Beacon of Light

Defeat was a dark place that she knew all too well.

A boy twisted in anxious sleep. He sweated heavily, drenching his plaid boxer shorts and linen sheets. Another violent turn. He tumbled to the floor in a tangle of bed coverings. He fought free and stared dazed into his darkened room. He made his way to the door, guided by the angled streaks of moonlight that came through the blinds, and the meager light the red numbers of his clock radio provided. It was four-thirty. He wiped a hand over his dark brow and pressed it through damp black hair.

Stupid dream, he thought, starting off toward the bathroom.

The frightful voice burned in his ears.

Arise…Arise…

He tiptoed down the hall sure not to awaken his sleeping parents. His stubbed his toe on something hard with pointed edges and cried out. "Crap!"

He felt about the floor blindly with his hand, and picked up the offending object, an electric train.

"James," he muttered.

"Michael Johnson Blaine!" yelled his mother’s commanding voice from behind the closed door. "What are you doing up at this time of night?"

"Bathroom," he said. Apparently, that was enough-she said nothing more.

Michael clicked on the light, and gave himself a moment to acclimate his eyes to the light before doing his business. Finished, he walked over to the sink and lathered his hands with liquid soap. Habitually, he glanced at the mirror of the medicine cabinet. A strange feeling lay about the room. A small movement drew his eyes to the center of the mirror. He lost his breath. A red letter formed, eerily forged by a steady invisible hand, right there before him. The letter ‘T’.

He felt lost in another dream as he watched more letters write themselves. An ‘H’ appeared, then an ‘E’, and there was the first word. ‘The.’

The, what? Michael wondered. He hoped it would continue.

More words came, all in crimson letters of a very ancient-looking script. They read:

The Psiforce is Coming…

"Ma!" he cried.

She came, all wrapped in her green cotton robes and sleep-cap, looking understandably bedraggled.

"What is it?" she said, looking worried.

"Check out the mirror," said Michael.

"What? You woke me up for-"

"Ma, look."

She sighed and went to the mirror. After a seconds scrutiny, she returned looking more ornery than ever.

"Boy, are you crazy?" she said. "I got work tomorrow."

"Wha-"

"Go to bed."

She stomped back into her room, muttering sleepy nonsense. That boy worries me, she thought.

Michael rushed back to the mirror and he saw exactly what he expected to see. There was the phrase in all its bizarre glory. She had to have seen it. How could she have missed it? It was right there. But then it did something unexpected. The words disappeared, replaced by a new sentence.

They want to kill you.