Free The Light (Morpheus Road) by D.J. MacHale Page A

covered up. If something else was going to land on my head, I wanted to be ready for it.
    Nothing was moving, yet the crackling sound continued. It seemed to be coming from below. I looked to the floor and the shattered windows. Broken glass was everywhere. Thousands of tiny, sparkling bits covered the wooden gym floor. It looked like the aftermath of a hailstorm. The crackling sound continued . . . and I felt a soft breeze on my face. I wanted to scream but held it in. From the corner of my eye, I caught movement. Next to the pile of broken frames the tiny bits of glass were moving as if being pushed around by the breeze . . . like the chocolate on my counter.
    I started to shiver. I think I was probably in shock. I wanted to run in the worst way but couldn't take my eyes off the moving glass. The tiny bits were being blown about randomly, away from a central spot. It only took a few seconds to realize what was unfolding before me.
    As more glass moved, a pattern emerged. It was the triple swirl design I had seen on my kitchen counter. That was the last straw. I couldn't take it anymore. I didn't care if I ran into the figment of my imagination or knocked over more chairs or even if I got my cat out. I didn't want to be in that haunted gym for another second, so I took off, sprinting
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    toward the door, ready to bulldoze over the dark figure if he was stupid enough to get in my way. I blew through the door into the shower room, sprinted past the lockers, and jumped out into the corridor. I should have run out of the building. The exit was right there. But I wasn't thinking-- I was reacting. I was out of my mind. I sprinted through the empty corridors all the way back to the art room. Once there I realized I didn't want to be there, either, so I put my head down and kept running. A second before I reached the door, a figure dressed in black stepped out in front of me.
    "Ahhh!" I screamed. It was too late to stop. I slammed into him, knocking him into the wall.
    "Seaver!" the guy yelled in surprise. "What are you doing?"
    Hearing the voice brought me back down. I focused on the guy. It wasn't Gravedigger. It was Frano. I bent over, leaning on my knees, gulping air.
    "What are you doing here?" he asked, seething.
    I took a few more breaths to try and calm down. When I looked at the pasty-looking art geek, the truth hit me.
    "What is your deal?" I snapped at him.
    "Excuse me?"
    "Don't do that. Don't pretend like you don't know. I'm not an idiot."
    "Don't know what?" he asked.
    "Seriously?" I shot back. "I know that was you back there. What were you thinking? It would be funny to get me down here and dress up like Gravedigger to freak me out? That's like . . . so juvenile. Those windows could have killed me! That would have been real funny, wouldn't it!"
    Frano gave me the same blank stare he always gave. You could never tell if he was excited or asleep. "I have no idea what you're talking about," he declared with no emotion.
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    "Oh, please. Then why did you call me to come pick up my artwork? It's only one piece and it isn't even finished. You just wanted to set me up for a little prank."
    Frano frowned, which for him was a major show of emotion.
    "I didn't call you," he said flatly.
    "Yes, you did!"
    "You're saying I called you to come here and pick up some artwork?" he asked.
    "Don't go there!" I yelled. "Don't pretend like you didn't call. I can ... I can check!" I pulled out my cell phone and fought my shaking hands to scroll through the list of incoming calls. I didn't get many, so I figured it would be easy to spot Frano's. I went through the list once. Then again. There were only two numbers . . . Dad's and Cooper's.
    "It's gotta be here," I said, desperately searching through other folders on the phone.
    "Mr. Seaver, I don't know what you are up to here, or why you're even in the building, but I promise you I didn't call you to pick up any artwork. Why would I? It's all been cleared out. Every last piece."
    "Every