A/N: I am indebted for the inspiration provided by Thomas Perkins' Deviantart retro comic book covers for "Kid Kthulhu." I really wish he or somebody allied with him would produce such a comic; I'd buy it in a heartbeat. But until then, I do the best I can with what I've got. Thank you, Tnperkins! Everybody who reads this, head on over there and look him up! It's awesome!

Kid Kthulhu: The Awakening

Chapter 1: Shadows of the Past

Calvin Michaels felt horrible.

He'd been having trouble sleeping lately, and had taken to staying up late, watching whatever was on TV in the wee hours of the morning. In and around Arkham, Massachusetts, that wasn't much. Mostly infomercials, even if you did have cable. And he was getting to the point where he felt he'd barf if he saw just one more 'mercial for a "male enhancement formula."

But the lack of sleep was telling on him. Typically, he'd stay up until he felt sleepy, trying not to wake his mom; however, he had learned long ago that sleep was a fickle mistress when he was actually trying to court her, stealing over him only at more inconvenient times. Like now.

Monday morning, and he was late for class. Again. The bell had already rung, and he stole his way into the boys' restroom at Arkham High, sighing. He'd catch it yet again from his teachers, but he honestly didn't see what else he could do.

He went over to one of the sinks there, turning on the water, without even bothering to set down his backpack. He held out his hand, and, as he had done ever since he could remember, willed the water stream into his palm. The flow of water obligingly bent at a forty-five degree angle, filling his edge-down palm with a liquid spheroid which he splashed liberally over his face. As usual, he kept the water from running down his clothes and back, unconsciously willing it back into the palm of his hand before it reached his collar. Maybe this would wake him up.

He did his best to sneak into class, but, since everybody was already seated and paying attention to the teacher, Mrs. Kellam, that, of course, was impossible. He could feel the eyes on him as he took his seat behind Crystal "Kris" Simone, his best friend and editor of the school newspaper, the Arkham Light.

"Ah, Mr. Michaels. So good of you to finally join us," said "Kill 'em Kellam," as she was privately referred to. "I don't suppose you'd happen to have a reason for the lateness of the hour? A good reason, I mean? You do know class begins at eight, correct?"

"Uh, yes, ma'am. I, I just overslept, is all."

She glanced over her pointed eyeglasses, which he suspected she had to order online. Surely nobody around Arkham actually sold such abominations. "Perhaps you need to invest in an alarm clock. This is what? Your third time being tardy? Do we need to take this up with Principal Stevens?"

"Ah, no, ma'am, I'll, I'll do that, get an alarm clock, I mean. And, and I'm sorry for being late."

Again that over-the-top glance. "See that you do. Your coming in late is beginning to disrupt the class. And I will not have that. Understood?"

"Yes, ma'am." You bitch, you think I'm coming in late, just so as to inconvenience you? But of course, he'd learned that sometimes, that was exactly the way some adults thought.

"Very well. But see that it doesn't happen again. Ever. Now. To continue…"

After school: Kris followed him out into the hallway. As was their custom on non-weekends, they convened outside before heading home. "Cal, what's happening with you lately? You've never been the sort to be late."

"I know." He sighed, walking along with her. The two of them made quite a pair: the tall, somewhat reclusive boy with a light brown thatch of curly hair that refused to stay in one place for more than a few moments, and the energetic dark haired, dark-eyed outgoing girl. Quite a few had mistaken them for a romantic couple, but they were just friends, and had been ever since fifth grade, when Kris, the tomboy, had been attracted to the loner, the kid who, for whatever reasons, preferred to keep to himself. At first, he was fun to beat up on, but then she discovered a curious thing: it was only fun if SHE was the one doing the beating up. He could, and frequently did, take care of himself in a fight, but she began to notice, and take exception, to anyone else beating him up.

And something else they both noticed, but, by one of those weird unspoken agreements, never talked about: he never fought back against her. Anyone else would get hell on wheels, but not her. The ensuing years led to a burgeoning friendship that had become a solid, almost brother-sister sort of affection. They looked out for each other. "I keep having these dreams, Kris. And they're always the same: I'm underwater, swimming somewhere. Not underwater like swimming underwater. Like WAY underwater, like I'm a fish or something. And, I keep hearing these voices chanting in the background. Nonsensical words, but…in the dream, they make sense."

"What do they say?"

He shook his head. "I can never remember when I wake up. But…I wake up scared, Kris, not wanting to go back to sleep because…because the dreams come again. And, like I said, it's always the same dream. Over and over." He paused, trying to find the right words. "And the really weird part is, while I'm in the dream, it's not scary. It's only when I wake up that I get scared."

They reached a bench at the boundary of the school's property. There was no-one else there, which suited them both perfectly. "Sooo…it's always the same dream?" Kris had recently read a book on dream psychology. She pulled out her Galaxy tablet, and scrolled through the reading app. "Says here dreams of being underwater usually mean something secret, or secrets deeply buried, that you sense in waking life. Anything in particular worrying you? Anything of a secretive nature?"

He ran his hand through his hair. "Not that I can think of. But I guess if I could, I probably wouldn't need the dreams to show that."

She nodded, producing an apple, dividing it in half with a highly illegal pen-knife. Like so many schools in latter days, Arkham High had instituted a zero tolerance policy when it came to "contraband" objects. (And that was when Kris had discovered she had a zero tolerance policy for zero tolerance policies…) She offered him one half, which he accepted in a distracted manner. "Of course, you understand, all this is theoretical. I mean, they could just be a recurring dream or nightmare, with no real significance." Crunch went the apple in her teeth. "How's your mom?"

"Okay, I guess. Still worried about the bills." Cal's widowed mother had recently had a bad workplace experience. Her boss had taken to coming on to her to the point where she felt it necessary to seek legal aid. But the problem with that was, movies and TV notwithstanding, the harsh reality was that she was currently unemployed, and, due to the sensitive nature of the lawsuit, other employers were reluctant to hire her, seeing her as a potential troublemaker. Of course, they never actually came out and said so, but somehow the good jobs—hell, the jobs, period-just always went to someone else. It wasn't the way things were supposed to be, but reality didn't seem to care. "I'm gonna try an' get a summer job. Anything to help out."

"Whataburger's hiring. But you'd probably pull graveyard. At least at first."

"Yeah, well. It's not like I'd be missing a lot of sleep anyway."

Kris's expression softened, looking at him. "Look, Cal. Maybe…I'm just talking here, but…maybe if you could get your sleep cycle under control, maybe…things would look better to you. More easily controlled." She shrugged, her slim shoulders lifting underneath her "Miskatonic U." shirt.

"You think I'd be making a bad decision?"

"I think you could. It's so much easier to make bad decisions when you're stressed: there's so many bad decisions to make. And you're already stressed out enough…if you can't handle school now, taking a late-night job isn't gonna make things any better. I wish I had something to offer you…" Kris was the editor of the school's newspaper, but that, of course, was hardly a paying proposition.

"It's okay, Kris." He laughed suddenly. "Y'know, back when I was little, I used to fantasize about having magic powers or something. Just wave my hand and make stuff happen. But, even if it was a real thing, I don't think magic works that way. I mean, the energy to do stuff has to come from somewhere. Wouldn't you think?"

"I think we'd both best be getting home. We've both got homework," she grimaced…homework, the bane of students' free time everywhere…" And you…" She didn't finish. Because of his frequent tardiness, Cal had been given a double load.

He grimaced in return. "Yeah, I guess so…" He made to get up, then suddenly looked up, surprise on his face. "What was that?" Looking around him, in the clear, nearly cloudless air overhead.

"What was what?" She hadn't sensed anything.

"I thought…for a minute there…I thought something…swooped by."

"A bird."

"No…not a bird. Something…something else. Not a bird."

"A bat?"

"No, no… not like…not like an animal or anything. Just…oh, I don't know. I think this lack of sleep is messing with my mind."

Once home, he shrugged off his backpack, settling it on the floor. His mom wasn't home yet, still out pounding the pavement, trying to find a job, any job. Automatically, he checked the mail that had been deposited through the mail-slot.

Hm. One letter to "Calvin Michaels," no return address. It didn't look like an ad or a bill…he tore it open and read the message, written in an elegant hand-written script: "If you would know the truth about yourself, contact me. But be warned: the truth can be painful." There was a local telephone number. It was signed "Brother Elder."

Great, he thought. Either a psychic hotline, or some sort of weird solicitation. Sounded like one of those door-to-door types. He threw it into the garbage, along with a number of flyers and leaflets. And people wonder where the rainforest is disappearing to. Of course, it could be worse: they could be pop-up ads online. Even as he thought that, he made a face. That'd be next, of course. You couldn't keep yourself invisible online forever, not unless you changed your whole profile, email e-ddress, etc., every few months. And that was usually more hassle that it was worth. That was why they made so many spam filters.

He went into his room, depositing his backpack by his desk. He'd have to get on that homework. He'd never decided if teachers handed you out extra homework as a punitive gesture or just because they sincerely wanted you to catch up. Then he shrugged. Probably a bit of both.

He'd picked up the newspaper from the downstairs hallway. Now he opened it, scanning the classifieds. Online was of course another option, but maybe he could find something local in the paper.

Nothing. Well, he supposed he'd best hit the pavement. But not right now; right now, he was exhausted, both from the day and the previous night's lack of sleep. Just a quick nap before he began his homework….he was asleep the moment his head touched the pillow….

"Cthulhu fhtagn!" Again the jumble of nonsense sounds, yet strangely he understood them, and welcomed them. It was right that dread Cthulhu, the Undying, lay dreaming, never dead yet never truly alive, until the stars themselves were right.

Then: escape. And triumph.

"Yog-Sothoth…" Somehow, the unfamiliar name/word filled him with a kind of nameless dread, a certainty that danger was imminent, and that he had to get away, or prepare. But from what? Who or what was a Yog-Sothoth?

Who or what had brushed against him at school today?

These dreams were different. In his previous dreams, he'd been underwater, far, far underwater, down where there was no light at all, yet he could see with a sense that was not sight as he understood it. But now…now he wasn't alone. Once again, he saw the titan columns of Great Cthulhu's underwater temple, draped with seaweed and encrusted with barnacles, but this time tended, always tended by…beings. Beings similar to himself, but also very different.

They were not mermaids, not as men supposed them to be, not half-human and half-fish. Rather, they were bipeds perfectly adapted to living underwater, their long, powerful limbs capable of sending them rocketing through the water with the speed and agility of the fish they hunted. Their bodies were biped and symmetrical, two legs, two arms, all perfectly normal…

But their faces….

He found himself fascinated by those faces. They both were and were not human. Some approached human more than others, but many were wildly different, making him want to look away, not wanting to see those parodies of human features…the lidless eyes that never shut, the neck creases that marked the gills, the wide, frog-like mouth…mouths full of razor-sharp teeth, like a shark. Everything about them practically screamed, "predator!"

And others…were equally disturbing by their very human-likeness…high foreheads, straight noses, symmetrical outlines, cheekbones, gill slits practically invisible…and some of these were the most disturbing, just because they were so…human…

Some…even beautiful…

One in particular.

She swam right up to him, completely unafraid, looking him in the eyes. Her own eyes were very large and very dark, as was the hair that cascaded down her back, waving gently in the currents, back and forth, like smoke in the water. Her skin was not scaly, but a light green color that was mostly hidden beneath a simple blouse and short skirt combination. It almost looked like a high school uniform, oddly enough. She looked at him intently, as though trying to see him, somehow, or see into him in some way. The others stopped what they were doing and watched.

She halted a few feet away from him, her hands and feet (which sported delicate webs between the digits, he noted, with absolutely no surprise or revulsion whatsoever; of course she had webbed hands and feet. Why should she not?) moving just enough to keep her in position. She pointed to herself, touching her left index finger to her breast. "P'thya," she said, and then repeated the process. "P'thya." Pronouncing it with an almost inaudible sound masking more than expressing the 'p', so that it came out more like "Thya." That was obviously her name.

Then she pointed to him, a quizzical expression on her delicate features. She pointed to him, and waited for a reply.

What was his name? He was having a hard time remembering. Then, "Kal." He pointed to himself and said it again: "Kal."

"Kal," said the underwater girl, turning the unfamiliar sound over in her mouth, almost as though trying to taste it. Then she smiled, a perfectly human smile, a beautiful smile, even if her canines were ever so slightly longer than was standard on a human. "Kal. Kal."

Somehow, the thought intruded into his dreaming psyche: what did he look like, to them? Come to think of it, what did he look like, period?

Why did that question fill him with a nameless dread? Why should it?

He awoke with a start, hearing the door downstairs open and close. "Honey, I'm home." His mom had made it back. He suppressed a small grimace, even though he was upstairs and behind a closed door; he could hear it in her voice. She hadn't found anything. Not yet.

Calvin's mom was an attractive woman in her mid-thirties, with wavy dark brown hair which she kept tightly bound. Let loose, it tended to spill over down her back, even longer than Kris's, but, for the job interview, she always kept it in a bun. A few of her friends had advised her that she might have better luck at finding a job if she did let it hang down, but Lisa Michaels had already had more than she wanted of that kind of attention, particularly from employers, or potential employers. She wanted to be considered for her qualifications, but, it was appearing, that was another thing the movies and TV shows almost invariably got wrong: the jobs more often than not went to those candidates who simply looked better. Oh, sometimes, that wasn't true, and such was her hope. But at the age of thirty six, she was beginning to wonder if such an opportunity would come her way. Thirty-six wasn't old by anyone's standards, but could she compete with twenty-year olds just out of college?

And maybe, just maybe….on her last job….maybe there had been another way to handle it…

Calvin could practically see these thoughts cross his mother's mind when he watched her. Children are the best mind-readers any parent ever encounters. And it hurt him to know that she was thinking what she was thinking, and, moreover, that she was actually feeling guilty for standing up for herself.

He came up to her, kissing her on the cheek. "Hey, mom. Have any luck?" Even though he already knew the answer.

"Well, not yet. I've still got some leads to follow, though, but it was getting too late in the day. How was school?" Ouch.

"Well….I, er, kinda got there late. Again."

"Oh, no!"

"Yeah. I think Ms. Kellam thinks I'm doing it deliberately just to annoy her." He followed her into the small house's kitchen. The pot roast she'd put on that morning was simmering in the slow cooker, the smell making his mouth water. "Why don't you go rest, and I'll get dinner ready?"

"Tell you what," she smiled back at him, "we'll make it a joint effort."

After dinner, they both settled in to watch American Idol. Cal entertained a brief fantasy of going on the show and winning enough money to help his mother out and over this rough time in her life. But he knew he couldn't sing, and the only time he'd ever tried to dance, at Kris's nonstop insistence (she was a force to be reckoned with, once she got an idea in her head), had resulted in such a tangle of arms and legs they both wondered briefly if they'd even be able to extricate themselves from each other. Cal had entertained a brief, horrific mind-picture of the two of them having to go to school still intertwined, having to somehow sit down in one desk, one set of hands taking down notes, the other set operating the mini-recorder he occasionally used to record a particularly hard class. While Cal had no problems with being with his best friend, there were certain limitations, after all. Like, what about when one or both of them had to go to the rest room?

Bedtime: Cal sighed and closed his books. He'd managed to finish the double load of homework, and felt fairly good about it for tomorrow. Now if he could just get some sleep, sleep without those damned dreams….tomorrow night he'd start his job search….Kris had said Whataburger was hiring, maybe that was a good place to start…

Tuesday morning: Cal slept dreamlessly on the bench outside of school. Close by a sinister presence stalked nearer, ever nearer….and raised the object in its left hand, the shadow of it falling over his slumbering head…. Kapaiow!—went the paper bag in Kris's grip.

He didn't so much as twitch. "Hey, Kris." Still with his eyes closed.

She stood with her fists on her hips. "Tell the truth. You've been here for at least an hour, right?"

"Uh…what time is it?"

"Make that two. Cal," she sat down beside him, concern etching her heart-shaped face (and why did her face remind him of someone? He couldn't remember…), "look. This is getting out of hand. You've just spent a good portion of the night here, on a bench, because you were afraid you'd be late again. You can't go on like that. Maybe…maybe you should, like, talk to a doctor or something. Or…" She didn't finish the sentence, but he knew what she was thinking: or maybe a psychiatrist.

"I, I don't know, Kris. I don't know what I should do. Why should these damned dreams be starting up now? I mean, I haven't suffered any kind of trauma, no head injuries, nothing's happened to me…"

"Yet." She sat down beside him on the bench. "But, look, Cal: you're a teenager, and your mom is in hard financial straits right now. That alone is enough to cause you to stress out. I really think things'll improve once she gets something goin' by way of a job. For that matter, it might help you, too, if you did get a part-time job. As long as you could handle it, of course. You'd be doing something, rather than just waiting for things to crash in on you. You'd just have to juggle your time, is all. School, homework, family time, work time, sleep. And let the goddam dreams come. I mean, they're just dreams, aren't they? And you said yourself they weren't even very scary, while you're dreaming, at least."

"Shoggoths."

"What?"

"Shoggoths."

"What's a 'shoggoths'?"

"Uhhh….I have…absolutely no idea. The, the word just came to me. I don't know what it means."

She eyed him even more critically. Decision time: "C'mon, Cal. Up an' at 'em." And she levered him up, draping his arm over her shoulder, his lanky frame leaning on her.

"Where're we going?"

"Infirmary. You are ninety percent asleep at the wheel. Today you call in sick. And then you talk to the school counselor. Not later. Not when you get around to it. Now."

"But I really don't-*"

"Don't make me drag you there by the scruff of the neck like a cavewoman, Cal. That'd play hell with your image. Now come on."

….

"Well, I can't find anything physically wrong with him," said the nurse, "aside from his being exhausted. You're sure he hasn't been doing any…you know…recreational stuff?" Read: drugs.

Kris did a slow internal boil. Adults always seemed to think that every time a kid showed up with a problem, it was drugs. "He's never done drugs. He's never even smoked pot." Which is more than some of his teachers here can say. "Besides, I'm sure you tested him for that, didn't you?" That is, if you were even doing your job.

"Yes." Distractedly, in that way that told Kris they probably hadn't. After all, drug tests costs; suspicion and blame, however, were free of charge.

"So what have you found out?"

The nurse shrugged, a gesture Kris found just a little annoying. She'd just have to get him to a regular doctor; these do-nothings weren't worth the powder it would take to blow 'em away. "Not much. He is suffering from exhaustion. You say this has been going on for some time now?"

"Yeah. He's been oversleeping and coming in late because of that."

"And nothing's happened recently that could account for this?"

Kris shrugged one shoulder beneath her sweatshirt. "None that he knows of. So. How is he?"

"Exhausted, like I said." The nurse's expression softened a bit. "I'll have a word with his teachers. If he'll submit to a hair sample, I can safely eliminate any drug-related problems, they'll be more inclined to work with us here. Has he been to see a regular doctor? What kind of insurance does he have?"

….

"Well, your school nurse was right, Mr. Michaels. There's nothing physically wrong with you. At least, nothing we can detect. You say these dreams just started, all of sudden?" Dr. Steyr half-sat on the exam table in the room where he was talking to Michael.

"Yes, sir. I don't remember the exact date they started, but I should, because it was pretty sudden."

"Anything going on in your life at the time?"

He shook his head. "Nothing except the usual. Mom's still trying to find work, but, you know, except for that, nothing anybody else wouldn't have goin'."

"Well, tell you what I'm gonna do." Dr. Steyr got out his prescription pad. "This is just temporary, but I'm giving you a prescription for a very low dose of Valium. Take it only as you need it. Maybe if you can break this, this dream-cycle, you can start getting some real rest. Of course, you know not to drive after taking, right? Okay…"

…..

The job at Whataburger proved to be almost embarrassingly easy to get, and, sure enough, as Kris had said, they allotted him the ten o'clock to three AM shift. He guessed he was lucky to get that; but if he could just get in a few hours of good sleep before school, he figured it would be okay.

Dreams….

In his dreams, he was always underwater, but that was his natural element; nothing to be feared there. He found himself "standing" before the mighty columns of the sunken tomb of Great Cthulhu himself, joining the others in their observance of the needed rituals. But what was really weird was, they seemed to look to him for leadership. How could that be?

He stood before the teeming crowd. How many were there? Thousands? Millions? He didn't know. And, really, he didn't care. He raised his arms. "Cthulhu fhtagn!"

The crowd responded. "Cthulhu fhtagn! Ia! Ia! Ph'nglui mglw'nafh Cthulhu R'lyeh wgah'nagl fhtagn."

And in the dream, the words made perfect sense: "In his house at R'lyeh dead Cthulhu waits dreaming."

And always, always, there was the beautiful underwater girl there, by his side, looking up at him with shining eyes.

…..

The next few days saw some improvement. Cal's job did pay some, and he was able to help his mother out. He'd usually finish up, and get a few hours sleep before he had to go to school. Overall, it wasn't bad. Oh, the money could've been better, but he guessed even Bill Gates felt that way.

The point was: he was making a difference. At first, his mother had been hesitant about his job, but grew more confident as he proved able to handle the increased workload. And the dreams…didn't seem to be bothering him as much. He still had them, but for some reason, they didn't seem like the nightmares he'd come to expect.

Kris was ecstatic. "Good goin', Cal! Maybe this is just the thing. Take some of the strain off you and your mom." Kris's own mother was "not in the picture," as she'd put it, and her parents were divorced. She herself lived in an efficiency apartment not all that far from school, that her father, currently stationed overseas, had helped her get. The only family she had locally was her grandparents, out around Providence. So, in a sense, she'd "adopted" Cal's mother as her own. And the feeling seemed to be mutual. That pleased Cal no end; the two most important women in his life….

They were eating lunch in the school's cafeteria. The "mystery meat" was actually nearly edible. For a change. "We really should celebrate. How about I bring over one of my casseroles? In fact, if it's okay with your mom, I'll just fix the entire dinner that night. Does that sound okay? You pick the time."

"It sounds great, Kris, but we're not out of the woods yet. Mom's savings are on the verge of drying up, and my little check sure as heck won't cover the bills. So…I don't wanna be premature here."

"Oh, bosh. I know you've got a long ways to go, and that things aren't perfect yet, but the point is, you've taken action. You're not a helpless victim anymore. That's what we'd be celebrating."

"I'll check with mom, see what a good day would be. Maybe we could make it a movie night, too. I-* Oh, crap, there goes the bell. Well, see ya!"

Cal's job went smoothly. He'd pulled the Monday through Thursday shift, and it seemed that most customers that came in during the hours he worked were either understanding souls or high on something. Cal preferred to believe the former; there was a certain brotherhood—and sisterhood—among those who, for whatever reason, found themselves up during the wee hours of the morning. Weekends, he understood, got a little wilder.

Because of the Valium, he'd deliberately left his car home. The last thing he needed was to get picked up for a DUI. It wasn't that far to his house, anyway; just over the bridge over the river, and a few blocks down. And it saved on gas.

But the money still wasn't enough to help out with the bills as much as he'd hoped. His mother kept at it, trying to find some job, any job, but without a whole lot of success.

Then one day he came in from school, picked up the mail, and noticed yet another letter to him with no return address. Hmph. Another one of those solicitation things, no doubt. He started to just chuck it when he noticed it felt just a little thicker than he'd normally think a folded piece of paper should feel.

Tearing it open revealed yet another blank piece of paper with the elegant script: If you would know the truth about yourself, contact me at this number. Brother Elder. He hadn't memorized the number from last time, but it was still a local area code. But what really caught his attention was the other piece of paper in the envelope.

It was a check, made out to him, drawn on a national bank, for eight thousand dollars.

For the briefest of moments, he stared, stunned, at the check. Then his rational mind reasserted itself. Of course, this was one of those money-laundering scams. You heard about them all the time. The check was counterfeit, meant to lure him into the web of lies the scammers had no doubt prepared for those unsophisticated souls who still believed in Santa Claus and the Easter Bunny.

He started to tear it up, but paused. Eight thousand dollars. That was a lot of money…if it was legit…could he, should he dare take the chance that it might not be legit?

How would he find out? Well, he reasoned, that part wasn't difficult.

…..

"Hey, Cal," David Newsome, accounts manager for Cal's bank, ushered him into his office. "Good to see you. How's your mom?"

"Oh, she's okay." Actually, he thought, she could be a whole lot better, but this wasn't the time and the place to be airing family business. "Look. I've…got a bit of a problem here, and I was wondering if you could help me out."

"Sure. I'll do whatever I can." Newsome took his seat, across his desk from Cal. "What'cha got?"

"This." He produced the check. "This arrived in the mail yesterday. No return address. The only other thing in the letter was a piece of paper saying if I wanted to know 'the truth' about myself, to call a certain number. I was wondering if you can tell me if it's legit or not."

Newsome stared hard at the check. It certainly looked legit. "I can run it past our computers here, ring up Chase and see if they recognize this routing number…who is this 'Brother Elder,' anyway?"

Cal spread his hands. "I've no clue. I never heard of him before now. Well, I did get a letter from him earlier, saying the same thing, but with no check.

"But I just wonder if this is not some kinda scam. That's why I'm coming to you. I mean…if the check's legit…well. But if it's not, I sure don't need to get arrested for counterfeiting or forgery or something."

Newsome nodded. "I understand. Well, let me go see…hang on for a moment, okay?"

A few minutes later he was back, shaking his head. "Thank God for the internet."

Cal sagged. "So…it was fake?" He hadn't realized how much he'd been hoping…

"No, it appears to be totally legit. Good for the full face value. So…what do you want to do with it?"

Cal's mouth sagged open. Eight thousand dollars? Eight thousand dollars! And…and…it was his…

"Oh, of course, we have to hold it for three days, you know, standard procedure, for it to clear. But everything checks out. Do you wanna deposit this into your account?"

Cal's mind snapped back into his head. "Uh, no. Put it in my mom's account, can you?"

"Sure. Here. Just endorse it on the back."

He hurried home, bursting in the door. "Hey, Mom! You'll never guess what just happened!"

His mother was in the kitchen. Without batting an eye, she said, "Scarllett Johanssen just called you up and proposed."

He rolled his eyes. She was in that mood again. "No, mom, even better!"

"Kate Upton?"

"No, I-*"

"Rachel Ray? She's a good cook."

"MoOom!"

"Well, who then? Don't keep a body in suspense like that."

"We just got a check for a whole bunch of money!"

She looked suspicious. "A real check?" She picked up the coffee pot and started over to the other side of the small kitchen, where the coffee maker was. "From who?" He sat at the kitchen table, almost too excited for words.

"Somebody I never heard of, signs his name as 'Brother Elder.' I-*"

Crash! Went the glass coffee pot on the floor, causing him to look around.

His mother had backed away and was leaning against the countertop, eyes and mouth wide, her hand over her mouth as if to stifle a scream. Her face was more pale than he'd ever seen it. "Mom? What's wrong?"

To be continued…