Jamie Bennett opened his eyes to darkness.
A velvety, undisrupted, utterly pure darkness, unlike the hesitant, foggy tendrils that usually enveloped his room in the early morning hours. This was something different—something frighteningly dense, almost suffocating in its absoluteness. Breath shaking through his lungs, Jamie nervously tightened his fingers around the soft, sleep-warmed fabric of his blanket, pulling it to his chin as confused fragments of exhaustion darted about his mind, clouding his perception. He blinked several times, as if doing so would clear the tangible ebony that pressed so insistently from all angles, but to no result. His heart began to accelerate, slipping against his ribs with frantic ferocity.
He wasn't blind. He knew that, for he could detect the faint outline of his own body under the blankets, just the slightest stir in the liquid mica that made up his vision. Yet something had to be causing this absurd disruption. He was quite awake, far from immersed in any sort of nightmare—at least, he thought he was, but the realization that he couldn't even be positive of his own consciousness was terrifying, aggravating him in sharp, nauseous jerks. The concept of not so much as being able to get a grip on reality briefly took hold of him, so that he could think of nothing else. What if he was going blind, or otherwise insane? Anxiety reared fiercely inside of him, and he burrowed further under his covers, vastly preferring their warm shade to the haunted evanescence of the rest of his room.
A reassuringly familiar creak sliced through the deafening silence, accompanied by a pool of light melting into his room. He looked up, eyes wide and unblinking, to see the door propped open. His mother's slim figure marred the glow of the hallway lights, and clinging to her leg was the trembling silhouette of his sister Sophie, blue eyes bright with anxious tears.
"Sophie? Mom?" he mumbled.
"Jamie," his mother sighed in relief, hurrying over and wrapping an arm around him. He found himself instinctively sidling up against her, fundamentally relieved by her reassuring, parental presence. "The weather's being a bit odd, honey, so we're going to head down to the basement, alright?"
"Weather...?" Still wrapped in her hold, he turned around towards the frost-slicked window, now illuminated like everything else by the buttery touch of the hall light. Sure enough, the cause for the oddity became immediately clear. Pressing against the glass was a frighteningly material horde of what looked like black mist, straining as though it were a sentient being attempting to break in.
He let out a small, unwilling gasp of fearful shock, then hastened to throw off his covers and stand beside his mother and his sister, instinctively grasping Sophie's delicate hand in his own. "What is it?" he demanded in absolute disbelief, incapable of making sense of the visually apocalyptic mess.
"We don't know yet," his mother replied. Her tone was a bit unsteady, and, apparently aware of as much, she proceeded to shake her head and straighten her back. "It's probably not going to hurt anyone, but it might be signaling tornadoes or something of the like. It's best that we stay clear of it, just to be sure. Alright? Jamie—Jamie!"
For he had torn free of her possessive grip, dashed back to his bed and grasped the object nestled between the pillows there. It was a rabbit, a stuffed one; worn and frayed around the edges, though its scars only showed it to be all the more beloved. He'd had it since his much younger years, and it was precious to him now—far too precious to be swept away in the midst of some freak tornado.
"Okay, we can go now," he mumbled, tucking the rabbit's scuffed head under his chin. His mother exhaled, replacing her arm around the shoulder, and proceeded to escort him and Sophie out of his room. Despite his lingering, probably ridiculous fear that he'd never see the place again, he couldn't bring himself to turn his head. For there, the black cloud was waiting, and he never wanted its chilling solidity to assault his vision again.
In the hallway, he could almost pretend that things were normal, though the tension in his mother's gripping hand was far from such. The light lining the house was certainly reassuring; it appeared that practically every lamp had been turned on in an effort to combat the creeping blackness that still haunted every window.
"Is the TV working?" he questioned anxiously as they passed the shadowed living room and began on their descent downstairs. Sophie whimpered, and their mother scooped her into her arms, causing the stairs to release a soft whine at the sudden weight increase. "Maybe the news knows something..."
"No signal." Her words were brief and terse enough that he felt a sharp clench in his stomach. This was, in its own measured way, his mother showing her own fear. And she never did, never had, not since Jamie's dad had left so many years ago. This was new, and her unsureness only caused the nervous whispers within Jamie's own chest to take firmer root. They were isolated, stranded in this strange sea of black mist, and the thought of his other friends—of Caleb and Claude, Monty and Pippa, even of Cupcake—was too much to even contemplate.
Surely they were safe, and surely he'd be safe, too. He had to believe that—otherwise, he had nothing at all, nothing to...
...Believe...
And then he remembered the previous night's events, all pouring into his mind in such a fiery rush that he found himself stumbling on the stairs, reaching out to clench the railing. Recollection burned behind his eyes. He had seen him. Him. Jack Frost. The strange, white-haired, light-limbed boy with the jubilant laugh and the pale, twinkling eyes... Jamie had seen him. It was the most absurd and yet the most wonderful experience of his life...
...And it had been followed by this.
Jack had rushed off after revealing himself, and the haste in his actions had been easy to detect, even for Jamie. There was no denying it: the frost spirit must have some role in this. It was too inexplicable of a coincidence, otherwise. And yet he couldn't say so—Sophie would believe him all too willingly, but his mother surely had no time for what she'd insist on being childish fantasies, not in such a dangerous situation.
And what could he do, anyways? What sort of action could he possibly perform to assist Jack Frost in what was surely a battle he couldn't even contemplate the extent of? He didn't know who Jack was fighting against, or what for. He was sure of nothing, only the fact that something wild and mysterious and mystical was happening at this very moment, as he and his mother and sister hid under the foundation of their house, and that he was going to miss it all.
"Mom..." The name caught in his throat, and he suddenly realized just how scared he was. Beyond scared—his palms were damp and his mouth dry, his voice rasping and squeaking with uncertainty on a single syllable. He closed his eyes briefly, pausing as they reached the bottom of the stairwell. He had to talk. Had to do this. If Jack's excitement was any indication, he had little to no other believers, and that put a massive weight on Jamie's shoulders. It made him important. Needed. Summoned in a way that he couldn't possibly reject.
"Jamie, come on," he mother urged, her fingers lingering on his shoulder as she started into the shadow-cloaked emptiness of the room before them. "We need to get as far away from the windows as we can."
"Mom, I want to go outside."
She glanced over distractedly. Her mouth was downturned, and her thin brows drawn into an expression of almost disgusted alarm. "Outside?" she repeated, as if seeking clarification that she had misheard what she considered to be an impossible word. He nodded, biting slightly on his lower lip with condensed anxiety.
"Honey, of course you can't go outside! We need to get as far away from outside as possible, remember? Are you feeling alright?"
"Of course I'm feeling alright." A lie, he reflected as his stomach overturned with fright-spurred nausea. "It's just... it's just that I'm worried about my friends. They might be out there..."
"It's barely sunrise, Jamie. Or at least what's supposed to be sunrise," she amended in a gust of exhaustion, shifting Sophie to her other hip. "They won't be outside. And you shouldn't be, either."
"Really, Mom! I think Pippa was going to try and get up early this morning, she could be hurt... I can't let her be hurt!" The lies scorched his tongue, but he forced himself not to care. This was important. He had to get out there, find Jack Frost and figure out what was going on—get his friends, and explain to them how the spirit was real, how they had to believe in him, for the way that Jack had been strengthened by Jamie's own seeing him was undeniable.
"Her parents will take care of her, and I have to take care of you." Her voice was moving past the point of sternness, rising into anger, and Sophie wailed softly, burying her face in her carrier's shoulder. Jamie's mother ran a shaking hand through the little girl's greasy blonde tangles, pausing for a moment to coo a few soft, wordless reassurances. "No, Jamie. You are absolutely not allowed to go outside. Now come downstairs right now, young man, or you will find yourself in quite a bit of trouble."
"I am downstairs." Rebellion was beginning to stir inside of him, sharp and angry at her unwillingness to just allow him this small grasp of freedom, and his fingers tightened on the railing. His heart's beats were fleeting, each skipping by in half the space of his also-elevated breaths, and a flush crept underneath his cheeks. Fear was being seized and transformed, twisting its way into desperate determination.
"Excuse me?"
"I—" He hesitated. There was no denying the trouble he was about to get in—massive. And more daunting even than that was the genuine worry in both his mother's and Sophie's wide eyes. They were afraid for him, and that was painful, but he couldn't let it provide hindrance. He knew what he had to do, and he wasn't going to let them stop him. He couldn't. Much more than his own family's happiness was sure to be hinging on this chance, and he had to make himself take it.
"I'll be right back," he got out, and darted.
His mother's voice followed him up the stairs, pitched into something that was almost a shriek—"Jamie Bennett! You get back here right now!" And yet he couldn't do it. He had to get outside. Tears boiled behind his own eyes as he dashed along, his feet pummeling the hardwood floor, and he paused only briefly upon reaching the front door.
The windows on all sides were obscured entirely, as though the house were some sort of ship sinking into an endless black sea. He didn't know what the half-solid clouds were, whether they were breathable or even safe to touch, but he couldn't let himself doubt. Jack needed him. They all needed him—for surely there were more, more apparitions of glorious energy and undaunted fun...
Fun, he remembered. That had been the largest impression he'd garnered from Jack Frost's presence. Pure, unrestrained fun, through bright eyes and helpless laughter. It was fundamental to happiness, to courage, and he clung to it now, allowing himself two deep breaths to muster his determination. He could hear his mother hurrying after him, but she had Sophie with her, and it would take her several more seconds to get all the way down the hallway.
Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale.
They need me.
Biting down on his fear, he pushed forwards, shoving the door open and darting without a hint of doubt out into the howling virtual night.
