My favorite podcast requested a "Dead Ringer" fanfic, so guess what? You got one.
(I made this a sort of prequel to my own series "The Family Business" to help explain why the Phillips seemingly lived in two separate houses during the same time period.)
Prequel to DEAD RINGER Jack was five years old, and lonely, and frightened. He and his family had recently moved into a strange rental property while their home in the mountains was under renovation. There had been a fire in his sister’s nursery, and on the same night, his father died in a car accident. He was too young to really understand what had happened to his family, but his mother cried about it a lot. That much he understood. His mother was sad, and so was he.
Making matters worse, their temporary house was creepy. His baby sister Fiona was always focused on something in the corner of their shared bedroom and it gave Jack goosebumps on his arms and neck. He wanted to tell his mom about it, but even at his young age, he knew she was too depressed to handle one more thing. So Jack kept it to himself, wanting to believe Fiona was only seeing shadows. Even still, Jack accepted any opportunity to be away from that house.
Thankfully, there was a freshly-retired couple next door called the Applebaums who welcomed Jack and his family with open arms. Their door was always open to him. Mr. Applebaum even gifted Jack with a playset – a little red golf tee and a handful of plastic golf balls – to go with Jack’s favorite toy, an old golf club he’d found. Jack loved that set, but there was only one problem. The plastic golf balls barely went anywhere when he hit them.
Feeling a lot of confusing feelings at five years old, missing his father and his house – his
real house – and his bedroom, and his toys, and his friends, Jack wanted to hit something real. He knew Mr. Applebaum kept a stash of real golf balls in a bucket in the garage. He decided he would only take one. Mr. Applebaum had so many, he wouldn’t notice if one went missing.
Jack carried the golf ball in his pocket, anxious to take it back to his yard and swing. He felt a little guilty about taking it. He knew stealing was against the rules, but his mother was too preoccupied to scold him, and Fiona was too young to tattle. No one would ever know. And he would feel so much better once he hit that ball.
Because the truth was, Jack wasn’t just sad; he was angry. He was the only boy in his class with a dead parent. The other kids stopped wanting to play with him after it happened, like it was contagious. Rumors spread that his family was cursed. And now they lived in this creepy house and his mother could barely look at him without bursting into tears and Fiona wouldn’t stop mumbling to that
thing in the corner of their bedroom, and it infuriated him.
It wouldn’t be like this if his dad was still alive. It was unfair.
Jack finally reached his own yard. He placed the golf ball down on the tee and eyed it, tightening his grip on the golf club. With everything he had, he swung, sending the ball flying through the air, soaring, straight through the window of the Applebaums’ attic window. He heard the glass shatter and ran.
And just like that, his one sanctuary was gone. He couldn’t go back over to the Applebaums’ house anymore – not unless he told them what he’d done. He wished he could be braver, but he was too scared to confess.
So he never went back. He spent his remaining days in that strange house locked inside with his mother’s crying and his sister’s mumbles and the dark shadows that moved in his bedroom, while he hid beneath his blanket and wept angry tears over hitting that dumb golf ball.
Years passed. Even after his family had moved back into their house in the mountains, whenever his bus drove by the Applebaums’ house, he saw it: the broken glass window, glaring at him like an accusing, angry eyeball. It was a constant reminder of how horribly he felt after his father died, and how much his mother cried, and how Jack couldn’t do anything about it.
It was just a stupid golf ball through a glass window, but to Jack, it represented so much more. It was his first memory of the feeling he would fight for the rest of his life; helplessness. He would do anything in his power to never feel like that again, even if it meant having to abandon the logical and going straight for the impossible.