The Other Side
By redwolf

The Other Side

“For I have sworn thee fair, and thought thee bright,
Who art as black as hell, as dark as night.”
- William Shakespeare, Sonnet CXLVII

Prologue

Pressing his hand against the cut on his chest and resolutely gritting his teeth to keep his slipshod glamour in place, Kalen pulled himself through the broken window, barely flinching as he raked his stomach along the splinter-ridden empty frame. His head pulsed as the smell of iron drifted into the room with the fading light; it was cloying, and burned his throat as he breathed. He landed in a derelict, deserted room that looked as if it hadn't been disturbed for years – but Kalen knew better. Plenty of people came through this room on a fairly regular basis; he only hoped, as he hauled himself to his feet, that the right ones would be the next to pay a visit.

He ascended the rickety stairs as carefully as he could manage, using the banister to haul himself upwards – it creaked and groaned, but didn't come off in his hands, for which he was thankful. When he reached the landing – it seemed to stretch on forever, he was sure it hadn't been half as long as this the last time he went down it – he used the peeling, crumbling walls for support, leaving smears of blood like a trail of breadcrumbs. He didn't worry; if they were tracking him, they would have caught up with him hours and hours ago. He didn't have to fret that they were going to finish him off, oh no; here, on this plain, plenty of other things could come and claim him as their own.

When he finally reached the room, Kalen allowed himself to collapse in the corner; his vision began to darken around the edges, but he fought for consciousness, tensing the muscles in his body in the attempt to root himself in the present. He felt his wounded chest ache and he gritted his teeth against the cry of pain and fury that wanted to escape. When the darkness around the edges of his vision faded, Kalen closed his eyes and focused, taking deep breaths and concentrating on parting the air, feeling it open and move before him. He envisioned the whiteness he wanted to create; the tear in the world; the doorway, and focused so hard that he began to sweat with exertion. He felt his skin throb and bend, but nothing happened in the space around him; it remained the same, the dust particles drifting, still swirling in the slipstream of his passage.

Kalen looked down at himself. The force of trying to open a window had drained his remaining magic, and he no longer had the power to enforce his glamour. He noted the small puddle of blood that was collecting in his lap, and the milk-white, sickly colour of his skin; his usual glow had been replaced by a dull pallor, and his hand shook when he lifted it to wipe his forehead. Looking around the room, he could see nothing with which to defend himself if anything came for him, and nothing that would aide the replenishment of his magic. Kalen sighed and rested his head on the wall, pulling his knees up to his chest.

Knowing that he had no other choice, he closed his eyes and waited.

The Otherside

Chapter One: Discovery

Sam was many things. Sporty was not one of them. Neither was strong. Or tactful.

“Jesus Christ, you're heavy,” he huffed, nearly pulling my arms out of my sockets as I scrabbled the side of the house for purchase, my sneakers scrabbling uselessly over the smooth, dripping wet bricks.

“Thanks a lot, Sam.”

“You're welcome,” he replied, blinking the sweat and rain out of his eyes and flicking his blond hair off his forehead.

It was pathetic, really; the only reason he was attempting to lift me and not the other way around was because I was so short that I wouldn’t be able to reach the windowsill even with Sam giving me a leg up. Being small is a real hindrance when you’re breaking and entering. Not that we were really breaking. It’s not burglary if the house is deserted. Not that we were ever going to get in, the way things were going. Sam was hanging out of the window by the waist, his face red from where the blood had rushed to it.

“Swing me,” I commanded, and Sam looked at me like I’d lost what little mind I had.

“You what?”

“Swing me! Then I can grab the ledge.”

Sam muttered something entirely unprintable and began to swing me like a pendulum. After a couple of swings, I let go of Sam’s arm and grabbed the ledge, thankfully not slicing my hand open on any stray shards of glass. I latched on with my other hand and gave a heave, pulling myself up high enough to get a knee up on the windowsill; it was at that moment that Sam finally decided to be helpful by leaning out of the window and giving me an almighty pull. Luckily, he broke my fall.

“That was smooth, Megan,” Sam said, flat-out underneath me, “you should try out for WWE.”

He rolled me off him, and I landed on the floor next to him with a thud. “I’ll bear that in mind,” I replied, rubbing my elbow. “It’s always good to have a back-up plan.”

Sam snorted and got to his feet. “It's a good job no one lives here,” he mused, looking around at the dim, dirty room that we’d landed in, “or we'd have brought them down on top of us.”

I looked up at the moss-covered ceiling from my position on the grubby floor. “Just because no one lives here doesn't mean it's empty.” I clambered to my feet and felt my knee throb. “Anyone could be lurking here, just like we are.” I brushed the dust off my shoulders and spun Sam around so I could do the same for him; the dirt was sticking to the wet fabric of his shirt defiantly.

“We've probably put the back up half the homeless population of Donnestan.”

I looked around; there were no empty – or, for that matter, occupied – cardboard boxes, no cans or cigarette ends crushed into the floor. The only things in the huge room apart from us were two moths, dancing around each other in the fading evening light, carving patterns through the glistening dust-motes. I looked at Sam. “When was the last time you saw a homeless person in Donnestan? Honestly?”

He raised an eyebrow. “Good point, Megs. We’ll just be pissing off the ghost of a long-dead scullery maid, or something.” He tipped me a wink, then grabbed my wrist and hauled me towards the door. “Come on,” he said, wrenching it open and pushing me through into the hallway beyond, “it's your dare.”

00000

Sam was my best friend. It’s that simple. He was the person I told everything to and the person I knew everything about. We’d been seated next to each other in our year seven form class, and we’d been inseparable ever since. Our mum’s liked to think that we’d get married someday. We desperately hoped that we wouldn’t. But, despite all this, sometimes I wanted to kill him.

We’d been on the way to my house, strolling along in the drizzle, when Sam spotted Littleton Manor on the hill, imposing as hell, hovering just past the town. Though most deserted houses have legends and local ghost stories attached to them, Littleton Manor had nothing; people just didn’t go there. Ever. Which, in Sam’s mind, made it a pretty good dare. Add to that the fact that he knew the thought of being inside an old, dirty, deserted house terrified me, and it was bumped up to ultimate dare.

He handed me my dare with the air of a magician pulling a rabbit out of a hat (which, incidentally, wound up being his dare as well because I couldn't reach the window by myself). By the time we got out of the town and up the hill it was already getting dark, and we were soaked through; the rain had intensified and we didn’t have coats. I knew without looking that my usual fiery hair would be dulled to a brown with the rain, and my blue jacket would be approaching navy. Sam’s white shirt was almost see-through.

So, there we were, dripping and shivering cold, ascending the rickety staircase, the layers of dust muffling any noise made by our feet. By the time we were halfway up, Sam was already beginning to chicken out.

“Okay,” he said, as we reached the landing, “this is far enough; you win.”

I glanced at him, surprised; usually Sam was the one leading these sorts of adventures. There seems to be something in the Y chromosome that makes males unafraid of the dark, heights, spiders and old, empty houses. Something that females lack. But not tonight, apparently. I looked around us; enough light came through the old landing window for me to see the faded wallpaper, and high ceiling, and the half-broken chandelier above the huge staircase. I ran a hand down the wall, patterned with old fleur-de-lis, peeling away in places, and spotted with something that looked uncannily like—

I drew my hand away sharpish. “Sam,” I said quietly, “is that blood?”

Sam took an automatic step backwards and almost fell down the stairs. He gripped the creaky, grimy banister to steady himself. “I don’t think so,” he said, “no. No way, of course it’s not blood.”

I stared at the faded brownish stain. It looked a hell of a lot like blood to me. I pushed the thought away and walked towards the nearest door, trying the handle. “Come on,” I said over my shoulder to Sam, who was looking uncharacteristically worried. “Don't be a wuss. We might find something.”

“Or we might fall through the floorboards.”

I snorted. “You're such a girl,” I said, opening the door to the first room; it was empty and bare, but I walked inside anyway. I could hear Sam calling me back from his position at the top of the stairs.

“Megan! Can we just go, please?”

I ignored him, leaving the room and crossing to the one opposite. “This was your idea, Samuel,” I said. The door was locked – or just swelled shut, from years of disuse – so I moved on to the next one. “Since when have you been so eager to get out of an empty house?”

“Since when have you been so eager to stay in one?”

I laughed and moved down the hallway, Sam bleating away behind me, intrigued by the old rooms and the strange stain on the wall. Though I couldn’t have been more than a few metres aware from Sam, he seemed to be shrinking, his voice becoming fainter the further away from him I went. I turned a corner at the end of the hallway, and saw the last door. I got tingles down my spine as I heard Sam call, “Meg, don't. Please let's go.”

I took a few steps forward. The door was ajar, which made me pause; if there were homeless people living here, I didn't really want to barge in on top of them. But something – I liked to think it was my bravery, but knowing what I know now I’m sure it was probably something else – made me fearless; I walked forward and laid my hand on the doorknob, pushing the door open the rest of the way.

It was dark in the room, almost pitch black; I blinked and tried to let my eyes become accustomed to the lack of light, but it was almost full dark outside, and what little light managed to filter through the cracks in the boarded-up windows still left one half of the room in shadow. I was about to turn away – I could still hear Sam whining, though he sounded miles away – when I heard something from inside the room.

Usually I would have run away as fast as my legs could carry me, but I was glued to the spot; I waited, not breathing, my eyes searching the darkness for the source of the noise, my whole body rigid... when I heard it again. Breathing; slow, laborious breathing. I felt the hair on my arms stand up; it sounded like the death rattle of an old, sick man.

“Hello?” I could hear my voice shaking, and I swallowed. “Is someone there?”

I heard Sam, miles away, fall silent, and – keeping my eyes trained on the darkness that seemed to swell and shrink – I dug around in my bag, searching for my phone. Half of me was being assertive and telling the flailing half that I’d just walked in on a sleeping hobo, but the flailing half had taken control and my hands were shaking too hard to locate my phone in my relatively small bag. When I found it, I quickly switched on the camera, and then the permanent flash. I took a tentative step into the room and aimed the torch in front of me, peering into the harsh light. I took another step and moved the light along the wall; I couldn't hear anything now, but I was pretty sure – no, positive – that I had.

Then I saw a pair of boot-clad feet, and my breath caught in my throat.

“Sam,” I called shakily, but there was no way he could have heard; I couldn't raise my voice above a whisper. “Sam.”

I stretched my arm closer to the pair of feet, and the light slid up the body; I could feel my heart beating a tattoo against my ribcage, and, as the torchlight alighted upon a bloodstained hand lying next to the body, it stopped beating altogether. When the torso and face were bathed in light, I let out a shrill, ear-piercing scream.

Barely a heartbeat passed before Sam appeared, looping his arm around my waist and wrenching me out of the way, stepping in front of me, his deeply-buried chivalrous side taking over. Of course, by doing so he obscured the light, and the room was plunged back into darkness. “What?” He yelled, spreading his arms out as I tried to pull him backwards out of the room, “What the hell is it?”

I made a mental note to tell Sam to shove his next dare where the sun don’t shine and wordlessly pointed to the corner. Sam stared into the darkness for a moment, before he crossed to the boarded-up window and tried to pull the planks loose. They were rotten, and after a few tugs and well-aimed kicks, began to crack and come away. I hadn't taken my eyes away from the corner and, as the dying light began to drift into the room, I was surprised to see that the thing was still lying there; I had half expected it to disappear. Then I caught sight of all the blood, and I realised it couldn't disappear, even if it wanted to.

Sam finished wrenching the boards away from the window and turned. “Holy shit,” he whispered.

I glanced at him and registered the shock on his face; my previous self-assurances that it was a snoring homeless guy melted away entirely, along with the assertive half of my personality. I felt my legs shake. The thing's golden eyes were still staring at me. I slipped my phone back into my bag and took a small step closer; it recoiled against the wall as I did so, and I stilled. Slowly, I crouched down to eye level. I glanced up at Sam; he looked as pale as I knew I was.

I watched it, as it watched me. It was a boy, of sorts; I couldn't put an age to him. He looked older than seventeen, but I couldn't be sure. He seemed ageless. His long, fine, silver hair fell down his shoulders, the top half of it pulled back to reveal pointed ears poking through the strands; his eyes shone as green as a coral reef, and his perfect mouth was parted, the wheezing breaths I'd heard earlier rushing from between his pale lips. His skin was chalk-white, the gash on his chest visible through his ripped shirt, cherry-red against his skin. I looked at him, drank him in, and searched my mind for a feasible explanation. None was forthcoming.

I opened my mouth. I had no idea what the etiquette was for this sort of situation. I paused a moment, before asking, “What are you?”

His astounding eyes – eyes that had been taking in my dirty jeans, my drenched jacket and my messy, damp hair – snapped to mine, but he didn't answer.

I felt Sam tugging the back of my jacket. “Megan,” he said, his voice hushed, “we need to leave. Right now.”

I could feel the boy watching me as I turned to look up at Sam, who had moved to stand behind me. “We can't leave him,” I replied, mimicking Sam's hushed tones, “he needs our help. He’s hurt.”

Sam bit his lip; his eyes were wide and his hair had dried in ragged curls. He looked wild. “I don't like this,” he replied. “This is such a bad idea.” He crouched down just behind me, and sighed, resigned.

I turned back to the boy, who was now studying Sam closely. I got my phone back out of my bag. “I'm going to call for help,” I said clearly, and his eyes widened in alarm.

“No!” He rasped, and I almost fell onto my bum in shock; Sam made a sound behind me and I suspected that he had done just that. Speaking made the boy cough; he sounded like he smoked thirty a day, or he’d just recovered from throat cancer. “No help.”

I peered at him; the light was dying fast, and the angles of his cheeks cast shadows on his face. He looked like a skull. I could see the veins through the skin at his temples. “What happened to you?” I asked. “Were you in a fight?”

“I was caught,” he replied. His voice was gravelly, and he had a lilting accent that I didn't recognise. “I managed to escape, but now I'm trapped on your plain, and I'm not strong enough to get back. The iron is killing me.” He dissolved into coughs again.

I glanced behind me at Sam, and his expression mirrored mine; whatever this boy was, he was probably also a drug addict. I felt the absurd urge to laugh as I looked at Sam's disbelieving face, but I bit back my laughter. Everything was beginning to take on a surreal quality. The boy had closed his eyes, and shallow breaths still racked his body. He looked close to fainting, and my assertive side reared its head again. “Look,” I said to the boy, “you're badly hurt, and you've lost a lot of blood. You need to go to a hospital or something.”

The boy’s eyes snapped open. “No,” he snarled, with force I didn't know he had left in him, “haven't you been listening? If you take me out of here I will die.”

This outburst seemed to drain him completely, and he slumped backwards, his breathing more pronounced than ever. His eyelids flickered as he fought to stay awake. Behind me, Sam said, “This is ridiculous, Megan. Let's either call him an ambulance or get out of here.”

I got to my feet and took a couple of steps away from the boy, dragging Sam with me. “Look at him, Sam!” I said, gesturing behind me. I knew Sam was looking; the two of us had done nothing but look since we found him. “We have to help him.”

I could feel Sam's arm shaking underneath my hand. “You look at him, Megan,” Sam replied quietly, “what do you think an ambulance crew would do if they turned up here and saw him?”

I bit my lip and glanced back over my shoulder; despite the ever fading light, the boy’s silvery hair glowed, and I knew how extraordinarily bright the eyes that hid beneath his lids were. Not to mention the ears. I rubbed my eyes wearily. “Group hysteria,” I muttered, and Sam snorted.

“I wish.”

“We have to help him, then,” I said, and crouched back down next to the prone form. “If no one else can see him, then we have to be the ones.”

The boy’s eyes opened at that, and then narrowed; he was watching us closely. “Listen,” I said, like I thought he hadn’t been, to every word, “we can’t call for help, because – well, for obvious reasons – so you have to let us help you ourselves. You’ve lost a lot of blood.”

The boy’s eyes slid shut again. “Don't,” he said simply. “Don’t.”

I looked out of the half-boarded window. There was barely any light left at all, and soon it would be far too dark to see, let alone bandage a wounded man. “We can't just leave you here.”

He shook his head feebly. “Don't come back,” he said, and started to cough again, wrapping a bloodstained arm around his middle. I was having an internal battle; I didn't want to abandon him hacking his guts up all over himself, but I couldn’t stay in a freezing cold house in damp clothes all night, or I’d end up just as bad. I sighed and stood up, removing my jacket as I did so.

“Megan,” Sam said, “it's pouring outside.”

I ignored him, placing my jacket over the boy's ripped shirt, tucking it in around his arms. He watched me, his magnificent eyes studying me carefully. “I'm coming back in the morning,” I said, in a tone of finality, “and we’re going to make you better. Just hold on.”

The boy stared at me for a moment, and then nodded. He didn’t say anything.

I smiled at him, once again taking in his unnatural eyes, his pointed ears, his hair, his skin. I felt Sam pulling my hand and, with one last look, turned and left the room. We walked down the corridor slowly, and descended the stairs in silence; it took us only a moment to find the room through which we entered. It was truly dark now, and Sam climbed out of the window first, waiting to catch me as I lowered myself into his arms. As we began to walk back towards the road, I took his hand; as soon as our feet hit the pavement, we broke into a sprint and, as terrified as children in a fairytale, ran all the way home.

The Otherside

Chapter two: Otherworldly Stranger

As soon as the sky outside lightened from navy-blue to dark grey I slid carefully out of bed. Sam didn't stir; he had dropped off to sleep the moment his head hit the pillow, whereas I had sat up all night, uncomfortable, too scared that I would oversleep to allow myself to rest.

It was five o'clock in the morning, and seven hours had passed since we'd left Littleton Manor.

I dressed quietly; it was almost summer, but I pulled on a jumper to protect me from the early-morning cold. I crept to the ironing basket at the end of the hall and stole a pair of my father's jeans, then went to the bathroom and emptied most of the contents into my pockets. I tried to remember what the boy looked like, but I couldn't picture his face; all I could see was my own pale reflection in the mirror, my red hair a shock against my face and the morning light. I splashed some water on my face and padded back to my bedroom. I scoured my draws for the biggest t-shirt I owned, and came up with one that Sam had left behind God only knew how long ago. It bore the legend 'I got lucky in Kentucky' – he’d never even been to Kentucky, let alone got lucky – but it would have to do. I shoved everything in my bag and headed for the door.

“Did you sleep at all?”

I paused with my hand on the doorknob. Crap. “No.”

“So... you were just going to sneak off?”

I turned to face Sam. “Yes,” I said honestly.

Sam was sat cross-legged in the bed, his hair standing up in random tufts, looking about eight years old. He rubbed his eyes. “You think I’d talk you out of it?”

I shrugged. “I thought you might try to.”

Sam clambered out of bed and opened the curtains, perching on the windowsill. “I’m not going to bother, because I know it won’t work.”

I grinned, and he grinned back lamely. “Good plan,” I said. I hefted my bag higher on my shoulder. “Are you coming?”

Sam’s half-hearted grin turned into a fully-fledged grimace before my eyes. He spun around to stare out at the dewy morning. “Would you think I was awful,” he started, and I could hear the shake in his voice, “if I said no?”

I stepped further into the room. “Of course not,” I said honestly. “You don’t have to.”

“Its just…” he turned to face me again. He looked torn, and pale; he looked like he’d had a troubled sleep at best. I thought back to the night before. Sam, standing at the top of the stairs, unable to go any further – as scared as a child, his usual fearlessness gone, desperate that we leave. His eyebrows drew together, and I could tell we were remembering the same thing. “As soon as we got in there, I knew something wasn't right – it didn't feel right. I felt ill, like I was going to faint, and the longer we stayed there the worse it got. I just wanted to bolt. That's not me, Megs; I'm not like that. It was that place, that- that thing—” He broke off and sighed.

I sat down on the bed. “I’ve never seen you look so scared.”

Sam sat down next to me and dropped his head into his hands. “That’s because that was the most scared I’ve ever been. We were just standing in the house. I couldn’t understand why I was so frightened.”

I patted him on the knee. “It’s okay, you don’t have to go back there. I won’t be long.” I got to my feet and padded across the room, pulling open the door quietly so not to wake my parents.

“Megan?” I turned and looked back into the room; Sam was on his feet again, looking paler and younger than ever. “Please be really, really careful.”

00000

He was even more magical in daylight.

That was my first thought when I finally plucked up the courage to push open the door. He was still in the same position, propped up against the wall, and my blue jacket still draped him, but the early-morning sunlight that filtered in through the boards that Sam had broken the night before made him glow so much that I could hardly bear to look at him. He opened his eyes when I made the door creak, and his grass-coloured eyes found mine immediately. I felt a swell of relief when I saw he was alive, and I sunk to the ground next to him.

“I didn't think you'd return,” he said. His accent was barely noticeable, but there: it sounded Russian and French and British all at the same time - harsh, but soft. His voice with still rough and gravelly.

I dropped into a sitting position, my legs crossed, and pulled off my scarf. “Why not?” I asked, sliding my bag off my shoulder.

He sat up straighter and handed me my jacket, but didn't reply.

I took my jacket from him mutely, my eyes fixed on the gash in his chest; it was ruby-red and ugly but luckily not deep enough to have killed him. However, the blood had soaked through his shirt; the waistband of his trousers was stained with it, and he looked as pale as dawn. I looked away, and overturned my bag into my lap; gauze, tape, disinfectant wipes, a packet of paracetamol, baby wipes, the spare clothes and the food I’d stolen from the fridge all tumbled out. I picked up an apple and handed it him.

“Here,” I said, “you must be starving.”

He took it from me warily, seemingly worried that it might be poisoned. But his hunger seemed to stifle his worries as he took a bite; I reached for my own apple as my stomach rumbled. We ate in silence – he finished his apple in record time, so I handed him another, then some cheese, and finally a carton of orange juice – and I observed him, looking for explanations where there were none. I finished my apple long after he'd eaten everything I'd given him. I wiped my hands on my jeans, then looked up at him.

“What's your name?” I asked.

He looked startled; he blinked at me, before replying, “Kalen.”

“Kay-len,” I repeated. I rolled the name around my mouth, then stuck my hand out for him to shake. “I'm Megan. Megan Thomas.”

He stared at my hand, perplexed, until I withdrew it. “You have two first names,” he said, and I laughed out loud.

“You're right. I never thought about it like that.” I picked up the disinfectant wipes and handed them to him. “Here, you should use these. You don't want that cut to get infected.”

His shirt was an over-the-head, v-neck sort, made of some thin, soft material that I couldn't name. Kalen took the wipes from me with a resigned look on his face, and made to pull his shirt off over his head; he gasped in pain, but yanked it off and dropped it to one side. I watched as he wrestled with the resealable lid of the wipes, incredulous – it took him a moment to open them, and pull one out, then he set about dabbing his chest.

All the while, I watched him. I studied the pointed ears that poked out of his hair – hair that shone silver, with no hint of roots or dye. His acid-green eyes... I hadn't had a close enough look, but something told me he wouldn't be wearing contacts. His skin was so pale it was almost translucent and – even in his bloodied, wasted state – he was unnaturally, ethereally beautiful. But his bloodstained shirt, and trousers, and boots... they were almost medieval. He looked like he was from the past. Everything added up to give me one hell of a headache.

He hissed, and I drew my eyes to his chest; the wound was clean, but the gaping mouth of the cut looked obscene against his skin. I felt my stomach roll and wordlessly handed him the baby wipes, averting my eyes hastily. He did his best to scrub the dried blood off his chest and stomach; small cuts dotted his abdomen also, and scars littered his torso and arms. I couldn’t help but wish that Sam was here to back me up. Just in case.

When he was all but clean, I picked up the roll of gauze. I shifted onto my knees and smiled at him apologetically. “Could you lean forward?” I asked; he shifted towards me slightly and leaned, creating space between his back and the wall. I began to wrap the gauze around his chest and I felt myself blush at the close contact with a relative stranger. To hide my awkwardness – and his, no doubt – I said, “So... who did this to you?”

I immediately felt Kalen tense under my hands, and he let out a noise that sounded almost like a growl. “Filthy turncoats!” He snarled, and I jumped, inadvertently tugging the bandage – but he didn't seem to notice. “Traitors against His Royal Highness King Avery, damned vigilantes who should be hung, drawn and quartered!”

I taped the bandage in place and rocked back on my heels, my mouth wide open. If I didn’t know better, I’d think he’d fallen straight out of the Tudor period into the 21st century. Kalen looked beside himself, his jaw set, panting with the exertion of getting angry. “Okay...” I said cautiously, wondering if my drug-addict theory from the night before had some merit. “They attacked you?”

Kalen glanced at me, and seemed to come back to himself; he ran a hand roughly through his hair and shut his eyes. “I'm sorry, Megan,” he said, in a voice of forced-calm. “I lost control.”

“That's okay,” I said, loving the formal way he said my name in his strange accent. I wanted to know more about these vigilantes, but I daren't ask, and Kalen didn't seem like he was going to volunteer any more information. I watched him for a moment, then picked up the spare clothes I'd brought and dropped them in his lap. “I thought you might want a change of clothes.”

Kalen looked down at the clothes and then up at me. “Thank you,” he said, and he seemed almost shocked by the words that were coming out of his mouth. “You're very kind.”

I smiled awkwardly and got to my feet. “No problem,” I replied. I reached down a hand and helped Kalen to his feet; he braced his other hand against the wall and grimaced. Once standing, he towered over me (but, then again, most people did), and I took an involuntary step backwards. “I'll wait outside while you change.”

I waited in the dingy corridor, biting my nails. I wished Sam was there, so someone could see what I was seeing and tell me that I wasn't crazy (or, at least, see what I was seeing and be crazy right along with me). I leaned against the wall and closed my eyes, vaguely wondering what I was getting myself in to. Then I heard a heavy thud, and I rushed back into the room to find Kalen back on the floor, clad in Sam's t-shirt and my dad's jeans. It was so utterly bizarre that I had to laugh.

Kalen looked mildly affronted. “Why are you laughing?”

I looked at him; he looked so unbelievably strange in normal clothes – stranger than normal, at least. “Nothing,” I replied, “you just don't suit regular clothes.” I dropped down next to him and started shoving all the stuff back into my bag. I wanted to ask him more questions – how did he end up in here? Why was he attacked? Where was he from? – but he beat me to it.

“Why were you in here last night?” He asked, then smiled. “Not that I'm not glad that you were.”

I smiled in response. “Sam dared me to come in here.”

His pale eyebrows furrowed. “Sam... the boy you were with?”

“Yeah,” I said, feeling suddenly childish and awkward next to this ageless creature. “We always dare each other to do things. Besides, this place has been deserted for years... we might have found something cool.”

“Instead, you found me.”

I nodded and paused. “You know, this place really freaked Sam out.”

Kalen pursed his lips. “Is that way you came back alone?”

I jumped to Sam's defence. “I was going to leave without waking Sam anyway. He would have come if I'd asked him to, even if he was- scared.”

Kalen nodded. “I see. Were you not scared?”

I frowned; I knew that, usually, I wouldn’t have made it up the stairs. I probably wouldn’t have made it through the window, never mind all the way to this room. “Not really. Not as much as Sam. I was a bit scared when I came in here, but...”

“You screamed.”

“All right, so I was really scared.”

“But not until that point.”

I frowned again, wondering where this line of questioning was going, and if he had a point at all. “No, not until that point.” The thought of my journey up the hill and through the window made me think of something that hadn’t occurred to me before. “What about you? How did you end up here?”

Kalen looked away, out of the window. “It was a safe, dry place. And empty, most importantly. Until you and your friend arrived, that is.”

I looked down at the bandage around his midriff, and remembered what he looked like when we found him. “The people that hurt you...” I started timidly, remembering how he’d exploded at the mention of the ‘filthy turncoats’ minutes before, “they didn't follow you here?”

Kalen shook his head, quite calm. “No. They were trying to send a message. They weren't trying to kill me; they caught me before I saw anything of importance, they had no reason to kill me. That is not their way.”

I nodded, as if I had a clue what he was talking about. I followed Kalen's gaze out of the window; the sun was shining merrily away in the sky, and the birds were singing. I slipped my hand into my bag and checked the time on my phone; it was half-past seven. My parents would be getting up soon, and the longer I left Sam to mope the longer it would take him to cheer him up again. I looked up to find Kalen watching me.

“You have to leave,” he said; a statement, not a question, not an order.

“Yeah,” I replied. I stared at him for a moment. “What are you going to do now? I mean, that cut looks okay but you should really get it looked at, and—”

“No, I'll stay here.”

I frowned. “Stay here? And do what?”

Kalen shrugged. “Recuperate.”

I raised my eyebrows. “Recuperate? And what about after that, do you have somewhere to go?”

Kalen smiled. “I do. But thank you for your concern.”

I sighed and got to my feet; I reached into my bag, coming up with the chocolate bar I had taken from the pantry before leaving the house. “Here,” I said, handing it to Kalen, “chocolate is good for you. The sugar... it'll make you feel better.” I then fished the paracetamol tablets out of my bag. “Take two of these if the pain gets too much, wash them down with the orange juice. Don't take more than two every four hours or so, or you could overdose.” I didn't even want to ask myself why I thought it necessary to explain to a grown man how to use paracetamol tablets.

“Thank you, Megan.”

I smiled down at him. “You're welcome. I can come back later, if you like. I really do think you should get that cut looked at, stitched up or something.”

“I’ll be quite all right.”

I got the sense that the conversation was over. “Okay,” I said sadly. “Are you sure you don't want to see a doctor...?”

“I'm sure.” Kalen leaned his head back against the wall and closed his eyes. “I'll sleep now.”

I shook my head. “Okay,” I said again. I crossed to the door and pulled it open.

“Thank you.”

I didn't answer, but slipped from the room and descended the stairs. I climbed awkwardly from the window onto the deckchair I’d stolen from my next-door neighbour’s garden – it’d be back before they were even awake, so it wasn’t exactly stealing – and stuck it under my arm. When I got to the road, I turned and stared up at the house; I knew I was on the wrong side to see the window to the room where Kalen was, but I still looked for him. I shook my head again and started the walk home.

By the time I snuck back into my house then made a big show of leaving again, it was past eight; I made it to Sam's by half past, and his dad let me in without bothering to question why I was up at such a ridiculous time, or why I would be coming to Sam's when Sam had left mine only an hour-or-so earlier. He was too used to us after all these years. I climbed the stairs, said hi to Sam's mum as I passed the bathroom, and entered his room without knocking.

All I could see of Sam was the top of his blond head sticking out from under his duvet, and his socked feet sticking out of the bottom. I clambered onto the bed next to him and shook him. He groaned and buried his face into the mattress; I stuck my hand under the duvet and prodded him in the side until he mumbled, “What?”

“Sam,” I said, “you are not going to believe this.”

The Other Side

Chapter Three: AWOL

By the time I returned that evening, Kalen had gone.

We'd spent hours coccooned in Sam's bedroom, telling him about every minute detail of the morning. We had discussed every word, talked ourselves in circles about the things we couldn't explain and debated whether or not we'd lost our minds or suffered some sort of mass hysteria. We then googled mass hysteria. We weren't showing any of the symptoms. Nothing Kalen said turned up any results on the internet, and things like "silver hair" only linked us to websites about hair loss and how to pick a dye to suit your skin tone.

By lunchtime we'd almost forgotten that real life was still happening around us; only when we tramped down to the kitchen to make some sandwiches did Sam remember that he had an essay to write on Romanticism Vs Classicism and kindly reminded me that I had a project to complete for the next week. I couldn't imagine going back to school knowing that some sort of long-lost warrior was camping out in Littleton Manor wearing my dad's jeans. It was ludicrous.

I couldn't focus; by the time I got home and dumped all my books at the kitchen table I found myself wandering aimlessly around the house, gravitating towards the window from which I could see Littleton Manor, partly obscured by trees. I read the same line of text ten times and didn't take it in; camera angles and macro elements seemed like a foreign language; I'd forget what I was writing in the middle of a sentence. By the time my parents arrived home I'd progressed at a snails pace and didn't need an excuse to clear my work away. Unfortunately, I couldn't pay attention to my parents, either.

"Megan," my mother snapped at me, brandishing the chopping knife in her right hand and looking irate, "are you even listening to me?"

I blinked and looked alert. "Yeah, mum," I replied, "sorry. What were you saying?" I knew that feigning interest for as long as it took was preferable to my mother thinking I was either not getting enough sleep, ill, or on drugs. I could hardly tell her that Sam and I had discovered a... well, a who-knows-what in the shape of a very peculiar young man in Littleton Manor. She'd ring Sam's mum, and it'd get messy, and we would probably be expressly told not to go there again. We would, of course, but it's always easier to not have to answer those kinds of questions.

"I said," my mum reiterated, "are you doing anything tonight?"

I thought about it for a second. Sam and I hadn't made any plans when I'd left his house; we'd been too busy thinking about the mountain of work we'd each had to tackle. My first thought was to stay in and continue half-heartedly writing my project. My second thought was Kalen.

"I'm going to Sam's to watch a film," I replied, subtly crossing my fingers in my lap. "I might stay over, it depends on what time it finishes."

"Okay sweetheart," my mum said, apparently satisfied, and turned back to the vegetables. 

I slipped my phone out of my pocket and fiddled with it under the table. I knew Sam would be more than down with the thought of crashing at his and watching the new Star Trek. And I knew I might be able to, with a little persuasion and nagging, convince him to accompany me on a trip to Littleton to check on Kalen. Then I remembered his face at the top of the stairs; sweating, wide-eyed, petrified. I put my phone back in my pocket and went to my room.

00000

There was nothing to show that he'd ever been there, except that one smear of blood on the wall.

I walked around the room twice, looking for anything to tell me I hadn't imagined the whole thing; a chocolate bar wrapper, an apple core, his silk shirt, a strand of hair. There was nothing. The planks of wood that Sam had ripped off the window still lay on the floor, and I could see a footprint in the dust near the door that matched my shoe size. But other than that, Sam and I could have been in the room alone. Not a single thing remained.

I sat down opposite the place Kalen had been sprawled only hours earlier and kicked the floor dejectedly, scuffing my shoe in the dirt. I sighed and stared at the window opposite, torn between sadness and fury. I'd known that he was going to leave; he'd said he had somewhere to go, and I hadn't expected him to stick around for long once he was well enough to move. But I'd thought I'd get a chance to talk to him again; ask him things, run a few of our theories from that morning by him. Now there was nothing to prove that he was real at all, except my word. And Sam's.

I felt like I'd been left behind.

I snatched my phone out of my pocket and dialled Sam's mobile. It rang for a moment; I could almost see Sam, in my minds eye, seeing my name on the screen and rolling his eyes. He picked up on the fifth ring.

"Whatever it is," he said, and I could hear Grand Theft Auto roaring in the background, "no."

"You don't even know what I was going to say!" I said, hurt.

"I have a fair idea," Sam replied. "'Lets go to Littleton Manor,' or 'maybe he was larping,' or 'do you think my mum will let me keep him,' or --"

"He's gone, Sam," I said, and the roaring stopped abruptly. It took a lot to make Sam pause a game in the middle of a chase. I heard him drop the controller and the creak of the bed springs as he leant back.

"What do you mean, gone?"

"I mean," I said, kicking a plank of wood so it ricochet off the opposite wall, "he's gone. Not here. Disappeared."

There was a pause before Sam answered. "Oh," he said.

"Yeah," I replied. "The room is completely empty. Nothing to show that he wasn't a figment of our imagination. Not even an empty carton of orange juice."

I heard Sam sigh on the other end of the line. "Well," he said slowly, "we always knew he wasn't going to hang about. He must have had somewhere to be."

"I know," I said, and I could hear the whine creeping into my voice, "but I didn't think he'd make a run for it quite so soon. He was really hurt. And I thought I'd at least be able to talk to him once more before he left. Ask him questions. Tell him our theories..." I trailed off and sighed dejectedly. I heard Sam do the same. "But, I mean... you saw him, right? That must have been the reason he scarpered."

Sam snorted. "In fairness, if I was a time-travelling prince I wouldn't want two over-imaginative teenagers hounding me morning, noon and night."

I laughed and clambered to my feet. "Time-travelling prince," I repeated, wiping the dirt off the seat of my jeans, "I liked that theory. It was better than the aliens. Or the Peter Pan and the Lost Boys one."

"That one was my favourite!"

I laughed again and looked out of the window, in the direction of Sam's house. The sun was starting to set. "He looked a bit old to be from Neverland."

"Not really," Sam replied reasonably. "He was pretty timeless. And Rufio was, what? Sixteen? Seventeen?"

I shrugged, even though Sam couldn't see me. "He looked pretty--"

I gasped and whirled. Something, in the corner of my eye, had moved. It was tall and dark, standing in the corner of the room. I took a breath to scream... but there was nothing there. I looked around; the room was completely empty, exactly the way it had been before I turned to look out of the broken window. I laughed shakily and ran my hands through my hair; one had been stretched out to defend myself with, and the other was clutching my phone to my heart. I sighed and lifted the phone back to my ear, my other hand still tangled in my hair, my eyes sweeping the room.

"Megs? Megan?"

"I'm here," I replied, and my voice was steady.

"I said you should come to mine. We can watch Hook."

"Okay, cool. I'll be there in half."

I heard Sam resume his game on GTA and hung up the phone, slipping it back into my pocket. I stared at the corner of the room, bathed in red light from the sunset. It was completely normal; the whole room was. But I'd been positive I'd seen someone standing there, watching me,  dressed in black from head-to-toe. I mentally and physically shook myself, regaining face - I'd only seen it in my peripheral vision, after all. Being in this room brought back all the creepy memories from the night before, that was the problem. I risked a glance outside to find that the sun had almost disappeared over the horizon; it would be full dark by the time I got to Sam's.

Suddenly, I didn't want to be there, in that room; I didn't want to be anywhere near Littleton Manor. I strode to the door and opened it, glancing back over my shoulder once before tearing down the stairs like all the hounds of hell were at my heels.

Most recent

Most popular

More