I NEEDED TIME to set the stage.
The instant I arrived in Kansas, I morphed out of my double tick configuration back into my teenage self and enlisted another of my favorite powers: I slowed time down.
Okay—I practically froze it.
(This is also cool to do when engaged in something you never want to end such as drinking a chocolate milk shake.)
Using my imagination coupled with my photographic memory, I completely redecorated the house. I made it look exactly like it had looked when I was three years old—down to the throw rugs, overstuffed furniture, and framed old-world masterpieces hanging on the walls.
I propped up my pretend parents in the kitchen and living room, fighting the urge to pose Dummy Dad with his finger up his nose. I positioned Mom near the stove where she was stirring a simmering pot of her famous Pork Chops Diablo, slow cooked in a spicy chili sauce with caramelized onions. I inherited my love for gourmet food from my mom, who could also whip up a mean chili dog.
More importantly, I wanted the kitchen to smell the way The Prayer remembered it smelling that night. The tantalizing scents of pork chops, chili powder, and perfectly cooked onions were definitely in the air.
Next, I imagined up a three-year-old me and placed him in the basement. I made sure the three-year-old Daniel lived up to my Alpar Nokian nickname of “Stinky Pants.” I also popped open the lid on a couple of tubs of Play-Doh, so its salty-sweet kindergarten fragrance filled the air.
All these scents mingling in the air would definitely help sell the time and place. One huge thing I had picked up from studying The Prayer’s battle tactics was its reliance on the sense of smell when stalking its prey.
I made one final check.
Everything looked and smelled as it had that night.
Now I had to focus on matching the sounds. I spent a few nanoseconds mentally projecting a script into the minds of the puppets The Prayer had fabricated to play its mind games on me.
When the dialogue was downloaded, I released my grip on time.
“Daniel?” said the mom look-alike. “Dinner will be ready in five minutes. Time to start wrapping things up, honey.”
Using my ventriloquist skills, I pitched my voice higher and made it sound like it was coming up the steps from the cellar: “Yes, Mom. One minute. I’m making Play-Doh history down here.”
“Of course you are, dear. I would expect nothing less. Love you. Always.”
“Love you back, Mom. Always.”
Yes, even when I was three years old I spoke like I’d already graduated college.
Time slipped forward.
I saw my mother humming as she stirred her stew pot. My dad was in his favorite chair, reading the local newspaper, lowering its crinkly sheets as he drifted off into a pre-dinner catnap.
I glanced at the wall clock hanging in the kitchen and mentally did the countdown. Three, two, one…
BOOM!
Right on cue, The Prayer crashed through the window and into the kitchen.
Showtime!