A/N: I know it's been a while since the last update, but the length of this chapter should more than make up for the delay.

Chapter 7 - Word of the Day

Henry was back.

Not even an hour ago, Susan had come home from the hospital with him in tow, and the kid seemed little the worse for wear. In fact, Henry was in better shape than when he went into the hospital the other day. On the other hand, he almost seemed to be disappointed that he'd had to leave, unlike most people, who couldn't wait to get out.

Aside from his own mother, there was only one person Mark knew had been in the hospital for a significant period of time:

His best friend, Alan Parks.

Mark could remember like it was yesterday.

October 26, 1991

The hot midday sun hung almost directly overhead, glaring down on the city of Phoenix and its' suburbs. Actual temperatures were in the upper seventies/lower eighties, but with the sun directly on you, it felt more like a hundred. It was only a small mercy living in a state where humidity rarely factored into the daily high temperatures, though sometimes those temperatures got so high that your were liable to be miserable no matter the level of humidity.

To be honest, 'dry heat' was a bit overrated.

On an average day, you might sweat like a pig no matter what, but if you didn't take the proper precautions – 'dry heat' or no – a person walked a very fine line by inviting dehydration if they stayed outside for too long.

Ten year-old Mark Evans had experienced it himself a few times, despite having lived here his whole life. And, more often than not, he'd see a new kid at school go to the nurse during recess with an enormous headache, and they'd be panting like a dog. It was only after the fact that you found out that they were from somewhere in the Midwest (a kid had even come all the way down from Alaska once), where such high heat wasn't the typical norm. It would sometimes take more than once, but the average newbie 'out-of-state' kid would learn his or her lesson the first time around.

Fortunately, Mark had remembered to drink at least a full bottle of water before leaving the house earlier, and he had an extra two stashed away in his backpack for the return trip. Walking would've burned far too much time, which was why he had opted to take his bike out for a spin instead.

He'd gotten permission for this outing from his parents last night at dinner, even though he technically could have gone any time in the past several days. Mark's parents had refused his requests to visit Alan Parks, his best friend, every time before only out of common decency. Why? Because, just over a week ago, Alan had taken a nasty fall from the jungle gym on the playground at school and broken his lower right leg.

Mark hadn't seen his best friend since then, not even while he was in the hospital. A few days earlier, Alan had finally been released and was promptly returned home by his parents to begin the long process of recuperation. Chuck and Linnie Parks hadn't been adverse to the idea of Mark paying a visit, and in fact, had welcomed it as a way of cheering up their son, who had been cooped up without any outside contact for over a week at that point.

It was actually Mark's own parents, Jack and Janice, who had kept him from going over to the Parks' house in the first place. By their reasoning, Mark was rushing things by wanting to go over right away, and that he should give Alan a few more days to recover. Mark had thought about arguing the point, but try as he might, the words never left his mouth.

That was Wednesday night, right after school. Now it was early Saturday afternoon, and with nothing else planned, Mark was finally allowed to go, and all on his own, too. Unlike most kids, Mark enjoyed his relative freedom in a responsible fashion, and rarely – if ever – broke the rules.

It showed just how much faith Jack and Janice Evans had placed in their son.

Mark kicked the wheels into reverse and simultaneously squeezed the handlebar brake, bringing the bike to a stop at the corner of Del-Ray Drive and Sunset Court, just over a block from Alan's house.

A light blue sedan cruised past and turned the corner, heading in the general direction Mark had just come from. After looking both ways like he had always been taught, Mark pedaled across the street to the opposite sidewalk, occasionally casting a quick glance out of the corner of his eye, just to be certain that no more cars were coming. Once he was clear, he poured on the speed, if only to see how fast he – and the bike – could go.

Fortunately, the path ahead was level and clear of major obstacles. Otherwise, he might've ended up taking his own trip to the hospital.

By the time he reached the Parks' driveway, Mark's legs ached from having pushed himself so fast. He vowed never to do that again.

Mark quickly dismounted and began wheeling the bike up the driveway toward the house.

Like Mark's own house, Alan's was a two-story and of fairly impressive size, with an adobe-style exterior and orange-red terracotta shingles. A pair of trellises to either side of the attached garage supported a huge spread of slightly withered ivy vines that had actually begun to creep up toward the roof.

I wonder how many times Alan's dad has stopped us from climbing those? Mark wondered. Certainly too many times to count.

A spacious rock garden took up a sizable chunk of the yard, while an unbroken row of waist-high hedges (more like chest-high in Mark and Alan's case) lined either side of the front walk all the way up to the porch, where a dusty glass-top table and a couple of empty lawn chairs sat off to one side. The Stars and Stripes hung from an angled flagpole bolted to the corner of the porch roof and gently fluttered in the light afternoon breeze.

Mark took a quick glance up at the windows on the second floor, thinking that somehow he might see someone, to give them an idea that he was coming, and instantly regretted it.

A blinding glare from the sun reflected off the glass and right into his eyes, as if his dark-shaded, metal-framed aviator sunglasses weren't even there. Mark winced and squeezed his eyes shut. For the next few seconds, he was forced to blindly navigate the front walk. Fortunately, his eyes had cleared by the time he reached the front steps. Mark then set his bike up against the porch railing, took a deep breath, and rang the doorbell.

Alan's mother answered. Linnie Parks appeared somewhat flustered, but her features brightened considerably and she smiled upon seeing Mark.

"Well, hello there, Mark," she said.

"Hi, Mrs. Parks," he replied. "I suppose you've already figured out why I'm here."

"Of course. Come on in."

Mark removed his sunglasses and gratefully stepped inside.

"It's been a little while, hasn't it?"

"What has?" Mark asked, a bit puzzled.

"Since you were over last. Almost two weeks, in fact."

Wow. Has is really been that long already? With any luck, Mom and Dad won't be so stubborn next time.

"I guess so," Mark replied with an offhanded shrug.

"Well, Alan's out in the living room. Just holler if you guys need anything."

"Will do. Thanks, Mrs. Parks."

"Any time, Mark."

With that, Alan's mother disappeared into the kitchen.

Mark had just started toward the living room when an eager voice cried out his name and someone ran right into him. The ten year-old staggered, but managed to stay upright, albeit just barely. He didn't even have to look to know who it was. It was Alan's kid brother, four year-old CJ.

"Mark! Mark!" the little brown-haired boy happily squealed.

Mark smiled and laughed.

"Hey there, CJ. How's things?"

"Good! I was gettin' bored without Alan around."

"I'll bet," Mark replied.

The little boy took Mark by the hand and dragged him out into the living room, where Alan lay sprawled on one of the sofas, his head propped up on a small mountain of pillows, and eyes focused squarely on the big family TV. What had to be a recorded rerun of an old Scooby Doo was currently playing. Seemingly unaware of Mark's presence, Alan laughed at the TV. Then he suddenly raised an arm and waved.

"Hi there, Mark."

Mark shook his head and rolled his eyes. That was just like Alan... He had probably known that Mark was here from the second he knocked on the front door.

"Long time, no see, stranger," Mark replied as he and CJ both took a seat on the other sofa. "So, what gave me away?"

"CJ. The way he greeted you, it's a wonder all of Maricopa County didn't hear."

Mark playfully tousled CJ's hair. "I kinda figured it was you," Mark said to Alan's kid brother.

The four year-old just gave him a gap-toothed grin in reply before suddenly running off to the kitchen, probably to bother his mom for a snack or something.

"So what's new?" Mark asked his friend.

"Not much," Alan replied off-handedly.

"How are you doing?"

"Let's just say, when I come back to school, and when I get this cast off, I'm avoiding the jungle gym and monkey bars like the plague. Breaking a bone sucks."

He placed added emphasis on the last word for clarification.

"Especially in our chosen sport," Mark agreed.

"What did Coach Robbins have to say?"

"That we're really gonna miss you for that game against East Tucson next month," Mark replied. "And that he hopes you'll be able to bounce back from this. The whole team does."

Alan sighed. "So do I, man. So do I."

"I mean, you remember when Jason sprained his ankle at practice last year, right? He didn't rejoin the team for almost a month. That leg of yours could end your soccer career before it even starts."

"Relax," Alan said. "My soccer days aren't over until I say they are. Besides, my leg's healing just fine from what the docs said."

Mark breathed a small sigh of relief. "Good. Speaking of which, what was the hospital like? I've heard stories from when my mom had me, but they're understandably vague."

"To be honest, it sucked," Alan replied.

"Really?"

Alan nodded vigorously. "To start out, they had to give me a sedative when they set the bones, so I was a bit loopy for a while, even after I woke up. Then there was another kid I shared the room with. He was cool and all, but he had some kind of breathing problem, and snored like a bear at night. And don't even get me started on the food... It's not called mystery meat for nothing. And to top it all off, I couldn't even go to the bathroom without asking a nurse or one of my parents to help me. Still can't."

Mark grimaced. "Ouch. That just sounds bad."

Alan scoffed. "You don't have to tell me twice. I would never have gone there in the first place if I hadn't broken my leg. The one positive side is that at a certain point everything just kinda blurred together. The morphine probably helped, which is probably why I was loopy in the first place."

"I thought you had to be a certain age to take morphine," Mark said.

His friend shook his head. "As long you take the right dose, a six year-old could have morphine if they needed it. I'm more than old enough, and, I broke my leg. With broken bones, morphine is kind of a necessity."

"Are you on it now?" Mark asked.

"Not at the moment. My parents only give it to me when the pain flares up, and when I go to bed at night, so I can sleep better."

Mark nodded. "Makes sense. Take it before bed so the pain doesn't wake you up in the middle of the night."

"Exactly. Now, that's enough about me and my misfortunes. What's new with you?"

Mark had just opened his mouth to reply when a loud car horn from outside interrupted him.

"Mom!" Alan yelled. "Dad's back!"

Moments later, the door opened and both boys could hear the clamor of voices coming from the front hall. One was high-pitched and quite distinctly female, while the other was a much deeper, adult male. Both were agitated, and they seemed to be in the middle of a heated argument.

"...And how many times must I repeat myself?" the male voice asked. "We specifically agreed that you wouldn't say yes to him, but you did anyway. You are my daughter, and I am not letting you go out on a date with Jon Matthews tonight. That kid's reputation speaks for itself."

"But he's a good guy, Dad," the female voice whined quite loudly. "He's captain of varsity basketball..."

The male voice let out a sarcastic laugh. "That's exactly what I'm talking about! If your reasoning that he's a 'good guy' is solely based on the fact that he's captain of varsity basketball, then you might need to rethink your priorities, missy. You're thirteen years old, for God's sake! And Jon Matthews is sixteen – a high school sophomore. Guys his age and status aren't usually known for their consideration. I just don't want him to hurt you, is all."

"Yeah, right..." the female voice muttered.

Her father let out a sigh.

"Can you just give it some time, okay? Wait a couple of years, when you're in high school yourself, and then we can talk."

"A couple of YEARS?!" his daughter exclaimed.

"Yes," he replied in a surprisingly levelheaded tone. "If he's such a great guy, you won't mind waiting. But you're also too young to be dating, especially with a guy three years older than you. Girl, you've got the best years of your life ahead. Don't waste them on someone like Jon Matthews. You're too good for him."

"Arghh!" the girl screamed in frustration. "I hate you! You're such a dictator!"

"That's it!" her father yelled, finally losing his cool. "Chelsea Parks, go up to your room right now, and don't come back down until your mother or I say otherwise. Go. NOW!"

"Fine," Chelsea huffed angrily. With that, she stormed up the stairs to her room and slammed the door loud enough to rattle the windowpanes.

Mark and Alan stared at each other, wide-eyed at the exchange they'd just heard.

"Wow," Mark whispered.

"Just be glad you don't live here," Alan replied.

Out of nowhere, someone suddenly vaulted over the back of the sofa that Mark was sitting on and landed beside him. Startled, Mark whirled around to face this intruder. It turned out to be Alan's older brother, Tom, who – at fifteen – was also the eldest of the four Parks' children.

"Unfortunately, we do," Tom added.

"Hey there, Marky," he said, giving Mark a quick noogie. "I figured that was your bike out on the porch. Nice one, by the way."

Mark rubbed his head.

"Thanks," he replied uncertainly.

"What's it called?"

"It's a Trek," Mark replied. "Part of their Jazz lineup, specifically, the Clash."

Alan chose that moment to join the conversation.

"What does it look like?" he asked.

"All black, steel frame, with regular and handlebar brakes. Rides like a dream, too."

"Okay, now I'm getting a bit jealous," Alan said. "How long have you had it?"

"A couple months," his friend replied.

"A couple of months? Then how come I haven't seen it yet?"

Mark shrugged. "My mom usually picks me up and drops me off at school, not to mention that either her or my dad normally drive me over here... The only times I've really been able to ride are when I take it for a spin around my neighborhood."

"I knew it," Tom said. "You're a momma's boy, Marky."

Mark simply rolled his eyes, but otherwise ignored Tom's remark.

Alan then wrinkled his face in confusion.

"Wait a minute... Your birthday's in April, so why did you get the bike in August?"

"It was an 'end of summer' gift from my mom's parents. Don't even ask why. I'm not about to look a gift horse in the mouth."

Tom suddenly covered his mouth and snickered quite loudly.

"What did I say that was so amusing?" Mark asked, glaring up at the fifteen year-old.

"I – I just pictured you kissing a horse," Tom replied, before descending into a fit of near-hysterical laughter.

Mark scoffed. "Yeah, yeah. So funny, I forgot how to laugh..."

His response merely served the purpose of making Tom laugh even harder, at which point the teenager left his seat and staggered from the room.

"You're too much, Marky!" Tom called back between fits of laughter. "You're just too much!"

It took the better part of a minute for Tom's laughter to fade from earshot. By then, Mark had chosen to completely ignore it, or, at least ignore it as best he could.

"So... As I was saying..." Alan started.

"I'm sorry, what exactly did you say, again?"

"I asked if anything was new with you."

"Let's see," Mark said thoughtfully. "I already told you about the bike... Oh, yeah... I've got some pictures of it. You wanna see 'em?"

"Sure."

Mark unzipped his backpack and removed several photographs from one of the inside pockets, which he then handed over to Alan. His friend leafed through the images one-by-one for over a minute before finally handing them back.

"Man, you just made me more jealous."

Mark shrugged. "Hey, you're the one who wanted to see them."

"I know, I know..." Alan sighed. "Hey... Maybe you could talk with my dad before you leave later, convince him to get one for me."

"How stingy your dad is with money? Probably not," Mark replied. "But I'll tell ya what, though..."

"What?" Alan asked anxiously.

"When you're all healed up, get the cast off and everything, I'll let you take a spin on my bike. How's that sound?"

His friend mulled it over a bit before replying. "I'll take it."

"Just when do you think you'll get the cast off?"

"Docs said mid-December – at the earliest. That means I'll have to put up with Tom's new nickname for at least that long."

Mark raised his eyebrows in surprise. "New nickname? I thought he already had a bunch for you."

"Apparently, 'a bunch' isn't enough for him," Alan scoffed. "Now he's taken to calling me a 'ginger gimpy'."

"Once again, Alan, your family reminds me of why I'm glad to be an only child."

"You're lucky. You don't have to put up with the teasing at home. As if school somehow wasn't enough... Older siblings are the worst. They use every chance they get to boss you around and more or less tell you that they're superior in every way. Chelsea's OK for the most part, but Tom... Ughhh..." Alan shuddered. "You know what I'm talking about. You've seen what he's like."

Mark nodded.

Indeed he had.

Once, while Mr. and Mrs. Parks were out on a dinner date, Tom and Chelsea had been left to babysit Alan, and Mark, who was staying over at the time. While no one was looking, Tom had emptied several cans of silly string into the boys' sleeping bags, and left both of them madder than hornets. Incredibly enough, Tom had simply laughed, even when Alan and Mark were both yelling at him at the top of their lungs. It seemed as though the madder they got, the harder he laughed. Eventually, Alan had gotten so fed up with his brother that he punched Tom right in the gut and knocked the wind out of him.

Tom hadn't been laughing after that. In fact, Alan had used that time to cut a deal with him: He wouldn't tell their parents about Tom's use of the silly string if Tom didn't tell them about Alan punching him.

Already under fire from their parents about his slipping grades in school and a less-than-stellar discipline record, Tom had jumped at the chance to avoid an intervention by his mom and dad.

"Hey," Mark said, "do you remember... Tom trying to get the washing machine to work when he messed up our sleeping bags?"

Alan laughed. "I sure do. Now that was funny."

"I bet you we'll be smarter when we're his age."

"Probably..." Alan agreed, his voice trailing off a bit.

"You all right?" Mark asked. "Aside from the obvious, that is."

"Yeah," Alan replied. "Just thinking about that... Growing up. Being a teenager and going to high school. Having actual, serious responsibilities. Driving a car... Those are big things, Mark. Really, really big. I don't know about you, but I'm not sure I can handle all that stuff at once."

"No matter what, at least we'll always have soccer," Mark said with a slight grin.

His friend smiled at that.

"I wish we could just stay ten forever, and not grow up."

At present, Mark was starting to wish the exact same thing.

Unfortunately, he had grown up, and now, as a twelve year-old, he had a responsibility bigger than some adults – and anyone his age – ever would:

Catching a killer.

At the moment, both boys were in Henry's room, with each doing their best to completely ignore the other. At least, Mark was. Henry, on the other hand, wasn't even paying any attention to his cousin. He was too busy fiddling with an old radio over his workbench, and God only knew what he was planning to do with it. In fact, any of the electronic junk in here could potentially be used as a weapon, not to mention the chemistry set or neatly-arranged rows of tools on the shelves above the workbench. And knowing Henry, he probably had some real weapons stashed somewhere, too.

This was a dangerous time to be a member of Henry's family. Just being in the same room was a hazard to your health – and Mark had shared this room with him for over a week now, the sole exception being yesterday and the day before that, the latter of which he now thought of as the Evans family's 'Black Friday'.

Mark was starting to see the two days since as a blessing in disguise, because it had given him a chance to be free of Henry, if only temporarily, and at enormous cost.

Now that Henry was back, Mark would have to ask Susan and Wallace about moving into one of the spare rooms. If they wanted to know why, he would tell them that he wanted to give Henry some time to recover from his ordeal, and that it would be best to give him the space in which to do it. Mark hated lying, but he was starting to realize that bringing Henry to justice would require significant sacrifices on his part, both physical and mental.

Every five minutes or so, he would spare a quick glance over at his cousin, just to make sure that the kid wasn't doing anything out of the ordinary. In fact, Henry was acting a little too ordinary, and just sitting there tinkering with the old radio, as if his sister hadn't just drowned the other day (aside from the fact that he had been responsible for her death in the first place). Those who didn't know Henry as well as Mark did – and, sadly enough, that included Susan and Wallace – would assume that he was withdrawn and depressed as the result of not being able to prevent his little sister's untimely demise.

But Mark knew better.

Henry was far from depressed. If anything, he was almost ecstatic now that he didn't have to share his parents' attention with Connie. As for why he was so quiet... Well, Mark knew that whatever his cousin was thinking, absolutely nothing good would come of it.

Getting hypothermia at the quarry and being in the hospital for two days barely even slowed him down, Mark thought to himself. He resisted the urge to shake his head in disbelief and went back to reading.

A few minutes later, a heavy knock sounded on the door, and through his peripherals, Mark saw Henry drop what he was doing in a split second and turn to face the door.

"Guys?" someone called out from the other side of the door, "you mind if I come in? There's something we need to talk about."

It was Wallace.

"Sure, Dad," Henry replied.

The door creaked open on its' aging hinges and Henry's father walked in. Even when he asked for them to come downstairs for a talk, Mark still couldn't bear to make eye contact with his uncle, and kept his attention focused on the book he was reading.

"Mark, please," Wallace said, "I don't want to have to fight with you."

His imploring tone surprised Mark, and was enough for the boy to finally set his book – the complete Sherlock Holmes – aside on the nightstand and get up off his bed. As he started toward the door, he cast a wary glance over at Henry, who returned the look in kind just before following his cousin out into the hall. Wallace brought up the rear, largely to make sure that neither of the boys tried to run off.

What he had to tell them was just too important.

Once they were all downstairs, he guided them into the kitchen and sat them both down at the table. Wallace folded his hands, cleared his throat, and did the utmost to compose himself before speaking.

"Henry, Mark," he started, "These past couple of days have been tough on all of us. But I think you two have taken it really hard – even more so than me and Susan to a certain degree. You boys can't go on blaming yourselves. There was nothing that either one of you could have done for Connie –"

"We should have tried harder!" Henry suddenly blurted. Mark winced and was mildly surprised by his cousin's sudden outburst.

"You gave everything you had to give, son. And we almost lost you, too," Wallace replied. "You know that your mother and I... It wasn't easy after Richard, either. There were times when we both felt like giving up. But do you know what kept us going?"

Henry shook his head 'no', while Mark remained silent, eyes focused intently on the floor at his feet.

"It was you and Connie," Henry's father replied. The look in Wallace's eyes was one of pain and long-buried grief. But there was also something else.

It was a faint glimmer of hope.

"Well, I suppose I did my best," Henry said, half-mumbling. He had no idea what that look in his father's eyes meant. Had Mark been looking up at his uncle at that moment, he probably would have figured it out, but for now, he was still too ashamed to look Wallace in the eye.

That wouldn't last for much longer.

Wallace took in a deep breath before continuing.

"What I'm about to tell you boys has to be taken with a grain of salt. It may not be true, and I don't want you to get your hopes up..."

"What is it, then?" Henry mumbled in a barely audible voice.

"Connie..." Wallace choked. "Connie may still be alive..."

In that instant, Mark's head snapped up so fast Wallace was surprised he hadn't broken his neck, while Henry blanched, and simply stared over at his father, wide-eyed. For the next few moments, a stunned silence hung over the table, with both boys trying to wrap their minds around this new revelation for totally opposite reasons.

How did she not die? Henry thought incredulously. I never saw her come back up after she went down, and I think I would know if she had. It obviously doesn't take that long for a little kid to drown. I mean, just look at Richard... Maybe Dad's lying. Giving us false hope.

It certainly wouldn't be the first time.

Heh, maybe Connie grew gills underwater... Henry thought. He resisted the urge to smile – and laugh – outwardly. I always knew she was a freak of nature. I guess evolution decided so, too. But even if she did somehow survive, there's no way she'll remember exactly what happened beforehand. No matter what really happened to her, I'm in the clear.

Mark's train of thought, on the other hand, was radically different, and in a positive way.

It's amazing that she survived. I was so sure she was gone... Henry was, too. He was so cocky when we talked in the hospital. He was proud of having drowned his little sister – like a hunter's first trophy kill!

Just thinking about it was enough to make him nauseous.

A moment later, Mark decided to speak his mind. Or, part of it, anyways.

"How – how do you know?" he asked his uncle.

"Two men from the FBI were here yesterday afternoon," Wallace replied. "In fact, they left only a little while before you came back."

"Did they explain why they think she's still alive?"

"A rescue dive team from Portland was brought in to search the quarry. They didn't find even a trace of Connie, which is why they're operating on the assumption that she's not..."

"Dead?" Henry interjected in a depressed tone. He was playing the part of someone with self-imposed guilt quite well. Had Mark not known Henry's true nature, he would have probably believed his cousin's act, too.

Wallace nodded.

"Then do they know where she is?" Mark asked.

Mark's uncle shook his head.

"It would seem as if Connie has... gone missing."

Henry cracked his knuckles and an evil grin twisted the corners of his mouth as he walked out of the kitchen and into the hall a few minutes later.

He was in the clear.

Connie was somehow still alive, but no one knew where she was. The FBI had gotten involved, though, and was heading the search for her, or so their father had said.

That was unfortunate, but it was no matter, really.

Probably just a couple of junior feds fresh out of Quantico looking to score big points with a missing child case.

The FBI...

Even though he was out of his father – and hopefully Mark's – eyesight, he just barely resisted the not-inconsiderable temptation to smile, and even laugh. To him, the FBI was nothing more than an oversized and over-extended police force with fancier badges and more official-sounding titles than your average cop.

Still, he figured it was best to lay low for a while, and avoid drawing too much attention to himself. Not to mention that even just a few days of staying quiet would help keep up the image of a mourning brother. Even better, he could use that time to plan his next move against Mark.

But for that exact same reason, his cousin would know that something was up.

At first glance, Mark looked like a weak, pathetic nerd. But Henry had to admit, the kid had brains, though certainly not enough to outsmart him any time soon. Mark's real strength lay in his persistence and his will to fight, both of which could pose a serious threat to Henry's plans if left unchecked.

He had to find a way to make himself all but untouchable in the eyes of his parents if Mark ever got up the nerve to openly accuse him. At this point, such a bold move was highly unlikely, sure, but it still wouldn't hurt for Henry to reinforce his position.

In any case, I don't think he even has the balls to challenge me.

Henry was so self-absorbed at the moment, he initially failed to notice one of the overhead hall lights flickering. In and of itself, that wasn't unusual at all. This was an old house, and the wiring wasn't exactly state-of-the-art. Maybe back in the '60s, sure, but not now.

But in this case, the wiring was perfectly fine.

Out of nowhere, a dim, shimmering light suddenly appeared in the middle of the hall, not ten feet in front of Henry. He looked up in surprise.

OK. That's definitely not the wiring...

The light flickered erratically for a few seconds before stabilizing around a small, but distinctly human shape.

What the...?

Then that human shape rapidly began to take on defining features.

Long brown hair.

Hazel-green eyes.

Pale skin.

A dark colored shirt and pair of jeans that looked as if they'd seen better days.

And finally, a face.

Henry's eyes went wide. Standing before him was an apparition of the very thing he had gotten rid of, or at least tried, to get rid of:

Connie.

A person never quite believes in a ghost until he or she lay eyes on one themselves. As for Henry, he was still finding it all but impossible to believe, even as this phantom slowly staggered toward him. He blinked once, twice, and then three times, and yet nothing had changed. Well, almost nothing. The glowing, shimmering apparition with Connie's face was a bit closer, and a second one had appeared behind it, this one even shorter than the first.

Even though this new figure was quite a bit farther away, by the time its' features came into focus, Henry knew who it was.

Richard. He looked a bit older, and ever so slightly taller, too. Probably what he would have looked like by now, were he still alive.

A slight whisper echoed in his ears.

Henry...

"What?"

He whirled around, thinking Mark or his father was trying to get his attention, but no one else was there.

Henry...

Henry turned again, and the apparitions were still there.

Henry... Henry...

He shook his head, but the whispers persisted.

Henry...

Henry smacked a palm against the side of his head, to no effect.

Henry... Henry... Henry...

This was really starting to get irritating...

Henry... Henry... Henry... Henry...

He clenched his fists, knuckles turning white and hands trembling with rage. If he heard that one more time...

Henry...

"Stop it!" Henry screamed, slamming his fists into the wall so hard he cratered the plaster.

An instant later, the apparitions vanished, and his father and Mark both ran out into the hall, surprised to see Henry leaning against the wall, gasping for breath, and his whole body trembling.

It almost sounded like he was sobbing, too.

Almost.

A/N: Definitely the biggest chapter yet. Was it worth the wait?

It was especially interesting writing the flashback, and I hope you liked the introduction to Alan's family.

I've already started work on Chapter 8: Hanging By A Thread. It will up the ante and set the tone for the rest of the story.