Hidden in the Blood: A Novel of the Terribly Acronymed Detective Club (Book 5)

Chapter Six: Al, Summer, 1975?

The Charlie Brown Christmas album crackled and popped on Al's turntable. He lay back and listened to it, enjoying the music even more than he did the interplay between the characters. He didn't know yet that the music was called jazz, but he dug it, how it made him sway and snap his fingers.

"Don't you find it odd that you're listening to a Christmas album in the middle of summer?"

Nine year old Al turned at the sound of the voice and saw his imaginary friend George the Elephant sitting in the chair at his desk. George wasn't a life-sized elephant, otherwise he would have filled the whole room. He was more of an anthropomorphic version of an elephant, sitting as a human would in the chair, his rear feet on the floor, one front leg draped casually over the back of the chair, giving him a rakish look.

Something was different about George today. For one thing, he never gave a shit about what Al played on his turntable. For another, he usually sounded like Mr. Snuffleupagus, the Sesame Street character, and not like an ancient warlord; the former voice was friendly and supportive, as an imaginary friend should be, but the latter voice reminded Al that his tusks could be used to gore him. 

"I like it," Al said. "I like how Linus says, 'those are good raisins.'"

"You're hearing him wrong," George said. "Linus says, 'those are good reasons.' Lucy has just curled her five fingers into a fist, don't you get it? She's threatening him into doing what she wants."

"Oh," Al said, sitting up and scratching his head. "Is that what it is? That's not very nice."

"The Peanuts characters were a bunch of dicks, really."

"I don't think that's a word we're allowed to use."

"I'll say whatever the fuck I want. Your father doesn't really care, anyway."

"Right, because he's not my father. I have a feeling you're not George, either."

George morphed before his eyes into the Mister Rogers character Al had seen in another episode of his life. "You're observant, my young friend."

"You're Sam, right?"

"Correct. I am the Venom of God, the funk of forty thousand years."

Al scratched his head and frowned. "Isn't that last part from the song Thriller by Michael Jackson?"

"You shouldn't know that yet. The song didn't come out until 1982."

Al shrugged. "What are you doing in my bedroom in Queensborough? Last time I saw you, we were in Glenbrook Ravine, and I was walking away from you and Dad." 

"Time doesn't proceed here the way it does in the waking world. It has no meaning at all, really."

"So, I'm dreaming, then. That would explain my knowing things I shouldn't."

"I told you before, you're not dreaming. You're deeper down the well than that, and if you want to get out of the well, you're going to have to--"

The sound of barking interrupted him, followed by the yelps of a frightened girl. Al jumped off his bed and opened the door, just in time for Rachel to hurry through before he closed it again.

"Jeez!" Rachel exclaimed. "Your dogs are loose! Why are they allowed to roam around the house?!"

Al sat back down on his bed. "They're the family dogs. My dad treats them like his own kids."

"Better than he treats you, I bet."

"Yeah, you're probably right. Did my mom let you in?"

She nodded. "What are you up to?"