about things like team-building and synergy. Brian liked to tease Cassi about these things, but only because he was secretly jealous. He hadn’t been paid by his publishers in over six months, and it bothered him that he couldn’t provide for his wife or their new son.
Brian had always been a deep sleeper. His mother had once said that he could sleep through a nuclear war, and that wasn’t far from the truth. Since becoming a father for the second time around, Brian’s biggest fear was that the baby would wake up crying, perhaps hungry or in need of a diaper change or shaking from a nightmare, and he’d sleep through it. That’s why he was grateful when Cassi was there to get up with the baby at night, and that’s why he dreaded these rare times when she wasn’t home.
They had a baby monitor in the house. A small camera was mounted above the baby’s crib. It broadcast a signal to the monitor, which was plugged into the bedroom’s television. With Cassi out of town, Brian had turned the volume on the television all the way up, filling the room with white noise and the soft sounds of his son’s breathing. Then, bathed in the glow from the screen, he’d sat back in bed with his laptop and worked on a television treatment for a show that he was pretty sure would never get off the ground. The production company for a very popular sitcom actor had asked Brian to write a treatment for a post-apocalyptic zombie sitcom, and even though Brian thought that was the stupidest fucking idea he’d heard in quite some time, he did it because his family needed the money. It was early—too early to sleep, but the baby had been tired and cranky, and Brian knew from experience that he should rest when the baby rested. He promised himself that if and when he got tired of working on this stupid TV pilot, he’d sleep lightly.
Except that he hadn’t. He fell asleep writing, barely having the presence of mind to set the laptop aside before passing out. He slept, drooling on his pillow and snoring softly—until voices began coming from the television speakers.
The first thing he became aware of was a burst of static. This was followed by a soft, feminine voice. The woman was speaking, forming distinct syllables and words, but he couldn’t tell what they were. She paused, and his son, not quite two years old, answered her with baby talk. As he woke fully, it simultaneously occurred to Brian that a) this wasn’t a dream, and b) the voice was originating from his son’s bedroom.
Brian bolted upright, flung the sheets off his legs, and stared at the television screen. There was his son’s room. The baby was awake, and standing up in his crib. He wasn’t crying. Wasn’t scared. He was babbling, as if his mother or father were in the room with him. Except that that was impossible, because his mother was in Utah and his father was watching from bed.
“Hi,” the baby said. “Hi! Hi! Hi!”
The baby jumped up and down in the crib, grinning happily as he repeated it over and over. Each joyful exclamation was punctuated with a wave of his little hand.
Brian started to get out of bed when he saw something that…
Well, okay. Enough of that third person nonsense. You get the idea. That’s a nice example of merging real life with fiction. Here’s what happened next.
I started to get out of bed, but then I saw something on the screen that absolutely stunned me. It was an orb, about the size of a softball. It seemed to be composed of solid light, and it was hovering next to my son’s crib. The baby was standing up and waving at it. The ball hung there for a moment, as if suspended from a string. Then it zipped out of the camera’s eye and vanished from my sight. I knew it was still in the room, however, because the baby was still watching it. He turned his head, following its movements.
I got out of bed and ran across the house, yelling—I don’t know what I was hollering. It was just nonsense-words. Panic-speak. The language
Brian had always been a deep sleeper. His mother had once said that he could sleep through a nuclear war, and that wasn’t far from the truth. Since becoming a father for the second time around, Brian’s biggest fear was that the baby would wake up crying, perhaps hungry or in need of a diaper change or shaking from a nightmare, and he’d sleep through it. That’s why he was grateful when Cassi was there to get up with the baby at night, and that’s why he dreaded these rare times when she wasn’t home.
They had a baby monitor in the house. A small camera was mounted above the baby’s crib. It broadcast a signal to the monitor, which was plugged into the bedroom’s television. With Cassi out of town, Brian had turned the volume on the television all the way up, filling the room with white noise and the soft sounds of his son’s breathing. Then, bathed in the glow from the screen, he’d sat back in bed with his laptop and worked on a television treatment for a show that he was pretty sure would never get off the ground. The production company for a very popular sitcom actor had asked Brian to write a treatment for a post-apocalyptic zombie sitcom, and even though Brian thought that was the stupidest fucking idea he’d heard in quite some time, he did it because his family needed the money. It was early—too early to sleep, but the baby had been tired and cranky, and Brian knew from experience that he should rest when the baby rested. He promised himself that if and when he got tired of working on this stupid TV pilot, he’d sleep lightly.
Except that he hadn’t. He fell asleep writing, barely having the presence of mind to set the laptop aside before passing out. He slept, drooling on his pillow and snoring softly—until voices began coming from the television speakers.
The first thing he became aware of was a burst of static. This was followed by a soft, feminine voice. The woman was speaking, forming distinct syllables and words, but he couldn’t tell what they were. She paused, and his son, not quite two years old, answered her with baby talk. As he woke fully, it simultaneously occurred to Brian that a) this wasn’t a dream, and b) the voice was originating from his son’s bedroom.
Brian bolted upright, flung the sheets off his legs, and stared at the television screen. There was his son’s room. The baby was awake, and standing up in his crib. He wasn’t crying. Wasn’t scared. He was babbling, as if his mother or father were in the room with him. Except that that was impossible, because his mother was in Utah and his father was watching from bed.
“Hi,” the baby said. “Hi! Hi! Hi!”
The baby jumped up and down in the crib, grinning happily as he repeated it over and over. Each joyful exclamation was punctuated with a wave of his little hand.
Brian started to get out of bed when he saw something that…
Well, okay. Enough of that third person nonsense. You get the idea. That’s a nice example of merging real life with fiction. Here’s what happened next.
I started to get out of bed, but then I saw something on the screen that absolutely stunned me. It was an orb, about the size of a softball. It seemed to be composed of solid light, and it was hovering next to my son’s crib. The baby was standing up and waving at it. The ball hung there for a moment, as if suspended from a string. Then it zipped out of the camera’s eye and vanished from my sight. I knew it was still in the room, however, because the baby was still watching it. He turned his head, following its movements.
I got out of bed and ran across the house, yelling—I don’t know what I was hollering. It was just nonsense-words. Panic-speak. The language
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