like a lantern. The hissing lady was spreading everywhere. Something terrible was coming.
It means you’re dying.
The nice man’s words echoed through Christopher’s mind as they came to the old abandoned refrigerator. Big and white like an “icebox” in the old movies his mother loved. Its rusted chrome reminded Christopher of Jerry’s old Chevy in the driveway.
Jerry is coming…
Jerry is coming…to kill my mother.
Christopher had to get out of the imaginary world. He had to get out and save her.
“Here we are,” the nice man whispered.
The nice man opened the refrigerator door with a squeeeak. The refrigerator had no backing. Just a huge patch of dirt.
“What is this?” Christopher asked.
“My last hiding place,” the nice man said.
The nice man got on his knees and wiped away the dirt, revealing a trapdoor. He opened it, and Christopher saw a long staircase leading to a room like a bomb shelter.
“She hasn’t found this one yet,” the nice man whispered. “I was saving it for an emergency. We have to hide you until daylight.”
Christopher climbed inside. The nice man quietly closed the refrigerator door behind them. Christopher followed the nice man down the long stairs. When they reached the floor, the nice man folded the staircase like an attic door. The springs groaned as the steps locked together, leaving them hidden underground. The nice man lit a kerosene lamp. Then, he opened a portable cooler. There were bottles of water, Coca-Cola, fruit, cheese, and candy.
“Where did you get all that?” Christopher asked.
“People on a diet. Their nightmares are all about food. They don’t mind when you take it. Trust me. You’re doing them a favor,” the nice man said.
Christopher filled his arms like a greedy shopping cart.
“Not the candy,” the nice man cautioned. “We are only staying here until daylight. This is your last time eating for a while. We have to get you out of here before midnight. You’ll need your strength.”
Christopher begrudgingly traded a Snickers for applesauce and sat down on the floor. He looked around at the nice man’s shelter. It was simple and bare. A cot. A locker. Some clothes. A clock on the wall. But the clock didn’t measure hours and minutes.
It measured years.
Christopher looked at the number: 2,020. The number of months: 24,240. The number of days: 737,804 days of this terror. Of this torture. He looked at the nice man’s scars. On his feet. On his hands. The crooked way he walked from his bones broken so many times over so many centuries.
“How old were you when she took you?” Christopher asked.
The nice man looked at him, surprised by the question.
“She didn’t take me. I volunteered. Now eat.”
The nice man opened a bottle of water and drank. Then, he screwed on the cap and swallowed, the water cutting through his battered body like a cold river.
“What happens at midnight?” Christopher asked.
The nice man said nothing. He simply put a finger in front of his mouth and mimed the word “Shhhhhh.” He pointed above them. Christopher stopped and listened to the voices searching for him up above in the woods.
“Chrisssstopher! Chrissstopher! Where are you?!”
The nice man stood up. Tense and ready.
“I can’t smell him anymore. Can you hear him?” the voices called out to each other.
Christopher watched the nice man, perched near the ladder, ready to strike if they came down. Everything in his posture made Christopher feel safe. The nice man was ready to defend Christopher to the death if that’s what the night brought. Christopher had seen his mother like this before. He didn’t know men could feel that way about children.
Finally, the voices moved on, and there was silence. Christopher was about to speak when the nice man held up one finger. Then, he picked up a piece of paper and scribbled quickly in number 2 pencil.
They are still up there. It’s a test.
Christopher took the pencil and scribbled. He handed the note back to the nice man.
What happens at midnight?
Christopher studied the nice man’s face. Grave and haunted. The nice man shook his head with a silent “no” and wrote back.
I don’t need you scared. I need you strong.
The nice man kept writing, but all Christopher could feel were his thoughts playing hide-and-seek between the words.
The nice man is…
The nice man is…afraid to tell me the truth.
The nice man knows…it will terrify me.
The temperature in the shelter dropped a couple of degrees. Christopher grabbed the pad out of the nice man’s hands and wrote on the paper.