Date: Early September 1983
Location: Rural Oregon (along the railroad tracks)
The rhythmic clack-clack of the train tracks quickly became the new heartbeat of my existence.
Walking with Gordie, Chris, Teddy, and Vern felt like stepping into a different reality, miles away from the blood-soaked farmhouse and the sinister thoughts of its inhabitants.
My disguise, the black hair and glasses, was more than just a cover; it was an identity I could shed my trauma into, a shield that allowed me to be just "Rupert," the quiet kid.
Their banter was a constant, comforting hum. Teddy's wild stories, Chris's steady leadership, Vern's nervous questions, and Gordie's thoughtful observations — it was a symphony of normal boyhood.
I found myself genuinely laughing, not just a polite chuckle, but a real, unrestrained burst of mirth, something I hadn't realized I'd missed so profoundly.
They argued, they joked, they confided. For the first time since my rebirth, I felt a sense of belonging that wasn't born from shared trauma or a secret mission, but from simple, uncomplicated friendship.
My empathic shields, instead of being strained, were almost… soothed, learning to appreciate the simpler, purer emotions of childhood camaraderie.
"You're a weird one, glasses," Teddy declared one afternoon, wiping sweat from his brow. "But you can walk."
We had just navigated a particularly tricky stretch of track, overgrown with weeds and littered with debris.
A couple of times, a loose rock or an unseen branch seemed to just shift out of the way, making our path clearer, saving someone a stumble. I kept my head down, my internal smile hidden.
My subtle telekinesis, now fine-tuned, was a quiet collaborator in our adventure, ensuring little "lucky breaks" here and there without anyone being the wiser.
The afternoon sun was already sinking when we approached the bridge. It stretched for what seemed like miles, a skeletal structure of wooden ties and steel, suspended high over a raging river. My senses instantly heightened.
The vibrations from the tracks beneath my feet weren't just from our steps. There was another, deeper tremor, growing rapidly.
"Train!" Chris yelled, his voice cracking with urgency. Panic flared in Vern, a wave of pure terror washing over me through the empathy.
Oh God, oh God, we're gonna die! Teddy let out a manic scream, charging forward. Gordie's mind was a mix of calculated fear and desperate hope.
"Run!" Chris bellowed, shoving Vern forward. We sprinted across the ties, the deafening roar of the approaching locomotive growing louder with every frantic step.
The ground vibrated violently. The train was a monstrous, black behemoth, its whistle shrieking like a banshee. My own heart hammered against my ribs, but in the chaos, a cold clarity settled over me.
My powers, my control, it was all or nothing. The air pressure shifted violently as the train bore down on us. I felt the powerful vacuum sucking at us, the sheer force of its momentum.
Chris, trying to push Vern faster, stumbled. Just as the train's massive cowcatcher seemed inches away, my telekinesis flared. It wasn't about pushing the train. It was about pushing us.
A desperate, precise blast of force, aimed at the air around Chris and Vern, propelling them forward, just a fraction of a second faster, enough to propel them off the tracks and into the ditch at the last possible moment. The other boys scrambled after them.
I dove, rolling down the embankment, the roar of the train shaking the very earth above me. Silence, broken only by our ragged breaths and pounding hearts. We lay there, covered in dust and sweat, alive.
Later, around a crackling campfire, as the boys talked about how "lucky" they were, how Chris had "pulled" them, a deep, unsettling quiet settled over me. The adrenaline faded, leaving behind the chilling echo of the farmhouse.
The image of Pearl's crumpled body, the raw, brutal act of taking a life, resurfaced with a vengeance. I lay on my back, staring at the vast, indifferent canopy of stars.
I killed her. The thought was cold, sharp. It was wrong. Fundamentally, irrevocably wrong to extinguish a life. The weight of it pressed down on me, heavy and suffocating.
I, Rupert Johnson, had taken a human life. Yet, a grim, unwelcome logic fought its way through the horror. She was a monster. Her intentions were pure malice, her actions grotesque.
She would have killed. She had killed. My act, though horrific, had been one of self-preservation. It hadn't been an accident of power, like the rat. It had been a choice, made in a split-second of terror, to survive. It was necessary.
Brutal, scarring, but necessary. This wasn't about good or evil, not in the way the nuns had taught me. It was about survival in a world far more complex and terrifying than I had ever imagined.
My powers were not just tools for subtle manipulation, or defense against the supernatural. They were weapons. And I had learned, in the most visceral way possible, that I possessed the capacity for lethal force. It was a terrifying, lonely realization.
The duality of my power, capable of subtle, almost miraculous aid (like the Mustang or the train), but also of ultimate destruction, was a burden I now fully understood.
The carefree laughter of the boys drifted to me from across the fire. Their innocence, their simple quest, was a stark contrast to the darkness that now lived within me.
I cherished their company, their unburdened spirits. They were a beacon, a reminder of the human connection I was fighting to protect, and what little remained of my own childhood. But the stain of blood was on my hands, a secret I would carry, alone, into the vast, unfolding strangeness of America.