The Man in the Dark

Chapter One

"And remember that your father and I's work and cell numbers are on the fridge."
"Yes, Mom."
"Don't forget to lock all of the doors and windows every night before you go to bed."
"Yes, Mom."
"And if you need anymore money, give me a call."
"Yes, Mom."
"And-"
"Alright, let's get going, Melinda," my dad intercepts. "Don't want to be late for our flight."
"Oh, I know, but-"
"Mom," I interrupt. "Go, okay? I'll be fine. I can take care of myself."
"It's not that part I'm worried about, Dawn," Mom says. "Just the thought of leaving you here alone for a month is killing me. I really think I should call your brother."
"Don't call Devin," I plead, taking the phone out of her hands. "You're always saying how you want me to show you how responsible I am and now that the opportunity's come, you're trying to shut it down. If worst comes to worst I'll call Devin myself, but can I at least get a chance?"
"She does have a point, Mel," Dad agrees. "Let's give her this chance."
Mom averts her eyes from me to Dad for a few moments before sighing. "Fine," she says. "But I want you to call me every night before you go to bed. Understood?"
"Definitely," I reply excitedly. "You won't regret this."
"Alright, let's head out," Dad says, picking up his and Mom's suitcases. "Before your mother changes her mind."
I grab Mom's hand and we walk out the door together to the cab.
The early June sun beats down on us as we pad across the walkway to the driver who is leaning against the hood of the cab, smoking a cigarette. When he spots us, he quickly puts it out and opens the backseat door for my mom while my dad puts the things in the trunk. Mom rolls down the window and looks me square in the eye.
"I'll be fine," I repeat. "You worry too much."
"I'm a mom," she points out. "That's my job."
Dad gives my temple a kiss and my shoulder a squeeze. "See you in a month, kiddo," he says before hopping in the passenger's seat.
"See ya." I wave them off until they're all the way down the street where the stoplight is.
I trudge back inside and up the stairs into my room. I grab my laptop from my desk and plop down on my bed, opening it up. With my parents gone, especially my mom, I won't get scolded for trying to conjure a "guardian angel." My parents and I are religious people, but my mom doesn't believe in guardian angels. She says, the only guardian angel that's real is The Man upstairs and that's final. But I believe The Man has helpers when he can't watch over millions of people at a time. And even if guardian angels aren't real, at least I can go to sleep tonight knowing I tried. I go to Google and type in, "How to contact your guardian angel." A lot of the websites I click on say to find a quiet time and place during your day and meditate. I look around me. My bedroom had always been my sanctuary, a place I could go to to just be myself and relax. It's Sunday. There are no cars zooming pass filled with people trying to rush off to work or noisy kids playing outside because they're indoors helping with Sunday dinner. Now is as good a time as any. I close my laptop and place it on my nightstand.
"Hope this works," I mumble to myself as I lay back and fold my hands over my stomach.
I take deep, calming breaths and concentrate hard on contacting my angel. I don't think of anything else except that. I even hum a little to myself to drown out any possible noise that might sound and break me out of focus. Now that I'm in my "happy place" as the websites say, it says that I have to greet my angel. To thank them for guiding me throughout my life and all that other stuff. They said that there's a possibility of my guardian angel's image popping up before me.
It feels like forever before I decide to open my eyes again. Nothing had happened. I followed the steps and still came up empty. I sit up. Mom was right. I hate it when she's right. I grab my computer and open it up again.
"Thanks for nothing," I tell the website page before exiting out of it.

That night after I get off the phone with Mom, I step into the shower to wash away the events of today. I scrub my scalp really good as if that'll take the guardian angel thoughts out of my head. Those websites were nothing but garbage. Sometimes you just can't trust Google. When I wrap myself up in a towel and head out of the bathroom after combing out my hair, I hear a crash sound from downstairs and somebody swearing. I freeze. Seriously? I haven't been in this house alone for even a day and already someone's robbing me. I blow hair out of my face. Will my day get any better? I replace the towel with a robe and pull my hair back into a ponytail. I tiptoe out of my bedroom and down the hall to the supply closet where Mom keeps a steel baseball bat in the very back. Once I grab it, I quietly make my way downstairs.
The noise is coming from the living room. I peek around the wall and see four men. Two of them are trying to get our flat screen down from the hearth of the fireplace, one is loading up our antique dolls that are probably worth thousands now in a medium sized cardboard box while the last one is leaning against the unlocked sliding glass down that leads out into the back patio, smoking. I swear I locked it before I went upstairs. The weird thing is, the only thing I see is the glowing ember of the tip of the cigarette. While I see the other three men's silhouettes, the fourth member is completely invisible. The air smells like apple pie, the house's normal scent, not cigarettes and I don't see smoke curl up to the ceiling. What's the deal?
The fourth man shifts a little and I can see his silhouette now, but for some reason, I feel like he's looking directly at me. My heart drops when I see him put a finger to his lips, but I nod in understanding anyways.
"Alright, boys, this place is a bust, let's find somewhere better," he says.
"Are you kidding me?" the man taking the dolls off the shelf asks. "This place is a goldmine. Do you know how much these babies," he holds up the dolls, "are worth? We could live the rest of our lives happily off these."
"I said let's find somewhere better," the fourth man says menacingly making shivers dance up and down my back. "I'm not gonna tell you a third time."
The two men trying to take the flat screen down, put it back where it was, cords in the right place and the argumentative colleague, puts the dolls back where he found them.
The leader kicks open the sliding glass door and points outside. The men file out in a line. When they're gone, the leader just stands there and I get that same nervous feeling that he's staring straight at me. Does he expect me to go over and say thanks? But before I could dwell on it, he's gone, his glowing ember dying out.