By the very next morning, the incident on Randall Road had already made the local news. Journalists and reporters gathered from various stations to cover the scene. Right now, on the small screen, Sheriff Henry Clarkson stands with seasoned composure before a congregation of microphones being shoved in his face, all of them fishing for answers.
“Sheriff Clarkson, can you tell us anything more about the cause of the accident? Anything about the survivors?”
“All we know so far is that there are no human casualties.”
“What about the white moose?” another reporter chimes in. “Was that an ‘accident’ too?”
Sheriff Clarkson inserts a pause before answering with a brisk handwave, “No comment,” then marches off with those same hyenas biting at his heels, their desperate scramble to prolong the interview.
“What about the survivors?”
“How did that tree get knocked over?”
“Why did one of your officers shoot that moose?”
“What was Andrew Coffey doing at the scene?”
Again, he refuses to elaborate while keeping his back to the cameras.
The scene cuts to a steady night shot of the moose, its body blurred by the censors as it lies dead by the roadside, having been moved to clear traffic. Its feet and antlers can partially be seen, as well as dried marks of blood…
… until the push of a button blacks out the TV indefinitely.
“Poor thing,” grumbles the bedridden patient, setting down the remote.
“Don’t beat yourself up, Carol.” Her partner, Dylan, assures the woman with a comforting pat on her shoulder. “It was self-defence, not murder.”
With mild gratitude, she leans into his touch. “I know, but still…”
Sooner rather than later, a familiar figure troops into the room the same way he did from those reporters, with forceful urgency.
“Sheriff Clarkson,” greets Dylan formally.
Their boss returns his gesture with a tip of his hat before sealing their door behind him. “How’s your leg?” he asks Carol directly.
“It’s… only starting to feel better,” she reckons with a slight wince.
“Good.” He nods coldly. “Maybe then, this’ll teach you to go out on such a dangerous mission on your own without consulting us before—”
“Sir, please…” Dylan steps in to defend her, his hand outstretched “… I already gave her that bollocking last night. Right now, she just needs to relax.”
With a frustrated huff, Henry rolls his jaw before changing the subject. “So… what can you tell us about last night? Anything from the witnesses?”
Dylan shakes nervously. “Not much, I’m afraid…”
“Why the hell not?”
He hesitates for a second before explaining himself. “The girl that was in the incident, uh… Alice B-Brook.” He clicks his fingers upon remembering her name. “I could barely get a word out of her, but she for sure looked like she saw some things on that road.”
“None of which she could tell you about?” The leading sheriff sharpens his puzzled scowl. “Nothing you could get out of her whatsoever??”
“I’m sorry, sir.” A lump slides down the other man’s throat. “She was in shock.”
Henry begins pacing now. “What about from the boy?” he probes next.
This time, Dylan inhales while batting his eyes between him and his partner, both knowing full well that their boss will like his next answer even less. “I…”
Carol, feeling like a kid caught in the middle of a family debate, decides to intervene. “We’ll bring them in for more questioning later,” she states.
“Later??” Henry spits out the word like an offensive term. “Why didn’t you question him then??” His indignation has just about reached its boiling point. “I mean, I know he’s blind, but still… he’s our only other credible witness.”
“But, sir—”
“You didn’t think to maybe strike while the iron was still hot, ‘officer’?”
“I requested Dylan to hold off,” pleads Carol forlornly, drawing the attention back to her. “So I’m the one you should blame, not him.”
Turning his back to the deputy sheriffs, Henry rubs the back of his hair while muttering curses under his breath; this takes about a minute until he cools off. “Did you at least get him up to speed with what’s going on?”
“That, I did,” confirms Dylan. “Even showed him and his dad Carol’s video.”
“Okay, then.” At last, Henry manages to lighten his mood a little. “So, what’s your next plan?” he commands without pause, holding his hips.
Carol tells a white lie. “We were just discussing that.”
Her partner follows up. “I’ve got a suggestion…” he exhales while the other two occupants listen with anticipation. “… I’m thinking of leading another team into the Black Forest myself.”
This idea jolts the blonde woman. “What!?”
“Go on,” their boss urges, who is oppositely unfazed.
But Carol protests. “No, hold on!” She wants to hop out of her bed but can’t because of her injury. “You can’t just march into the forest without our K-9s and hope to pick up where we left our trail last time! You can’t just gamble with luck, Dylan!”
“Obviously not,” the man concurs.
“Luck is NOT a strategy, especially with that thing lurking in there!” she states for the whole room, then eases off to stress, “We need a proper strategy.”
“We need to hunt it down!” Dylan declares, not as an argument, but as a motive. “So long as that monster’s up and about, none of us are safe.”
“How soon can we put this plan into motion?”
Henry’s question floors them—then again, that’s to be expected from him.
“It’s not yet concrete,” she clarifies with haste.
Without much concession, the head sheriff unpockets his phone when it buzzes. “How about a week, then? I have to take this.” From him, it’s not a proposal, but a vague demand. Whatever he says goes, no questions asked. And just like that, with the phone to his ear, he vanishes before either of the two can get another word in.
“Bloody hell…”
Carol nods discreetly, sharing her partner’s sentiment.
It never happened…
None of that was real…
These desperate words simmer in Alice’s mind as she enters the auditorium of their art building in a rehearsed, albeit detached manner in her attempt to put up a front for her classmates, all of whom are on stage doing a warmup with their coach.
It had been roughly two weeks since this troubled goth had last attended her drama classes, seeing as she had long lost the motivation to do so… until now. Worse still, she had left her troupe during a crucial time of their production… their final one, where she is supposed to be the lead. Will she even be welcomed back?
Taking her time, she waddles between the endless rows of empty seats, her steps shortening as she silently closes in. Currently, only the stage is lit, which makes it easier for her presence to remain unnoticed—truth be told, she doesn’t want to get noticed, not yet at least. Her feet feel cold, but there’s no air conditioning in here.
“Raven?” Her coach, Mr. Ripley, finally spots his prized student approaching. “Finally here for your big comeback?” There is genuine glee in his voice.
All other heads pause as they turn to Alice, causing her to fidget with her clothes—some of her peers don’t look too pleased to see her, and rightly so.
“Sorry, I’ve been away for a while,” she replies sheepishly.
“It’s okay, we understand.” Swiftly, he motions her over. “Come on, we missed you. You’ve got some catching up to do.”
Despite the clear uneasiness, Alice drops her bag on one of the front seats to join the others on stage. In other circumstances, she would have been profusely apologetic to her classmates for letting them down so badly, whereas now, she is just numb.
Her mind sits on autopilot as she courses through the rest of their memorized routine. She doesn’t speak unless it’s to recite her lines or answer questions, nothing more. She wants nothing to do with small talk, nor does she want to engage in any deep conversations unless it’s to do with their shared performance, nothing less.
For the most part, she thinks she did well despite everything—that is, until Ripley decides to put her on the spot. “I have some concerns…” he states while placing a finger over his mouth. “You’re doing well for the most part, but something just feels amiss…”
Alice waits nervously for her teacher’s critique as he paces around her, each second worse than before. “Is it my delivery?” she questions innocently.
He shakes while mumbling. “There shouldn’t be a problem… but my sixth sense is nagging at me for some reason, and I’ve learned in all my years of teaching not to ignore it.” Circling her again, he examines his star pupil thoroughly, then claps in front of her face. “Ah, I think I know what it is… it’s like you’re with us, but only remotely.”
She squints in confusion. “I d-don’t follow…”
“Basically, you’re here with us physically, but your mind seems to be operating elsewhere,” he clarifies as nicely as he can. “But it’s okay. You’re still doing better than I expected, considering how many classes you’ve missed.”
“Mr. Ripley, I’m sorry—”
“It’s okay, Alice.” He holds her by the shoulders reassuringly, then whispers, “I miss that little ratbag too, so I know how much he means to you.”
While he had meant well with that statement, the mere mention of her boyfriend causes all of her wounds to reopen— no… not here on my first day back!
Her coach, realizing shortly what he had done, pats her to exit the stage.
But she resists. “No, no, it’s fine! I can do this!”
“I have no doubt, love,” he assures with a sad smile. “But I need you to sit for a bit.” He points her to the front chairs. “I promise we’ll get back to you when you’re ready… okay?”
Realizing what he’s actually trying to do, she quietly obliges and retreats to the spot where she left her bag—he didn’t want her crying in front of the other students. But even down here, with the spotlight shining away from her, she refuses to break.
Not here…
Once class had ended, Alice got the hell out of there before anyone could think to question her. Now, she finds herself curled into a tight ball while weeping inside a bathroom stall. For whatever reason, she can no longer control the airflow pumping through her body either—it’s like trying to keep up with her own lungs.
At least here, she can freely drain all her bottled emotions out of her system.
But no matter how hard this young woman tries, her brain refuses to let go of those vivid, traumatizing memories of that night on the road that she so deeply wants to banish. It’s like her world has been turned sideways forever, and from this new angle, new secrets have been revealed, calling into question everything she ever believed.
From this alone, Alice finds herself stuck at a crossroads with no right direction. On one end, she could return to familiar denial… or she could burrow further down the rabbit hole… just like the Alice from Lewis Carroll’s Wonderland.
“W-Why…?” she sobs. “J-Just… why?”
A gentle knock startles her—she thought she was alone.
“You okay in there?” speaks the worried occupant from the neighbouring stall.
Without answering, Alice yanks the toilet roll to wipe her nose clean before hurrying to the sinks to wash off her ruined mascara, then makes her escape to avoid interacting with that unknown person. So much for privacy…
Out in the hallway, Alice dons her neutral mask again as she pushes through the crowd, her head slightly down and fixed ahead. A fair few eyes glimpse her way, as it’s not every day that this goth would be seen without her makeup. She doesn’t care. All she wants is to split now.
But at the same time, her own eyes are darting left and right, scanning the area for a peculiar young man with a pair of shades and a cane. As of today, no luck.
What she can’t quite pinpoint is why she is eager to find Andrew. Perhaps there are a multitude of reasons, all of which are meshed together while pulling her head in several directions. Is it just so she can avoid him?
No, that can’t be it…
… just why, then?
Before she can dig any further, another familiar acquaintance rears up into her view: Mariah, who is chatting with a couple of her own friends next to a row of lockers. It doesn’t take long for that girl to spot Alice and signal the others to give them a moment.
“Hey,” she greets with an awkward wave.
Alice gives her a curt nod before asking, “How are you?”
“I’m doing fine…” There is a longer pause than necessary before Mariah follows up her response with a question of her own. “I, uh, heard about what happened on Randall Road. Are you okay?”
“Yeah… I’m fine.” Physically, at least. “A few scratches, but nothing serious.”
“That’s good.”
Mariah smiles, a little too long for comfort, until it fades again—this strained exchange reminds them how they are merely friends of a friend rather than friends themselves. Edge was the charismatic glue that held their group together—without him, their dynamic has no real teeth anymore.
“Have you, uh…?” Alice contemplates what she’s about to ask. “Have you seen or heard from Andrew lately?”
“No,” says Mariah rather hurriedly before lowering her eyebrows. “I heard he was with you during the accident. What’s your deal with him?”
Alice mirrors her expression. “What do you mean?”
“I notice you’ve been spending a lot of time with him.”
She shrugs while crossing her arms now. “So what of it?”
“Nothing, just…” Mariah sighs while glancing away, “… just be careful around him.”
This prompts Alice to confront her. “What’s your deal with him?”
“Nothing,” the other girl tries to assure. “It’s just… people are saying lots of things about him. The media too.”
But the goth isn’t having it. “Again, so what of it? You’re just going to believe those stories?” As she steps forward, Mariah steps back. “You don’t know him, Mariah.”
“And you do?” she fires back, regaining her stance.
“I…” Alice finds herself tongue-tied before rearranging her answer. “He’s just helping me, that’s all. And what’s wrong with friends trying to support each other, huh?” With another pause, she adds one more point. “Besides… I already know more about him than whatever the media is trying to paint him as.”
Mariah cocks her head while folding her own arms. “Like what?”
“Why don’t you go ask him yourself?” she retorts smugly.
This seems to have won her the argument as her mutual carefully backs off. “Just watch yourself,” she responds glumly. “We got more reporters looming around the area. They’re probably looking for both of you.” Fixing her backpack, she walks off.
This conversation leaves more for Alice to unpack as she leans against the lockers, confused more by her own reasoning than Mariah’s. Admittedly, she brought up a good point: what does she truly know about Andrew? Because it seems now that the more she learns about him, the less she understands. So why defend him?
Back home, James Coffey makes his way into his son’s room to find him at his computer. The first thing he notices is how dim the space is with his window blinds folded all the way down... in broad daylight.
“Please, do NOT open the blinds,” Andrew commands while still facing his screen. On it, he is seen using keyboard navigation to assemble footage from his camera into his project file. “I think I’m getting the hang of this.”
“Certainly looks that way from here,” his dad comments before noticing the console next to his device; it’s all polished and plugged in now. Returning his attention to the window, he asks, “Is there any reason you still have your blinds down?”
Lifting a headphone, Andrew lies. “Optical light sensitivity.”
“Right…” The old man accepts his excuse with an obvious eyeroll.
Just then, the younger man puts his headphones around his neck before sliding his chair back to face his dad intently. His fingers drum on the armrests while his mouth hangs loosely, clearly itching to say something.
“What’s up, son?”
With a trembling sigh, he begins. “I’m aware that my surgery’s tomorrow…”
His dad raises his eyebrow. “But…?”
Andrew sighs again. “You’re… going to think I’m weird for suggesting this, but…” he swallows a hard lump, “… would it be maybe possible to… delay it?”
For almost a minute, the room falls deathly quiet. Still as a statue now, the boy holds his breath as his dad, stunned by this otherworldly request, removes his weight to stand upright, his lips forming a tight circle as he struggles for words.
“W-Why?” he finally stammers.
“J-Just hear me out…” Andrew raises his hands defensively as his heart begins a steady drumroll, “… I’m just… not comfortable about having the surgery now.”
James steps forward, his eyes narrowing. “Again… why?”
“I’m just…” Andrew anxiously runs a hand over his face, more times than he should, until he finds the words soon after. “Ever since I became blind… it’s given me a level of clarity that I could never reach before… back when I could see.”
James remains as puzzled as ever. “I still don’t follow…”
“It’s—I don’t know how to explain it…” Rather flimsily, Andrew waves his hand all over the place, desperate not to lose sense of himself. “Both times that I’ve faced the Gazer, it hasn’t been able to affect me—now, I know what you’re going to say, but just hear me out!” The speed of his talking escalates as he frightfully anticipates the man’s unfavourable response. “If I can use my gifts, I should be able to—”
“I have just about heard ENOUGH about that stupid Gazer and that stupid UFO!” With a sharp hiss, James pinches the bridge of his nose. “Ever since you got yourself involved with all that shit, our lives haven’t been the same! And now that there’s a chance to fix one part of your situation, you want to postpone it!?”
“I know it sounds crazy—”
“Because it IS crazy! Not to mention STUPID!”
Andrew bites down on his tongue while his dad continues his rant.
“It’s bad enough that you lied to me about what you really went with Alice to do!” Pacing frantically, he stops midway to jab a finger into his own chest. “MY job is to protect you, even from yourself! The last thing I need right now is you putting yourself in MORE danger just because of a… supernatural hunch!? Are you fucking kidding me!?”
By now, Andrew would be able to hear a pin drop in the next room as he shrinks in his chair, utterly defeated, while he takes this moment to absorb his father’s words.
Having vented his frustration, James eases off as his glare softens. “Look…” his voice lowers as he approaches the boy, kneeling down to his level, “… I know you’re afraid. I know you’re paranoid, and you have every right to be stressed too,” he holds both his wrists comfortingly, “but I need you to take better care of yourself… okay?”
“Okay,” whispers Andrew, barely moving his lips.
With this understanding, James ruffles his hair before leaving him alone to spin in his chair as he contemplates. “You’ll be fine, tomorrow,” he echoes from the corridor.
“Yeah…”
He’s right… what was I thinking?
It was a stupid idea—so why is it still lurking in the back of his mind, then?
