The Wayward Daywalker

August 28th, 2026.
Hailview, South Carolina.

Deep in rural South Carolina, in the backwoods of a small, isolated town called Hailview—Voltaire Manor stood alone atop its own hillside, hidden from the town and surrounded by only trees, hills, and fields, its nearest neighbor a quarter of a mile away.

Tall, dark, and elegant in its stylish Victorian-esq design—Voltaire Manor was a mansion entirely unique to the state of South Carolina, its front double-doors complete with tall stain-glass windows, its rooftops sloped with a single round platform atop its clock tower, and the property was surrounded by a black fence, thin metal rods with pointed tops encircling the acres around the manor, the rounded driveway in the front, the garden along the side, and the swimming pool in the back, as well as the narrow concrete pathways interspersed between them all.

The family Voltaire had called this place home for many, many years now, and—for the three children—it had always been home.

Orville and Rose had only just started having children before they moved to America and started anew—and thus, their two sons and their daughter grew up only knowing the rustic, spacious home that was Voltaire Manor. In fact, they had anything but a regular childhood; they were homeschooled on paper, and they were never allowed off of the property when they played outside. They were on a strict schedule imposed by their family and their butler—the family manager, William—and when they reached adulthood, the schedule dictated just how much of their lives that they would spend awake, much like it did for their parents.

Orville and Rose were certain that they needed to be separated from the outside world for as long as possible; the two of them had made far too many waves and left much too many footprints throughout the past century, and they needed to disappear for a while, allowing the musical legend of Villy V to fade into societal memory. Besides—given their unique supernatural situation—they thought it best to keep their children away from the outside world as well. After all, their kids were both psychic and vampiric, and neither of them knew how well the children might fare in the world beyond the manor.

So—during childhood—the two parents would spend a few months of the year awake and alert, raising their children and teaching them every basic thing they needed to know, like reading, writing, math, and general manners. When the kids hit their later teens—the second phase of deep sleep was scheduled to begin.

Thus, all five members of the family lay down in their coffins—and they awoke only once a year from then on, simply to eat, drink, and speak with their butler and manager. In all this time—the three children never left the property, living only to learn, grow, and sleep in the manor. They only knew analog technology, big box-shaped televisions, VHS tapes, and old records of the music that their parents once listened to. They had no clue about the outside world, no idea how society functioned; the only vague clues they had were from the old 80s and 90s movies they’d always watched when they were kids, a trend that slowly died when they got older and began to sleep most of their days away.

Every year, when the family was awoken by William, they all discussed the current state of the world with him, and Orville and Rose then decided if it was time to remain awake for good or not. Each time, they resolved to returning to their coffins, always determining that the world outside was not a fit one for their children to traverse. This carried on into the mid-2020s, and as it did—their children slowly became restless and exhausted of their hiding routine.

Little did anyone yet know—this was the last time they would awaken from their coffins at the call of William’s alarm.

On this night—or rather, very early morning—William was alone in his office, a room with a high ceiling, dimly-lit with lamps on either side of his desk, and an impressively tall bookshelf against the wall. He wore a dark brown suit, his face harboring lines now, though he looked no older than forty, despite his true age. His blond hairs had darkened into a slightly sandier color, combed nearly to one side, and he had a pair of reading glasses on, sitting behind his desk and turning the page of his book as he read in silence.

On the edge of one of the bookshelves, one level with the side of his desk, an old digital clock that he’d purchased in the late 1990s sat there, plugged into the wall. The time read 5:58 A.M. in bright red numbers, and he simply continued to read as it struck 5:59, perking his brow at the book as he came across a particularly interesting sentence.

“With a silver bullet…?” he murmured to himself, scoffing out a laugh and making a mild shake of the head. “Bullocks.”

Moments later, the digital clock reached 6:00—and it began beeping in a loud, repetitive way, the old alarm echoing throughout the room just as it always did at least once a year.

William glanced over at it and sighed. He placed the book, Werewolf Folklore , face-down and open atop his desk before he stood and marched over to the bookshelf, hitting a button and making the alarm fall silent.

Then, he straightened his collar and marched over to the thick mahogany door, pushing it open and walking into the hall.

He strode down the wide, echoing hallway on his own, a long red rug covering the floor, the halls only lit by the double-armed sconces on either wall as their tiny candle flames danced about.

At the end of this hall was a tall set of double-doors, wooden and painted black, twin golden door knockers hanging from each of the handles. William approached the doors, thumped one of the knockers twice, then pushed them open, stepping into a dim, isolated room.

This area—known simply as the sleeping room—was a rectangular room with five dark coffins in a row, and not much else, aside from the sconces on the walls.

William strolled forward, his eyes instantly landing on the farthest coffin to the right—the only one what was open. It belonged to the middle child, and the lid was standing upright, the red cushioned inside empty and uninhabited. Sighing deeply, he turned to the other four, and he stepped toward the one in the center of them all, walking beside it and lowering to one knee on the wood-paneled floor.

Knock, knock, knock.

William knocked on the lid of the coffin on the upper half, then waited patiently for a response.

A moment later, the lid was pushed upright—and the eldest of the Voltaire children sat up in the coffin, stretching and yawning atop the crimson satin inside.

The oldest of the three—Michael Voltaire—blinked a few times before turning his head and meeting eyes with the butler. Michael had a tall, slender body, with black pants and a baggy white button-up shirt, complete with long wavy hair and a pale, smooth visage, his shiny black eyes narrowing at William with sleepy intrigue.

“Rise and shine,” William said, flashing his signature flattened sort of smirk. “I’m afraid your usual role of damage-control will be challenged and tested rather quickly this time around, Michael.”

He pointed down the row at the empty coffin.

Michael leaned up, peeking over the open lid of his own coffin and spotting the empty one at the end. Then, he sank back down and sighed, lowering his head and massaging his eyes and temples.

“Not sure where your brother’s gotten off to… or when he managed to run off… but I suspect he might’ve just gotten hungry again,” William shrugged.

“No… he’s just restless and defiant,” Michael mumbled, his voice soft and light. “When we go into the deep sleep, we kind of slow down and freeze in time… so it’s not like he ever actually wakes up starving. I knew it was only a matter of time before he just woke up and ran off somewhere…”

“Well… I did wake you before everyone else,” William pointed out, raising his brows and glancing between the other coffins. “Verity and your parents could… perhaps… get an extra day of sleep in. Maybe they’ll wake up none the wiser.”

Michael shot him a look. “Can’t you ever just say what you mean , Will…?”

“I mean … go out and find your brother , Michael,” William said pointedly. “And I’ll refrain from waking anyone else until you do. Must I spell that out for you?”

Michael stared, his mouth drifting agape. He hesitated, glimpsing over at the two coffins to his right—the two that belonged to his parents. When he faced the butler again, he sighed, his expression deflating.

“I’ve never had t…” he uttered, pausing and gulping. “Why… why can’t you just go find him?”

“Oh… not on a night like tonight,” William said grimly, shaking his head. “I know it’s technically morning… but it’s still rather dark out there, and the full moon lingers.”

Michael swallowed again, still feeling wary and nervous about the whole idea. He’d always been something of a secondary parent—as eldest siblings often were—but he’d never had to leave Voltaire Manor before, and the thought of doing so made his stomach tighten into an anxious knot. He and his brother and sister were always told—all of their lives—that the outside world was a wild, chaotic, and dangerous sort of place, and they were raised under very strict rules that dictated they were never to venture out there.

“Why would you… want me to go?” Michael asked, squinting questioningly at William. “I mean, I don’t want Zander to run off and get himself killed out there, but still…”

William gave him a deep, serious look, sighing heavily.

“Not everything about the outside world is hostile, Michael,” he told him firmly. “And believe me… I do understand why your parents kept you away from it… but simply traveling out there and coming back is nothing to be afraid of.”

“What about the…?” Michael mumbled, waving loosely around his own pale white face.

“The sunlight? Oh… dear boy, you’re not your parents,” William chuckled. “Even they can withstand sunlight to some degree… and you are certainly not what they are. You are a hybrid, a psychic, and a daywalker… but you are not a natural-born vampire.”

“They told me too much sunlight would make me weak and sick,” Michael said.

“And it very well might,” William replied with a nod. “But it will not kill you.”

There was another long pause, Michael staring down at his lap and releasing a stressed cloud of breath.

William observed him, adjusting in his knelt position and placing a hand on the side of the coffin.

“You cannot be afraid of the world forever,” the butler stated. “None of you can. You’re all adults now, and the time for you to forge your own paths is very much here… whether your mother and father like it or not.”

Michael’s eyes wandered back up to him, and he remained momentarily silent.

“Just take extra care to avoid the direct sunlight in the middle of the day,” William advised. “It’s the end of summertime now… but it is still summer, and the middle of the day is the hottest time, particularly in America. Seek the shade… pop into shops… and don’t stay in the sun for too long when it gets a bit hot out. You’ll be perfectly fine.”

Michael stared for a moment longer, then huffed out a breath and pushed himself upright, extending a lanky leg out of the coffin before climbing fully out of it. He stood, and the butler reached his feet as well, both of them facing one another.

“Anything else I should know?” the eldest son asked.

“Ah… well, nothing that would help with a manhunt, no,” William shrugged.

Michael stopped, glancing down at the row of coffins; the one to the left of his was his little sister’s, and it was still closed, just as his parents’ were.

“Don’t let VV run off when she wakes up,” Michael instructed, taking a step toward the exit and pointing over at his sister’s coffin. “Oh—and make sure Dad eats something when he wakes up, because he’ll forget for weeks and he’ll get all cranky and angry again.”

William flashed a flat sort of smile. “You don’t think your mother will remind him of that?”

“Well, yeah, sure—if she remembers,” Michael argued, moving closer to the double-doors and placing his hand to them. “You know she gets all airheaded and loopy when she first wakes up. Just make sure they all eat and don’t go anywhere when they get up, okay?”

“Absolutely… though I don’t plan to wake them until you return here with your brother,” William reminded him.

Michael sighed and gave him a deadpan stare. “You know you might have to wake them up without me… because God only knows how long I’m gonna be gone.”

“Oh… I wouldn’t dare,” William smirked. “Lest I face their wrath for allowing you to run amok.”

“They can’t control me,” Michael griped thoughtlessly.

William’s smile grew. “Quite right, they can’t. Off you go, now. And do be safe.”

Michael nodded and almost moved to leave, then hesitated again and gave the butler a questioning look.

“When was the last time you checked on us in here?” he wondered, gesturing around the sleeping room.

William perked his brow, glancing around the room and making a halfhearted shrug. “A… few weeks ago?”

Michael’s expression fell stoic, his eyes landing on his brother’s empty coffin again, and he let out a grave cloud of breath. Then, he turned and pushed the doors open—

“Oh—Michael,” William called out.

Michael stopped halfway through the doorway and turned back to face him.

“Remember… not everyone out there can do what you can do,” William told him warningly. “Keep that in mind.”

Michael paused, nodding before walking out of the room.

As he marched down the elegant back hall, the flames of the sconces dancing, he found himself thinking of everything here—this big, spacious, rustic, and comfortable home, the pool and the garden in the back, the wall and the gate that sealed the property off from the rest of the world, and every big room with every familiar rug, portrait, and outdated television, as well as the dining room with the mounted deer’s head, and the play room with the many toys and the single TV in the corner, complete with a VCR and a bookshelf full of tapes. He remembered every meal in the dining room—wherein the entire family sat together—and he remembered every tireless day spent in the play room as a child, warring with his brother and teaching his sister how to build things with Legos and Lincoln Logs. Every playful day came with sprinting and racing across the house in games of tag or hide-and-seek, and with the occasional scolding from his parents or his butler. They also ran and played outside, never daring to leave the walls or even tread too close to them, and Rose would always call them inside whenever too much sunlight was on the horizon, no overcast to shield them.

This place, every wall, portrait, rug, room, tree, field, and sconce, was the entire world to him as of now.

But suddenly—out of nowhere—he was expected to walk out of Voltaire Manor and explore the far vaster world beyond it, a world he’d never known at all before.

Michael emerged from the back hall into the main lobby of the home—a huge interior with a rounded ceiling and stain-glass windows, a spiral staircase behind him, and a crimson rug reaching all the way up the stairs, past the many gigantic family portraits that hung along the walls.

He strode over to the large double-doors, the entrance of the home, with twin stain-glass windows that shone dimly with the glow of the moonlight outside. He paused, took a deep breath, and pushed the doors open—stepping out onto the spacious porch and gazing down the long, wide road that led directly across the property to the front gate.

The driveway was something of a dirt road, a flattened stretch that only William ever bothered to use, his black Lincoln parked to the side, its windows beginning to gather dust again, as he hadn’t driven anywhere in a while. The black metal gates were closed, and Michael stood on the edge of the porch, staring at them from afar as the nighttime breeze gently shifted his hairs aside, feeling a pinch of apprehension inside.

Most of his memories were childhood ones—and throughout all of those memories, he always generally avoided this driveway, particularly traveling to the end of it. They’d always get in trouble if they ever treaded too near the front gate.

Still, as he stood rooted to the spot for a long, thoughtful moment, he had to quietly admit it to himself; despite how exhausted he often got with Zander and Verity griping and complaining about how much they wanted to leave, Michael himself often felt rather restless in the manor as well.

But now—the time to leave was finally upon him.

Michael’s expression became serious, glaring at the front gate and inhaling deeply before he broke into a brisker stride—and he marched down the dirt driveway, heading directly toward the gates without a hint of hesitation. Every spark of anxiety he felt inside, and every doubtful thought to pass his mind—he ignored them all and simply carried on, slowing to a stop at the gates and huffing out a breath.

His eyes briefly shone a silvery blue, and he flicked his wrist at the gates—outstretching his fingers—and suddenly, the lock disengaged, and the gates began to creak open.

As he lowered his arm and watched the gates swing slowly ajar, William’s warning crossed his mind, and he suddenly remembered hearing similar things from his mother and father when he was growing up. He knew that the people in the outside world didn’t have the types of abilities that he and his family members had, and he knew he’d have to refrain from using his powers whenever he came across other people.

Other people…

Michael glanced down at the dirt for a moment, sparing a thought to the idea of meeting new people, which was something he’d never done before. The only people outside of his family he’d ever seen were the ones in the movies on all of their old VHS tapes. He’d never seen any in real life.

He paused once more, turned back around, and gazed up at the dark, haunting mansion that stood behind him, a few of its windows lit, his forever home of Voltaire Manor.

Then, Michael faced forward, braced himself, and stepped through the open gates—marching off of his family’s property for the first time.

The driveway expanded beyond the property and veered more to the right as it reached downhill, appearing to connect to the side of an isolated back road. He marched down the hill toward it, striding over the dirt and grass until his black shoes met pavement instead.

For a long while, surrounded only by open fields and trees, he simply walked, the sky slowly beginning to brighten as the morning sunrise arrived.

He wasn’t entirely sure how long he walked, blinking several times as the sunlight steadily grew brighter. Then, he heard a rumbling noise behind him and swallowed a gasp—taking a side-step off the road and staggering into the grass.

A shiny blue SUV was driving down the road, cruising past him and speeding away.

Michael stopped and stared after it for a second, feeling both surprised and intrigued. He’d never seen a car in person aside from William’s Lincoln before now.

He gazed down the hill in the direction the vehicle went, then broke into a brisker stride to follow in its wake.

Down the hill was a massive collection of trees—but the closer he came to them, the more he was just able to see the distant buildings of the town slowly easing into view from beyond the leaves and branches.

Michael sped his pace slightly, thumping down the roadside and moving beneath the treetops. Moments later, he emerged on the other side—and he found himself standing atop the hillside overlooking the beach town of Hailview, one main road down the center, and a few roads to the left and right leading off to parts unknown, the vast, endlessness of the Atlantic Ocean visible in the far distance, sparkling and shimmering alongside the morning horizon, the sky a beautiful swirl of yellows, reds, and oranges as the day came to be.

He stood still for a moment, wind gently shifting his hairs back, and he simply absorbed the scenery, feeling somehow vexed by it. The scent of the salty breeze, and the glorious morning sunrise above the distant sea—it stunned him beyond words for a moment, a kind of beauty he’d never witnessed. He also scarcely comprehended the true enormity of the world beyond the manor beforehand—but something about gazing across the endlessness of the ocean afar put everything profoundly into perspective. The world was simply incredible, truly humongous and outstanding.

“Wow,” Michael breathed in a faint, quiet murmur.

Seconds later, he finally tore his eyes from the beautiful scene and resumed his pace down the hill, moving briskly closer to the road that led into town.

By the time he found himself stepping onto a sidewalk, he was strolling by the shops on one side of Main Street, cars rolling past, and the occasional pedestrian walking by him. The sunlight easefully grew brighter, and minutes later, he slowed to a stop beside an electronics store, peeking into the display window, where several flat-screen smart TVs were playing a movie that looked surprisingly real.

Michael stared at the movie for a second, then continued walking, glancing at every building up and down the main road and sighing with disdain.

“I don’t even know where to start,” he mumbled, scanning over every place in sight.

There were several shops—a café, an antiques store, a pawn shop, a beach shop, and a large restaurant with outdoor tables and umbrellas on the far corner—but he hadn’t the faintest clue of where his brother might go, or where anything even was in this town.

Michael sighed again and pocketed his hands in his sleek black pants, staring down at his shoes while he walked and quietly racked his brain for ideas. His brother Zander always favored the fun movies in their VHS library—the ones depicting a night life, wild parties, or a criminal underworld—and he emulated those behaviors in real life to some degree. He often tried to throw those types of parties in the manor during the small swaths of time that he was awake in his late teens and adult years, though it never yielded much fruit, since he couldn’t party with anyone but his own family members. He loved the idea of a crazy party—so, if he was going anywhere in the outside world, it would be a place that could accommodate that particular desire of his.

Michael stroked along his chin as he walked, pondering on this and trying to remember what those places in the movies looked like—the places with the long counters, loud music, pool tables, neon lights, and alcohol.

“Bars… and clubs,” he muttered to himself, looking up and quickening his pace.

He traveled a little further down Main Street, glimpsing around again and seeing no place that even remotely resembled the clubs and hangout spots from the movies. Sighing once more, he turned to his left, staring into the glass door of the café just beside him.

Then, he pushed the door open with a faint ching-a-ling and walked inside, surveying the interior and feeling more out of his element than ever. The wallpaper was chocolate brown and decorated with cocoa beans, and along the right wall was a long line of booths, a couple of them occupied by customers sipping their morning coffees and scrolling on their phones. To the left was the counter, and an elderly blonde woman with silvering hair was standing at the register, meeting his eyes and giving him a polite smile and wave.

“Hey, hun… can I help you?” the blonde asked.

“Ah… m… maybe,” Michael replied, pausing for a second just to stare into her hazel eyes, reading her rather intently and feeling another spark of shock at the mere idea of meeting and speaking with an entirely new person.

He gulped, hesitated for a moment, then stepped closer.

“I, um… I’m looking for someone,” Michael explained. “He looks kind of like me, but with short hair, and he usually wears darker outfits. Have you seen him?”

The woman’s mouth drifted open, and she paused for a second to think, then shook her head.

“I… don’t think so, hun, sorry,” the replied. “I mean… there’re a lot of guys with black hair who come in and outta here. Maybe give me some more details about him? Something more distinct…?”

“Oh… um… well,” Michael mumbled, biting his lip and shifting his hairs back. “He’s just as pale as me, too… and he has the same black eyes… and… oh, he likes to party. He’d probably go to a nightclub or something if he could.”

“Ahhh… well, we get a lot of the after-crowd from Rock Rollers in the morning,” the woman told him, nodding and adjusting her egg-shaped glasses. “He might wander in here with a hangover like a lotta them folks do. They always want that morning coffee more’n anybody.”

Michael made a slow, confused nod, squinting questioningly at her. “Rock… Rollers?”

“Yeah… that’s the club down yonder,” the woman informed, swatting loosely over at the front window. “You go right down the main road, and you make a left turn on Cheshire Avenue… and it’s about half a mile down that way.”

Michael made another nod, despite being fairly befuddled.

The woman read his expression and flashed a smile. “You ain’t from around here, are you?”

“I… um… no, not really,” Michael replied with a sigh. “I’m sorry, I’ve never been in town before…”

“Oh… don’t be sorry, hun, it’s all right,” the woman said warmly. “I can give you the address if you want, and you can look it up on your phone.”

Michael stared at her. “On my… on a phone? ”

“Yeah… on Google Maps,” the woman clarified, pulling out her own smartphone and swiping the screen. “I reckon you got Google Maps, right? Most everybody does.”

Michael gazed at the device she was holding, feeling truly and utterly lost. He’d never even used a phone before—and the only phones he’d ever seen were the ones in the movies, large phones with cords and number keys. He’d certainly never seen anything like the one in this woman’s hands.

“I don’t… um…” Michael stammered, gesturing meekly to her device. “I don’t… have one of those.”

The woman lowered her phone slightly, her brows raising, looking a bit surprised. Then, she moved around the counter and approached him, standing by his side and showing him her phone’s screen.

“Well, that’s all right… I can just show you,” she said, zooming in on her Google Maps app. “You see this blue line going down the main road? And then it veers left and goes down that road a little ways…?”

Michael squinted down at the screen, his eyes following the trail of the blue line on what appeared to be a digital map. Then, he nodded with understanding.

“Ohhh… I see, okay,” he laughed. “Just go down this road and go left… I gotcha. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome, dear… but you might not wanna bother with it right now,” the woman advised. “That place closes around three in the morning, and nobody’s gonna be there right now. They open back up at four in the afternoon, so… if your little friend is gonna go back and party some more… then you might catch him there in the afternoon, or the evening.”

“Oh… all right, thank you,” Michael said graciously.

“No problem, dear,” the woman replied with a wave. “You take care, now.”

Michael smiled and nodded, turning to leave the café—then he suddenly halted, surprised to see someone standing oddly close behind him.

A man in a tan trench coat had walked into the café at some point, and he’d been standing behind Michael—now directly meeting his gaze, his eyes a sharp blue, his hair black and short, and his expression notably serious.

Michael stared, swallowing and feeling another spark of anxiety. He wasn’t sure how people usually acted in the regular world, but he couldn’t think this was normal…

“Ah… hello,” Michael mumbled.

The man gave him a nod, his brow hardening.

“Hello,” the stranger uttered, his voice a soft rasp, and he reached behind him and gently began to push the glass door open. “Mind if we talk?”

Michael eyed him skeptically, still feeling as if this was quite unusual, but he nodded regardless.

The stranger stepped outside onto the sidewalk, and Michael followed him, the glass door swinging shut behind them. Then, the man slid his hands into the pockets of his trench coat, sighing and facing him fully.

“My name is Virgil Knightingale,” the man introduced. “And I believe I may know who you’re looking for.”

Michael blinked and shot him a surprised look. “Oh… really? You know where he is…?”

The man named Virgil let out a breath, glancing to the side for a moment and reaching into his coat’s inner pocket. He pulled out his wallet and flipped it open, revealing a shiny gold police badge inside.

“I’m currently investigating a case that… he may be involved with,” Virgil explained. “I can’t disclose very much about it, but he is a person of interest.”

Michael’s mouth hung slightly agape, another wave of shock overcoming him. He wasn’t sure how long his brother had been running amok in the world—and William wasn’t sure, either—but he’d apparently been out for long enough to get himself into some kind of trouble.

“Oh God,” Michael breathed, shaking his head once. “What did he do? Is he okay…?”

“He’s fine, as far as I know,” Virgil told him. “I’ve been watching him from a distance. It’s not so much him I’m interested in. It’s his… associates. He’s just someone who can potentially lead me to them.”

Michael squinted questioningly at him.

“Who is he to you?” Virgil inquired.

“He’s my… my brother,” Michael answered. “He’s kind of been missing from home for… weeks…”

Virgil let out a heavy sigh. “Well… you might want to find him and reel him in sometime soon, because if he’s around when all of this comes to a head, then he will definitely get into some serious trouble in the process. You’d better tell him to get out now while he can.”

“Oh… okay,” Michael muttered with a nod, looking down and frowning, feeling both worried and familiarly frustrated.

Zander always seemed to get into trouble without caring at all about the consequences, and it was always Michael’s job to pull him out of it—but this was on a whole new level.

“Can I ask your name?” Virgil said.

Michael’s eyes flickered back up to him. “Ah… Michael. Michael Voltaire.”

Virgil reached out for a handshake, then paused, narrowing his eyes interestingly at him.

“Voltaire,” he uttered, tilting his head slightly. “That’s… an unusual surname.”

“Yeah… my grandfather changed our family name back in the day,” Michael replied with a laugh. “Supposedly, he was friends with a French writer who used that as his pen name.”

Virgil gave him a long, thoughtful stare.

“Your grandfather was friends with François-Marie Arouet… Voltaire… the French philosopher?” the detective said with intrigue. “But… he lived in the 1700s.”

Michael opened his mouth, momentarily drawing a blank, then laughed and shook his head. “Aha… well, that’s just… that’s just something my mom always told us growing up. She’s… probably just exaggerating.”

Virgil made a slow, strange nod, eyeing him curiously.

“Ah… huh,” the detective muttered. “Well… I won’t take up any more of your time, Mr. Voltaire. Oh, but… before I go… here. Take this.”

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small card, handing it off to him.

“That’s my number,” Virgil stated. “If you see your brother get into any precarious or dangerous situations… you just give me a call. I need information on the people he’s been dealing with… and I suspect he could end up in danger if any of his little dealings go wrong. I don’t think either of us want that.”

“No… sure don’t,” Michael sighed, pocketing the card and wincing slightly, as the sunlight was growing brighter and hotter by the second. “Um… thank you.”

“Not a problem,” Virgil dismissed, raising a hand and turning to leave. “Take care.”

“You too,” Michael nodded.

He watched as the detective marched down the sidewalk and vanished around a distant corner.

Michael then huffed out a distressed cloud of breath, thinking of Zander and feeling an anxious knot beginning to form in the pit of his stomach. His only lead was searching this apparent nightclub—Rock Rollers—but if the place wasn’t open until after four in the afternoon, then there was nothing else he could do, at least for right now.

So, feeling a bit defeated, he turned and marched up the sidewalk, heading back the way he came.

And for a long while thereafter—as he walked on and on, and as the streets of Hailview grew busier, and the morning grew later—the sunlight felt suddenly terrible to him, as if it was baking him beneath the thin, flowy fabric of his baggy white over-shirt.

By the time he was trekking up the expansive hillside, traveling along the side of the road that led away from town, he felt exhausted, his legs throbbing, and his mouth incredibly dry, as if he hadn’t had a drop to drink in years. The sun was behind him, but it was slowly rising in the sky, beating down relentlessly on him as he forced himself to march on.

Michael took the same path he’d taken in the early morning, but it felt much longer to him now, and every step seemed much harder to take. When he finally reached the top of the hill and walked down the side of the isolated back road, the manor came slowly into view off to the left and far across the fields and trees, though he was hardly able to see it clearly, his head strangely light, and his vision just beginning to go bleary.

He reached the spot where the end of the dirt driveway met the roadside, and he let out a massive breath and shook his head once, smacking his cheeks and forcing some composure.

Then, he glanced off to the right—and he spotted something that he hadn’t noticed in the darkness of the early dawn.

Over the huge grassy hillside, and past where the back road led—he was just able to see a shimmering creek, and a small stone walking bridge leading from one side of the water to the other. On the other side of the stone bridge was a single tree, a huge one that towered over the area surrounding it, creating a vast canopy of shade by the water’s edge.

Michael stared at the bridge and the tree for a moment, wondering if he could stay outside for a bit longer if he simply sought shelter from the sun for a while. After all, he still had to go back into town later today in order to find his brother. Perhaps it was best not to return home just yet, especially since his parents would most assuredly not let him leave again if they happened to be awake upon his return.

No, he couldn’t risk going back home only to have his parents try to keep him inside; he had to find Zander and pull him out of whatever deep trouble he was about to land himself in before his parents could have the chance to put either one of them on lockdown.

So, Michael summoned a touch more strength and began walking across the road, stepping onto the grass and spotting a narrow dirt trail that led directly toward the stone bridge.

He approached the dirt trail and began to follow it, his breaths heavy and labored, and his head beginning to spin even more.

The farther he ventured down the dirt path, the slower his steps became, his stance beginning to falter, meandering wobbly down the trail and trying his best to battle the overwhelming dizziness that fought to take over.

“Oh… come on,” Michael gasped weakly under his breath, trying to fixate his dreary vision solidly on the stone bridge ahead. “Come on… I’m almost there…”

After what felt like hours, his foot finally stepped onto the concrete path, and he placed a hand along the stone side of the bridge as he started to walk across it, leaning harder on it with every meager step he took.

Then, when he reached the center of the bridge, he began clutching the side tightly for support, shifting and tottering, his eyes drifting shut, and his strength abandoning him…

“Oh no,” he breathed.

Michael slumped over, pushing himself around, his back sliding down the stone wall as he sank to the ground, the world vanishing from around him…

He lay on the path on the bridge, his consciousness flickering out like the flame of a candle, and Michael knew no more.