As soon as I say “Chosen One,” the room grows cold and quiet, underwater quiet. All of the eyes in framed pictures around the room stare, intensely, as if they are suddenly alive and focused entirely on me. The room rotates on its axis. The wall that was in front of me with the staring eyes moves to the right. Now they watch from the side. “Look!” I yell in distress. “The room is spinning! And the people on the wall are watching me.”

All conversation at the table halts. Several people sip from their cups nervously, not knowing what else to do. “I think you’ve had too much to drink,” Professor Alexander-Grant says with earnest concern.

“Can’t you all see that something strange is happening here?! Something’s wrong!” I plead, desperately looking around the table for help. Unlike the pictures on the wall, no one except Professor Alexander-Grant makes eye contact with me. Stephen whispers under his breath, but loud enough for me to hear, “This is ridiculous,” while pushing the remaining food around his plate.

I grow inflamed with fury. You’re ridiculous! is what I want to yell, but the words, like the sweat at Bible study, post up, refusing to march out of my mouth. I feel a wetness dripping from my right nostril. My nose is bleeding, but the blood is not dark red or maroon, it is black and thick like tar. Several drops of the black blood fall into the palm of my hand before dripping down the side of the table. Connor jumps from the table, runs to the kitchen, and grabs some paper towels. He gently places his hand on my shoulder and hands them to me.

Then the whispering starts. The whispering that sounds like a shrill, high-pitched whistle. Broken syllables of incoherent phrases fade in and out like a radio station with too much static. I cover my ears in distress, the blood from my hand now dripping down my ear. I try to scream and force the now fully formed phrases out of their barracks. “They’re here,” I say softly at first before yelling at the top of my lungs. “They’re here! 2411 Mitchell Lane: Brace for impact!”

“Why are you shouting the professor’s address? Who’s here?” the Times journalist asks.

My body turns slowly in his direction, as if possessed by an unseen force. I lock eyes with him. He is alarmed by my unwavering gaze, smiling awkwardly from discomfort.

“The Keepers,” I say, not knowing what it means. “The Keepers are here.”