"Anybody else have a question?" Kyle demanded. "Or am I finally-"

Kevin let out a high shriek. It went on and on, shrill as an ambulance siren, and it made all the little hairs on the back of Michael's neck stand on end.

"Shut him up," Kyle ordered.

Maria pulled Kevin closer to her, but Kevin kept screaming, his eyes locked on the closet.

No, not the closet. All the saliva in Michaels throat dried up. Kevin's gaze was fixed on the network of veins that had begun to materialize in front of the closet.

"We've got company," Michael announced. He jerked his chin toward the veins. The heart was already forming, already beating, and the other organs appeared almost instantaneously-liver, pancreas, stomach, intestines, lungs.

"Dingdong. DuPris calling," Michael heard Alex mutter.

"What the hell is that?" Kyle bleated as muscle and bone began snaking between the organs. He backed up a step and stumbled, and the silver disk fell from his hand.

Michael didn't miss a beat. He hit the floor and snatched up the disk. Kyle didn't even notice. He was transfixed by the body forming in front of him. It was complete now except for the empty eye sockets.

"I'm thinking we need a plan," Alex said. "I'm thinking it should involve running."

Too late. The bright green eyes of Elsevan DuPris materialized, and he pinned them with his gaze.

"Well, hello there, sweet children. I've missed you somethin' awful," he drawled, winking at them. "I thought you might be feeling nostalgic for the accent," he added, now without a trace of the southern twang he'd used for so long, parading around Roswell as the eccentric owner of the Astral Projector newspaper.

But he wasn't a reporter. He wasn't even human. He was, in fact, the being who had murdered Michael, Max, Isabel, and Adam's parents over fifty years before by causing their spaceship to crash into the desert in what became known as the Roswell Incident.