X

Dale's wandering thoughts came to a rendezvous as the tone in Pablo's voice switched to a much solemn and serious one. Dale shifted his gaze from his furnitures to Pablo's face. All of a sudden the wrinkles on Pablo's face seemed more prominent and this caused his complexion to look haggard. The air around them seemed to be in a standstill until Pablo decided to go on with his story.

"It was a couple of months after you sent him to us. It was a Sunday, I remember, because the new stock of fruits were supposed to arrive that day. But they didn't. They usually send it here at around 10 in the morning but it was already noon when I decided to phone them. I couldn't get through to them so I called the company. Turns out they were dispatched at 8 in the morning and should be back by then. They waited another hour before sending out a few people to look for the missing truck. Turns out they did, and all of them said that they wish that they didn't." Pablo paused and sipped at his beer. His last five words sent a certain chill down Dale's spine. "The driver was found dead."

Dale's eyes widened as he scanned Pablo's face for any hint of humour. None was found. 

"The reason why the news never got out was because the company wanted to cover it up. No good for their reputation it seems. Some marketing mierda. They just shoved the case in the basement as the poor fella had no friends or next of kin. Only the company, me, and your tia knows about this," Pablo hesitated for a couple of seconds and Dale realised that for that brief moment Pablo lost the sternness in his eyes and instead looked sad, afraid almost. "At least that was what I thought."

"A few days later when I was tidying up the store room, Caleb came into the room with his favourite play toy. It was a Lego figure of a fireman. He adored that thing, although it seemed as old as me," Pablo smiled, but only ever so slightly. "He stood there while I shifted some things around. I asked him to play elsewhere but he just stood there. He seemed scared. I stopped packing and knelt down next to him and asked him what was the matter. He just looked at me. What happened next was so weird that I've never gotten the guts to tell your tia. Caleb's eyes, it went from a pair of timid looking eyes to...calm ones. In just a split second, it was as though he was falling asleep. Then he touched my face."

This shocked Dale so much that he almost choked on his drink. His mind spun in a million circles as he recalled Caleb touching his face earlier in the shop. He could still feel his stone-cold fingers on his face "What's the matter, my boy?" Pablo asked with a concerned look. Dale waved his hand in the air while pounded his chest with the other. "cough...no-nothing, tio. Go on. I'm fine."   

Pablo flashed Dale a questioning look before continuing. "He reached out his hand and brushed across my cheeks. Then I saw visions. I saw a crashed vehicle. It was blur but I could make out the company's logo at the side of the truck. It was the company which delivered our goods. And I saw the body in the driver's seat," Pablo gulped. "He was without his head."  

IX

Pablo leaned back and cleared his throat. "After you left Caleb with me, things were fine. Normal, to say the least. He was in shock ya know? Your tia and I didn't know what to do. He was a missing child after all." He shifted his gaze unto the table in front of him. Dale noticed the tiredness on Pablo's complexion. Somehow it made him look ten years older. "So we just took care of him. Like how a parent would. Your tia and I always wanted a child, as you already know. So to us, Caleb was like our chiquito."

"Then months passed. Nothing happened. We wanted to send him to school, but since he didn't have a birth certificate attached to him, we know we couldn't. And judging by the state in which you found him, I'm guessing whoever his previous guardians were, they have absolutely no rights in handling any child whatsoever. So we refrained from exposing Caleb to outsiders," Pablo shifted in his seat. "And as to why you did not follow-up on the poor boy after sending him to us, I would like to know why." Pablo's gaze was petrifying. Dale averted his eyes and stared at his hands instead. "But unanimously your tia and I decided that Caleb was seven, based on his height and weight. Besides you and your friend, what's his name again?" Pablo pondered as his stare never left Dale. Dale struggled in his thoughts. "Uh, Mike. His name is Mike." Pablo nodded, as if struck by a revelation. "Ah, that's it. Mike. So, besides both of you and both me and your tia, only people who lives in our street knows about Caleb. Things were going well between us." Pablo stared at his coaster. It was a thin one with red and white stripes. There was a short pause before Pablo lifted his chin and stared straight into Dale's eyes.
"And then that happened."

VIII

Pablo winced the moment Dale opened the door. The stench was literally piercing his eyes. He stood outside for a second or two, pushing back and preventing the bread he ate for breakfast from flushing out. "Dios mio," Pablo whispered to himself. The horrifying smell wafted through the stale air as he entered the apartment. If it wasn't for the pale white light emitted from the forlorn-looking lamp in the kitchen, Pablo would have assumed something died in here.
"It's a little messy in here," Dale admitted casually. "Haven't gotten the time to clean up."
"A little, kid? Wait till your tia sees this," Pablo replied, still covering his nose with his palm. "She gonna slaughter you like you're a big fat cerdo."
"Not to worry. I'll spring clean soon. Now, water or beer?"
Pablo walked across the living room (this place looks as dead as it can be. Oh, the irony) and sat down on the couch. He grimaced at the pain in his back as he sat. He gave the offer a lengthy consideration and replied: "Beer will do just fine, Dale." Something in a can will be much better compared to water coming from a pipe, especially in a place like this. Don't wanna catch myself some cholera, he wanted to add, but did not.

Pablo looked around as Dale prepared the refreshments in the kitchen. The place was indeed unkempt. The couch he was sitting on had holes in almost every corner with cotton sticking out of them. The wallpaper was stained with what he believed to be moss, if that was even possible. The only decent looking piece of furniture is the flat-screened TV. It was a gift from both himself and Juannita to Dale when he first moved into this apartment. Apart from that, it was mess in almost every corner of the place. Piles of clothes were found everywhere; magazines and takeout boxes were lying around; the place looked like it was inhabited by a caveman, if not by cavemen. Pablo's revolting observations were abrupted by Dale's entrance into the living room.
"There," Dale muttered as he passed Pablo a glass of ice-cold beer.
"Gracias," thanked Pablo as he sipped at his drink. The chilling sensation was so refreshing it cleared his mind off of the unpleasant smell and sight of the apartment.
Dale dragged a wooden stool and sat in front of Pablo. "So, uh, how should I start this." Dale picked at his stubbles as he stared at his own glass of fizzling beer.
Pablo waved his hand in the air as he gulped his drink, as though he wanted Dale to stop talking. He placed his glass unto the coaster on the table and wiped at his mouth with the back of his hand. He looked straight into Dale's eyes and gave himself a slight nod.
"Let's do this two ways, shall we?" Pablo said. "I tell you about Caleb, and you tell me all about your life after Olivia's death."
Dale's heart skipped a beat as the last two words struck him like a flash of thunderbolt from Zeus. He was astonished by Pablo's bluntness and straightforwardness. Images of Olivia appeared in his mind like strips and strips of negative from a roll of film. He swallowed the bitter thought and gulped.
"Fine."
Pablo gave him a grin and this made Dale feel even more uncomfortable.
"Well then, let's begin."

Above them, the spherical suspended lamp creaked as a gentle and cold breeze swept across the room.    

VII

A voice snapped Dale out of his trail of thoughts. Dale shook his head at searched for the source of it.
"They are coming."
Dale looked at Caleb. "I beg your pardon?"
"It's them."
"Who?" Dale was getting impatient. "Who on earth are you talking about?"
"No, no."
"What? Come on Caleb."
"No. Not here. Not on-"
Caleb's words were cut off by the sudden entrance of Pablo. "So you're awake, son!" Pablo ambled across the room and gave Dale a tight hug. "You and your alcohol again."
"Sorry, tio," Dale said. "And thanks."
"Ah, no mention it, boy. Scared the ell out of me, know? Your tia wants an explanation, too."
Dale heaved a sigh and got up. He paced towards the door and exited the room, pausing along the way to look at Caleb.
"Problem, son?" Pablo asked, raising a curious brow.
"Uhh, no," Dale dismissed. "Let's get out of here."

***

"Hey tia Juan," Dale greeted.
"Ah, Dale!" Juan called out. "What happened to you? All the beer and vomit."
"Eh, let's not talk about it, tia. Plus, I can't really remember. My head still hurts from the hangover."
"You made us worry sick! You better change this routine of yours, Dale, before you get one of those colon cancer."
"Will do, tia," Dale promised half-heartedly. "Say, tio, could you walk me home?"
Pablo chuckled and patted Dale on the back. "Still a kid, eh Dale?"
"Heh, guess so.."
"You wait here, let me go get my coat. Sky looks dark."
Dale reached for a wooden crate and sat on it. He lifted his gaze to the skies and squinted at the overcast weather. A mild wind blew across the street and brushed against his flushed cheeks. Dale shifted his gaze to the telephone wires across the street and stared at the row of birds sojourning on the rubber wires. A nearby car honked loudly and the birds took flight all at once. A few curses followed.

What WAS all that, anyway? Dale thought to himself. It was no hallucinations, that he was sure. During the solemn months after Olivia's demise, Dale fell into a deep depression and had several hallucinations of his own. He would often see figures loitering in the corners of his house and would occasionally hear noises within his own house, as though it is trying to talk to him. Every single time he would be reminded by his own conscious that what he was experiencing were indeed illusions. But not this time. Not Caleb. This was real.

Minutes later, Pablo came out with two beige-coloured raincoats. "Here, take this. Seems like the angels are about to take a shower." Dale chuckled at the thought and grabbed the coat. "Gracias, tio."

Dale and Pablo walked down the street and took a left turn at the T-junction, passing by Albert's Fish Market and also Henrietta's Chocolate Haven. They remained silent throughout most of the journey, until Dale broke the silence two blocks away from his own apartment.
"Hey tio, could we talk?"
"What's the matter, Dale? You don't seem like yourself. Even though at times you can be quite confusing."
Dale tightened his jaw and gulped forcefully. It was tougher than he thought.
"It...It's about Caleb."
Uncle Pablo's expression changed immediately. It was like those street performers who wore masks and impressed the public by changing their facial expressions in a matter of seconds. With just a little more practice and Uncle Pablo could be one of them, Dale thought. In what seemed to be a fraction of a second, his normal, cheerful look morphed into a grim, solemn frown.
"What about Caleb?" Uncle Pablo's voice was somehow deeper, sadder.
"Let's do this in my place, shall we?"
Uncle Pablo looked Dale in his eyes, pondered for a second-as though hesitated-but nodded in the end.

With that, both of them walked the remaining half of the journey yet again with the inevitable cloud of silence hovering just above their heads.          

VI

Uncle Pablo was shipping in boxes of fruits when Dale went to see him. Michael had offered to give him and the child a lift to Uncle Pablo's shop. Dale fumbled as he stepped out of the Sedan.
"Oh, Dale!" Uncle Pablo called out, clearly surprised by the sudden visit.
"Hey tio, I need help."
"You doin' the sniff sniff, hijo?"
"What?"
"You know, the powder?" Uncle Pablo furthered his effort by closing one nostril and sucking in air with the other.
"You mean drugs?"
"Shhhh, the cops might be around. They like hyenas, know?" Uncle Pablo glanced around like a guilty child after stealing a jar full of cookies.
"Heck no!" Dale looked at Uncle Pablo in disbelief.
"Watch your language, boys!" Aunty Juannita called out from inside the shop.
"Sorry, Tia!" Dale shouted back. "You think your hijo would do such a thing?"
"Sheesh, siento, alright?" Uncle Pablo wiped his sweaty forehead with a grey handkerchief. Was that a sigh? Dale thought. "Can never be too careful these days, know? With all the street gangsters and the getto kids."
"You mean ghetto," Dale corrected.
"Yuh, getto. That's what I said."
Dale led out a grin and patted Uncle Pablo on the back. It sure was sweaty.

Dale spent the next hour explaining the whole story to Uncle Pablo, verbatim. Uncle Pablo wore a worried and amused expression throughout the whole session.
"Okay, so you telling me that you found a child in the forest, all naked?"
Dale nodded.
"Sounds like rape to me."
Dale was shocked. He was both dumbfounded and bemused at the same time. Perhaps it was because Dale has never considered the possibility of this child being sexually assaulted. "You think so, tio?"
"I don't see why not. He not talking, he not eating, just lies there. Could be trauma, know?"
Dale rubbed his chin with his index finger and gave the idea a thought.
"Hm, whatever the reason, can I ask for a favor, tio?"
"You want me to bring him to the office?"
Dale shook his head. "No, no."
Uncle Pablo raised a brow and waited for an answer. Seconds later he sighed and rubbed his forehead with his palm. Perhaps he saw the question in Dale's eyes.
"You want me to take him in. And take care of him. Like a little cerdo."
Dale chuckled at the comparison.
"Yes, tio. Like a little cerdo."

And on that day, Caleb was born.  

V

"Hey Mike," Dale whispered. "Wake up. Wake up!" 

Michael grunted, flipped his body to the other side and started to snore.

"My goodness, Mike." Dale slowly-very, very slowly-got to his knees and reached out to his backpack. He was directly above Michael now. Beads of sweat trickled down his chin and landed unto Michael's pants. Michael must have felt them, because he shifted his legs. Must be cold. Dale carefully unzipped the front pocket of his Overboard Backpack and dug for the wrench. Dale brought the wrench in case of an emergency. He has heard from sufficient sources about the sudden and deadly attacks of mountain bears and angry antelopes. Heck, maybe even the Sasquatch. Minutes later, Dale's fingers came into contact with the metal tool. Dale hurriedly (but so carefully) took the wrench out and sat down. He stared at the weapon and back to the figure. The figure was still sitting there, still as the Antarctic air. Dale got on his fours and slowly crawled towards the entrance of the tent. Behind him, he could still hear the occasional snores of Michael. He mustered whatever courage and strength he has left and reached for the zip of the tent. 

What Dale saw next not only made him drop the weapon, but also made him rush towards the figure. It was a girl, or a boy with a really long hair. And the figure was naked. Not half naked or barely clothed, but whole-ass naked. Dale hastily reached for the boy (now that Dale has seen his ding-dongs, as what Olivia would call it) and brought him into the tent. It was almost 10 degree Celsius above zero outside. Dale laid the child down, dragged his blanket and placed it over him. 

"Whut was that, Dil?" Michael muttered, rubbing his sleepy eyes.

"Look at this, Mike!" Dale shouted. "This poor, poor child!"

"Whut? Whut chil--"

Dale grabbed Michael's arm left arm and yanked it over. "Here!"

"Woah, where did ya get 'em?" Michael was awake now, definitely. 

"Outside," Dale was panting. "by the fire."

Dale spent the next hour explaining the whole thing. Michael spent the next hour listening, nodding as though he was a third grade student paying rapt attention to a science teacher. The child spent the next hour sleeping. So still, as if he was already dead. 

***    

"So whut d'ya plan to do with 'em?" Michael asked, slurping down his breakfast. "I mean, he wouldn't talk, wouldn't eat, he just sits there. And he was naked, Dil. He might have 'em rabies or sumthin'. Maybe the influenza." 

Dale kept quiet, looking at the child, now sitting outside the tent and staring straight at the fire. Sunrise at the hilltop was surely beautiful. Dale could not forget the touch of warmth spread across his skin as the morning sunlight filled the skies, turning the orange dawn into a yellow morning. In the background, Michael was still rambling on. 

"-might be a starchild, Dil. Ya knuh, hybrids of aliens."

The child looked up almost instantly. His gaze was fixed at Michael. 

"Come on, Mike. Don't scare him. Quit it with your nonsense, will ya?" Dale prodded Michael. "Give me some time to think about this. You keep an eye out for animals at the mean time." 

"You the boss, Dil." Michael said and got up. The way Michael said 'boss' sounded almost like 'balls'.

As michael was pacing towards the tent, Dale smashed his left fist unto his right palm. Michael turned back, half-expecting an animal attack. 

"I got it, Mike." Dale said with a grin. "Come on, let's pack up."

"Whut ya got there, Dil?" Michael asked, looking puzzled. "Children wilfare?"

"No, no. Nothing like that," Dale answered. "I'm bringing him to a friend of mine."

"Francis? Ken?"

Dale shook his head.

"Dun tell me its Crazy Bob."

Dale looked out into the dense forest beneath the cliff.

"Nope, I'm bringing him to Uncle Pablo." 

IV

Dale sat upright, pressed both his elbows against his shaking thighs and squeezed his temples with his left thumb and forefinger. First, there was the hangover. Now, this. Great, Dale thought. Just what I've needed. Extra mysteries in my already-mysterious life. More like miserable, a voice shouted back. Shut up, Dale replied.

Dale switched his gaze unto Caleb, who was minding his own business. "Hey there, sport," Dale called out. Caleb gave no response. "hey. Caleb." Still no response, it was as though he was in another world. His OWN world. Dale gave up and sighed. Caleb has always been a queer child to Dale. Up to this day, Dale could not forget his first encounter with Caleb. It was as dark as the Boogieman himself.

It was about three years back(when Olivia and Miley was still around), Dale was hiking with a fellow colleague. Back then Dale had a job(can you believe that?)as a factory worker.The only agenda of the day was to inspect and box third grade toys from 9 a.m. up to 6-sometimes 7 in the evening. Dale could still remember the stench of his boss, that sour, salty taste in the air whenever he walks past. Speed up, lads, his boss would chant. speed up if you're not all that bads. Dale disliked his boss. No, wait. More like despised  Yeah, that's a better word. He hated the fact that his boss was a stuffed up walking talking elephant toy whom was expected to have type 2 diabetes by the age of 40. Maybe even coronary heart disease, or perhaps high blood pressure. Dale also loathed the fact that his boss would utter the most ridiculous phrases just so they can rhyme. Work faster ladies, and later enjoy the candies. Dale wanted to tell his boss that there were in actuality no candies; no shit on a stick or stinking carpet candy; just a bunch of pathetic middle-aged men working for a pathetic boss in a pathetic factory. All these thoughts almost crushed Dale's desire of wanting to hike on that day.

It was around 5 in the evening when Dale's colleague, Michael first suggested that they increase their pace. Dale looked up and squinted at the radiant beam of the sun above. The strong, yellowish glare had already turned into a mild orange blanket of light. Soon, they reached the summit. It was a rather satisfying feeling, to be honest. Dale stood by the edge of the hill and looked into the skies while Michael pitched the tent.The twilight beam was warm as Dale enjoyed the evening air. The ambience was magnificent. Flocks of birds glided across the orange sky, chirping merrily along the way. The breeze was also cool and soothing. It was worth the time, Dale thought. A thousand times better than that old fart's factory.

"Come sit down, Dil. You ought to give them legs a rest, ya knuh?" Michael suggested. He was american but with a thick, native British accent. "Give it a little more and it will sound Scottish, ya know?" Dale would sometimes tell Michael. Michael handed Dale a can of sizzling hot tuna, freshly cooked by the camp fire. "Thanks, bud." Dale dug into the can of cooked fish with a metal fork with full enthusiasm. "Eh, dun mention it pal. What ya did back there was a saver, ya knuh?" Michael was referring to the 600 dollars that Dale had lent Michael. It was for a family matter, it seemed. "My wife is really really grateful. Thanks Dil." Dale slurped through the remnants of the tuna and nodded. "Don't mention it. A friends gotta do what a friends gotta-burp-do!" Michael looked at Dale and Dale squeezed out another belch. They both laughed.

By 10 p.m., Dale and Michael was already sleeping in the tent. Their fire was still on, but not as strong as before. Bits and pieces of charred firewood cracked and hissed as puffs of smoke rose to the air.

Dale heard a sound. Was it the snapping of a tree branch? Nah, probably my own imaginations. Spurred by the hordes of angry, dead tuna swimming in my tummy. Dale smiled at the idea and went back to sleep, this time clutching his own belly.

SNAP

There it is again. This time louder. NEARER. Seconds later Dale gasped. His body was stiff. Out from the corner of his right eye, a figure was moving towards their camp fire  It was crouching. No, more like crawling. Dale's mouth gaped open for what seemed to be forever.

There it was. A silhouette so clear and bold that Dale could almost make out the length of the limbs. The figure sat there silently. It seemed to Dale that the figure was facing their tent. What scared Dale most wasn't the stealthiness of the shadow, but something else.

Dale was afraid because the silhouette was that of a small child.      

III

Dale woke up with damped patches of sweat all over his shirt. He felt hot, but somehow cold on the inside. For a jiffy there Dale thought he was in heaven, finally meeting The Lord Himself. A pang of relief struck Dale. If I am dead, I do not need to give a duck about everything. Dale grinned foolishly and pondered on the reasons for his death. Then, the first earthly object came into his field of vision: an air conditioner that was either very old or decades overused.

But wait, doesn't the air conditioner look familiar? Old, cream colored ancient gizmo with strands of tape hanging down from its top, making it look as though it has hair. The strands were flapping and dancing in mid-air, causing yet another pounding in Dale's already aching head.

"You awake."
Dale snapped out of his daze and jumped from where he was lying. The voice, both cold and monotonous, blew across him like an eerie stream of ice-cold air. That gave him the goose pimples.
"Yahh!"
Dale grabbed the sides of the sofa and spun his head towards his right.
"Owh, it's you Caleb. Uhh, thank goodness. You always give me the scares." Dale was panting like a marathon runner at this point.
Caleb looked at Dale and brought his face close to Dale's. For a moment-just a brief moment-Dale couldn't move. He was stuck to the sofa. It was as though his soul wasn't there any more  But strangely enough, he was conscious. Soon, Caleb's round, freckles-clad nose was in contact with Dale's reddish one. Caleb had a serene and emotionless look on his face, but yet worried at the same time. Dale wanted to scream so badly he swallowed hard. His Adam's apple shifted so drastically he could practically hear them move. Beads of fresh, cold sweat popped out of his pores and slid down his chin. Caleb then shifted his face across Dale's and soon enough his mouth was close to Dale's right ear. Dale could hear the sound of Caleb's lips opening. Dale felt the air rushing out of Caleb's mouth as he whispered. The air was rather cold.
"They're here."
What happened next was so odd Dale could, and never would comprehend for perhaps the rest of his life. Caleb placed his petite and pale palm against Dale's fear-stricken face. For a split second Dale's vision was blurred and it eventually blacked out. Dale could see nothing but only hear a noise. A scurrying noise. The sound of little kitten paws scratching against dense layers of dried leaves. Dale could hear panting and was pretty sure that it wasn't his. Then, within what seemed to be a millionth of a second, two yellow, orb-like objects flashed across his vision.

Dale jerked frontwards and gasped for air. He looked around and grabbed his chest, struggling for oxygen to breathe. He turned his head around and saw Caleb sitting at the corner across the room, staring at a children's book. It was as though nothing had happened.

Dale lied back down. He was scared, although not sure of what.

But there was one thing he was sure of.

Those orb-like objects were the persimmons he saw earlier in the park.

Except this time they weren't persimmons.

They were eyes.

II

It was dark, as dark as the deepest pits. Dale reached out his hands and grabbed at the air. Nothing could be seen. There was a weird sensation, a gut feeling that someone, or something was watching him. All of a sudden he felt a cool breeze brush across his face and that sent a tingling feeling right through his spine. 

Then there was that sound. 

More like a moan, actually. And it sounded like a child's. The moan started out soft and gentle, then it grew in volume and intensity. Soon, it was coming from the back of Dale's ears. He clenched his fist tightly and spun around. 

A white and almost bloodless face was staring at him. It was suspended in mid-air. It did not move. Dale tried his best to identify the complexion of the floating face, but all he could see was a blur. It was there, but somehow vague, like a dream that has just past. It's jaw was moving up and down in a rhythmic pattern as the moaning continued. It was weird because one is supposed to be afraid under such circumstance, but to Dale's surprise he wasn't scared at all. Instead it was somewhat soothing. He felt...serene. 

Dale tried talking but his voice box was suppressed. He reached out his arms and tried to grab at the head. Then it disappeared and Dale felt a sharp pain pierced through his face and everything went dark again.

By then the all-too-familiar pain of a hangover has already started to lurk over Dale.   

Chapter Two: Caleb

I

"Mi Dios! Dale!"shouted Pablo, rushing across Dale's unconscious body.

Pablo shifted Dale's limp body to a sitting positioned, leaned him against the moss-clad wall and started to do what most people would do.

"Wake up, boy,"Pablo whispered, while flinging his left palm unto Dale's cheek repetitively. "This is no time for dormir!"

After a few slaps and what seemed to be pats on the shoulders, Dale finally lifted his heavy eyelids. The sudden stream of light hurt his eyes and he squinted just to make up the figure in front of him. For a second the world seemed to have cloned itself in an infinite number and everything was a blur. Then came the shout.

"Dale!!"

Almost immediately Dale came to his senses and the all-too familiar face appeared instantly.

"Tio Pablo..?" Dale mumbled.

"Si, si. Now come on, follow me back. Your tia Juan is going to freak out seeing you like this," Pablo said while trying to help Dale unto his feet.

"Hungghh.."

"What is that my boy?"asked Pablo, bringing his ears closer to Dale. Pablo winced as the strong alcoholic scent of overnight Old Pulteney entered his nostrils. 

"Grrrhhh.."

"Que?"

For a second the world seemed to stop and Pablo knew what was going to happen. Dale threw his head backwards in an awkward manner and jerked forward as streams of liquor and God-knows-what came flushing out of his throat. Pablo tried to move backwards but his effort was to no avail. 

His Hawaiian shirt, previously drenched only in his own sweat, now contains also of alcohol, spit and some other horrifying substance that even himself do not want to find out.  

V

It was never a trend for a street to be busy in Deadwood Town. Not in the past, not in the present, certainly not in the future. As rumours, or rather folklore once stated that the person who founded this town was a gravedigger. Mr Thatcher was his name. People used to call him The Hatchet. Night and day he would be digging non-stop at that wretched cemetery just next to the abandoned wasteland(which is now known as Deadwood Town). Witnesses say that his whole family got buried there, all five of them. According to town myth(or truth, no one would know), that his brother, Tobby, who has manic depression drugged all of his family members and later on stuff their heads into the fireplace while they were unconscious. Thatcher was out buying lunch that time. Some said that his brother chose this time because he did not want to kill Thatcher, apparently, because of the brotherly love that Thatcher showed him during his hard times. Poor Tobby killed himself later on in a even more gruesome fashion. Investigators claimed to have found bits of body parts of Tobby stuffed in the refrigerator, while his head, still connected to the torso and a leg, was found to be lying in the bathtub filled with what seemed to be a nasty combination of blood and Mr Bubble. 

Reports have shown that Thatcher was actually unconscious the time the police arrived. After that he went into a coma for more than 2 years and they were about to pull the plug on him, that was when his eyes opened. Nurses have claimed that his eyes were as blank as night. Some said he had no eyes, while others exclaimed that his eyes were completely black, as though his pupils took over the whole cornea. Doctors were baffled by his situation, as he sat up, led out a bray and dashed out of the hospital. Pedestrians said that they saw him running towards the cemetery his family was buried in and just sat there. Thatcher said that he heard his family members calling him.  Medical officers tried to take him back for the rest of the medical procedure, but to no avail. Thatcher struggles whenever someone tries to take him away from the cemetery. Soon the people gave up and let him be. During his two years being stuck in a coma, Deadwood Town has actually already started. Streets and facilities began to appear and residents began to move in. Deadwood Town became more and more infamous due to the Thatcher case and the reason why people actually live there is because of that particular urban legend. The name 'Thatcher' got so famous that the couple whom developed the place decided to put the title under the name of Mr Thatcher.

***  

It was sunny when Pablo was filling the fruit boxes. The sunlight glared unto the shop lot along Mariner street. Beads of sweat began to rush out of Pablo's pores and gathered at the side of his eyes. He led out a gruntle and wiped them away. 

"Ma ma mia, looks like Bruce Willis gotta go to the sun again!"said Pablo.

"Dios Mio! It was an asteroid, my love. Not the sun!"answered Juanitta, half-way sniggering. 

"Ah, all the same, all spacey patootey! Gosh this heat is killing me."

"Why don't you head on in and take a few puffs of that new air conditioner?"

"Nah, air cost money, here we have natural air!"

"You're the boss," said Juannita, grinning.

Then came a loud crash from the alley across the street. Pablo got startled and bumped his head on one of the shelves.

"Joder!"

"Pablo, watch your language! By the way, what on earth was that?"

"Aiyayai, let me go check it out. You stay here, Juan. Take care of the shop."

Pablo ran across the street and peered into the alley. On the ground laid what seemed to be a body. Beside it laid a knocked-over trash can(presumably done by a cat or something). Pablo mustered all of his courage and walked over to the body. 

At the back of his mind, only one word was ringing through.

Relajarse, Pablo. Relajarse.   

IV

Dale's eyes flashed open. His head was still flaming from the alcohol. He raised his arm and touched his face. It was ice-cold. He grimaced as his spine popped as he shifted his body from a supine position to a sitting one. He felt the bench vibrate, only to find out a couple of seconds later that it was his own heartbeat. Dale lowered his head and almost immediately could feel the throbbing at the back of his head. Note to self: Never, ever get drunk in the park at night. Dale tried as best as he could to remember the cause to his sudden wakeness. It was a shout, wasn't it? 

No. It was something louder. 

A bang. 

A gunshot. 

Yeah, more likely a gunshot. 

Dale shrugged off this ridiculous assumption(since it was almost impossible for a citizen of Deadwood Town to actually own a real gun) and got up. He struggled as he pushed against the handles of the bench. He straightened his vertebrae and led out what seemed to be an awkward bray. Dale was startled at his own verbal expression and immediately thought of Donkey from The Shrek. Somehow, at the back of his head, almost vaguely, he could hear Donkey's voice. "And in the morning, I'm making waffles!"

Somehow, that made Dale grin.

Dale shambled towards town. All he knew was that he needed company.

He needed reassurance.

Most importantly, he needed food.

Donkey's random yet enlightening quote about waffles reminded Dale that he hasn't eaten anything ever since last night's supper. Well, except for that bottle of Pulteney.

Dale clenched his tummy as he felt the sharp, agonizing stab from the alcohol he consumed earlier. That would be my last bottle, he promised.

But that was a covenant he made all too often to himself.

Unfortunately it fails, every single time. 

After all, as what Seneca says, "drunkenness is nothing but voluntary madness."

You don't say, Seneca, Dale thought. You don't say.   

 

III

Mr Jenkins was polishing his beloved Beretta when he heard the squishing sound from his compound. Due to the long, long time spent in the battlefield, not only didn't the daily rings of bomb explosions and rifle cackling destroy his hearing, but instead they miraculously improved them. After the war, every remaining soldiers were brought to the nearest hospital to receive a full body check-up. Doctors and specialists were astounded by the the remaining ability of Jenkins' ears when they did a thorough audio test. Jenkins could detect and identify almost every piece of sound played by the lab coat-clad men. Ranging from the mild sounds of a dog scratching its ears, to the almost-inaudible breathing of a two-month old infant, Jenkins were able to correctly name and describe a mind-boggling 95% of the 60 different sounds tested. This prompted the United States Army to award Jenkins a Certificate of Appreciation, having dubbed this case as 'a rare and encouraging incident'. Up to this day, the certificate is proudly hung on the left wall of Jenkins's living room, where he keeps a cabinet full of military-based documents and also war memorabilia. Sometimes Jenkins would just sit on the cane-weaved armchair located outside his house and listen to the sounds of nature, secretly naming them all, knowing that he is right every single time.    

But this time, it was different.

It was no ordinary squishing sound. Jenkins propped his ears against the cool metal door and listened. For a second there he thought he was hallucinating, or perhaps paranoid. Besides, being in the military wasn't a walk in the park, not surprised if it--

"squish"

Jenkins' heart raced faster and faster. Weird images appeared in his space of thought, ridiculous and eerie creatures were fed by the mind in order to match the owner of the anonymous squishing sound. Without much(or any) hesitation, Jenkins dashed to the living room and grabbed the Beretta which was lying lifelessly on the couch. 

With much haste, Jenkins sucked in as much courage the army has built in him for the past 40 years and yanked the door open. 

What made Jenkins wince wasn't the ear-piercing screech, but the appearance of the creature. Many folklores have been told by the public relating to the existence of aliens,UFO and what-not but they were after all, folklores. Jenkins and his troop of colleagues often dismiss these as moot topics, accompanied by a mouthful of teases and laughters. 

But this time, it wasn't. No more jokes about aliens giving anal harassments to the army. No more jokes about the general being an alien in disguise. No more jokes. 

Standing, or mayhap crawling on the ground five metres in front of Jenkins, was indeed, indubitably, an alien. No matter what bullcrap the critics said to the public about the non-existence of these beings, there it was, big almond-shaped eyes, staring at Jenkins. People use to say, look into a person's eyes and you will see the true nature of the person. Almost immediately, Jenkins thought of that 60's sitcom starring Barnadete Dullop, where in one of the episodes Barnedete was holding his lover in his arms, and he looked straight into the girl's eyes and said, "How I wish I was the eyelids of your eyes, then i would be able to shield you from the evil of this world." Then Jenkins noticed that this creature did not have any eyelids at all, and all of a sudden this urge of laughing came to him. Jenkins giggled, then the image of Barnadete holding this creature in his arms invaded his mind, and he burst out laughing like a madman.

Almost instantly the creature dashed off to the right, wanting to get out of Jenkins' drug-infested land. Jenkins held up his Beretta as firm as possible and fired two shots in its direction. The first one ricocheted off the barbed wire, but the second one found its way into the creature's left leg. It limped as fast as possible out of the area and into the woods. "Come back here, you son of a gun!" shouted Jenkins, still laughing. "Come back to mother earth! I could feed you some pot if you want!"

The creature dragged itself as far as possible from Jenkins' place and landed onto a pile of dried leaves, surrounded by tall, skinny trees. It winced at the immense pain as it pressed the bloodied wound with its palm. In its mind it could only think of one thing, do not come chasing after me.

Approximately a couple of miles behind, it could still hear the hysterical laughter of Mr Jenkins. 

III

Its heartbeat slowed down a bit as it saw the man fell asleep on the park bench. It was a mere step away from being caught. It heaved a huge sigh of relief and stepped out of the bush, quietly. It touched its own forehead and when it removed its finger, the skin was stuck to it. It grimaced as it forcefully yanked it off, peeling some of the skin off. The air was too dry. It needed more oxygen. It turned its attention toward the dense forest next to the park and decided to venture into it.

Little did it know, it was indeed a very, very wrong decision.

***

If there is one thing that the whole of Deadwood Town know of, it is indubitably Mr Jenkins. This infamous 62 year old ex-soldier is the Roadrunner and also the Wile. E. Coyote at the same time. He is as agile and swift as he is deadly. Well-equipped with a soldier's battlefield experience, Mr Jenkins now owns a patch of land in the forest, no wider than 5 acres. Surrounding the land are fences as tall as ten metres and fully flanked with razor sharp barb wires. What is it that is so precious to him that he guards it with his life, you ask? Well, no other than his patch of carrot farm. Well, the truth is, there was never any carrots. Half the land was planted with opium poppy plants. Having served as a U.S. soldier, Jenkins was unfortunately addicted to the drug heroin. In order to feed his crave for heroin, he plants a hefty amount of poppy plants and converts the morphine into heroin. The reason why Danker Whittleman, the town mayor, never gotten the acknowledgement of this large drug farm is probably due to ignorance, or maybe the fact that the land is heavily guarded. Next to the entrance hung a sign eerie enough to send a chill down your spine.

It goes on something like this:

Come right in, step right up,

Let me know, I'll blow you like a pup.

I swear to God, and with my gun,

I'll make sure you die, and not flee or run.

The townspeople do not know which is scarier, Mr Jenkins' interest in poetry, or the fact that he actually owns a gun. The privilege was given to him after he retired from the force. A loophole in the town constitution allowed Jenkins to keep his Beretta after the war. There are stories which says that Jenkins killed more than a handful of townspeople over the decade due to trespassing. A very, very dangerous man indeed.

***

It paced through the woods as the hoots of owls greeted it. It walked slowly as it was dark, albeit the moonlight was glaring on that night. It stepped on a jagged rock and tripped, flinging itself forward and down a steep ravine. It rolled and rolled and finally came to a halt at the base of the ravine. It was badly bruised all over. It shook off the dizziness and looked up. Ahead of it was a large space, surrounded by a metal net, and above the metal net was fitted with sharp, pointy needle-like structures. Inside the net was a land filled with leaves growing from the ground. At the center sat a large trailer, decorated with the United States flag. Next to the entrance hung a sign, both rusted and inscrutable.

With naturally implanted curiosity, it took its first step into the compound, not knowing the deadly consequence. 

II

Dale brushed his palms against the seat of the park bench. Ol', ol' bench. How warm, despite the chilly night breeze. It is this bench which helps Dale retain memories about his daughter. People say memories are best retained in photos, but Dale thinks otherwise. Oh, how we used to spend time together, he thought.

Dale slowly landed his bottoms onto the seat and squinted as his back ached. I ought to get this back of mine checked out, Dale reminded himself for the umpteenth time. He shifted his body in an awkward manner and laid supine, eyes staring at the vast universe that God have built. Stars were lined at every corner of the sky. How beautiful, Dale admired. The moon was also as bright as the stars, once again displaying the true works of the creator of mankind. Dale felt an agonizing stab against his chest, and led out a hoarse cough. He pounded his ribs in hopes the cough would subside. Alcohol has played a major role in Dale's life. It has been a friend of Dale, saving him from attempted suicides more than his previous shrinks ever have.

But this intimate companionship only came about after the death of Olivia.

The pain.

Dale never wanted it to end up the way it did. A horrendous ending of a dreadful nightmare. A nightmare which last for two and a half years.
Dale sighed and tapped the side of the bench and hummed a tune. A tune so filled with calmness and halcyon that even the chirping nightbirds stopped to listen. It was a tune so familiar to Dale, a tune made by him and his most beloved--Miley.

It was a sultry afternoon in the park. The jubilant giggles and laughters could be heard everywhere. The scorching sunlight shone through the dense trees and casted a mosaic of shadows unto the park pavement. Smiling and grinning parents could be seen holding on to their children, teaching them the tricks and ways to conquer the monkey bars. Some succeeded triumphantly while the others failed miserably.

Dale was watching all these from a park bench. The Boston Red Sox cap he was wearing was shielding his eyes from the blinding sunlight. He shifted his gaze toward the ice cream truck parked under a shady oak tree. Mister Frost was what the neighbourhood called him. Always a jolly looking man, liked by both young and adults. The latter was probably due to the fact that Mr Frost was married to a fine looking Mrs Frost. The slim brunette, sultry as the summer air, gave up her career as a lawyer and married the love of her life, the neighbourhood ice-cream man. Mrs Frost was there too, giving out ice-cream and raking in dollar bills from either loving or perverted fathers. But Dale's attention wasn't on Mrs Frost's loosened apron, but on the love of HIS life--Miley. Dale saw her running toward him, both hands clutching the ice-cream cones, as clumsy as a Winnie the Pooh bear.

  "Look what i've got, daddy!" screamed Miley excitedly, licking the base of one of the cone.

  "Vanilla?" asked Dale.

  "They ran out of mint," explained Miley with a disappointing tone. "sorry daddy."

Dale couldn't help it but to laugh and pressed Miley against his chest, stroking her back. Miley led out a weak burp and they both burst into laughter.

  "Who's that daddy?" asked Miley, pointing toward a bearded man lying on the bench opposite theirs. He was clearly a hobo, judging by his outer appearance. The checkered shirt he was wearing was missing the right sleeve and flies(or so did Dale thought) were circling his head. 

  "That's just an ol' man, Miley," Dale answered. "just an ol', ol' man."

  "Ol' ol' man," Miley repeated, this time mimicking the tone of her dad. "ol', ol' man on an ol', ol' bench."  

Chapter One: Dale

I

Dale's head was spinning. Spinning so badly that he saw Miss Applefront not twice, but thrice around the same block within the span of a few minutes. In this state of mind, everything could be wrong. Dale moaned as his stomach twisted and churned under the toxicity of the bottle of Old Pulteney in his trembling hand. The sharp scent and taste of fermented prunes and spices rushed through his nasal cavity every time he raised the bottle to his lips. Dale slowed his pace and grimaced as he felt a gush of heat emerging from the pit of his stomach. Dale opened his mouth and led out an ear-shattering belch. The smell of spiced prunes filled the air and Dale led out a smirk. More like a grin, really. These are for you, grannies, Dale silently thought, then giggled dorkily at his self-proclaimed witty comment. Then the face of Miss Applefront appeared in his mind, and he burst out in laughter.

Drunk, definitely.

Dale ambled along Wenderstreet and ended up at the entrance of Neila Edih park. THE park. Dale frowned at the thought in his head and shook it vigorously.
Should he? He considered.
He should, he decided.

Dale tried his best to walk in a straight line, but failed miserably. He swayed in all directions like a piece of grass in a midnight storm. He accidentally kicked a rock and almost fell forwards. Fortunately his flailing hands helped him stabilize and kept him from landing on his face. The bottle of Old Pulteney, however, wasn't so fortunate. Dale flung his hand to the front and the poor bottle of liquor slipped out and landed on the pavement with a deafening shatter.

Dale stared at the broken pieces of glass, then at the rock, then back to the glass again. What a day, he thought to himself. Dale heaved a huge sigh and approached the bench. There were many things in the park that were nice, actually. It's just that no one really bothered to appreciate them. For instance, the lampposts which were engraved with such minute yet impressive designs; or the soul-calming greenery; and even the persimmons hiding in the bush.

Wait, persimmons?

Dale averted his attention to the bush next to the 'Evertree'(nicknamed after its impressive longevity). Dale swore he saw two bright yellow persimmons hiding behind the bush. For a second there he even thought that they were eyes. He stepped towards the bush in the slowest pace possible, then stopped. Dale pondered on this thought for a second or two and again burst out laughing.
He dismissed his silly thought and mocked himself for his stupidity. Dale then turned around and instead headed for the park bench.

After all, in this state of mind, everything could be wrong.

Prologue

Cold. What a cold, cold night. Or has it always been like this? It squirmed at the unfamiliar pressure constantly prodding its torso. Not good. Not good at all. Calm down, it told itself. It was trained for this. It heaved a long sigh, blinking so hard that veins started to appear at the face of its eyelids. Focus, it reminded itself. Focus.


It looked at the moon. So round, so peaceful. A little greyish, but still majestic. How it wished it could be--snap out of it! It cursed at its own short attention span and returned its gaze unto the park bench. Its been forever, and the chilly night breeze wasn't helping, neither were the prickly branches that were accompanying it. Such an important mission, this. It just couldn't afford to fail, nuh 'uh. Not this time.

Lightyears seemed to have passed and slowly, just very slowly, its eyelids began to fall. It was starting to get used of its surrounding-not exactly favour it-but still enough to induce slumber. Its sight dimmed and blurred and everything seemed to disappear...

'Crrrnnkkk!'

It opened its eyes as though something sharp was driven through its chest. Well, perhaps eardrums, in this case. It blinked several times to moisten its cornea and with the curiosity of a back alley cat, it scanned the area for the source of the sudden noise and eventually noticed a silhouette. A figure, shambling clumsily along the pathway, was approaching the shrubbery where it was hiding. And with natural instinct, its heart rate began to race like sodium in sheer, cold water.

Author's foreword:
Ahem, alright. It's been a long, long time since i've written(or more likely, typed) a blog. The last blog I had was about a millennium ago, which the password and even its title i've forgotten. If you were to ask me why start this, and why now, I would say, one: this story has been in my head for a couple of years by now, and i would love to write it. Two: just simply out of boredom.

This tale that i am about to bestow upon you, my readers, is one hundred percent original and I wouldn't promise you an unforgettable reading experience, or impeccable imagination and description(although i would love to), but instead, just a simple tale. A tale about the unidentified; a tale about the unknown.

Enjoy.