Being back on Staten Island felt like waking up from a dream, and it was a good feeling. Walking out of the ferry terminal into the cool, golden evening, Marlow found himself wishing that the events of the last few days were some kind of hallucination. A machine that let you play with the fundamental laws of physics? Demons that came after you when you did? It was insane. Maybe he’d fallen asleep on the ferry, lulled into nightmares as it swayed across the upper bay. Here, now, with people bustling past him—tourists snapping pictures, suits heading home from late nights in the city, tired children yelling—there could be no such thing as monsters. It was just him, in the place he’d lived his whole life.
Then his new cell buzzed for the fourth time and he saw Pan’s text there—Get your stupid ass back here, Marlow, last chance—and the world flipped upside down again like a stunt plane. Of course it was real. He’d seen it, felt it, been beaten half to death by it. He could still feel the power of the Engine thrumming inside him, knew that he only had to start running and time itself would slow down to accommodate him. He checked his watch, those numbers counting down relentlessly, thought about what would happen when it reached zero, what would come after him.
Yeah, there were definitely monsters.
He batted back a quick text, wont be long. Then he pocketed the cell and set off. Technically he hadn’t disobeyed Pan, she’d said she didn’t want to see him disappear, and she hadn’t—she’d been fast asleep on the couch when he left. Besides, he needed to go home, needed to check on his mom.
He could have taken a bus, but at this time of day it would be quicker to walk. It was farther than he thought, though, and by the time he reached his street the sun was hovering over the rooftops, nesting in the trees, making it look like the island was on fire. His legs were grumbling as he walked up the steps to his house, but there was a song in his heart he hadn’t heard for what felt like forever. He was smiling as he pushed open the door.
“Yo, Mom,” he said, walking into the cool interior. “Donovan, here boy!”
There was a familiar scrabble of claws on wood, a gentle ruff from the dining room. Donovan skittered around the corner, tongue dangling, tail wagging, and Marlow dropped to one knee, slapping his legs.
“Come here, D, I missed you.”
The dog stopped, his tail dropping like a guillotine blade. He took a few clumsy steps back, cocking his head and whining from the darkness at the end of the corridor.
“Hey, stupid, what’s up?” Marlow said, scooching closer. The fur on the dog’s neck began to rise, the skin around his mouth pulling back to reveal teeth. Donovan whined again, then barked, twice, the kind of bark usually reserved for yappy dogs in the park.
Or for strangers.
“Hey, dude, it’s me,” Marlow said, patting his legs again. When he disappeared for a couple of days Donovan usually had him on the floor by now, that pink tongue trying to lick his face off. The dog’s eyes were huge and white and there was a definite growl throbbing in his throat. Marlow stood up and Donovan flinched, retreating to the wall, that growl like a generator. He barked again, white foam flecking his mouth.
“Better get out,” came a voice from the back of the house, his mom, her words slurred. “Dog’ll tear you a new one.”
“Mom, it’s me,” he yelled. “It’s Marlow.”
Footsteps, soft and slow. The dog looked to the side, whined, licked its lips. Then his mom was there, squinting around the corner. There was a glass of Bacardi in her hand and she was swaying like they were at sea. But it was good to see her. Marlow smiled, taking a step toward her, but Donovan barked again, his hackles fully raised.
“Jesus, Mom,” he said, trying to laugh it off. “What you been feeding him?”
His mom didn’t answer, just stared at him, studying him like he was a TV show with crappy reception. The only noise in the house was that pulsing growl from Donovan’s throat.
“Mom?” Marlow said, his gut churning. She leaned forward, her face screwing up.
“Marly?”
“Yeah,” he said. “It’s me. What’s going on? I’m sorry I went away. I’ve been somewhere. I’ve got a … a job. I should have called but you wouldn’t believe—”
“Not him,” his mom whispered, the words almost lost beneath Donovan’s growl.
“What?”
“You’re not him,” she said, jabbing her glass at him so violently that some of the alcohol slopped out over the dog’s head. Donovan didn’t even notice, padding forward on those big feet, barking wildly. Marlow took a step back, crashing into the door. “You’re not my son, you’re not my Marly.”
“Mom, please,” he said. The dog was still advancing and Marlow scrabbled for the doorknob. “Donovan, boy, it’s me.”
The dog was running now and Marlow ripped open the door, tripping out and pulling it shut behind him. Donovan thumped against it, his claws scraping at the wood. Marlow crawled back on his ass, almost rolling down the steps. By the time he’d found his feet again he could hear his mom behind the door, screaming.
“What have you done with him? What have you done with my boy?”
He backed away, out onto the street, clamping his hands to his ears.
“You’re not him, you killed him, you killed my Marly.”
It couldn’t be real.
“You killed my boys, my boys.”
He turned, blinded by tears, not caring where he was going. He just had to get that voice out of his head, that awful, fear-choked, desperate cry.
“My Marly! My Marly! You killed him!”
A horn blared, tires screeched, and he looked to see a car next to him, the red-faced driver throwing him the bird. Marlow lashed out before he even knew what he was doing, a thumping blow that flipped the car into the air like it was made of tin foil. It crunched down, riding a wave of sparks along the street before finally grinding to a halt. Marlow stood there, shaking his head, wondering whether he should go help. Then another car pulled up, somebody yelling at him. Doors were opening along the street, a woman’s voice yelling for somebody to call the cops.
Marlow ran, knowing for sure now that there were monsters in the world.
And knowing that he was one of them.