Day Eight ∞ Friday morning

THE NIGHT DIDN'T OFFER MUCH REST. Every time Danny started sinking into sleep, there came the images—flooding his mind.

The black Dodge Aspen rolling by.

Faces in the dark watching him through the window.

A man looking at the microwave while sliding his fingers behind a counter ledge to deposit a bug.

Those and other disturbing images kept jarring him awake and so he spent most of the night staring at the palely illuminated ceiling above Mickmi's bed, replaying what happened on the balcony instead.

"What did you do?"

"Disabled all listening devices inside... except in the kitchen."

"You can do that?" She just smiled at him. "But why not all of them? You know I want all of them out of my house!"

"I know—but nay. It is best to leave something behind, or they will try something more drastic."

He was still holding her hands at the time. When he'd asked her if she'd recovered access to her collar, she focused inward for a while, then shook her head in her characteristic way, a troubled crease appearing between her brows. "I can not connect."

"You just did, though. You got it to activate. Why not now?"

"I must direct myself. But the sinnesband recognizes not my brain wave signature..."

"I guess it's because you're trying too hard. But when I talk you through it, you can just act."

"Aye. And you were correct that my mind is the key for me to access my sinnesband... But the amnesia has made my key defective."

"No, not defective—incomplete, maybe, but you're in no way defective..." He'd chuckled at that. "You said 'sinnesband'... That's something you remember. A.I. sinnesband... What's that? Artificial intelligence?"

"I.A.—not 'A.I.'—sinnesband." She'd smiled as she corrected him. "Intelligent augmentation."

"Of your mind."

"Aye."

"That means that you could do a lot with it."

He could see in his mind's eye how her gaze became distant with an intense focus. "Aye. More than can be listed."

More than can be listed. That promised an intriguing amount of possibilities and he'd already witnessed a few. As he lay on the floor trying to imagine what else the 'sinnesband' could help her do, he drifted off to sleep again. The moments of rest didn't last long, however, and the cycle of disturbed slumber started again.

It was after two in the morning when he decided he couldn't take it anymore. With an envious glance at Mickmi's peaceful form, he left the room and headed for the refrigerator. Then he changed his mind and located his track shoes in the hallway, stepped outside into the floodlight and pleasantly cool night air. He passed the rosebush, heading for the darkness at the edge of the lawn, stopped next to a pine tree and looked back at the house.

He could see part of the table through the kitchen window, the light on the wall casting some rays inside. If the light were turned on inside, the view would've been clear as day. Just like when they were watching us that night; and probably with binoculars.

The thought was so disturbing it gave Danny a piercing pain at his temple and he closed his eyes for a moment as he rubbed it with his fingers. Then he threw himself into a determined run along the perimeter of the yard. When he reached the kennel he released Zorro and continued with several laps with the dog at his heels until his chest felt like it would explode. Only then did he stop running, bending over with hands on knees, panting heavily with sweat streaming. He was seriously out of practice, that was for sure. He allowed himself to sink to the ground next to Zorro for a while. The dog sat down, panting happily.

Yeah, he could feel it now. Maybe he'd be able to catch a couple of hours sleep now that he got that out of his system. He tore the soaking T-shirt off over his head, got up to put Zorro back in the safety of the kennel, and returned inside.

∞

Mickmi was alone at the table, calmly eating pancakes when Gina came downstairs. "Hi, Mickmi—morning, Mom."

"Hi." Mickmi smiled in response and took another bite.

"Good morning, dear," Mother said as she focused on pouring batter into the frying pan.

Gina came to the kitchen. "How are you feeling?"

"I'm perfectly fine, my dear, don't worry. I know the tests will say the same thing." Mother turned from the stove and looked searchingly beyond Gina. "Where's your brother?"

Gina looked confused. "Hasn't he come down yet?"

"Noo, dear, that's why I'm asking."

"Have you seen Danny?" Gina turned to Mickmi.

Mickmi met her gaze. "He needs sleep."

She stared at Mickmi for a moment. "You mean, he's not up yet? He can't be in bed now; he's gonna be late for work!" She sighed. "I'll get him."

She knocked twice on his door before pushing it open. "Danny, time to wake—" she started before realizing he wasn't in his bed. As she turned to leave, she caught sight of a large cardboard box in the corner of his room—then her eyes widened as she saw the almost empty shelves and wall spaces. "Danny?"

Frowning she headed for the guest room and threw the door open without knocking. "Rise and shine," she sang bittersweetly as she headed for the windows to pull the curtains apart. "You're gonna be late for work!" She returned to the other side of the bed and looked down at him, arms akimbo. "Danny!"

"What?" Danny mumbled, covering his face with his arm.

She tapped his ankle with her foot. "What's the matter with you? Busy night?"

"As a matter of fact..." He yawned and rubbed his face. "What time is it?"

"It's seven-thirty."

He sat up hastily. "Damn, I'm gonna be late for work!"

"Mmhm!"

Danny noticed his sister's tapping foot and raised his gaze past her folded arms to her frowning face. "What?"

"Daniel Antonio McGahn! When exactly were you planning on telling me?"

He tried to think as he squinted at her with furrowed brows. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"What you're doing in your room."

"Huh? What have I done?"

"You're packing your stuff and you haven't said a word to me."

"What? Oh!" He got up to face her, grinning sheepishly. "No, Sis, that's not what I was doing—"

"You're my brother; I'd like to think that at least you'd have the courtesy to let me know in advance."

"Shut up for a sec and listen. I'm not going anywhere, okay? I just thought it was time for me to change things... Kind of redecorating, you know."

Gina glared at him for a couple more seconds, then sighed in relief. "You had me worried there... I thought you were planning to leave without saying goodbye."

"I wouldn't do that to you, Sis, honest," he said, putting a hand on her shoulder. "You know me better than that." He tilted his head, making sure she met his gaze. "Okay?"

"Yeah, yeah." Then she smiled. "Can I help you redecorate?"

A corner of his mouth lifted amusedly. "Oh... I don't know about that." He bent to pick up his pillow. "I'll think about it, okay?" He patted her arm as he stepped around her. "Later."

∞

"Our subject is Danny McGahn. He lives with his mother and sister at Number 9 Pine Ridge Lane. He also has a girlfriend staying at the house." O'Malley, the Director of Operations, surveyed the photographs and notes on the display board behind him before turning back to the room of agents, specialists and support staff.

"This is what we know:

"We have determined that the subject was in the vicinity of Hardridge Creek around the time of the crash. The lab confirmed that it was the subject's vehicle that ran off the road just after the bridge via samples collected from the bumper.

"We know the subject had a passenger, most likely the still-unidentified girlfriend with him on the night of the crash, from soil samples found inside the cab. We don't have concrete evidence but what we've gathered so far, including the interview of a neighbor, seems to point to the subject having known her for some time.

"We've found samples of two types of animal hair from the truck bed, one of which is confirmed to belong to the subject's dog. The other is not canine and has traces of organisms from the lake—so we know that the subject knowingly or unknowingly carried an additional passenger, a furred animal that had been in the lake, upon leaving the site.

"Surveillance of the subject's home has been subject to some kind of interference—Weaver will speak to us on that. By the way, Weaver: where's Dawson?"

"Monitoring surveillance, sir."

"Good... Next, the flip side of this investigation is the Party Crasher at Maxwell's. Barrett is our agent on the ground; he reports that the technology that built this ship is so far advanced that they can't even find or create an entry point to get into it.

"This is what we have yet to determine:

"The source of the second set of animal hair.

"Who the passenger in the subject's vehicle was.

"We don't know who the girlfriend is. There is no record of her; we have to assume she is an illegal—whether immigrant or alien remains to be determined. If she is an immigrant, then she is none of our concern at this time. Our focus is on gathering intel to facilitate the capture of the alien or aliens that have landed on our soil. We'll send a team in to do a thorough sampling of the vehicle to build a better picture.

"Weaver, describe to the team what issues you've had with the surveillance."

Weaver rose from sitting on the corner of his desk and opened his mouth to speak just as the entire floor went dark and the computers died.

The emergency lighting chipped in. Seconds later that also went dark.

"What the hell?"

"Everyone: stay right where you are!"

"What happened to the emergency?"

Animated comments, shuffling and minor cursing filled the air as Weaver turned around on the spot, trying to force his eyes to see in the dark. 

"Wait!" he said loudly. "This is exactly the kind of interference Dawson and I had on installing the surveillance equipment." Just then a misty glow caught his attention, halfway up the stairs to the lab.

"What do you mean, Weaver?" It was O'Malley's voice.

"What's that?" someone else said.

Weaver pointed, even though nobody could see him. "Sir, up on the stairs—that glow is exactly what we saw at the subject's house night before last! It must be the alien: it's come here to us."

There was another round of comments, this time more hushed.

"Is that a ghost?"

"I don't believe this! I don't believe this!"

"Is that the—?"

"Can we get silence?" O'Malley said as a cigarette lighter flicked alight, throwing a warm glow at the back of the room. Someone else lit their lighter near the bottom of the stairs but it brought no clarity to what was causing the swirling mist above. "If that's the alien then we want to know why it's here."

Weaver looked around at his colleagues who were all staring at the mist, then swung around his desk to reach for the flashlight in his drawer. He pointed it at the stairs and pressed the switch. Nothing. He shook the flashlight and gave it a few slaps—he knew he had perfectly good batteries in it. But it didn't turn on. It seemed like nothing electrical was working in the presence of that misty thing. Frustrated he put the flashlight down and dug into his pocket for his cigarette lighter.

"Petersen, Smithe, Roberts and Alvarez," O'Malley said, calling the agents nearest to the stairs in a subdued voice. "Draw slowly and approach with caution. Do not fire."

Weaver felt an instant shift in the air that made his face and skin tingle, extinguishing the lighters.

"What the—?"

"Shit! I can't move!"

"Sir. I've been immobilized!"

"Me too!" Several voices echoed.

"Is anyone hurt?" There was no reply. "Can anyone move?"

Weaver kept his eyes on the mist as he flicked his lighter on again. "I can, sir."

All heads turned to look at him in surprise.

"Why—you seem to be the only one. Can you call for reinforcements?"

"I don't think that will help but... Let me check the phone line." Weaver put down the lighter and reached for the receiver. The tone announced loudly that the telephone was still working, but before he could dial the number he was startled by a soundless voice.

—You seek me.

Everyone looked around in shocked silence. It took Weaver a moment to realize he'd heard it speaking inside his head. He exhaled as he lifted his gaze to the stairs. The mist had contracted to a loose form resembling a human figure, casting a cold glowing aura around it.

—I am here.

A few seconds passed before O'Malley spoke. "Who are you? Why are you here?"

They waited in silence, but there was no reply. Weaver lowered the receiver and tested his limbs: he could still move. He picked up the lighter again and took a few steps around the desk, but someone was standing in the way. "Let me pass," he said.

"I can't move. Sorry!" came the response.

He used his lighter to find an alternate route between the desks and semi-frozen colleagues to where the director was standing, glued to the spot.

"I demand you release my staff!" O'Malley said testily as Weaver reached him.

There was still no reply from the form on the steps.

"Sir..."

O'Malley turned his head to look at Weaver, the flame from the lighter casting a warm glow on their faces and a bright gleam in their eyes. "Well, I'll be damned," O'Malley said after a few moments. "I believe it wants to talk to you, Weaver. You have the floor."

Weaver took a deep breath and looked up. The mist hadn't changed position; he could make out what he thought was a head and shoulders. There were no apparent legs or arms visible between the railings, just a hazy column of swirling mist. Whether it was male or female, he couldn't tell. It probably had no gender. "Who are you?" he said.

—A Maarian Aumega. The response was immediate, clear and silent.

So it was willing to communicate. But it was disconcerting to have a disembodied voice speak inside of his head. He wouldn't admit it to himself that at the same time he felt relieved: this sentient, ghostly entity, wielding enough power to interrupt their power and emergency supply as well as incapacitating his colleagues, was willing to talk—and talk to him. Now it was his move—who knew if they'd get another opportunity like this again? He glanced at O'Malley. "Are you hearing this too?"

"Yeah," O'Malley breathed, nodding. "Go on."

Thank God, he wasn't the only one to hear the voice inside his head. Weaver edged himself closer to the stairs. "Is the ship that landed in the lake yours?"

—I was onboard.

"Are there more of you here?"

—There is only I.

"Are there more of you coming to our planet?"

—There is only I.

Weaver found the answers somewhat strange. It was a simple yes or no question, yet it answered indirectly with three or four words. Was he reading too much into it? "Why are you on our planet?"

—It was an accident.

"So we gather. Where are you from?"

—Earth.

There was a puzzled murmur from the floor. "Earth? That's not possible!"

"What do you mean, 'Earth'?" Weaver asked as he reached the bottom of the stairs and found himself hitting an invisible wall of tingling energy that blocked him from proceeding further. He stepped back and waved the lighter in front of him to see if he could see a reflection of some kind of a surface. There was nothing visible, so he stretched out his other hand to test it—and snatched it back with a gasp at the electric shock he received. He rubbed his hand vigorously against his leg—approaching the alien was clearly out of the question.

He drew a deep breath and backed away to get a better view of the mist without risking a permanent cricked neck. Since he'd received no answer to the last question, he continued, "Do you have a name?"

—Blanc Aave.

"'Aave'..." Weaver heard Niskanen say from across the room. "That's Finnish for 'ghost'. Does it know Finnish?"

Weaver ignored him. "Are you a ghost?"

—I am Aumega.

"Why have you, an 'Aumega', come to us?"

—You seek me.

"You're an alien on our planet, on the soil of the United States of America. Are you willing to sit down and talk with us about your situation?"

—It is not possible.

"Why not?"

—It is not what you do.

Well, it sure isn't naive. "So what are you going to do? What are your plans here?" Weaver waited but the voice in his head didn't respond. Instead, he noticed the column of mist expanding and losing density. "Wait!"

He kept his eyes glued on the fading mist as he reached for the nearest telephone and dialed a number with the memory in his fingers. "Connect me to Dawson," he said when there was an answer at the other end.

A moment later he heard his partner's voice. "Dawson."

"Weaver here. Give me a status report," he said with urgency.

"The subject and girlfriend have just left in the truck."

"How long ago?"

"Two minutes. The other two occupants will be leaving for a doctor's appointment and shopping in an hour. The house will be vacant for a few hours today."

"Okay, then we can check on the installations. But right now we have a situation here at HQ. Stay put. Will talk to you later." Weaver hung up the receiver. At least now he was certain that the girl was not the one that caused the interference at the house that night.

Suddenly the lights blinked back to life and the machines started buzzing. The entire floor gave off a collective sigh of relief as everyone was able to move their limbs again; the air was filled with animated discussion.

"Agents: I want you to search the entire building thoroughly for this thing, two by two, right now! Weaver, you stay here and give me your report on this before you leave," O'Malley said across the floor as he started walking from desk to desk to check on every remaining member of his staff. "We're going to have to review the focus of our search and work out how we're going to capture that thing!"

"Yes, sir." Weaver returned to his desk and turned on his typewriter. Then he sat back, thoughtfully staring into space. 

This was too easy. Why would the alien entity come to them and freely answer so many questions? And yet, there seemed to be so much more to the answers it gave that it didn't say.

He shook his head slowly. Whatever the decision would be about the investigation, he knew he wasn't going to give up on his surveillance. He was certain now that their alien visitor was protecting something else, and that that something was located at 9 Pine Ridge Lane.

— ∞ —

©2016 by kemorgan65

Image: The banner image is a Photoshopped composite I made.