Malibu

Rain batters my windshield, making it nearly impossible to see as I ease my car down what I hope is the narrow lane leading home. Even if this road had edge lines, I couldn’t see them in the dark with all this rain. My knuckles are white as I clutch the steering wheel of Dad’s Chevy Malibu, hoping that his trust in me is not misplaced and that getting my driver’s license wasn’t a fluke.

It WOULD storm like this the week after I got my license, in the dark after a long rehearsal. I’m too tired for this. Even the punchy showtunes pumping through the car’s stereo system can’t drown out the rain or ease my nerves enough to sing along as I normally would. Peering through the rain to keep the car on the road and find my house is taking all my concentration.

At last, I see the porch light of my parents’ house and guide the car into the pockmarked gravel driveway and then under the carport. “Not Throwin’ Away My Shot” from Hamilton is suddenly extremely loud, without the competition from rain on the windows and roof, and I jump to turn down the volume, then slump into my seat and breathe a sigh of relief.

“Better go inside. It’s already after six,” I tell myself before grabbing my backpack off the passenger seat and opening the car door. The wind pushes against me, making getting out of the car a struggle, and once I’m out from behind the door’s protection, rain slaps against me, soaking through my jeans and hoodie. I groan and lock the car. Looking around, my parents’ other cars aren’t here, but I catch a glimpse of the yellow “you’ve got mail” flag on the mailbox through the rain, thanks to the porch light’s glow. I groan and dash through the rain to retrieve the mail, then dart back under the relative safety of the carport with the envelopes and catalogs clutched to my chest.

After a few frantic moments of fumbling to get my house key out of my purse, I let myself into the mudroom through the side door, where I kick off my shoes and deposit my backpack before making my way through the dark house to the kitchen. We’ve lived here since I was a baby and I can navigate the house blindfolded, which is great because no one’s left any lights on anywhere in the house. The porch light is only on because of the automatic timer, I’d guess. Mom and Dad are usually too distracted by work to think ahead on things like that, and I don’t remember seeing anything about a storm like this in the forecast for today.

My phone buzzes as I turn on the kitchen light, so I toss the mail onto the table and fish my phone out of my purse to see what’s going on. It’s too soon after rehearsal for the cast group chat to be blowing up.

Message from Mom: Dad and I are going out for a date night. Won’t be home til late. There’s leftovers in the fridge for dinner. Love you! Let me know when you’re home from rehearsal.

Great. Alone for the night again, and leftovers for dinner.

I quickly text Mom back that I’m home and I hope they have a good time, then look in the fridge. My options are pizza, stir fry, or macaroni casserole, none of which sounds good at the moment. I’ll look again in an hour or so - not that my options will be different then, but maybe I’ll be hungrier and more willing to settle for what’s available.

I decide to sort the mail before pulling my script back out to study my lines. The messy pile on the kitchen table will just bother me if I don’t.

“Let’s see… This credit card offer is junk…” I toss it into the recycling bin. “Anniversary card for Mom and Dad from Aunt Tildy? Their anniversary was three months ago. Oh well, I’ll leave it for them…Furniture catalog is junk…Oh hey, what’s this?”

The last envelope from the mailbox is heavier than it looks like it should be, and the paper feels expensive, thicker and smoother than the average envelope. The stamp in the right corner is holographic, changing its appearance when I move the envelope. Elegant silver script on the front clearly addresses James Woodburn - my father. But who could be sending him something so fancy? I’ve never seen mail like this before. Maybe it’s a wedding invitation? But who does he know who’s getting married? There’s not even a return address on this envelope.

I turn the envelope over, hoping to find a clue of some kind. It’s completely sealed from end to end, but there’s aggressive typewritten text across the top: IMPORTANT INFORMATION REGARDING YOUR CHEVROLET MALIBU

Oh God. Did I open the car door into some rich dude’s ride when I took the Chevy to the mall last weekend to celebrate getting my license? Or maybe there’s a factory recall on one of the engine parts and I’m lucky it hasn’t exploded while I’ve been driving it? Or maybe even “Your VIN has been chosen to win $1,000,000”?! I hope it’s that last one. That would certainly make paying for college easier.

I know it’s addressed to Dad, but it looks really important, and I have no idea when he and Mom might get home tonight. Plus, I’m the one driving the Malibu, so that should give me a right to know what’s in it, right?

I’ll never be able to focus on memorizing my lines for The Tempest if I don’t at least take a peek. I take a butter knife from the silverware drawer and use it to carefully pry apart the adhesive sealing the envelope shut. There’s one piece of paper inside, tri-folded, with a bit of silver script peeking over a fold. I pull the paper out, and it unfolds with a snap, sending clouds of silver dust all over the kitchen.

“ACK!” I drop the letter and the butter knife and stumble back, coughing violently as I inhale the dust, which is sticking to me all over. It’s cold and feels hard and rigid. My feet won’t move anymore; I’m stuck in the middle of the kitchen floor. Although I keep coughing, the dust pulls me upright, making me face the letter I dropped.

It’s floating above the floor. I want to scream, but I can’t stop coughing. What the fuck is happening?! The paper rises up, then starts to glow and fold itself like origami. My heart is pounding in my chest. I want to run away, but my feet still won’t move. My legs won’t move. My arms won’t move. I can’t even turn my head. All I can do is stand here, terrified, while this mysterious letter folds itself into an origami person and - wait a second. Is it getting bigger?!

“EEEEEeeeek!” I scream before coughing again. It IS getting bigger, and bigger, and bigger. It’s now taller than I am. Then there’s a POP like every popcorn kernel in a bag exploding at once and a blinding flash of light and dust. I yelp and close my eyes. At least my eyelids can still move.

“Well, well, well. Isn’t this interesting?” a voice strangely similar to Christian Bale’s asks, sounding very pleased with itself. I open my eyes a crack, then all the way, unable to believe what I’m seeing.

Amidst more silver dust, which seems to be settling to the ground, the paper has become a person with a physique like Captain America and straight silver hair falling past his waist. His skin is startlingly dark against his billowing silver-white trench coat and skintight white clothing. His ears are long and pointed, and his eyes are an electric purple. What the fuck is this person doing in my house?! Is he even a person? This can’t be real. I want to pinch myself to see if I’m dreaming, but I can’t even twitch a finger.

“What have we here?” the stranger asks. He circles me like a tiger stalking its prey, his eyes raking up and down my immobilized body. “You seem too young to own a car.”

“Who the fuck–” I start, but then my jaw clamps shut without my permission and I can’t force any more words out, no matter how hard I try.

“None of that. Speak nicely or you can’t speak at all. And that won’t help either one of us. You understand?” His face is mere inches from mine. His breath smells like strawberry Starburst.

My jaw unclenches so I can answer his question. “Yes,” I mutter. I’m not about to lose the ability to talk again, even if this is hella freaky and I’m losing my shit.

The stranger nods and takes a step back, just outside of my personal space, which makes me feel a bit better “Very good. Let’s try this again. Do you own that lovely ocean blue car outside?”

“No.” Although I really like it, and Dad’s said something about letting me have it when I go to college, that’s still a couple years away.

“So you’re not the one who has been ignoring my messages.” His shoulders slump slightly from his arrogant posture. His purple eyes bore into me, as though expecting a response, but I don’t know what to say. He sighs and rolls his eyes. “Are you?”

“Am I…what?”

“The one who’s been ignoring my messages.”

“I…don’t know what you’re talking about.” I hope that will be enough for him, but based on the way his eyes narrow and my skin feels like it’s on fire under the stupid silver powder, he wants me to say something else. “What messages?”

“There have been several. Although admittedly none as enticing as this envelope. Phone calls, text messages, emails…You’re not the one who’s received them?”

“I…don’t think so. My phone is there, on the table, if you want to look.” I try to gesture, but I still can’t move anything other than my face and vocal cords. A whimper of frustration escapes my lips.

The stranger chuckles, a grim sound that makes my skin crawl. “There is no need.” He touches my forehead with two fingertips. His touch is light but his fingers are icy and send a jolt of electricity into my skull.

“Eek! What was that?!”

He frowns at me. “No, you don’t own the Chevrolet Malibu parked outside. So you can’t solve my problem.”

Is he doing some kind of mind reader bullshit? What the fuck is he? “I’m sorry?”

“But your father can,” he continues as though I haven’t spoken. “Where is he?”

“I don’t know. A date night with Mom. That’s all they told me.”

“But he will come home?”

“I think so. I hope so. Oh, God…” What if they don’t come home? What if the text message came from this creature and he’s got my parents trapped or murdered somewhere? What if he’s just toying with me–

“God can’t help you now, Kaley.” How the fuck does he know my name?! “You see, we’ve been trying to reach your father about that car’s extended warranty. And we don’t take kindly to being ignored.”

The stranger cackles malevolently and I wish that I could disappear. I’ll never complain about trigonometry homework again, if I make it through this.

He stops laughing and those unsettling purple eyes meet mine with a spine-chilling expression of craftiness. He smiles, and his teeth are sharply pointed. “But seeing his only daughter in mortal peril ought to get his attention, don’t you think?”