Chapters (39)
- Cover
- Dedication
- PART I
- CHAPTER ONE
- CHAPTER TWO
- CHAPTER THREE
- CHAPTER FOUR
- CHAPTER FIVE
- CHAPTER SIX
- CHAPTER SEVEN
- CHAPTER EIGHT
- CHAPTER NINE
- CHAPTER TEN
- CHAPTER ELEVEN
- PART II
- CHAPTER TWELVE
- CHAPTER THIRTEEN
- CHAPTER FOURTEEN
- CHAPTER FIFTEEN
- PART III
- CHAPTER SIXTEEN
- CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
- CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
- CHAPTER NINETEEN
- CHAPTER TWENTY
- CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
- CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
- CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
- CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
- CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
- CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
- CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
- AFTERWORD
- DISCUSSION GUIDE QUESTIONS
- A NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR
- ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
- Discover More
- About the Author
- Praise for
Another portal—iridescent and mesmerizing—appears in my dorm room the night of the show. It spins counterclockwise on the wall next to my desk, just like Hypnotist Jerry’s eyes. I stand in front of it staring for an hour—maybe longer—until a faint image begins to materialize: me, throwing up on a dinner table while everyone watches in shock. Red wine that looks like blood runs down the sides of the table. Bright flashes light up the sky outside the windows.
I don’t know what it means. I squint my eyes, trying to see more clearly, but when I hear my roommate’s keys jingling outside the door, I quickly hang my mother’s Jesus, which she gave to me before I left home, over the portal and try to look normal. When I realize it’s my neighbor going into the room next door, I exhale with relief. I grab Manda Panda’s Polaroid camera from the bottom of her closet and snap a picture of the portal. After the picture develops, only the blank wall appears. How is this happening? I take another picture. Still no portal, but this time I see the word “He.” Not on the wall, but in the fibers of the picture, as if someone took their finger and smeared the ink.
“This is nuts,” I say out loud to no one. “Is this some hypnotic poltergeist?” I take more pictures. Four additional words emerge before the camera begins shooting blanks again. I arrange and rearrange the pictures until a coherent sentence is formed: “He Rises, Brace for Impact.” I’m trying to figure out what it means when I hear Manda Panda’s keys, for real this time. I quickly return her camera, toss the pictures in my drawer, and hang my mother’s Jesus back over the portal. I shriek when the door swings open, hitting the wall. Manda Panda comes prancing in, as usual, like the whole world is her stage. I, on the other hand, tiptoe everywhere like an uninvited houseguest.
“What are you doing?” she says. “Why are you standing there awkwardly like Pennywise the clown or something?”
“No reason,” I say unconvincingly, afraid to move and praying the picture of Jesus does not fall off the wall.