The Passenger

Part 1: Souvenir

(You chose: You Brought Something Back With You.)

Everyone brings something home from vacation.

Sand in their shoes.

Souvenirs in their luggage.

Memories they swear they’ll never forget.

You… you bring home rocks.

Not large ones.

Nothing ridiculous.

Just small pieces of the places you’ve been.

A fragment from the dinosaur coast in Lourinhã.

A shell from a beach in Jersey.

A piece of the earth pyramids in Ritten.

To you it’s better than any trinket money could buy.

They sit tucked between the plants in your office and along the windowsill in the kitchen, little anchors of memory collected over the years.

Your wife has always found it amusing.

“You collect rocks as if they were postcards.”

She says it with a smile, usually while shaking her head.

You tell her rocks are better.

Postcards lie.

Rocks were actually there.

Hawaii had been her idea.

A family trip.

Seven days.

No work.

No phones unless necessary.

Just the four of you.

You, your wife, your daughter, and your son.

It had been good for all of you.

Better than good, really.

The kids spent hours swimming until their fingers became raisins.

Your son became obsessed with geckos.

Your daughter insisted on learning every tropical bird name she could.

She also insisted she needed fancy binoculars.

Or “bonno-colors,” as your son called them.

You couldn’t help but get them for her.

It was nice to see her passionate about something beyond the strange microcosm of being a preteen in America.

Your wife laughed more this week than she had in months.

And somewhere in the back of your mind, a thought kept surfacing.

We needed this.

By the sixth day, everyone was sunburned, tired, and beginning to feel the heaviness that comes near the end of a trip.

That was the day you drove to the volcanic park.

Black earth stretched farther than seemed possible.

The sight itself made you feel a way you didn’t know was possible… so insignificant and in complete awe simultaneously.

Hardened lava fields looked less like landscape and more like the remains of something ancient that had burned itself into silence.

The wind carried sulfur and salt.

The kids were unimpressed.

Your son lasted eleven minutes before asking when lunch was.

Your daughter made it twenty-three before announcing she was bored.

Your wife laughed.

“You wanted culture.”

Your daughter crossed her arms.

“I wanted to see a Warbling White-eye before we left.”

You have no idea what that is.

It sounds terrifying though.

Eventually the trail curved toward the parking area, and your family moved ahead while you hung back for a moment.

That’s when you saw it.

A stone no bigger than your palm.

Black.

Smooth.

Almost polished.

It stood out immediately.

Not because it was flashy.

Because everything around it looked jagged and rough.

This looked… intentional.

You crouch and pick it up.

Run your finger across the top and around the edges.

Yup, this one is coming home with you.

Your daughter’s voice breaks the silence behind you.

“Dad?”

You glance over your shoulder.

She’s standing a few feet away, squinting at your hand.

“Are you keeping that one?”

You smile and slide the stone into your pocket.

“Yeah. I think this one will look good with the plants back home.”

She hesitates.

“Mom said we’re not supposed to take things.”

You let out a small laugh.

“It’s just a rock. No one will miss it in a place like this. ”

She looks at you suspiciously and turns back toward the others.

You stand there another moment, hand resting over the stone in your pocket.

You take a deep breath.

A good way to end the trip.

That night, back at the hotel, exhaustion settles over everyone.

The kids crash first.

Your wife falls asleep curled up on the couch.

Back door open ever so slightly as the nighttime breeze rolls in.

You head into the bathroom to brush your teeth.

Dull lighting hums overhead.

Water runs.

Toothbrush in hand, you reach into your pocket and place the stone beside the sink.

That’s when you notice it.

Something inside it.

You lean closer.

Embedded deep in the black glass is a single golden strand.

Hair-thin.

Almost impossible to see unless the light catches it.

Weird.

In that moment, you hear whistling outside.

Faint at first.

Then closer.

You head to the back door as it gets louder.

Something about it feels unsettling, so you slide the door closed.

Still brushing your teeth you head back to the bathroom.

Wait.

You stop suddenly at the threshold of the bathroom door.

The stone moved.

It now sits inches closer to the basin.

You must have moved it before heading to close the door.

You pick up the stone and hold it in the palm of your hand.

You have to admit it’s pretty unique.

You finish up and turn off the faucet.

As you take one final glance in the mirror, something feels wrong.

It takes your brain half a second to understand why.

Someone is standing behind you.

A shape darker than the room around it.

Shoulders.

Head.

No face.

Just presence.

You spin around.

Nothing.

Empty bathroom.

Open doorway.

Silence.

Your heart pounds against your ribs momentarily.

Gotta love those small doses of adrenaline.

It’s been a long day… you chalk it up to that.

You snatch the rock and shove it into your toiletry bag.

Tomorrow you go home.

~ ~ ~

The flight is rough.

Turbulence rattles the cabin hard enough to wake half the passengers.

Your wife grips the armrest.

Your son cries once before passing out again.

Your daughter sleeps through all of it.

By the time you land, everyone is exhausted.

No one talks much during baggage claim.

The drive home feels endless.

Rain mists across the windshield.

The highway is mostly empty.

At this point, you’re the only one awake.

For the first time all day, the car is quiet.

Just tires against wet pavement.

Just the hum of the engine.

Just home getting closer.

You adjust the rearview mirror.

Only slightly.

Your daughter sleeps against the glass.

Your son’s head tilts sideways under his blanket.

And between them…

Someone is sitting upright.

A fourth passenger.

Too large to be a child.

Too still to be real.

Its face obscured by the shifting highway shadows.

But the eyes…

The eyes are open.

And staring directly at you.

It blinks.

End of Part 1.