I let out a long, shaky sigh of relief and slumped against the door frame. “Jesus Christ,” I whispered.
I must have been hallucinating. That was the only even remotely reasonable explanation I could think of—reasonable, perhaps, but hardly comforting. In fact, the notion that I was hallucinating was almost as disturbing as the notion that that kid was real and from the Island.
Can stress cause hallucinations? Probably not, or I’d be in a mental institution by now. Not counting high school, that is. Though even by the standards of the last few months, today had been extremely stressful.
I stayed slumped against the door frame for three or four minutes before I started trudging back to bed, still wondering what—
“Boo.”
“JESUS FUCK!”
Peter was standing right behind me. Cackling.
“Where the fuck did you come from?!” I cried, looking around wildly. It was impossible. I’d looked around the entire room and he hadn’t been there. There was nowhere to hide, no way in hell he could have popped up right behind me like that.
“Sorry ’bout that, mate,” he laughed, “didn’t mean to scare ya. Well, alrigh,’ I s’pose I did. But look, why don’t we start over, ay? I just wanna talk.”
“No.” I stepped back, shaking my head. “You’re not real. I’m not talking to you.”
He frowned, looking politely puzzled. “Oh really?” He made a show of looking around. “Then may I ask who you’re talking to?”
“I’m not talking to anybody, I’m hallucinating.”
He grinned. “Oh, well, that must be a relief, ay? I’m not real, you’re just batshit mental.”
“I’m not ‘mental,’” I said, som what uncertainly. “It’s just stress.”
His grin widened. “Stress, ay? That a new name for LSD?”
“I’m not on drugs, either, all right?” I snapped.
“Well lemme just ask ya somethin,’ mate—when ya first saw me and ya started runnin’ for the door, somethin’ pulled ya back onto the bed, rememba that? If I’m na real, how d’ya explain that?”
Oh shit. I’d forgotten about that. I stared at Peter, trying to act unfazed—more for my own sake than his—while groping frantically for an explanation. Finally, I said, “I tripped.”
“Ah,” he grinned and pointed at me, “so you admit it.”
“Admit what?”
“You’re on LSD.” He threw his head back and cackled.
I covered my face with my hands. “I need to see a psychologist.”
“Change a’ heart, ay?”
I dropped my hands and looked at him sharply. “What’d you say?”
“Neva mind. Listen, mate… ya say ya stressed out, righ’? Well, I just happen to know the perfect way to relieve stress. So why don’t ya just have a seat and let me explain, ay?”
My eyes gravitated toward the door—but again Peter’s mirthful friendliness and my overwhelming wonder got the better of me.
I studied Peter again and frowned a bit in frustration. I still could not connect him with any specific memory—I felt almost certain I’d never seen him before—and yet somehow he seemed unmistakably familiar…. “Do I know you?” I asked.
“’Course ya do, mate. Ya know me from ya dreams—ya just havin’ a bit a’ trou—”
“Whoa, wait a sec,” I said, staring at him quizzically, “did you say… from my dreams?”
“Uh-huh. Like that dream ya just had. The one about the Island.”
My eyes widened. “How the… you…?”
He grinned. “How’d I know ’bout that dream? I was in the dream, mate. Don’t ya rememba? I told ya to wake up ’cause I was comin’ to see ya.”
I felt like an explosion had gone off inside my head—suddenly I did remember that. “But—but that’s impossible, how’d you—”
“To make it simple, mate—very simple—I can communicate with ya through dreams. Which is how I told ya ’bout the Island. Oh, did I mention I live there?”
My mind was starting to spin crazily. “The Island’s not real.”
“And neither am I, righ’?” He laughed. “The Island is real, mate. But I couldn’t just walk up to ya on the street one day and start talkin’ ’bout it—ya woulda thought I was bloody mental. But people are much more open-minded in their dreams. So that’s where I went first. I showed ya the Island through ya dreams. So that when I came tonight, I’d already have my foot in the door, ya see?”
My mind was now spinning so fast that the room itself seemed to be rotating. I knew what he was saying was impossible… and yet I could think of no explanation that was possible. Why else would Peter be so familiar when I was so certain I’d never seen him before? How else could he know about the Island? About my dreams?
“I can prove it, if ya want,” Peter said, somewhat quietly. “I can show ya the Island. I can take you there.” He was grinning at me eagerly, almost hungrily, his eyes sparkling. “Come with me,” he said, nodding toward the open window.
That took me a beat to process. “What, like right now?”
Peter nodded. “Right now, mate.”
I opened my mouth, but found I was too surprised to even think, much less speak.
Peter said, “Just think of it as, like… runnin’ away from home for a bit.”
That gave me a little jolt. I remembered, just hours ago, eyeing the door to the garage and—
“Ya were just thinkin’ ’bout runnin’ away, weren’t ya?”
I looked at him sharply. “How the hell’d you know that?!”
“Ya told me yaself. In that dream ya just had. I know ’bout everythin,’ mate—that’s why I’m here. I know ’bout the last few months. I know ’bout today. And I know how much ya been wishin’ ya could go to the Island. Well, now ya can stop wishin’. And hell, mate, why not get away? What’s keepin’ ya here?”
Nothing, I thought. And my throat tightened.
“I can come back whenever I want, right?” I asked.
“Yeah, a’ course.” Peter grinned. “I can’t guarantee you’ll want to, though.”
“Where exactly is the Island?”
His grin widened. “It ain’t on any maps.”
“Then how do you get there?”
“You’ll see. You’ll like it there, I promise ya that. It’s the most wonderful place.” He paused a moment, beaming at me excitedly. “So how ’bout it, mate?”
An actual escape to the Island, I thought wonderingly. An opportunity to experience what before I could only imagine.
Quite literally, a dream come true.
I smiled slowly. “Yeah. I’m coming.”
Peter Lerangis, Wtf
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