The Second Sight

The Second Sight – Episode 28

THE SECOND SIGHT EPISODE 28

® 20+ SNVL

FIRST STEPS

I had once watched a silly movie where humans beings had been possessed by some crazy alien beings that burst right out of the tummies of their human hosts.

What I was feeling was almost like that, but it was worse because I could feel that movement from the crown of my head to the tips of my toes.

It made my breath come out in shallow wheezes and sweat stood out on my face.

BOAT

Nothing a good night’s sleep wouldn’t cure.

I fumbled a key into my door.

NICOLE

(softly)

Yaw. Are you okay? You don’t look too good.

I turned I saw the sudden concern on her lovely face.

BOAT

I’m perfectly fine. I feel just a little bit tired. I will turn in immediately if you don’t mind.”

She nodded, her face still looking concerned.

NICOLE

Alright then. You have a good sleep. Should I order a light snack for you?

BOAT

No, thanks, Nicole. I’m good. See you in the morning.

I had to hold on tightly to the door to stop myself from falling. I was suddenly overcome by strong nausea.

I entered the room quickly and shut it. I groped for the light switch, turned on the lovely shaded lights above, and then rushed to the bathroom.

I leaned over the sink and retched horribly, but apart from a thin line of spittle, nothing came out. The feeling within me was bad now. It was a roiling, boisterous, sizzling thing that made me tremble all over.

I groped my way to the room again.

It was comfortably furnished, and the sheets on the bed looked and smelt nice as I sank to my knees in front of the bed and put my face on it. I mo-ned deep in my throat, an agonized sound that begged for release.

BOAT

(dejectedly)

What the f**k is happening to me now?

And then I felt it.

The tingling under my skin stopped, and something within me moved – pulled , actually – toward an object. It was like a dog straining at a leash. I felt another presence, felt eyes on me, probing, seeking, questioning.

I raised my head suddenly…and there it was!

Just across from the bed tall French windows led to a balcony. The lights on the balcony were not on, and it looked absolutely dark and forbidden out there.

But as I watched they appeared…three crimson eyes, thin and sickle-shaped, two up and the other a few inches below.

Eyes that seemed to drip blood; eyes that were filled with loathing and hatred so fierce that I found it very hærd looking into them, and I wished I had never seen them.

Just the three crimson eyes. And then, suddenly, claws appeared on the glass, as if whatever it was had leaned forward for a better view. The demonic eyes suddenly seemed to bulge with a mixture of fear, shock and hatred.

The fury was a sudden explosion in my chest.

My skin tingled violently, and I lurched off the ground and wove my way toward it.

In another second it was gone, and as I fumbled the lockers off the window and slid them open I knew with a sinking feeling that the damn ugly demon was gone.

I rushed unto the balcony, and looked all around, but saw nothing but blackness. The breeze hit my face, drying my sweat as I once again dry-heaved across the balustrade. After a while my heart stopped thudding and my nerves stabilized a bit. I turned away and walked groggily back to the room.

Thirty minutes later I was showered and dressed in black trousers and a clean grey shirt.

The terrible war in my veins was now a settled rhythm, humming softly, waiting to be released.

Now I knew what it was.

Somewhere in this little town there was evil, and it had somehow triggered off the raw power in me. I had not expected it, but now it was upon me. That thing had come for me, ready to unleash the next generation of terror on me, but it had seen something – or felt something – and it had fled.

But I knew it would be here in Jackson Peak. I wouldn’t have been able to explain how I knew it was here in the town, but I knew. I was beginning to experience and recognize the tiny signals that went with my gift, and to follow the trail left by the decay, tracking down the motherf**kers like some Indian dog.

It was in town, and I would find it.

I left my room and locked the door. I made my way quietly to the reception.

Somehow, somewhere, I would find that thing before the dawn came. I knew without being told that it was time for war. I could have slept, or gone to Nicole and spent half the night chatting, but I couldn’t have stopped myself going after that thing even if I had wanted to.

There was the fear of bungling it again, like I had done with my father.

I still couldn’t understand why I had botched up when it really mattered. Deep down the fear was a bitter bile that tainted my soul, but the war was there for me to tread on.

It was inevitable, and it was not negotiable.

As I was beginning to find out, I couldn’t have stopped myself from going after that three-eyed mysterious demon even if I had wanted to. The battle was here, and I was going to fight it, and my will had absolutely nothing to do with it.

Welcome to the life of the Unblinds!

A short corridor from the reception led to huge glass doors that opened unto the bar and eatery. There was a sizeable crowd sitting at glass-topped tables either drinking or eating as a five-man jazz band provided soulful tunes to the right of the bar.

Waitresses in short blue skirts, tight white shirts tied just below their br-asts and pert little caps moved between the tables, frozen smiles on their faces, their trays precariously balanced but being handled with expertise.

I paused just in,side the doors and looked around. A dimly-lit sign above another glass door to the left of the bar said “To Games”. I imagined green-topped billiard tables in there, or maybe a card table where a little gambling went on.

The clientele were mostly well-dressed, the conversation muted, the chuckles cultured, dainty napkins discreetly lifted to dab aristocratic l-ips. Hotel Bliss obviously was a step above your average little town hotel.

I didn’t know what I was looking for, but I looked anyway. I could have gone outside and began my search by any number of ways, but something deep down had guided me here, and that same invisible radar was now dictating the pace and making me stay calm as my eyes roved the tables and the people.

There was no way to explain it; it was like a child taking his first steps. That inward urge was there, and when the time came, after he had crawled and made a mess of himself for a spell of time, he would get up and take those first tentative tottering steps, arms held out for balance; and then, soon afterward, the steps would be firmer, surer, and following closely after that would be running.

I had done with crawling now, and I was taking the first steps.

Soon my feet would fly…and I had started hunting down the demons.

The minions first, for target practice….and then I would face the Legion!

The current jazz piece came to an end.

There was respectable applause, but again it was done gently and neatly to fit the general unreal aura about the place.

My eyes roved the tables, taking in the carefully made-up faces of the ladies and the groomed pristine appearances of the men. There were no odd lights, no ultra sheens or demonic exhibitions. Nothing.

My eyes went to the bar. A group of about four or five men was to the right of the bar, and a couple of giggling ladies were to the left … and between these two groups was the man.

He was dressed in an excellent black tux. He had been half-turned in his seat to watch the jazz band, and now he turned to his glass and beckoned to the barman.

He was slightly-built with a narrow handsome face.

The bartender placed a full glass in front of the man and took an empty one away. The man lifted his glass, raised it a little higher in a mock toast to the two girls and drank it in a gulp.

He was my man…either a target host or a link to the target.

It was as simple as that. Even from across the room I could feel the sadness coming off him in droves; I could almost experience it as it crashed through me, threatening to break my heart. It was as if an alien presence had invaded me and was bawling madly in there.

It was so unexpected and so unpleasant that I reeled backward and leaned against the wall weakly. I pushed myself upright again with a mighty effort, and I felt the sting of tears on my lashes.

Lord, what the hell was that?

I had no time to dwell on it, though.

The man had gotten off the high stool. He took out a wallet, and even from where I was standing I could see that it was stuffed with bills. He pulled out one and slapped it on the table.

He then turned and made his way toward the entrance. He wasn’t quite steady on his feet, and I assumed that he might have downed other glasses of liquor before I saw him.

Behind him two men peeled away from the group at the bar and followed him.

I noticed that they were not as well-dressed as other patrons. They were big men, maybe truckers, and their faces wore the calculated masks of greedy men.

They had seen that wallet, and the bills in them had prodded the evil roots in their souls.

The man in the tux passed me; I noticed that he wasn’t so young. Probably in his late thirties, and he was drunk. He seemed to be popular because he received a lot of greetings from the tables he passed. I allowed the two men to rush by, and then I followed them.

One was squat, his huge thighs straining in the confines of the jeans he was wearing. He was wearing a black T-shirt underneath his red coat, and I could see his barrel-chest rippling beneath.

A wholly mean man, and a dangerous adversary. His companion was tall and broad-shouldered, completely bald. His huge hands kept flexing as he followed his quarry. His grey suit was decent, but his face wasn’t. He had the ratchet face of a man who had survived the violent way, and who was not new to death.

Two very capable men. I wished I had a weapon of some sort. Dealing with them was not going to be easy, and unless there was an element of surprise and cold brutality involved, I just might not be able to cope with them despite the fact that I was very good in GojuFist fist, a form of brutal martial arts of African origin.

My man took a side entrance instead of the main door. A neon light above the door read PARKING LOT.

The two men hurried after him. I pushed through a throng of late guests – young men and women who could have been students on a night spree – and ran to the door. A brightly-lit corridor led to another open door at the end. The tall man’s shoulders went through, and I quickened my steps.

A flight of short stairs led to a neat parking lot. Slanted white paintings marked parking spaces. Shaded bulbs on elegant poles cast warm glows on the park.

My man was walking rapidly toward a huge Mercedes parked near the main entrance of the park. A few steps behind him was the squat man. The bald man was standing quite still, turning his head in all directions to look out for possible trouble.

And so he saw me approaching.

He summed up the situation pretty quickly, and suddenly a long-bladed knife appeared in his hand.

I slowed down and did a quick survey of my own.

No hotel security around, and no visible cameras either. I swore briefly under my breath. One would have thought that a hotel as nice as this would be swarming with thick security.

Was it a peaceful town where little violence ever took place? The men could be outsiders, and could be gone in flash once the mugging or robbery was over.

Over his shoulders I saw that the short man had reached my man and was rushing. He grabbed the slight man and threw him against the side of the Mercedes. A huge paw was clamped on the mouth of the startled man, and a knife point was thr-st against his throat.

BOAT

(anxious)

Damn!

I closed in.

The tall man advanced fluidly on me, lithe on his feet, his sneer as despicable as his face.

TALL MAN

(with a nasty chuckle)

Sticking your pretty little nose into my business, eh mister? Okay, pretty boy. Come to papa! Come and get your spaghetti face!

Normally I would have gone in carefully – extra carefully – to test his expertise with that knife.

It was always good to see Steven Seagal breaking up the limbs of knife-wielding fiends in films, but when you’re faced with the reality on a des**ted parking lot in a strange little tidy town, it becomes a different prospect altogether.

But as I was beginning to find out fast, there wasn’t anything ‘normal’ about the night.

I waded into that fight without so much as a care or an inkling of fear in my heart. There was a tingling under my skin again, and as I looked down I noticed that my hands were glowing.

It wasn’t that brilliant glow of the force-field, though. This was more like a sheen, as if something a little extra had been waxed unto my skin.

The man moved in, and the knife came honing toward my gut. Instinctively my right hand parried the knife hand aside and I moved in with my own quick right blow to the face.

That was just how it should have happened: a parry, and a return blow that should have dazed him, or shaken a tooth or two loose.

I heard the snapping sound first, and that man’s howl of pain next.

It dawned on me, even as my fist was moving toward his face, that my harmless parry had broken his arm right clean!

The bone had snapped like a dry twig, and that caused me at the last moment to try and stay my blow aimed at his face.

That action obviously saved his life, because even though I tried to draw back my fist at the last moment, and thus hit him with a lot less power than I initially intended, the blow blew him back with the power of a hurricane, smashing him into one of the lamp-posts with such force that the post caved inward.

He lay there, a crumpled heap, and there was so much blood on his face that for a moment I thought his skull had broken into millions of fragments.

Dazedly, it dawned on me…

The Unblinds did not have natural power!

They possessed something a lot more awful!

THE WEEPING MAN

The lamp-post had been quite near the Mercedes, and thus the tall man almost fell down at the feet of his squat friend.

That uncouth character had managed to take the fine wallet of the gentleman in the tux, and was holding his knife up, a startled look on his face.

I had almost forgotten him as I ran toward the broken man on the ground, but he obviously thought I was coming for him, and he turned yellow. Of course most of those bullies were all yellow in,side, and only dared to do what they did by sheer intimidation.

He dropped his knife and the wallet, bounced over the hood of the Mercedes, and took to his heels, short arms pumping and thick thighs working. He would have cut a comical figure on any other day, but not then.

I knelt beside the crumpled man and felt his pulse. The blood came from his nose, which was so squashed that I grimaced.

There were raised voices behind me and then the uniformed security men appeared. They looked at the downed man with shock written all over their faces.

SECURITY OFFICER 1

sh*t! Call an ambulance, Bill. This guy’s face looks like spaghetti.

Which, in a way, sounded quite ironic.

The cops and the ambulance arrived almost at the same time.

They questioned me, and my story was corroborated by my friend in the tux. The Chief Inspector was an obese man with a pot-belly the size of a soccer field.

He was sure I had hit the man with something and demanded that I own up. The level of injury, he contended, was too extensive to have been caused by mere hands.

My new friend served as an undisputable source of first-hand witness, and in the end the chief had to take it at that, but he couldn’t resist the parting shot that I report to the station first thing in the morning.

The ambulance took the wounded assailant away, and the police chief drove away with his deputies.

And then, at long last, I was left alone with the man.

The effect of the alcohol had worn off somewhat, and he looked at me in a dazed way. I had gathered during the questioning that his name was Guy Grant, a relatively rich man who had inherited a fortune from his father.

He was considered an authority in the town, and not many people wanted to offend him, the local police chief inclusive.

He held out a slender manicured hand.

GUY GRANT

(awed)

Thanks for saving me back there. That man was a lunatic. I was sure he wasn’t just going to take the money. He wanted to cut my face up, and had started making his intentions clear when you sent the other one raining down on us. Man, are you Spiderman or something? That was the most god-awful stunt I ever saw anyone pulling.

I looked down at my hands. The sheen was gone, of course.

I was still shaken though, as I finally accepted the fact that whatever gift I had been given was still operational.

I had seen those eyes in the window, and somehow, in the face of eminent death, I had been endowed with a strength as potent as the biblical Samson had possessed.

My head was bursting with a lot of unanswered questions, and more than anything else I wished I could see Paul Anderson.

He could provide the missing pieces of the jigsaw and make sense out of the craziness I found myself in.

GUY GRANT

You staying at the hotel, Mr. Boat? I’ll be more than happy to accommodate you at my house. It is a ranch, more like, and I feel quite lonely sometimes all alone there.

I looked at him, and I shot the question at him.

I wanted to be sure if he was my man, and if somehow I had made a mistake and he wasn’t the man I was looking for, then I had to move on.

BOAT

(tightly)

You’re having problems in your life, right? You’re a sad man, even though I hear you’re quite rich. Life not going well for you, is it? Having problems with demons or spirits, principalities? Are you being supernaturally bothered?

The smile vanished from his face, and he glared at me with sudden hostile eyes.

GUY GRANT

(bitterly)

Ah, so you heard the local love story, huh?

His voice had frosted over. He turned away from me abruptly and yanked the door of his car open.

I caught his arm and turned him round.

BOAT

(gently)

I’ve heard nothing, You saw what I did, man. Maybe I can help you.

He looked at me a moment longer, handsome face defiant and just a little bit petulant, and then he did a most astonishing thing.

He began to bawl.

He cried so violently and so passionately that I was quite taken aback. The hurt poured from him in waves, and my heart went out to him. I wondered how one little frame like his could hold so much pain.

I didn’t know him well enough to hold him, and so all I did was pat his back. He was bent almost double across the hood of his car, and his wh0le frame shook with the depths of his outpour.

Finally, after what seemed like ages, he eased off a little and took great wheezing breaths.

His face was all puffed up as if he had been stung by killer bees, and way down in his nose I could hear trapped snot gurgling each time he exhaled. He took out a huge handkerchief and blew his nose noisily. He looked at me, and there was no shame on his face.

GUY GRANT

(quietly)

I needed to that, Lord, I should have done that a long time ago.

He smiled shakily, and tears shimmered in his eyes again, and for one horrible moment I thought he was going to start bawling his head off again.

He chuckled, shaking his head slowly.

GUY GRANT

(sadly)

You want to help? No one can help, man. Even God has given up. Come, let me take you home, and I’ll tell you the story of my life.

BOAT

(persistent)

Are there demons in it?

I was still persistent because I didn’t want to waste valuable time.

He didn’t blink.

GUY GRANT

(dejectedly)

Yes, man, it is all about demons, yes, spiritual things, yes.

It was my turn to nod.

BOAT

(tightly)

Then, Mr. Grant, you’ll waste my time and yours if you take me to your house. Tell me your story. Now.

THE SAD CASE OF SAMANTHA GAISIE

So we sat down in his Mercedes.

It had the scent of a new car, and had all the fine trimmings that a man of taste would wish for in a car.

His story, if nothing else, chilled me to the bone.

It was all about a sweet lady called Samantha Gaisie he had fallen in love with, and whose wedding day had been marred by the worst nightmare a loving groom could ever encounter.

GUY GRANT

(sadly)

Sam was sweet; as sweet as apples on a cold harmattan night.

He leaned his head back against the headrest, his hands resting lightly on the steering wheel, but returning often to grip it depending on where the story took him.

GUY GRANT

Used to date one of my friends, but he was kind of an as***ole, you know, always beating her up and making her sad. I used to console her, see, take her out sometimes and buy things for her. None of us wanted it to happen, ‘cause Steve Poku, my pal, was a man we both respected, but man, those things happen. Me, I had never met any woman I cared more about than Sam. So, before anything could happen between us, we let Steve know. I didn’t want the guy to think I was slipping one to his girlfriend on the side whilst his back was turned. See, he also had about three other girls on the side. I’m not saying that’s any kind of excuse, but c’mon, these things happen, as I said.

They had told Steve Poku about it, and the man had gone ballistic.

He had assaulted Samantha, and threatened to kill her. The cops came for him, and he would have had it bad, but Grant had come in, and a deal had been worked out. Steve agreed to leave town, and all charges were dropped.

GUY GRANT

(despairingly)

It hurt us all, but hey, that’s the power of love, right? Anyway, as it turned out, Steve had the last laugh, the prick. As soon as he left town things settled down, and we started planning for the wedding. It took place exactly three months after Steve moved on, right in the Methodist Church of Jackson Peak.

We had exchanged the vows and the rings, and I had k-ssed her, and all our pals were scre-ming and applauding, right, and then guess who decided to put in an appearance!

And at that stage a cold ball crept into my gut, because I knew what was coming next.

Steve Poku had burst into the church premises scre-ming that he had a present for his two friends.

No one tried to stop him as he walked toward the newlyweds because he was holding a gun.

He had scre-med out expletives and raining obscene insults on them, and his gun had remained unwaveringly on the newlyweds.

He stopped about five steps from them, pushed the gun into his own mouth, and blew his brains away.

GUY GRANT

(cleaning tears from his cheeks)

Man, it was a bad day! Man, it was terrible. What happened next was unbelievable. There was Steve, falling down with half his head gone, blood everywhere, and suddenly Sam scre-med! She began to rake her nails down her face, cutting it into many bloody lines. I tried to stop her, but she had suddenly turned into a tigress. sh*t, a lot of strong guys reached out to stop her, but f**k me if she didn’t bring all of them down. She seemed to have the strength of ten men. She tore off her dress, and fixed her hands on my neck. I tell you, she would’ve choked the life right out of me if the pastor hadn’t hit her with a bible or a cross, something like that, and shouted Jesus, Jesus, Jesus at her. She fled from the church, butt unclad. A search party found her half drowned three days later, her body cut at all places. They took her to hospital, but a week later she almost killed a doctor, and wounded seven nurses.

Guy Grant grips the steering-wheel tightly and weeps.

I allowed him to free his soul because by then the tingling in my body had become a dull throb, and I knew, somehow, that he was my man.

He continued his story shortly, with pauses in-between.

People had started saying Samantha Gaisie had been possessed by demons.

They had taken her to the Jackson Peak catholic parish, ten kilometers outside the town. Guy Grant had brought in seasoned men of God from all over the globe, but exorcism after exorcism had failed.

Her condition had deteriorated so much that she was kept in a reinforced room with steel doors, and fed through tiny h0les in the door. Special prayers had been said for her, and men of God still worked on her, but none dared now to enter that room.

Reason?

She had attacked the last group of exorcists that dared enter her cell.

One was paralyzed from the neck down. She had broken the legs of one so badly that both legs had been amputated. One’s face had been mutilated badly, both eyes gouged out, and would always be a source of scre-ming fit for young children.

The last one simply went mad, and would spend a great part of his remaining years in an asylum.

That had happened two years ago.

GUY GRANT

(shattered)

She’s now known as the Demon of the Parish. If you stay here long enough, you’ll hear terrible tales about her, even some as offensive as how she ate people alive. She’s beyond help now, my friend. But I love her. I’ll always love her.

He did not bawl this time, but kept his l-ips tightly pressed together as tears coursed down his cheeks.

His l-ips trembled violently, though. It was a terrible thing seeing him like that…face absolutely still, tears running down his cheeks and his l-ips moving so violently that they seemed to have a life of their own.

I knew what he was going through.

I had experienced it the night my father died.

BOAT

(gently)

Take me to her, Guy.

He didn’t laugh. He didn’t even look at me.

GUY GRANT

(flatly)

No. Never. She will kill you.

BOAT

I can help, man.

GUY GRANT

(tortured)

No, my friend, I can’t have you too on my conscience. I can’t take it.

I laid my hand on his arm again, and he finally looked at me. I didn’t know what he saw on my face, but his eyes w¡dened perceptively, and he seemed a little confused.

BOAT

(firmly)

Guy, take me to her. Now.

His eyes searched my face, and for a moment I saw a little spark of life in those tormented orbs that lit his face. He was absolutely frightened, but love for the woman finally won, and he nodded finally.

GUY GRANT

(tremulously)

Sure, I will take you to her, but under no circ-mstances are we unlocking the door for you, my friend. You’ll have to look at her through a wire mesh in the iron door as I do.

I didn’t argue. That was fine with me.

But as he started the huge car and it rolled out of the entrance my heart began to pound, and my hands became damp.

I had failed with my own father.

How could I face what lay ahead of me?

Questions. Always questions, but I received no answers for them. I wished I could turn back, but that force that had kept me focused as soon as I hit Jackson Peak still reigned supreme, taking over my will and urging me forward.

As we left the town behind and the darkness swallowed the car I finally admitted that I was plain scared.

We didn’t talk much as the big car ate up the miles.

He was hunched over the wheel, gripping it too tightly and going just a little bit too fast. His face was ashen, as if being forced to re-live his nightmare had drained all the blood from him.

He turned off the main road shortly after we left the town behind. The road he took was good but winding, and it seemed to be rising gradually. The headlights picked up rocky terrain and sparse vegetation. Now and then the headlights picked up the ghoulish green eyes of nocturnal beasts.

To be continued…

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