Dark Touch

by Elle Lewis

  I committed to this realization. I needed to sort through the mess of bizarre events that were jumbled in my mind. I removed the parameters that normally governed my reality and started with Friday night.

  He must have done something to me. One touch changed my life. A simple act of kindness turned sinister. The constant pain. The dreams. My new relentlessly fast heartbeat. It all started after that surge of electricity went into my hand. And my blood—now the color of tar. I didn’t want to think about it. But it was proof. What had he done to me? What did he want?

  I tried to remember the things he had said so far. Yesterday in the gardens was a blur. I recalled him saying that he wanted to confirm his suspicions. That I should have died. And something about power. None of it made sense. It was like trying to decipher morbid riddles. I sighed, frustrated.

  The dreams had to be important. I felt sure they were more than just a product of my subconscious. They were far too vivid, interactive, and detailed. In the last dream, the man with black eyes said that I was protected. Could he be referring to the golden warrior? It was possible. But it was also possible that the golden warrior intended me harm. I couldn’t be sure of anything. The golden warrior could want to suck my soul out of my eyeballs. Better to assume he was evil now and be pleasantly surprised later.

  I thought of the last thing the man with the black eyes said—see you soon, human. He intended to find me again. The thought sent intense fear throughout my body. I needed help. I needed information. And the cherry on top? The fiery pain beneath my skin was spreading. How long before my entire body was consumed with it? What then?

  Determination took hold around my heart. No more crying. Knowledge was power. I needed to start with the basics. What is he and what does he want with me? A plan blossomed in my mind. I crumpled up the now empty fast food bag and drank the rest of the Coke with resolve.

  Time to jump down the rabbit hole.

  CHAPTER SIX

  WIND, RAIN, AND CONCRETE

  The sun dipped behind the buildings of downtown Seattle, leaving the city in the faint glow of twilight. The sky was overcast, full of plump grey clouds. A frigid wind stirred, making it seem colder than the forecasted sixty degrees. I pulled my black leather jacket closer around me, thankful I had decided to bring it. I stood at the intersection of Marion and 5th, the same intersection where I had encountered the man with the black eyes. I huddled in my jacket and scanned the streets.

  My hair was thrown up in a messy bun. I wore knee high black and white converse sneakers with a grey knit long sleeved thigh high dress that hung off the shoulder. I felt nervous, unsure if my plan was going to work. But at this point, I had nothing to lose.

  While sitting in the parking lot of the Jack in the Box, something had occurred to me. If the man with black eyes often posed as a homeless man, other homeless people may have seen him. Maybe one of them knew something. It was unlikely, but it was the only thing I could think of. At least it was a place to start. After a quick shower at home, I swung by the ATM and headed downtown.

  I walked down 5th avenue, my hands in my pockets, keeping my eyes open for the homeless. Even on a chilly Sunday night, the streets were full of people. There was no amount of bad weather that could keep musicians away. The sound of drums and string instruments filled the air, a constant flow of lively notes. I normally loved this part of Seattle. It was as if the city had its own soundtrack. But I was getting frustrated that there were no homeless people at this intersection. This is where I had hoped to talk to someone.

  I headed towards Cherry Street. My stomach was in a tight knot, the wad of money feeling heavy in my pocket. There was a very real chance that I could encounter the man with black eyes in his homeless man guise. How had he been able to alter his appearance so drastically? I had no idea. But if I did see him, I had a plan—run like hell.

  I was passing Columbia when I saw an old man begging at the corner. I stopped and examined him before getting close. He had a long grey beard and an old corduroy green jacket. A battered bike was propped up next to him, a little glass jar sitting next to the front tire. There were already a few bills curled up inside, placed in there by kind hearted people. After studying him for a few moments, I determined that he was a normal man and safe to approach.

  I felt a twinge of guilt that I was doing this for my own benefit and not his. Although the burning pain that coursed under my skin helped push the feeling aside.

  “Evening ma'am.” He said as I approached. His voice was deep and gravelly. “I will sing ya a song, if you’d be so kind as to give me money for the shelter tonight.”

  “Um…” I hadn’t expected a song.

  He took that as a yes. “God bless ya”. The old man began clapping with no rhythm and launched into a gospel song, shifting from side to side as he sang. The words tumbled out of his mouth in a heartfelt jumble. I couldn’t understand most of it, but I stood there politely. How am I supposed to ask him questions while he’s singing?

  I waited until he was finished and then placed a few bills in the jar.

  “God bless ya, god bless ya.” He said as he eyed the money I had contributed.

  “Sure.” I stood there awkwardly for a minute and then figured it was now or never. “Um, sir? I need to ask you something. I’m looking for someone. Maybe you may have seen him.” I pulled out another five-dollar bill.

  “Another song?” He asked.

  “No,” I said. “I am looking for someone.”

  He started clapping again, quickly beginning another song. I sighed, realizing I wasn’t going to get anywhere.

  I placed the bill in the jar, thanked him, and continued down 5th avenue. I met a few more homeless as I went along but was unsuccessful. Many of them did not want to talk at all. They simply held their signs and regarded me with sad eyes. The ones that did engage in a conversation did not provide any information. It seemed that no one knew of a man with white hair and black eyes.

  By the time I reached Jefferson Street, it was almost 8:30 and I was out fifty dollars. My Jeep was far, parked several blocks away in a garage close to the Marion and 5th street intersection. Disappointed, I realized it was probably time to head back. I had not been able to procure any information and I was almost out of money.

  As I headed down 4th I tried to think of another way to find out what he was. Perhaps after class tomorrow I would stop in at the university library. The library contained an impressive collection of books and stayed open late. I knew all too well what the man with black eyes looked like. If I could just get my hands on the right book, there was a chance I could identify an illustration that matched. The demonology section would be good place to start.

  I stopped walking. Demon? I hadn’t used that word before to describe the man with black eyes. I thought of the golden warrior. Could that be what I was dealing with here? Angels and Demons? I started walking again. At this point anything was possible. I tried not to dwell on that notion for two reasons. One, it freaked me out. And two, something about it didn’t feel quite right. I dismissed it from my mind for the moment, eager to comb through the books at the library tomorrow.

  It was now completely dark, the street lights splashing the sidewalk with occasional light. Just as I was about to cross over James street, I noticed two homeless women on the corner to my left. One had dark red dreadlocks and she was strumming a guitar. The other was older, with thin wispy white hair. She was bundled in several blankets. I paused for a moment, wondering what to do. I still had a little money left, but this whole thing was proving a huge waste of time. I was ready to go home.

  But there was something about the two women that caught my attention. What the hell. Trying one more time isn’t going to hurt.

  I walked over to them. The woman
with red dreadlocks played the guitar well. She strummed the strings with dirty fingers, the soft notes clear and harmonious. Her guitar case was propped open. There were several coins and bills lying against the black velvet. The older woman had the blankets wrapped all the way up to her chin, so all I could see of her was a small round nose, thin lips, and tiny brown eyes that were lined in wrinkles.

  I dropped a couple of singles in the guitar case. Dreadlocks nodded her appreciation and kept playing.

  “Excuse me,” I began. Dreadlocks looked up but didn’t stop playing. “I am looking for someone and was wondering if you could possibly help me.” I pulled out a twenty-dollar bill.

  Dreadlocks eyed me with curiosity. “Who you looking for, baby girl? There isn’t anything out here but wind, rain, and concrete.” Her voice was mellow and smooth. She had green eyes and a silver nose ring.

  “Someone with white hair. So white and pale, it looks like snow…and black eyes.”

  The music abruptly stopped. The old woman covered her ears and started rocking back and forth. “No, no, no, no, no, no,” she whimpered. She squeezed her eyes shut as she said the word over and over, fear crumpling her wrinkled face.

  Dreadlocks stood up and got in my face, anger crackling in her bright green eyes. “Get out of here. Now! Leave!”

  I crossed my arms and planted my feet. “I’m not going anywhere.”

  The old woman continued to rock and mutter to herself. I didn’t want to upset her, but I refused to drop the first lead I had gotten. “Tell me what he is,” I demanded.

  Dreadlocks didn’t back down. “You think you’re brave, baby girl?” She inched her face closer to mine. I didn’t move. “That is darkness. Pure evil. It will chew you up, take your soul, then spit you back out.”

  The old woman began to sob. Whether it was from the confrontation or the topic of discussion, I couldn’t tell. Dreadlocks looked down at the old woman with concern. It was clear that she cared for her.

  Dreadlocks glared at me. When she saw that I wasn’t going to leave, she exhaled in exasperation. “Go see Old Joe at St. James Cathedral. He will tell you what you want to know. Now leave! Go on, get out of here!”

  Dreadlocks sat back down and put an arm around the old woman. She whispered consolingly in her ear and then started playing the guitar again. The music floated on the cold air, quickly calming the old woman. Without another word, I dropped the twenty in the guitar case and left. The whole episode had only taken a few moments, and thankfully no one on the street had noticed. I jogged towards the parking garage. I needed to get to St. James Cathedral before they locked the doors for the night.

  *

  St. James Cathedral is on 9th and Marion, in Seattle’s First Hill neighborhood. Once I had reached my car, it only took a few minutes to drive to the church. It was an impressive building, with two towers that extended off the main structure. The towers curved into graceful green domes with spires on top. The building was comprised of a sandy off-white stone with ornate stain glass windows. Because it was Sunday, the main sanctuary was still open, allowing patrons to sit quietly and pray or seek a priest for confession.

  I parked on a side street a block from the church. It was a little past nine. I walked quickly, not sure when the main sanctuary would close for the night. I chewed on my bottom lip. How would I find this man called ‘Old Joe’? What would I say? If Dreadlocks sent me to him after the description I gave, this Old Joe person must be in the know. So maybe approaching him wouldn’t be that difficult. Maybe.

  These thoughts buzzed through my mind as I walked up the thick stone steps that lead to the massive sanctuary doors. I quietly slipped inside realizing that I wasn’t dressed appropriately for church. Oh well.

  The Sanctuary was just as beautiful and impressive as the rest of the church. The pure white marble ceilings were domed and seemed to go on forever, stretching towards the heavens. Delicate gold designs were woven at the top, matching the gold and white lanterns that hung over light wooden pews. A solemn quiet filled the wide space, shutting out the rest of the world.

  I scanned the small number of patrons that sat in the pews, wondering which one could be Old Joe. How had the homeless woman known he would be here tonight, and at this hour? There was a possibility that Dreadlocks had whipped up a quick lie, just to get rid of me. I gave my head a little shake and focused. If nothing came of this, then I knew she had lied. But I had to check it out. Since I was referred by a homeless person, I figured that Old Joe was most likely homeless also and—well—old.

  I centered my attention on the people in the pews. There was a small Spanish woman knelt in prayer, a middle-aged woman with blonde hair and crooked glasses, and an older black man with streaks of grey in his dark hair. So far, he was winning as my Old Joe candidate. He was sitting in the pews to the left of the isle, wearing a work uniform. I made my way down the aisle, as if I were intending on sitting in front of him. As I passed, I took a quick glance at his shirt. His name tag read Henry Littleton in white bold letters. Henry was most likely an electrician from the look of his uniform. I did not think he could be Old Joe, and the only other people here were women.

  I sat down, frustrated. My eyes fixated on the white marble alter as I wondered what to do next. I could still go to the library tomorrow, but now that plan seemed less than promising. Damn. To be able to speak to someone in person would have been incredibly helpful—and reassuring. It would be nice to know that I wasn’t the only one that had encountered him.

  I frowned and began rubbing my temples. I was about to leave when I heard the sanctuary doors open and close. I turned. A man strode down the central isle. He was very tall, wearing a faded flannel shirt over a white tank top, faded jeans, and boots, the laces barely tied. His dark chestnut brown hair hadn’t been cut in a while. It hung messily over his forehead and ears. He had an equally disheveled beard that made his age difficult to tell.

  I sat up a little straighter, hopeful. Could this be him? I watched as he knelt, crossed himself, and then slide into a pew on the right side of the aisle. As the man sat quietly, praying, I had a quick inner debate. There was no way to know what his name was. His clothes were clean, but his unkempt hair and beard could potentially associate him with a lifestyle on the streets. Despite the beard, I could tell he was not an old man. Mid-twenties, I guessed.

  OLD Joe had to be old, right? To be fair, it was something I had assumed. There was only one way to find out, and it would result in me making a fool of myself. Although considering my nightmare of a situation, that really didn’t matter.

  I got up quietly and settled in the seat right behind him. I pulled down the knee rest and knelt, leaning forward so that I was as close to him as my position allowed. I folded my hands, closed my eyes, and started speaking in a whisper loud enough for him to hear. “Dear Lord, I pray that you will protect me from him. Keep me safe from the man with white hair. The man with black eyes.” I peeked open an eye and saw that the man had sat up, his back tense. I kept going. “Protect me from his evil. All I see are those terrible massive black win—”

  I didn’t get any further in my little prayer. The man had swiftly gotten up and was leaning over me, his face just a few inches from mine. I stared up at him with wide eyes.

  “You. Outside. Now,” He growled.

  He didn’t even wait for a response. He strode down the center isle and disappeared through the Sanctuary doors. I sat there for a second, taken aback at his reaction. And then excitement filled my belly. I had found Old Joe. I got up and followed him into the chilly night.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  OLD JOE

  He stood on the church steps, arms crossed, waiting for me. The light from the church spilled through the windows onto the steps, as if melted butter had been poured
across the stone.

  As soon as the heavy door closed behind me and my sneakers touched the first step the man growled at me angrily. “Who the hell put you up to this? Was it Hunter?”

  I stayed put at the top step. “No one put me up to anything.”

  “Who are you? Do you think this is funny?” He stomped up to where I was. He was easily six-four. I had to look up to meet his eyes.

  I answered his question with a question. “Are you Old Joe?”

  That did it. “Who told you that name?” he yelled.

  “What the fuck is your problem?” I yelled back. “I came here for help, not to get screamed at by some lumberjack asshole!”

  “I’m the asshole?” he asked, still not lowering his voice. “I came to my church, and you think it’s funny to fuck with me here? Hunter really has sunk to an all-time low.”

  “Who the hell is Hunter? I don’t know anyone by that name!”

  We were inches apart, both fuming. He opened his mouth to say something back when an elderly priest opened the door.

  “What is going on out here?” The priest asked. He seemed to recognize the man with the beard. “James, this is a place people come to experience peace.”

  James?

  The anger left him immediately, his shoulders falling. “I’m sorry, Father, I-”

  The priest held up a hand. “It’s alright, James. Sometimes we forget the patience and understanding we learn in church as soon as we step outside the door—quite literally in some cases.” The priest smirked.