the bumper, until I saw her and waved. Then she’d get out a book and read until practice was over.
I had never had to wait for her before.
I heard a loud ping come from home plate, and I looked at the batter, maybe 150 feet away. It was Stony DeWitt, the biggest kid on the team, and he slammed a screamer that was rising, sailing over my head. I left the ants to recover what they had lost and started running back, back, back. The rest of the kids shouted at me to hurry. We grew tired of Stony hitting home runs every time he was up to bat, and we roared with delight whenever we could get him out.
The ball traced an arc over my head, bounced, and rolled to the short outfield fence. Beyond the fence was the town of Deen, Pennsylvania, which was nothing more than the intersection of two roads.
I reached for the ball, and the instant I touched it—the very instant, I tell you—lightning struck, and it was so close that the thunder clapped at the same time. It scared me and I dropped the ball. There are times in those kinds of storms when you begin to feel that there is no safe place, that the lightning will strike anywhere, that you have a target on your back and it’s just a matter of time.
My breath caught in my throat and I scrambled after the ball, my insides jumping every which way. I turned to run toward the safety of the infield, but I realized the baseball diamond was empty. The lightning had scattered the kids to their parents’ cars. Even Mr. Pelle, my baseball coach, who smoked the delicious-smelling pipe full of cherry tobacco, was running up the small hill to the parking lot, one hand holding a rubber home plate over his head, the other dragging a large red canvas equipment bag behind him. He stopped long enough to drop everything and cup his hands around his mouth.
“Go into the store!” he shouted, waving me off. “Get inside!”
My eyes scanned the parking lot again, the one that ran along the baseball field, but my mom still wasn’t there. I turned and ran back to the chain-link fence, climbed over it, and raced toward the edge of town, only a few hundred yards away. Heavy drops hit the ground all around me. There were large amounts of time between the drops, and I could hear each individual one collide with the ground. When they hit my baseball cap or my arms they seemed far larger than normal, the size of marbles that exploded into patches of water wherever they landed.
I ran for Mr. Pelle’s antique store, which was right at the intersection. I had made it into the parking lot by the time the next lightning missile struck, and this time I not only heard the crash but felt the sizzle in the air, the electric pulse spreading outward. The air woke up, like a viper sensing a small mouse dropped into its cage.
The rain turned into a constant sheet of water, and I felt like I was trying to breathe underwater. The air was lost, taken over by the downpour. There was no space between drops anymore. Everything, including me, was soaked in seconds. Water dripped from the brim of my ball cap, and my shirt clung to me, suddenly heavy, like a second skin.
On one side of Pelle’s Antiques was Uncle Sal’s pizza, and the smell of delicious cheese and pepperoni came at me through the rain. I ran into the small alley between Uncle Sal’s and Pelle’s, through the small waterfall tumbling out from the gutters where the rain already overflowed. I pushed open the heavy brown steel door and vanished into the stockroom of Pelle’s Antiques.
The door slammed behind me, and I went from a white-gray day full of the sound of pounding rain and splitting thunder to shadows and quiet and the smells of old cedarwood, dust, and paint. I stopped inside the door as my eyes adjusted to the darkness. Outside, when the rain was coming down through that July day, the falling water had felt almost warm, but in the air-conditioned back room of the antique store, the water spread a chill over my body, and I crossed my arms, clutching my baseball glove as if it might bring me some warmth.
The rain made a distant rushing sound on the roof, and as I meandered through the irregular rows of furniture, I wondered again why my mother had been late, and where she was, and who would take me home. I passed high-backed armchairs standing upside down on barn-door tables, and under them were old windows without any glass panes. There were desks and side tables and large hutches. Wardrobes stood closed and ominous, daring me to open them. Lamps of every shape and size filled in the gaps: tall, skinny ones and short, fat ones, lamps with shades and lamps without shades, some with small white bulbs perched at the top like crystal balls, others with empty sockets.
I stopped in front of an old mirror framed in black, twisting metal, and I stared at my reflection in the peeling surface. I was a skinny kid and, being soaked through, looked even thinner than usual. I’m sure I didn’t look as old as I wanted to look. My brown eyes were still the eyes of a child. I spent most of my childhood wanting to be bigger, stronger, older.
I heard voices in the prep room. It was the space between the large storage room and the sales floor, where Mr. Pelle stained and repaired and prepared one piece of furniture at a time before taking it to the store out front with the big glass windows that looked out onto Route 126. It was unusual for anyone besides Mr. Pelle or his family to be in that middle room.
I moved to the door. I could hear my own heart thumping in my ears, and my breath seemed suddenly loud. My sneakers, waterlogged, squeaked with each step.
But as I got to the swinging door, it was already leaning open a few inches. Outside, another lightning strike sent thunder through Deen. The sound of the rain was a constant hum, but the voices were loud. I peered through the crack in the door.
Three old women sat on one side of a large, square table. They were dressed like gypsies, with long, flowing robes that draped down from their shoulders. Scarves were wrapped around their heads, with gray and white hair peeking out from under the colorful fabric. Large golden earrings dragged their flabby earlobes toward their shoulders, and their arms were lined with bracelets that clinked when they moved. They sat so close together that their robes folded into each other, so close that they almost looked like one wide, colorful body with three heads.
They looked intently across the table, but I couldn’t see that side of the room through the crack in the door. Someone was there, though. Their shadow, short and wide, draped itself across the table and toward the women. When the person spoke, it was a man’s voice. At first he muttered and grunted to himself, the words all jumbled together. But I could only see the three old women, and they stared at him as if trying to decide if they should stay or go.
Out of nowhere, the three old women interrupted him, quietly at first and then louder. They chanted words, but not English words, not old, dead words that can barely stand on their own two feet. No, the words they chanted were alive, words I couldn’t understand, words that had a fluttering, startling life of their own. Their words terrified me, but they also intrigued me. I was like a confused magnet, repelled and attracted all at once.
Part of me wanted to turn and run back out into the storm I had escaped from, back into the hair-trigger lightning and the thunder and the rain that had drenched me, but their words pulled me forward until I was braced against the frame, fighting to stay outside the room.
The lights in the building flickered, then went out.
Acknowledgments
Each book I’ve written has given me a different sort of joy, and this one has been no exception. There is much that the writing of this specific sto
ry has brought to the surface in me, things I will be contemplating for years to come. Thank you for joining me on yet another journey.
The following is my attempt to thank some of those who were most crucial in the coming to life of this book.
Thank you, Ruth, for being a wonderful agent. The crossing of our paths was such a blessing to me, the time we worked together was enjoyable, and I wish you all the best in your future endeavors.
Thank you, Kelsey, for continuing to believe in me and my writing.
Thank you, Jessica, for your fine-tuning. By the time you and Kelsey finish with my books, I wonder if you should both have a byline. The time and care you have put into my writing, and this book specifically, means so much to me.
A huge thanks to Gayle and the design crew at Revell for putting together such a compelling cover. I hope the words I have written live up to the promise of your creation.
Karen, Michele, and Hannah, I am so thankful for all that you do to spread the word about what we’re up to. I love working with you. Here’s to many more books.
To Caleb, for answering my funeral director questions and for text threads the FBI almost certainly remains very concerned about. Thanks, my friend.
To all of you writing friends who travel the same difficult and rewarding road but still take the time to encourage me, share my work, and inspire me with your own beautiful words and dedication to the craft. Thank you.
Thanks, Mom and Dad, for being so much better at parenting than Calvin and Rachel.
Thank you, Maile, for always reading what I write, for your honest feedback, and for traveling with me through this life. You give me the courage I need to keep writing.
And to Cade, Lucy, Abra, Sam, Leo, and Poppy. Everything I do is for you. You’re the best kids a dad could want. Keep looking up at the stars. Keep considering the light.
Shawn Smucker is the author of the award-winning young adult novels The Day the Angels Fell and The Edge of Over There, as well as the memoir Once We Were Strangers. He lives with his wife and six children in Lancaster, Pennsylvania. You can find him online at www.shawnsmucker.com.
ShawnSmucker.com
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Table of Contents
Cover
Endorsements
Half Title Page
Other Books by Shawn Smucker
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Epigraph
Part One: Monday, March 16, 2015 1. The Body
2. The Preacher
3. The Sycamore
4. The Teacher
5. The Phone Call
6. The Old House
7. The Detective
8. The Bloody Nose
9. The Trocar
10. The Sock
11. The Question
12. A Letter
13. “Onward, Christian Soldiers”
14. The Confession
15. Eli, Eli, lema sabachthani?
16. The Final Inning
17. A Letter
18. And All My Other Sins
Part Two: Tuesday, March 17, 2015 19. The Beast
20. The Boy
21. The Current
22. The Trailer
23. The Accident
24. The Gun
25. The Missing Mother
26. The Doorbell
27. The Contractions
28. A Choice
29. Appeared and Disappeared
30. A Letter
31. The Beast Comes to Visit
32. The Sleeping Father
33. A Shadow You Can Hold
34. The Last Thing to Go
35. The Fall
Part Three: Wednesday, March 18, 2015 36. The Visitor
37. The Ice in the Shadows
38. The Kite
39. Through the Veil
40. The Flash of the Gun
41. Missing
42. The Cave
43. The Nurse
44. There Is Evil
45. The Nightmare
46. What We Deserve
47. Back into the City
48. There Is a Mender
Part Four: Thursday, March 19, 2015 49. Followed through the Dark
50. You Don’t Know Us
51. Waking Up
52. Run
53. Singing
54. Back to Where It Started
55. Who Will Make It through the Night?
56. The Painting
Part Five: Friday, March 20, 2015 57. There’s a City of Light
58. The End of Things
59. Something New
60. In the Beginning
61. All the Hidden Things
62. “Though Vile as He”
63. An End
Part Six: Saturday, March 21, 2015 64. These Are the Same Hands
65. A Beginning
Excerpt from The Day the Angels Fell
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Back Ads
Back Cover
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