I must be getting used to it because I hardly notice the stabbing pain behind my eyes anymore as the fog dissipates faster than before. Once again, I find myself outside our school, but this time, the neighborhood, the fence, the tree, and the building all look exactly as they do in everyday life. The only difference is that everything is completely silent. Maybe that’s why the sound of approaching footsteps behind me makes me jump and spin around. around, bracing myself for whatever comes next.
Although I’ve learned that anything is possible in this Shadow World, I’m still not prepared for the sight of the small, disheveled-looking boy walking cautiously toward me, wearing clothes that look as though they’ve been transported straight from the 1950s. A worn but neatly starched white shirt peeks out from under a dark blue woolen pullover, short corduroy knickerbockers reach his knees, and one of his old fashioned long socks has slipped down over his well-worn but carefully maintained leather shoes.
Though I’m certain I’ve never seen him before, I can’t shake the feeling that I know him, though I can’t quite place where or when.
Two meters away from me, he stops, looks up and starts speaking in a small voice.
"Miss, I’m a bit lost. Can you help me?" I glance down at him, feeling a mix of compassion and suspicion. Although he seems endearing and utterly harmless, I remind myself not to let my guard down as I know by now that nothing in this world can be taken for granted.
"I’d really like to help you, kid, but I’m in a bit of a hurry. I have something urgent to take care of."
“Okay,” he replies, with just a hint of disappointment, tilting his head like a puppy. “I’ll find someone else to help me.” That does it. I can’t leave this helpless boy to fend for himself. Not here.
“Alright then, let’s see what I can do. But first, tell me your name.”
“My name is Jack, miss... and I’m looking for a friend. She’s lost, and I’m worried she might be in trouble.” He glances over his shoulder, as if expecting her to magically appear behind him.
“Oh, sweetie, that’s terrible. But are you sure you’ll find her here? This is a strange place to be looking for someone.”
“That’s why I need help, miss. I don’t know this neighborhood at all. I’ve never been here, and I’ve already searched every corner of my ming.” What did he just say? But before I can say anything, Jack continues in his little innocent voice. “The last thing I remember is lying on a bed in a dark room. The door was locked.” He stares off into the distance, as if checking his memory. “Yes, I’m sure of that. I tried everything to open it.” It’s only now that I notice his broken fingernails and the bloodstains on his trousers. “So, I had no choice, you understand. When I couldn’t get outside, I had to go inside. I had to try something... I had to find her. And then... I was here, and I saw you.” He looks up at me with big, round puppy eyes, his voice a mix of insecurity and bravery. My heart melts. “You seemed nice,” he adds, “so I thought...”
“Aw, Jack, I’m looking for someone too. I can’t find him either.” Now, Jack looks at me with compassion.
“That’s sad. Is he a friend too?”
“No, Jack." He’s my father.”
“Maybe I can help you look too. What does your father look like?”
This simple question throws me completely off balance. A month ago, I would have just grumbled that my father was nothing more than a grumpy, incomprehensible, boorish, uncouth oaf... in a wheelchair. But after tonight, I'm not so sure anymore. I start to stutter.
“Well, Jack... my father... I always thought that... that he didn’t care, that he was only interested in his own petty problems and inventions. But now, I’m not so sure anymore. I only realized today that he might have been faking it... to protect me. Something... nice, actually. I...” My voice falters. Everything feels upside down right now.
“Actually, Jack, I’m looking for someone that can help me too... someone who knows this place better than I do. He’s a strange, little fellow, with a beard and...” Suddenly, suspicion flares up. In a place like this, where anything can appear as anything, anything is possible, right? Could it be that..? “Jack, you’re not trying to fool me, right? Your last name isn’t Balthasar, by any chance?” But when I see the confused expression on his face, I immediately regret asking. Still, I had to try.
“Baltaa... what, Miss?”
“Never mind, Jack. Just a silly question. And call me Max, will you? I’m not a ‘Miss’ by any stretch.”
By now, my mind is made up. I won’t abandon this boy. At least one person will be saved tonight.
“Maybe we can look together, Jack.” The relief on his face is overwhelming.
“Oh, that would be great.”
“So, what now, Jack? Any ideas?”
“I don’t know this place, Miss... uh, Max. I’ve never been here before. This was just the only place left.” He eyes the metal fence with suspicion. “That building is weird and that square even weirder.”
I can’t help but agree. Every time I end up here, that square is the one thing that never changes. It feels like it has been here since the beginning of time, with the rest of the city and school slowly built around it over the years.
"We still have to try, Jack. That school is the only place we'll find answers. The problem is, the gate seems to be locked." Jack's eyes dart nervously to the fence. He's right—I think. Those razor-sharp spikes are arranged in such a dense, devious pattern that I'm sure I'd impale my calf or arm trying to climb it.
Trying to figure out how to get past it, I only realize that Jack has wandered off when he stops in front of the gate. He examines it for a moment, before he steps forward, and gives it a small push. To both our surprise, it swings open without any resistance. His triumphant boyish grin is so endearing that I can't help but smile back.
And only then, finally, does the shock of recognition hit me. I know that smile! I know who this boy really is. Apparently his eyes alone weren’t enough, but now combined with that smile, it’s abundantly clear... Jack is a nickname for John. Jack is my father. He has entered this shadow world in the form of a nine years old boy. His body must still be in captivity somewhere. He must have fallen asleep and come to this world in a dream... in his mind... to look for me. The girlfriend he’s looking for is me. We have found each other without realizing it. It touches me in an unexpected big way.
Unaware of all my emotions, and before I can say anything, Jack steps through the gate into the square.
“No, Jack, that square is dangerous,” I call out, but it’s too late.
“It’s not scary at all, Max,” he shouts, with a mixture of pride and relief in his voice. The little sweet fool. As a child, he has the same talent for getting into trouble as he does as an adult. Always far too confident that he’ll win, always claiming victory too early, always underestimating his ‘enemies’—whether it’s the postman, the city council, or the local constable. It used to irritate me beyond measure, but now it’s nothing less than, wel endearing.
But then my smile freezes, and my heart sinks. Something is moving behind him... around him. Birds. Black birds. Ravens, rooks, crows—I can never tell them apart. Have they been there all along? Did I fail to notice them because they blend so well with the black tiles and the school? No, they are materializing from the square itself, one bird from every black tile. Within seconds the entire surface has become a shifting, writhing black mass of wings and beaks. I hold my breath. For a brief moment nothing happens and then—without warning—they take to the air with powerful wingbeats, not making a single sound—not even a croak or a caw—just the deafening flutter of wings.
Jack stares at the ominous phenomenon, as if hypnotized. Only when the flock of birds has grown to at least a hundred, circling slowly above his head, does he step back toward the gate, only to find that it has swung shut. He’s trapped.
Half-paralyzed by fear, he presses his back against the metal bars, unsure of what to do next. The flock of crows (isn't it called a murder of crows?) moves slowly and purposefully, arranging themselves into some kind of attack formation. Jack looks left, then right, but there’s nothing to hide behind or use to fend them off. That damn square is always empty.
He turns to me, eyes wide with fear. “Get into the school, Jack! The entrance! Break a window, get inside!” He glances up at the crows, circling overhead in ever-tightening spirals, like a hive mind with a single body, convinced he has no chance of escape. “The school, Jack! Now!" Finally, he tears his gaze away from the birds, turns toward the school, and then, completely unexpectedly, he runs.
Seeing my father—whom I’ve only ever seen confined to a wheelchair—running light and fast like a deer is breathtaking. The crow-body jerks back its "head," much like a cat recoiling when a mouse unexpectedly charges forward, but not for long. Within seconds, the bird-creature dives at full speed after my sprinting father. Standing outside the fence, I don’t seem to be in any immediate danger, but I can't help him either. All I can do is watch.
Jack appears to have just enough of a head start to reach the door before the crows catch him, but then, without any apparent cause, he trips and falls. He rolls back to his feet in one fluid movement, takes two more steps and then... the birds throw themselves on him, completely hiding him from view, leaving a writhing, tangled mass of black, flapping wings, flashing beaks and tearing claws.
How can anyone survive such a tornado of bloodthirst and coldhearted rage? This must be the end and with a shock, I realize that I have no idea what will happen to him in the real world when he dies in this one. Will his physical body survive? Or will it die along with his mind? I grab the gate with both hands and start screaming, but it has no effect, not at all. It's as if I'm not here. All I can do is powerlessly wait for the first crow to fly away with one of Jack's bloody eyes in its beak. It all happens in the same eerie silence, broken only by the relentless flutter of beating wings and... something else? Do I hear that right? Yes, there it is—a high-pitched sound, barely audible, at the very edge of my hearing.
Although no new crows arrive, the crow-body begins to grow, inflating like a balloon. Gaps appear between them, and I finally see Jack lying on the ground. His mouth is wide open, sweat streaming down his face, his clothes torn. His knees are drawn up, but aside from a few minor bloodstains, he looks surprisingly unscathed. He struggles to his feet and limps toward the school door, scanning the ground for something to break the window with, but finds nothing. His mouth remains open, his face twisted in pain and exhaustion. I want to reach out to him, hold him, comfort him, carry him.
The crows intensify their attacks, some so reckless that they crash against the invisible barrier surrounding Jack, falling unconscious to the ground where they dissolve and merge into the tiles from which they were spawned, leaving no trace behind.
Jack turns to the door, closes his eyes, opens his mouth even wider and one of the smaller windows in the door shatters. Suddenly, I understand. My father has a talent, I just didn’t know it: his voice. He can produce a sound so high-pitched and dense that it becomes solid. That’s how he keeps the crows at bay. It’s how he breaks the window.
He removes the last shards of glass from the frame with his elbow, opens the door from the inside, and sways it open before collapsing inside. The last thing I see is him sliding down the door, pushing it shut with his back.
With the sound of the door falling in its lock, the frantic fluttering abruptly stops while the crow-body falls apart into individual birds, each landing on a separate tile into which they dissolve.
Within seconds, they’re all gone. Not a sign that a battle has taken place here—not a single feather or a drop of blood. Only the broken window in the door stands as a silent witness to the horrific scene from moments ago. But when I turn my eyes back to the door, hoping to catch a glimpse of my father, I see that all the windows are intact again. Not even the slightest crack remains. The school has already erased all traces of what happened.