Chapter One
When the Lights Go Out
(From Draft 7, 4/05/2025 — Things may change ;p)
The air was brisk and chilling on that fateful night. Clouds overhead threatened snow. The edges of uncovered plants had started frosting over. Silence pressed like a blanket over the neighborhood. No dog barked, and no nocturnal creature scurried along the fences. It was as if the world could sense the danger that lurked just out of sight. As if it were holding its breath, waiting…
Just waiting.
Street lamps cast their warm, protective light across the street. Large, modern houses with grand front yards and tall fences stood firm against the chill. Soft lights shone through upstairs windows as parents read bedtime stories to their children.
One by one, the street lamps stuttered, flickered, then faded out, casting the street into an eerie darkness. All save one lamp was diminished into nothing. Its glow brightened, illuminating an odd little house. Unlike its grand neighbors, the home had peeling paint along its walls and resilient weeds for a front lawn. An old, well-used truck sat in the driveway, and a blue light lit up its front window, dancing in a chaotic pattern.
Unaware of the strange behavior of the lamplights outside, a family, cuddled together on an old sofa, watched TV. A tall, broad-shouldered man was lying across most of the couch. He held a bowl of popcorn on his stomach while his legs hung lazily off the end of the sofa. His head, covered in a mess of thick copper waves, lay in the lap of a small woman who played gently his hair. She had pale golden skin, narrow eyes, and chestnut brown hair that fell softly to her shoulders. Her brother, who was tall and lanky, lounged on the other end of the sofa, his long, straight black hair tied back in a ponytail.
Happily situated between the siblings, with a honeybee puppet nestled in the crook of her elbow, was a girl, only eleven years old, with copper hair like her father and a face like her mother’s. Her name was Fable.
An old black-and-white musical flickered in front of them. Fable hadn’t caught the name. Her uncle had found it in the thrift store and had bought it because he and his sister loved musicals.
Fable’s father felt differently.
“They are singing again,” her dad grumbled in his thickly accented voice as the actors began their song.
“Shhh,” her mother scolded, “I’m listening to it.” Her mother also had an accent, although it was not nearly as thick as her father’s.
“Dad,” Fable whispered. “Can I have the popcorn?”
“No,” he grumbled, stuffing some of the popcorn into his mouth. “I need it to survive the singing.”
“Daaaaaad.”
“When they no longer sing, you can have it.”
“Shhh.” Fable’s mother held a delicate finger to her lips.
“It’s okay, Cricket,” Uncle Peter said, a spark of mischief in his dark eyes. We will exact revenge upon your father for this injustice.” Like her parents, Uncle Peter spoke with an accent, although his mastery of English was superior to either of Fable’s parents.
Fable huffed a frustrated sigh and plopped back against the sofa, adjusting the placement of her honeybee puppet, Miss Bumble.
“What do you think is going to happen?” Uncle Peter asked, leaning in conspiratorially. He was trying to distract her, trying to stop her pouting over the popcorn. She gave in. Fable turned her attention to the two people dancing around a moonlit garden, the girl’s dress swinging in graceful arcs. The man followed, their voices intertwining with the dance.
“Um…” Fable shrugged. The scene seemed sorta romantic. “They kiss?”
“Hmmm, maybe.” Peter hummed thoughtfully. “I think something happens just before they kiss, ruining the moment.”
“Peter!” her mom scolded, smacking her brother’s shoulder. “Shhhh!”
Fable glanced at the dwindling bowl of popcorn on her father’s stomach and frowned. “Dad, can I please have some popcorn?”
Her father heaved a sigh, then handed Fable the bowl.
The next moment would forever be frozen in Fable’s mind. Her small hands reached out and wrapped around the rim of the butter-yellow plastic bowl. The way the man lifted the woman in a spin on the TV, her mother leaning a little so that the moving bowl didn’t obstruct her view. The way her uncle was leaning in to help grab the bowl. It all lived in Fable’s mind as the last peaceful moment of that evening.
BANG! BANG! BANG!
Fable screamed as the bowl of popcorn toppled from her hands, its kernals scattering over the floor. Colors and lights erupted around Fable. Ear-splitting pops and a sharp, unpleasant smell filled the air. The TV exploded.
Fable was roughly pulled behind the sofa by her uncle. “Stay down,” he commanded.
In one swift movement, he and her father flipped the couch over, and her mom ripped off the thin fabric underneath. Fable’s eyes grew wide. Guns lined the underside of the floral sofa, like a hidden armory. Without hesitation, her parents and uncle armed themselves and started firing back at the dark-clad intruders.
Fable closed her eyes tightly, curling around Miss Bluble. Electric fear ran through her, making every hair stand on end.
“Gavin, Mary, get Fable out!” Peter shouted.
“We’re getting out together!” her mother called back while her father swore in his native language.
Another series of gunshots filled the air. Incoherent shouting filled the small room. Fable cried out as pain ripped across her arm. Protective arms wrapped her, picking her up and running through the house and out the back door.
The cold cut through Fable’s pajamas, sending a chill through her body. She felt herself practically thrown into the back seat of the truck.
“Stay down,” her father ordered before pushing the front seat back into place.
Fable huddled in the footwell, tears blurring her vision. She tried to focus on the old withered French fries and discarded chip bag wedged under the front seat. She felt the rocking of the car as others got in and heard the pop-pop-pop of guns. The car engine roared to life, vibrating the truck's floor. Gravel crunched under the old tires. A high-pitched screeching sound rang in Fable’s ears as her father peeled onto the road.
“What’s going on?” Fable sobbed. Her voice sounded so small.
“Stay down!” Gavin ordered.
She watched as her mother reloaded her gun in silence. A tear rolled down her mother’s cheek, although she tried to hide it.
Fable sat up a little, a horrible twisting feeling in her gut. The truck bed, he must be there, she thought. Carefully, she clambered onto the back seat and peeked out the back window.
The truck bed was empty.
“Where’s Uncle Peter?”
“Fable, get down,” Gavin snapped.
Fable felt the tears running down her face, her vision blurred. “Where’s Uncle Peter?” she demanded.
Only silence answered.
— — —
The motel room her father had paid cash for was cold and dark. It smelled of old furniture, musty fabric, and cigarette smoke. Fable stood in the doorway of the yellowish-brown room, unwilling to enter—despite the cold. She pressed her hand to the cut in her arm. It had stopped bleeding, but it still hurt. Everything felt like an impossible nightmare, yet she wasn’t waking up.
“Quick, get in,” her dad said, herding them into the room and closing the door. “Mary, stay here with Fable, turn off lights, and keep curtains closed. Don’t—”
“—Gavin, you can’t go back,” her mother interrupted, pulling him to a stop, tears glistening in her eyes. “I can’t lose you.”
“I must return. Peter knows the plan. I will look for him at our emergency place.” He redistributed the ammo. “Take this; keep Fable safe. I will be back.” Gavin brushed some of Mary’s hair away from her face, then leaned down and kissed her.
“Dad?” Fable sobbed.
He looked at her, his expression pained.
“Where’s Uncle Peter?”
“I will find him, Bug. Stay here and be brave.” He kissed her on her forehead before rushing out the door.
The darkness of the room swallowed her.
“Mom?” Fable was cold.
So cold.
Her body was shaking uncontrollably.
“Fable, sweetheart…” Her mom wrapped her up in a tight hug.
“What’s happening? I—I don’t understand.” A cold pain clawed at her insides. A strange tingling sensation ran up and down her arms, raising the hairs on the back of her neck. The lights in the room flickered on and off erratically.
“Shhhh,” her mother said softly, holding her tighter. “You’re okay.” A gentle but heavy feeling pressed around Fable, calming the electricity surging through her veins. The lights stopped their flickering, turning off completely.
“I’m sorry, baby. I know this is scary,” her mom whispered. “I’m so sorry.”
Fable couldn’t tell how long it had been until her father returned. They closed the curtains, and under a dim light, her mother cleaned and bandaged her wound. Fable cuddled close to her mom, hugging Miss Bumble close and shutting her eyes tightly against the dancing shadows that played on the walls. She could imagine all too easily men in dark outfits coming out of the shadows.
Finally, her Father’s familiar, tall, broad-shouldered silhouette darkened the doorway. His posture was slumped as he entered the room, closing the door quietly behind him. In one hand, he held a large duffel bag that looked full to bursting, and in the other, Fable’s backpack.
“Gavin?” Mary’s voice was strained.
He didn’t look at them. “We need a new car,” he said despondently, putting the two bags down. “I was able to get important things… papers… photos, anything that identifies—”
“—Gavin!” Mary sobbed, desperately.
He bolted the door. “Fable and I will dye our hair… we will hide better if it is not orange…”
“Gavin…” Mary held Fable tighter.
A sick, cold silence filled the room, a monster that couldn’t be killed.
“Where’s Uncle Peter?” asked Fable in a soft, frightened whisper. Silence followed her question. It stretched, filling the space of the small hotel room.
Finally, her father looked at her, and she could see the answer before he spoke it.
“Peter’s… gone.”