The being appeared like a huge octopus, a lump trailing a mass of black, slimy tentacles.

“Can you speak?” I whispered. No answer. Tentatively I reached out my hand to touch the lump-

The thing roared and reared back, showing me its full form. Horror filled my heart.

It was hard to describe what it was. It distinctly had the form of a human-arms, legs, eyes-but its attributes were hideously bestial. From its face, fingers, chest, knees, there came huge twisting masses of black tentacles, pulsating and grappling-a sewer anemone, if you will. Its face was almost like an insect’s: Two huge segmented eyes stared vacantly at me from a round head, another wriggling mess of black feelers where its mouth should have been. Its form was muscular, but it bent and turned as though it had millions of joints in every part of its body. There was nothing fluid about its posture or movement; it seemed to twitch its way around things rather than actually walk or crawl. As a being, an existing entity, it was just not right.

“My God…,” I whispered.

The monster responded by sending one of its massive claws smashing into my head. I felt my body, limp and helpless, hit a brick wall. Red dust and blinding light filled my vision, and I stumbled, trying to regain my footing. When I looked up, the thing had disappeared into the night.

Whatever the monster was, it was dangerous. And if it could hurt me, something was wrong. Somehow it had found a way to access the city’s negative energy as well. It had powers similar to mine.

Next time. Next time I would be ready for it.

L OCKE! TELEPHONE!”

Maybe if I push my face hard enough into my pillow, I’ll sink into it and disappear forever.

“LOCKE!”

No dice. “For Christ’s…Who is it?”

“No idea!” my brother yells out.

Yuck. Something happened to my hair last night. It’s grosser than normal. What day is it? Sunday? Has to be. I was out last night. My mouth tastes like vomit and my shoulder blade hurts. I wonder-oh. Oh wait. Oh yes, thank you, memory, you bastard. The collage of emotions that was my night whizzes before my mind’s eye: first excitement, then joy, then fear, then rage, then disappointment. Jesus, Locke, if this isn’t proof that you just shouldn’t leave the house, I don’t know what is.

My hand scrambles around the floor of my room, among books, magazines, CDs, and socks. Phone…phone…there. I grab the cordless and put it to my ear, pressing the talk button. “Mrf. Hello?”

“Locke?”

There’s something about the voice that I can’t put my finger on. “Yes?”

“It’s Casey.”

I wake up really quickly. He sounds like a different person when he’s sober. More timid, maybe. How did he know my number? “How do you know my number?”

“Randall gave it to me.” A pause. “Did I wake you?”

I shake my head, then realize he can’t see that. Locke Vinetti as the yardstick of human intelligence. “No, my little brother woke me.”

He chuckles. “You know what I mean.”

“It’s no big deal. Really.”

“Okay.” Another pause. This one’s much longer than the last one. I’m this close to blurting out, So, about last night when Casey cuts in. “You live on Eighty-sixth and Broadway, right?”

“Yeah?”

“Wanna go to Three Star?”

Is this a joke? Getting lunch with this guy is the last thing I want to do. “Um, wow, I’m not sure that’s, y’see, my mom needs some help today. I gotta look after Lon, my brother.”

“I won’t keep you long. C’mon, just get a burger.”

“No, I mean, if it were up to me, man-”

“Come on, Locke, give me…” He sighs, then takes a deep breath. “Listen, Locke, I know it’s asking a lot, but please, do me this favor, even if you owe me nothing. I’m no good at this, but just…five minutes, if that. I promise. You’re free to bail at any time, guilt free.”

He sounds desperate and confused to the point of tears. Cruelty isn’t in my nature (Locke’s nature). I make plans and hope I won’t regret them.

Three Star Coffee Shop is a diner on 86th Street and Columbus. It’s a quaint, ratty little place with great coffee and great burgers-and that’s it. Everything else there is terrible. Their fries aren’t even that good. But seeing as it’s already 11:30 by the time I wake up, I think a burger and some coffee might do me good.

As I walk out of the house, I yell out to the house in general, “Mom! I’m going out to lunch!”

“With who?” I hear from somewhere in the apartment.

I brace myself. “Casey!”

The next thing I know, my mom’s in front of me, wiping her hands on a rag, one eyebrow almost leaping off her face. “Casey. The boy from last night.” I nod slowly. Her eyes become slits. “So why are you going out to lunch with him?”

“I dunno. He sounded like he wanted to apologize.”

“I’m not sure I want you spending time with this creepy little rapist.”

“Mom, he’s not a rapist.”

“No one treats anyone that way, Locke, and especially not my boy.”

“Mom, come on. He’s, y’know, troubled.” The words leave my mouth, and I realize what I’m trying to get at. “Like me.”

She shakes her head, but I can see her face soften a little. It clicks. “All right. Just don’t let him try anything else, okay? Remember, honey, men are pigs. They’re thinking with something other than their minds, something arguably smaller and certainly less important.”

“You always wanted a daughter, didn’t you?”

She laughs. “Just so I could say that.”

“That last part, the ‘arguably smaller’ bit, that was good. You’re funny.”

“Don’t be a wiseass. No one likes a clever teenager.”

Casey’s there among the tobacco-tooth yellow interior of Three Star, staring into a cup of coffee as if it was a scattering of animal bones and he was a shaman. My nerves shiver at the very sight of him. Sweat starts forming on my brow and chest. I’m not used to having lunch with people I hardly know. The only reason I even considered approaching Casey last night was because everyone had seemed so cool and relaxed with me. And here we are, in the most intense conversational situation imaginable. Welcome to my nightmare.

I walk in and sit down across from Casey. He looks up and smiles a little, resting his head on his folded hands. It’s all bullshit, though; a vein like a blue tree root throbs under his brow. He’s terrified.

I order a cheeseburger with Swiss and a cup of coffee, and we sit in silence.

Finally Casey says those fateful words. “So, um, about last night.”

I can’t help but laugh a little. He looks up, slightly hurt, a little jumpy. I just shake my head and say, “It sounds like we had unprotected sex.”

He grins. “You’re right. Sorry. Nerves. Weird position I’m in. Don’t quite know…”

“Same.”

“Well, I’ve never been choked before, I’ll tell you that,” he says, sipping his coffee. He tugs back at the collar of his shirt, and I wince: On either side of his throat are perfect little circular bruises, obviously from my fingers. I feel like I’m on COPS. “That was new. Definitely helps my street cred.”

“Glad I can help,” I say. My face begins to burn. I’m such a jerk. Normal people, healthy people, don’t do things like that. Everything’s dramatic and powerful, out of my control, until I have to stare down the ugly purple marks that my “situation” leaves behind.

He reads me with a glance and frowns. “I’m not trying to be glib, man. It was okay that you choked me. I think it was for the best.” My shrug doesn’t seem like enough for him, so he keeps pushing. “I mean, how do you feel after last night, if you don’t mind me asking?”

“How do I feel?” This isn’t the question I was expecting.

“Yeah. What’re your reactions?”

“How the fuck do you expect me to feel?” I blurt, getting venom-tremors along my fingers and forearms. “When I said all that shit, I kept punctuating it with ‘never told anyone this before’ for a reason, dammit, and then it all gets spat back at me because I’m not a…”