He giggled so hard, a stream of smoke poured out of his nostrils.
“Seriously, man, we stole the real Henry Day, kidnapped him, and I changed into him. We switched places, but nobody knows. I’m living his life, and I guess he’s living mine. And once upon a time, I was somebody else, before I became a changeling. I was a boy in Germany or somewhere where they spoke German. I don’t remember, but it comes back to me in bits and pieces. And I played piano there a long time ago, until the changelings came and stole me. And now I’m back among the humans, and I hardly remember anything about the past, but it’s like I’m part Henry Day and part who I used to be. And I must have been one cool musician way back when, because that’s the only explanation.”
“That’s pretty good, man. So where’s the real Henry?”
“Out in the woods somewhere. Or dead maybe. He could be dead; it happens sometimes. But probably hiding out in the woods.”
“Like he could be watchin’ us right now?” He jumped off the car and whispered into the darkness. “Henry? Is that you?”
“Shut up, man. It’s possible. But they’re afraid of people, that much I know.”
“The whosits?”
“The changelings. That’s why you never see them.”
“Why they so afraid of us? Seems like we should be afraid of them.”
“Used to be that way, man, but people stopped believing in myths and fairy tales.”
“But what if Henry’s out there, watching us right now, wanting to get his body back, and he’s creeping up, man, to get you?” And he reached out quickly and snatched my ankle.
I screamed, embarrassed to be fooled by such a simple joke. Oscar sprawled on the hood of the car, laughing at me. “You’ve been watching too many horror movies, man.”
“No, the truth is . . .” I socked him on the arm.
“And there’s pods in your cellar, right?”
I wanted to punch him again, but then I realized how ridiculous my story sounded, and I started laughing, too. If he remembered that night at all, Oscar never again brought up the matter, and maybe he thought I was hallucinating. He drove off, cackling to himself, and I felt empty after the truth had been told. My impersonation of Henry Day had succeeded so well that no one suspected the real story. Even my father, a natural skeptic, believed in me, or at least kept his doubts hidden deep in his soul.
The ground floor of our house was as dark and silent as a cave. Upstairs everyone slept soundly. I turned on the kitchen light and poured a drink of water. Attracted to the brightness, moths crashed and flapped up against the window screen. They scritched up and down, a sound menacing and foreboding. I turned off the lights, and they flew away. In the new darkness, I searched for a moving shadow, listened for footsteps among the trees, but nothing stirred. I crept upstairs to check on my sisters.
When the girls were young children, I often feared that Mary and Elizabeth would be snatched away by the hobgoblins and two changelings would be left in their place. I knew their ways, their tricks and deceptions, and also knew they could strike the same family twice, or, indeed, three times. Not far from here, the story goes, back in the 1770s, the Church family had seven children stolen and replaced by changelings, one by one, each at age seven, until there were no Churches at all, only simulacra, and pity those poor parents with an alien brood. My sisters were as susceptible, and I watched for the telltale changes in behavior or appearance—a sudden winsomeness, a certain detachment from life—that would reveal a possible switch.
I warned the twins to stay out of the woods or any shadowy places. “Dangerous snakes and bears and wildcats wait near our patch of land. Do not talk to strangers. Why go out to play,” I’d ask, “when there is something perfectly good and interesting on television?”
“But I like exploring,” Elizabeth said.
“How will we ever find our way back home if we never leave home?” Mary added.
“Did you ever see a timber rattler? Well, I have, and copperheads and water moccasins. One bite and you’re paralyzed, your limbs go black, then you’re dead. Do you think you can outrun or outclimb a bear? They climb trees better than cats, and they would grab your leg and gobble you up. Have you ever seen a raccoon foaming at the mouth?”
“I never get to see anything,” Elizabeth cried.
“How can we ever avoid danger if we don’t know what danger is?” Mary asked.