Debutante
Ghalia al Ghul, a debutante of a different sort.
16 Years Later: John Miller
John Miller was a 25 year old newly minted civilian who didn’t miss the army one bit. He did miss, however, his old room in his old house. Well, he missed the home that used to belong to his parents. They had moved to Clarkston shortly after he entered the service, and he’d never spent much time in the new house. At least he had a place to stay: John knew that there was more than one homeless veteran out there in the world.
John decided to take a two-week vacation before seriously considering college or work. He was going on a vacation because he was tired of the word “leave” and all other jargon of the military culture. After that, he was probably (but not yet definitely) headed to college. His dad owned a construction company, and he had a job there any time he wanted it. The only problem was that his dad (and his dad’s crew) always looked exhausted. They froze in the winter and burned up during the summer, and John just couldn’t see himself doing that kind of manual labor. He had experienced enough heat in the desert.
John certainly respected his father’s work, but it just wasn’t for him. No, even though he was technically undecided, he’d probably sign up for a full load of classes at Mackenson Institute and try to get a job in a convenience store. He could live with his parents rent free, though he would certainly help out as much as he could.
John wouldn’t really even have to travel for school, or worry about dorm life. From his top floor room at the house on South Wayman Street, he could literally see the school. He was within walking distance of some of the faculty offices. He could also see the Summit Hotel, which was undergoing constant repair and had been, supposedly, bought by Mackenson Institute. Perhaps he could get a job there, if nowhere else. It would be ideal if he could get a job that was so close to home and school. Even if it was hot, or cold for that matter, the lack of a need for transportation would make it worthwhile.
John decided to get in touch with the school’s registrar in a week or so, and then head off on his brief holiday. He’d attempt to get an appointment, and then he’d walk over to the college and talk to someone about enrolling. Mackenson Institute offered all manners of degrees, or so John had heard. You could get an Associate of Arts or Applied Science, and even advanced degrees in theology. If the rumor was true, they were even looking into establishing an Associates of Culinary Arts. John always regretted not training as a cook when he was in the military (he had been a combat engineer). Now, perhaps, he would be able to correct that mistake.
John was lying on his bed, quietly scrolling on his phone and viewing social media posts. He suddenly had a “someone is watching me” feeling and looked around. The large attic door was in his walk-in closet, and it was open. John was almost as fearless as he had been when he was an active duty soldier, so he went to the attic door and took a look around. He didn’t see anything, so he closed the door and then left to go eat lunch at the Clarkston Trough.
John returned home about an hour later. The door was, once again, open. John climbed the attic pull-down stairs and hoisted himself up onto the attic floor. He flipped the light switch and looked around. Unlike many homes, John’s attic was a popular storage space and it was common for family members to be up there, stowing things away or retrieving something. Though it seemed a bit cool for an attic, John didn’t see anything unusual, so he figured that someone (either mom or his teen sister) had come home while he was gone and went up into the attic. They simply forgot to close the door. No problem: No harm done.
John called Mackenson Institute the next day and, for the most part, the attic door remained closed. At least it didn’t open when John was home. Later, his mom and sister mentioned that they had occasionally found the door open. All three (four including dad) denied being the culprit. John never bothered to ask Sis or Mom about it from that point forward, because there seemed to be an obvious answer: One of them left the door open. It just didn’t seem important enough to say anything else about it.
Within the week, the basement door started to act like the attic door had been acting. It was open every time John walked by it. It didn’t matter if anyone was home or not, the door opened. But mostly it seemed to open when John was home alone.
One day the basement door creaked open. John happened to see it and he thought he saw movement. But nothing happened. He sighed. He was going to have to take a look.
John had planned to buy a pistol when he returned home, but he hadn’t gotten around to it yet. Now that he had finally had enough of the basement door creaking open, he sorely wished he had a firearm. What he did have was a metal baseball bat. He stepped onto the basement landing and flipped the light switch. He stood there listening, bat in hand.
John and his dad had been working in the basement, remodeling it. There was some talk about making it into a game room, or splitting it in half and having a game room plus a bedroom for Jenna (sis). John was used to it being a few degrees cooler in the basement, but the temperature down there was ridiculous. John couldn’t even estimate how cold it was. He could see his breath.
He descended the stairs for a closer inspection. The clothes washing machine and the dryer were in the basement. The hoses running out of the wall to the washer were frozen. This made zero sense, as it was June, not January. This was Texas, not Siberia.
There were three mirrors on the wall and one mirror inside an unused curio cabinet: All had burst. The small ground level windows that had let in a small amount of light—they were covered with something like old newspaper. It seemed ominously dark and as cold as the grave inside the basement.
John then noticed what he thought was blood. Drops of dried liquid could be seen on the steps, and then they proceeded into the outer darkness of the basement. He backed up to the stairs, heart pounding.
John “climbed” the stairs backwards, while holding onto the banister, and once again stood on the landing. The room was deathly quiet. Then he imagined that he heard a soft voice, a man’s voice, calling out to him: “John?”
“Nope. Nope. Nope, and I’m out,” said John, out loud. He was letting his imagination run away with him, the same way he’d often done in Afghanistan. It had to be a vocal hallucination, for no one else was at home to call him by name. John decided that he wouldn’t be home either. He had an appointment at Mackenson Institute. He’d deal with the basement later.
John set out toward Mackenson Institute with a troubled mind. Surely he had experienced a hallucination. Maybe he had spent one too many days overseas in the desert. He might need to speak with someone at the VA. Or, maybe, there might be a criminal in the basement. He’d be more careful when he returned. He’d call the police if it came down to it. But first things first: Off to Mackenson he went.
Dr. Verity Vann, Registrar of Mackenson Institute, was a neat appearing academic of about 30 years in age. She spoke at length about the Institute’s degree programs, and was also quite knowledgeable in VA educational opportunities and even medical services that John did not know about. She seemed thrilled that John was interested in the culinary arts and confessed that she was as well. She laid it all out for John, and he was committed to enrolling before Dr. Vann ever got through speaking.
When John got up to leave, he and the doctor shook hands and he mentioned, casually, that he was heading home to deal with a “ghost.” He observed how the doctor immediately took notice. “What do you mean?” she asked.
John began to give the doctor an overview of what had been happening to him, but she asked him to wait, saying that there was someone else who would want to hear what he had to say. She called someone on the phone and within five minutes Dr. Robert Williamson (none other than the Institute’s Director) was shaking John’s hand and introducing himself. At Dr. Williamson’s side was a pretty young woman, introduced as Ghalia Williamson. She was described, cryptically, as “security,” and she came in wearing a large shoulder bag, which she removed and placed against Verity’s desk.
When the introductions were complete, Dr. Williamson spoke first. “I'll get right to it. When did the activity in your home first begin?” John explained how the attic began to stay open, and then the basement door refused to stay shut. He described in detail the condition of the basement and how frightened he had felt. He even revealed that he thought he had heard a voice, although it could have been an auditory hallucination.
“I once heard a sensei tell his dojo that the sixth sense is not a television movie, it’s a feeling within oneself,” said John. “He elaborated, saying that the sixth sense is the feeling that someone gets, for no apparent reason, that something is or may be wrong. That’s how I felt at the top of those stairs.”
“John,” said Dr. Williamson. “Can we visit your home today, as in within the hour? I think you need our help more than you might realize.”
“I think my mom or my sister may have dropped in for lunch a little earlier, but they’re gone now. I’m not sure what you think you might find, but no one is due home again for several more hours. I don’t see why not,” said John, glancing at his watch. “I’m actually going to go home, but I’m not going inside until you folks get there. I need a cigarette anyway.”
“That's perfect,” said Dr. Williamson. “Some of us will see you shortly.”
John left. Dr. Williamson turned to Ghalia. “What do you think?”
She opened her bag and removed two instruments. “Something is causing him to emit a small but noticeable electromagnetic field. And he has been exposed to a non-lethal amount of radiation. But it is higher than it should be. I think that John has been in contact with or very near to something that is not human. Or not completely human. The characteristics of the room he described seem to indicate that something has taken up residence in the home.”
“Anything we’ve dealt with before?”
“I can’t say for sure. I just don’t know, but it may have something to do with that thing in the vault. I do know that the youngster spoke of senses. I sense that he is in danger. Plus, the entire family is in danger. Notice that they literally live just across the street from the Old Clarkston Cemetery. No telling what might find its way out of the burial ground and into someone’s home.”
“Indeed,” said the doctor. “Verity, I want Dr. Wilson, Morgan Burns, Jonah Oliver, and Nicole Sutherland to meet us in Building 43. Call them right now. Everyone but Nicole is to be armed. Nicole should be filming the operation. Tell Dr. Wilson to bring one member of her security team.”
“On it,” said Dr. Vann.
“And what will you and I do?” Ghalia asked.
“We'll be leading the charge, so to speak. Or you will. Prepare yourself.”
“Yes, father.”
