The rest of the day went rather uneventful—except for the weird black dust on the other side of the baseball fence, which none of us could shake from our minds. We kids watched cartoons in the morning. The Smurfs were on, and we were all huddled on the couch, half-listening to the antics of Papa Smurf and Brainy. Mom came in with the vacuum, her timing impeccable as always, but even she couldn’t sweep away the strange feeling lingering in the air.
“You have to do that right now?” Bobby muttered, sinking lower into the couch as though that would shield him from the noise.
“Things need to get done,” Mom replied, her tone matter-of-fact and carrying that undercurrent of mild annoyance only moms can master. She didn’t even look up from unwrapping the cord of the vacuum.
I always felt a twinge of guilt when Mom vacuumed. Maybe it was the hum of the machine, or maybe it was the fact that she looked like she was on a mission while the rest of us sprawled out like sloths. But Saturday mornings were sacred. The one time all week when cartoons ruled, and the world felt like it could pause for a bit. So yeah, it did feel a little rude that Mom picked this moment, of all the moments, to turn the living room into a war zone of noise.
Still, nothing more was said. Bobby’s muttering went unanswered, and the rest of us just hunkered down, watching the show through the loud hum of the vacuum, hoping to avoid eye contact that might lead to being handed a chore. Mom finished up without any further commentary, sparing us—this time.
After the cartoon block ended, Tony piped up, “I want to watch Alvin and the Chipmunks!” His voice had that whiny edge like he already knew he’d have to fight for it.
Mom didn’t even hesitate. She turned the channel. Bobby and David both groaned in protest, flopping their heads back on the couch dramatically, as though this was the ultimate injustice of the decade.
“You guys had the TV all morning. It’s Tony’s turn,” Mom said firmly. Her words weren’t up for debate, and her tone had that finality to it that stopped further arguments in their tracks.
The room fell into a heavy silence, except for the high-pitched voices of Alvin, Simon, and Theodore chirping through the screen. Bobby crossed his arms and glared at the TV like it had personally betrayed him. David just sighed loudly enough for everyone to hear.
I didn’t mind either way. The Chipmunks were fine. Besides, there was no point in fighting when Mom had spoken. She didn’t often get involved in TV disputes, but when she did, her word was law.
Mom stood there, hands on her hips, looking between us like she was daring someone to test her patience. “You know,” she said, her voice sharp but not unkind, “if you’re going to sit around all day, maybe I should find some jobs for you to do.”
That got Bobby and David moving just a little straighter on the couch. Even Tony, despite his victory, looked uneasy.
Mom finally smiled, the kind of smile that let us know she’d decided against giving us chores—for now. “Enjoy your cartoons,” she said, walking toward the kitchen. “But don’t think I’m not keeping track of who’s done what around here.”
The sound of her footsteps faded, replaced by the chipper theme song of the Chipmunks. Bobby whispered something under his breath, probably not fit for Mom’s ears, and David just shook his head.
And that was how most Saturdays went. Small battles, minor victories, and the unshakable sense that Mom was always two steps ahead of us.
_____________________
That afternoon, we found ourselves on the makeshift baseball field behind the Bottrell house on Merkey Road in Ludington, Michigan. Even little Tony, only three years old, was part of the action. The field wasn’t perfect—far from it. The right field was practically non-existent, swallowed up by a forest of trees. So, we made a house rule: any ball hit into right field was an automatic foul. You either had to hit to center or left field, which wasn’t much better, but at least playable.
The infield was complete, though the bases were closer together than they were at Tiger Stadium. A two-track trail ran from the driveway, slicing through the left side of the outfield and vanishing into the trees. There was no fence on the left, but a makeshift gate in center field allowed cars to pass through if Dad or another adult needed to drive back there.
David had his bat resting on his shoulders, waiting for his turn in the batter’s box. But little Tony was already there, crouched down like Alan Trammell, gripping his tiny bat and ready to swing. Bobby was on the mound, but it was clear he had no intention of pitching to Tony. So, I grabbed the Wiffle ball, stood between the batter’s box and the pitcher’s mound, and tossed the ball underhand. Tony swung wildly and missed.
The ball rolled away, and Tony toddled over to retrieve it. He picked it up and lobbed it back, though it only made it halfway. I walked to meet it, bent down, and tossed it underhand again. This time, he connected—solidly—sending the ball sailing over my head. Tony chased it down, his little legs pumping with determination. For a while, this simple game of toss-and-swing was all the entertainment he needed.
When Tony tired of batting, David stepped up to the plate, and Bobby whizzed a fastball past him. Tony, now thoroughly distracted, wandered off. I grabbed a box of Hot Wheels from the shed and set him up on a pile of sand far enough away from the field to avoid stray balls. While he played contentedly, we got in three full innings.
Then, Bobby stepped up to bat. With a grunt of concentration, he swung with all his might. The ball flew—high, fast, and far—right over the fence and out of the field.
I was in the outfield, right along the fence, playing deep in hopes of shagging a home run, as Bobby was known to hit them that way. But this time, I wasn’t fast enough.
“Whoa!” David exclaimed, as we all turned to watch the ball soar into the trees.
“I’ll go get it,” I said, jogging toward the fence.
I reached the edge of the field and peered into the tall June grass, thick with ferns and shrubs. But the ball was nowhere to be seen. I crouched down, searching through the brush, my fingers brushing over the damp earth. It was strange—where could it have gone? I couldn’t see it anywhere.
“Found it?” Bobby called from behind me, his voice carrying in the still air.
“No. It’s gotta be here somewhere,” I replied, shaking my head. I started to move further, crossing the two-track trail and heading down the small hill beyond the fence.
The ground sloped sharply, and the tall grass grew thicker. The ball must have rolled down here. I was determined to find it.
And then we all stopped.
In the midst of the hill’s rough terrain, we came upon a strange sight. The area was a clearing, but it didn’t look natural. The grass was burned, and black powder was scattered everywhere. What was this? The smell of smoke still lingered in the air, thick and acrid.
Bobby knelt down, cautiously touching the black dust with his fingers. “What happened here?” he muttered, a frown creasing his brow.
We all stood there in stunned silence, not knowing what to make of it. The ground was scorched, but there was no fire in sight. And the powder—it was strange. It didn’t look like dirt, but something else entirely. Something... out of place.
"Is it from the plane?" David asked, his voice low, almost hesitant.
I looked up, a chill running down my spine. The plane from earlier—it had been hovering just above us. Was this... part of what it left behind? Or had something happened to the plane itself?
I didn’t know, but the more I stared at the black dust, the more uneasy I felt. Whatever it was, it wasn’t just some random fire.
“We should head back,” I suggested, my voice shaky as I looked around the clearing. The sound of the wind in the trees seemed louder than before.
The rest of us nodded, not needing much convincing. We turned and quickly retraced our steps, heading back up the hill, away from the strange burned clearing. But the image of the black powder stayed with me, gnawing at the edges of my mind.
What was that?
--------------
Bang! The sound hit us like a slap, sharp and violent, the same as before, the one we’d heard while we were in the bathroom. My heart nearly stopped, a cold shudder running through me. I spun around, instinctively, my eyes scanning the sky. There, in the distance, barely more than a dark speck against the wide-open sky, was the plane—still wingless, just floating there like some broken thing from a nightmare. It seemed so small from where we stood, like a toy caught in a gust of wind, but I knew.
It was that plane.
It was facing east now, and in the air next to it, there was an explosion of black smoke and dust. A burst of fire and debris lit up the sky—something in the air close to the plane had just been obliterated. My mind raced to make sense of it. Was it another plane? A missile? Whatever it was, it had been incinerated on impact, the remains disintegrating into the dust that now rained down on the hillside. Now we knew what the black dust was.
But before I could process it, the plane moved.
In an instant, it pivoted—its movements smooth, almost too precise, like it had locked onto us. Within a heartbeat, it was upon us, faster than anything I could’ve imagined. It was so close, the air itself seemed to vibrate with its presence. I looked up, and there it was—right above us, the alien figure in the window staring down at us, its hollow eyes filled with something I couldn’t even describe. I froze, heart hammering in my chest, caught in that terrifying gaze for a split second before it came crashing down on me.
Bobby’s voice broke through the terror, shouting, “RUN!”
I didn’t answer. Instead, I fumbled with my inhaler, my breath coming short, anxiety gnawing at me. I took a quick puff, trying to steady my lungs as the world spun. Without another word, we bolted into the woods, a place we knew like the back of our hands. We ran hard, dodging trees, leaping over roots and stumps, our legs burning with the effort.
Finally, we stopped in a clearing, gasping for air, my chest tightening. I didn’t wait long. Once again, I used my inhaler, praying it would bring me some relief as the sounds of the world around us felt like they were closing in.
The plane was hovering overhead now, its engine growling ominously. Through the window, we could see the same figure as before—alien-like and menacing. My stomach churned as I took it in.
“It’s watching us,” Bobby said, his voice trembling.
The plane pivoted sharply, spinning on a dime, and suddenly it was on the other side of the clearing. The “alien” was looking directly at us.
We didn’t wait. We bolted deeper into the woods. I scooped up Tony and carried him, my heart pounding as something—or someone—chased us. The sound of footsteps behind us was getting closer, snapping twigs and crunching leaves.
Panic surged through me, and in my desperation, I silently prayed, Please, God, give us somewhere to hide.
And then, as if answering my prayer, Bobby shouted, “Down here!”
He pointed to a hole in the ground that hadn’t been there before—or at least, we’d never noticed it. Without hesitation, we dove in, one by one, into what turned out to be a small underground fort.
The space was cramped but offered just enough cover. We huddled together, holding our breaths. Above us, the footsteps grew louder.
There were voices now—chatter, but in a language we couldn’t understand. The footsteps circled the area, then began to fade. For now, we were safe.
I looked around the fort. It wasn’t just a hole—it was built, with walls of packed dirt and makeshift supports.
“Where did this come from?” I whispered.
No one answered.
Did I do this? Was this fort my doing, a response to my desperate wish?
We sat in silence, ears straining for any sound of our pursuers.
For now, we were safe. But for how long?
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