I looked out the large picture window in my mom’s bedroom, its wooden frame weathered with age, some of the panels starting to rot—or at least, that’s what it seemed like. This window had always been there, a relic from the 1960s, but it was still sturdy, offering the best view in the house. The room used to be the living room, but after Dad had the house expanded to the north, that space became the new living room, and this one became Mom and Dad’s bedroom—or what we all just called Mom’s bedroom. From here, I could see Dad’s garden, the two-track road to the left, and the distant hills. Behind the garden, a group of large pine trees blocked the view of our makeshift baseball fields, hidden just out of sight. Even though the room had shifted from the heart of the house to a bedroom, that old window still held a sense of familiarity, still drew me in with its sweeping view of the open sky.
And then, something in the sky caught my attention.
From the left, an aircraft appeared. Not unusual, really. Planes often flew overhead, especially on clear days like this. But this one was different. Something was wrong. The plane looked damaged and was flying low, heading toward the woods to the right (west) of our home. I could feel my stomach drop. It seemed like it was going to crash. "It’s going to crash," I muttered to myself, my voice barely above a whisper. The hum it emitted was low, almost like a growl, and it sent a strange vibration through my bones. Something about it just didn’t seem right.
At first, I thought it was just another airplane. But then I saw it more clearly. One of its wings was missing. The small white plane had red lettering on the side, but it was too far away to make out any details. The sound it made was unsettling—rumbling in my chest, like it was alive. And then, the red letters shimmered faintly, almost as though they were… alive. A cold shiver ran through me, despite the warmth of the sun.
I stood frozen, my reflection faintly visible in the glass. Small and thin for my age, wearing those old, baggy 1980s-style shorts that hung loosely around my legs, I looked out of place. Thirteen, and already feeling a little smaller than most of the other kids. In that moment, I couldn’t help but feel like my reflection didn’t belong to someone about to face whatever this strange airplane was. My heart pounded in my chest, a sense of dread creeping in, making me feel more like a kid than I wanted to.
“That plane’s going to crash,” I murmured aloud, my voice trembling as I turned and bolted from the room. Through the kitchen, across the breezeway, and into the yard I ran. I wasn’t exactly built for running—short for my age, a head below most of the other kids in my class. My legs didn’t exactly scream "athlete," but they got me where I needed to go. Baseball was my thing, though. Well, in my head, I was amazing at it. In real life? Not so much. But I loved it—playing ball with friends, the feeling of the bat meeting the ball just right, even if I was never quite the star.
Outside, I craned my neck to track the plane’s path, expecting it to nosedive at any second. But it didn’t. Instead of flying straight like a normal plane, it spun, as though on a dime, like Isiah Thomas would to elude a defender on his way to the basket for a layup. And then it just hovered there, pointed right at me.
That’s when I realized the missing wing wasn’t an accident. The plane—whatever it was—was designed that way. The single wing, though it appeared almost normal in shape, was positioned so unnaturally, as if it was the only thing that mattered for flight. The other side was just a smooth, featureless surface, a stark contrast. There was no tail, no second wing—just emptiness where there should’ve been something to balance it out. My stomach knotted. What kind of plane, or craft, flies like that? Was it some kind of secret government project? Or was it something from... somewhere else? Some strange alien design?
I didn’t have any answers. But what I did know—what I felt—was that the plane was looking for me. It wasn’t just flying aimlessly. It had purpose. Intent.
Panic rising, I darted to the far side of the house to hide. But the plane rotated effortlessly, tracking me. I crouched behind a bush, heart hammering in my chest. Normally, when a plane flies straight, you can use something like a bush as cover, timing your movement to stay out of sight. But this wasn’t a normal plane. It hovered, spun, adjusted—always keeping me in its line of sight.
The bush offered no protection. Wherever I went, the plane’s gaze followed. My chest felt tight, each breath shallow and labored, as though the air itself had thickened around me. I instinctively pressed my hand to my pants pocket, feeling for my inhaler. It was there. Relief flickered briefly, but I knew I couldn’t stop to use it yet. I had to focus, had to think, but my mind was clouded with fear, the thumping of my heart too loud to hear anything else.
I couldn’t stay outside. My instinct told me to retreat, so I darted back into the house. But the relief was short-lived. The plane—or whatever it was—didn’t stop. It hovered outside, peering through every window I passed.
I went into the living room and froze. The plane hovered outside, its presence ominous as it drifted just beyond the large picture window. Something—or someone—inside the craft was moving. A shadow. A shape. It wasn’t just watching. It was searching. For me.
I ducked and crept into the kitchen, my breathing shallow, but it followed. I heard the faint hum of its engine, low and menacing, vibrating the glass as it hovered outside the kitchen window. I pulled the curtains shut, hoping to block its view. But even with the curtains drawn, I could still feel its presence. The hum didn’t stop. It just lingered.
I moved to another room, this time the bathroom. No large windows here, just a small one high on the wall. I crouched in the corner, thinking I’d found a safe spot. But then, I heard it. The sound shifted, like the craft had adjusted its position. I dared to glance up, and there it was—hovering outside the tiny bathroom window.
My heart raced. It wasn’t just the sight of the plane—it was the growing certainty that it wasn’t an ordinary aircraft. It didn’t move like one, and it didn’t act like one. It wasn’t just following me—it was anticipating me. It was thinking.
I felt like I was being hunted. The air in the bathroom grew colder, thick with tension. There was no escaping it, no running, no hiding.
I tried to think rationally. Maybe I could call someone, but who? The authorities? What would I even say? “A plane with one wing is stalking me”? They’d think I was crazy.
Instead, I moved back to the living room, closing every curtain as I went. But the hum persisted, louder now, resonating in my chest. It wasn’t just watching. It was taunting me, waiting for me to make a move.
And then, the lights flickered.
I stopped, frozen. The hum outside grew deeper, resonating like a warning. Something inside me—instinct, fear, intuition—told me I couldn’t just stay hidden. Whatever this thing was, it wasn’t going to leave until it got what it wanted.
I crawled out of the bathroom corner, heart pounding, and crept toward the hallway. The plane was still there, hovering outside the tiny window, casting a faint shadow over the room. And then, suddenly, it wasn’t.
The hum vanished, replaced by an eerie silence. I ran to the living room, peeking through the curtains. The sky was as clear as ever, blue with scattered white clouds. The plane was gone.
I stood there, heart still racing, fighting the urge to collapse. What was I supposed to make of all that? Was it real, or was I just losing my mind?
I stood there, catching my breath, trying to make sense of it all. My chest tightened again, a reminder of the strain from minutes of panic. My hand trembled as I reached into my pocket, pulling out my white Alupent inhaler. I placed it to my lips, pressed down, and took a deep puff.
That’s when it happened.
________________
A deafening bang shattered the quiet, like an explosion right outside the house. The floor shook beneath me. Glass rattled in the windows. I dropped to the floor instinctively, hands over my head.
“Bobby! David!” I yelled, my voice trembling.
From somewhere down the hall, I heard them screaming. A second later, Bobby burst into the room, his face pale, dragging David by the arm.
“Get in here!” I shouted, waving them toward the bathroom.
They bolted past me, Bobby slamming the door behind us as we huddled in the cramped space. I locked the door, as if that would somehow protect us.
“What was that?” Bobby gasped, his voice cracking.
“I don’t know,” I admitted, my heart pounding like a drum. “The plane... it’s gone, but then... that bang.”
David was crying, clutching his stuffed dinosaur like it was his lifeline. “What’s happening? Where’s Mom? Where’s Dad?”
“I don’t know,” I said, trying to keep my voice steady. “But we’re gonna be fine. We just have to stay here until it’s safe.”
Bobby looked at me, his brown eyes wide and searching. “You saw the plane, didn’t you? The weird one with one wing?”
I nodded. “Yeah. It was... watching me. I think. It didn’t feel normal. And then it disappeared, and—”
A low rumble interrupted me, like distant thunder, growing louder. It didn’t sound natural.
We all froze.
“Is it coming back?” Bobby whispered, his voice barely audible.
I didn’t answer. I didn’t know.
David clung to me, his small body trembling. “Why did it disappear?” he asked, his voice shaky but curious. “Do you think it’s magic?”
“I don’t know,” I said softly. “Maybe. Or maybe it’s something else. I just... I don’t think it’s gone for good.”
Bobby peeked through the bathroom’s tiny window, his face tense. “I don’t see anything,” he said, but his voice didn’t sound relieved.
The rumbling stopped, replaced by a strange, metallic screech. It was closer now, like it was right outside the house.
“What is that?” David whimpered.
“I don’t know, buddy,” I said, pulling him closer. “But we’re okay. We’re gonna stay safe in here.”
David looked up at me, his eyes welling with tears. “What if it’s looking for us?” he whispered.
I hesitated, trying to think of something reassuring. “Then it’s gonna have a hard time finding us in here,” I said with a small, forced smile. “We’re good at hiding, remember?”
He nodded, but his grip on his stuffed dinosaur tightened.
And then we heard it—a knock at the front door. Three loud, deliberate knocks.
We stared at each other, the air heavy with fear.
“Who would be knocking right now?” Bobby whispered, his voice shaking.
I didn’t know. But something inside me said that whoever—or whatever—was at the door wasn’t here to help.
The knock echoed through the bathroom, more insistent this time. My heart was still racing, pounding so loud I thought whoever—or whatever—was outside could hear it.
David whispered, “What if it’s... it?”
Bobby clutched my arm, his knuckles white. “Don’t open it,” he said. “Don’t.”
I nodded, my mouth dry, my hand trembling as I placed it on the lock. Then came the voice, soft and muffled, but unmistakable.
“I have to pee.”
We froze. My brain scrambled to process what I’d just heard. That voice—it wasn’t strange or threatening. It was familiar.
Another knock, lighter this time. “I have to pee,” the voice repeated.
I swallowed hard and forced myself to unlock the door. It creaked open, revealing Tony, standing there in his rumpled yellow sleeper, the fabric stretched and faded from too many washes. His bucket haircut stuck out at odd angles, his cheeks flushed with sleep.
He rubbed his eyes with one fist. “Why didn’t you open the door?” he asked, his tone more annoyed than scared.
For a moment, none of us spoke. Then Bobby let out a nervous laugh, the kind that comes when tension finally snaps. David joined in, and before long, we were all giggling like maniacs.
Tony frowned, completely confused. “What’s so funny? I really have to pee.”
“Go ahead,” I said, stepping aside to let him in.
He waddled to the toilet and climbed up, humming to himself like nothing was wrong.
The three of us exchanged looks, the laughter dying down but the unease lingering. Tony’s innocent knock had broken the tension, but the unease lingered. As Tony finished his business, I glanced at the window, half-expecting to see that plane hovering just beyond the glass. It wasn’t there—but I couldn’t shake the feeling that it was still out there somewhere, waiting.
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