He looked at Palenski. "Please get her out of this thing," he said, almost desperately.
"We're going to do it the moment you leave. It's time for Tina to get some rest now anyway," Palenski replied.
Trent was drenched in tears as he drove along the freeway. Paranoid schizophrenia, he thought. "Unbelievable!" Pulling into the parking lot near the elevator, at a distance of about a hundred feet, he noticed a figure standing near the side wall - dressed in black - staring. Strangely, he could not see a face.
Exiting the vehicle, he shouted, "Can I help you with something?!" He watched the figure immediately turn away, proceed further left, then disappear into thin air. Trent brushed his hair back with his hand. "Maybe my mind is playing tricks on me," he muttered.
Inside the office, he sat down and leaned back in his armchair. A few minutes later, Solange walked in.
"How are you doing?" She asked, sitting down.
"Not good," he replied.
"She's still there?"
"Yup."
"I'm so sorry, but she should be coming home soon," Solange said.
"Uh huh. I just don't understand it. She was doing so well lately. The meds seemed to be working perfectly, then all of a sudden… this again! It's always something!" He was clearly frustrated.
"I know what you mean. Is Amina with the baby?"
"Yes. I'm so glad. She's really good with him. With Tina away, we had to switch to baby formula for Little Foster. His pediatrician said that's fine though. He said that any amount of breast milk the baby got already would work wonders for his body. Foster got in about a month's worth."
"Don't worry; Tina is going to be fine. Everything will go back to normal soon," Solange was confident.
"Thanks. I appreciate that," Trent replied. "I'm so glad you're here — especially now."
* * *
Trent's sleep was unbearably restless — just like all the others lately. Tina had now been gone for four days and each night seemed to present a little more of a fight for peace than the night before. Although Trent was sure he had done the right thing, something tugged at his conscience that maybe somehow, he had not done everything he possibly could before having Tina institutionalized.
The room was pitch dark. He found that the baby's sleep was not as sound whenever the lamp was left on or the faintest light invaded the room, so the thick, heavy curtains met precisely — even overlapped a bit to prevent the entrance of light from any outside sources. Trent rolled over onto his back again; no position felt ideal for a sound sleep. Sensing something unusual, he peeled open his eyes and the image of a dark-haired man dressed in a silky, royal blue coat suit came into view. In the blackness of the room, the image was unnaturally clear.
Trent immediately sat up in bed. "Pete?" He said, rubbing his eyes. "Is that you?"
The man's countenance reeked of fear and sorrow. Trent was now sure it was Peter. He was wearing his funeral suit.
"I'm sorry, bud," Peter spoke in a low voice. "I'm so sorry…"
"Why Pete? Why?" Trent asked, feeling the familiar heaviness in his heart. "You were my friend... my brother."
Peter's eyes were an unusual gray hue. His skin looked dull and pasty, and he appeared tormented. "He persuaded me to do it," he said. "I wanted it so badly. I hate myself for what I did to you."
"Are you in Heaven?" Trent asked, feeling like he already knew the answer.
"I'm trapped. They won't let me leave," was Peter's gloomy reply.
"Who Pete? Who's holding you back?"
"The Evil One."
"Tarrow?" Trent prodded.
Peter shook his head very, very slowly. "He is no longer their leader."
Trent grimaced.
"His replacement is here with you…"
Trent's heart instantly filled with indescribable fear; the terrifying sensation engulfed him.
"He is your son…" Peter revealed.
Trent's heart sunk. Surely, he did not hear the utterance of such horrible words from the mouth of his ex-best friend. "My son?" He asked.
"He is bone of their bone and flesh of their flesh." Peter's voice lagged.
"What are you talking about?" Trent was stupefied. "How can that be?"
"Deed Grumbley. White Forrester Road…" Peter replied before vanishing into thin air.
Trent pitched up from his apparent sleep, reached over and switched on the nearby floor lamp. He scanned the room — no one was there. Now certain that the baby would be disturbed by the light, he readied himself to rock him back to sleep. However, Little Foster didn't budge — not even an eye-lid. He remained sound asleep.
"Deed Grumbley," Trent muttered, then suddenly, an idea struck him. He leaned over and retrieved the phone book from the night-stand. Sifting through the pages to G, he fingered the names down the column and there it was: Deed Grumbley, Address: White Forrester Road.
"Peter… the dream. It was real," Trent whispered. He looked at the desk clock: It was 4:15am. A pressing urge gripped him to call right away. That guy would think I'm crazy calling his house at this hour, he deduced. He put the phone book on the night-stand, switched off the lamp and lay back down, deciding that he would make the call at 6:00am sharp. He stared into the darkness, knowing that dawn would meet him awake.
Five fifty-five rolled in on the clock. Trent looked at the baby. He had slept through the night — not a stir; not a groan. He had been tempted to feed him at 4:00 when he first woke up, but remembered the pediatrician specifically telling them not to wake the baby in the middle of the night if it hadn't gotten up on its own. Trent stared at his chest to see if it was moving. He breathed a sigh of relief — it was.
Five fifty-seven rolled in. Almost 6:00 now. What's three minutes? Trent thought. I might as well just call now. There's no difference between now and three measly minutes later. Yes, there is! He thought again. The difference being: The guy can't accuse me of calling his residence at five something in the morning!
Six o'clock finally rolled in on the clock. What if his watch is slow and it's still five-something in the morning as far as he can tell? "Aw… forget it!" Trent grumbled. He picked up the cordless phone and dialed the number listed in the phone book.
The phone rang once, then three times. "Shoot!" went the voice on the other line.
Trent thought the man sounded remarkably sprightly for first thing in the morning. "Hello... Good morning. I'm trying to reach Deed Grumbley," he said.
"What do you want?" The person asked.
"Is this Deed?"
"Look, man… I asked you what you wanted. Do you think if I wasn't Deed I'd be wasting my time talking to you right now? What can I help you with?" He insisted.
"Oh, sorry." Trent cleared his throat. "Um… I know this is going to sound a bit strange. I don’t know you, but a friend of mine suggested, in a way, that I contact you."
"Is the friend you mentioned dead or alive?" Deed asked plainly.
Trent was startled by the question. He cleared his throat again.
"He's dead. Isn’t he?" Deed probed.
"Um… yes," Trent finally admitted.
"Name?"
"Peter."
"Man! That guy never leaves me alone!" Deed asserted. He sounded frustrated. "Look, come meet me in two hours. There's something you should know. Brown cottage on the western side of the road, number 32." He hung up.
Little Foster was just waking up. Trent noticed that his straight, black hair had grown a little longer overnight — at least another two inches or so. He picked the baby up, gave him a kiss on the forehead, then started to change his diaper. He had a freshly-made bottle on the night-stand ready for him.
12
The Frightening Truth
An hour after Amina arrived, Trent headed out for number 32 White Forrester Road. This trip reminded him of his weird encounter months earlier with Madam Sosu. He wasn't looking forward to a similar experience.
He pulled onto the gravel driveway of the little, brown cottage and exited the car.
Looking ahead at the high, front porch, he noticed that the door was widely ajar. After mounting the last step, he heard something.
"Come right on in!" The sprightly voice from earlier cried out.
Deed Grumbley was in the kitchen making tea when Trent walked inside. He was of medium height and build; had brown hair, a neatly-trimmed moustache and a short, pointy beard. He was wearing a blue and red, long-sleeved plaid shirt and washed-out blue jeans held up by a gold cowboy belt. "Want some green tea?" He asked.
"No, thanks," Trent answered. "Should I close this?" He was holding onto the door.
"Please do." Deed picked up his tea from the counter and walked over to a small sitting room. "Have a seat." He took a small sip, then rested his cup on the log table nearby. "I assume you're the guy that owns the bank downtown."
"Yes. The name's Trent Matheson. How do you know?" Trent asked.
"This Peter friend of yours told me the whole deal."
"You knew Pete before he passed away?"
"No. I kinda got to know him after he passed." Deed took another sip. "I'm gonna get straight to the point, okay?"
"Okay." Trent was in full agreement.
"I'm one of those people that has a kind of extrasensory perception, you might say. In other words… I see things and hear things some people don’t see or hear. Am I psychic? I think not — whatever that really means. Am I what you might call 'sensitive'? I'd kinda go with that." He sighed. "For most of my life — actually ever since I can remember — the dead seems to find me, then many of them, depending on the circumstances surrounding their death, tend to latch on to me. They talk to me like I'm talking to you right now. Okay, sometimes they're not as chattery or they take a little while to get to the point of why they showed up, but the point is always made. Your friend is one of those special people I mentioned that's made it his business to latch onto me like glue and to be perfectly honest with you, I've pretty much had it up to here with it!" He raised his hand to his forehead. "You getting in touch with me this morning is awesome because hopefully after this, I can get this guy off my back."
Trent sat quietly, fascinated by what he was hearing. He could tell that Deed was no Madam Sosu.
"First of all…" Deed continued, "…the guy is really sorry about how he screwed you over. He's related that to me at least a dozen times already. Has he apologized yet?"
"Yes," Trent affirmed. "Last night was the first time I ever dreamed of him since he died. It felt so real — like he was right there in the room with me."
"He was, partner. That was no dream," Deed said.
"It wasn't?"
"No. Anyway, after all of Peter's mumbling that you were in some sort of danger, I decided to do some research on your family's history and I must say that no archive or registry has the full story — the true story." His gaze at Trent was now piercing. "Peter mentioned something of a Mortica Tribe. Strangely, I was able to pull up something online that was apparently pure speculation - some sort of urban legend crap. Only thing is… it's no urban legend. It's not even speculation. It's true; isn’t it?"
Trent felt trapped by the question. The four walls of the room seemed to be closing in.
"No need to worry, partner. I know all about it. Peter spilled the beans about the whole thing. Much of what he mentioned came up with that research that probably whoever reads it doesn't even believe. See, no individual name is tied to it, so no one can trace any of that history back to you. Tell me… how did you get to find out about your ancestry?" He asked.
Trent was noticeably hesitant, but it was clear that the man knew exactly what he was saying. "My grandfather revealed certain things to me, but my father filled in some of the blanks," Trent answered.
"I see. It's kinda funny how they used the name: Mortica Tribe as if it's some regular tribe similar to Indian tribes or something - when it's totally different from that," Deed indicated.
"What do you mean?" Trent asked; his curiosity heightened.
"You mean your father or grandfather didn’t tell you?" Deed looked stunned.
Trent's ensuing silence spoke volumes.
"You mean… you don't know they were all fallen angels?"
Trent gasped. "Fallen angels? Like those mentioned in the Bible?"
Deed nodded. "I can’t believe you're this much in the dark. They were giants remember? They were able to transform themselves at will from beasts — hideous beasts — which was their true nature after they were dumped here, into what appeared to be human. Their mating with human women is what made you who you are today."
"But… they're demons," Trent said reluctantly.
Deed nodded again - this time rather slowly. "That's your heritage, my friend. After centuries had passed, they no longer mated with humans and that decision became a sort of law they had to abide by. They hated humans way too much as we reminded them of Him," he pointed upwards. "They had something else in mind for us — better than using people for demented sex, etcetera. Did you know about the raid?"
"It was mentioned briefly," Trent replied.
"Well, the raid was set in motion to destroy the remnants of this so-called Mortica Tribe that were still here in the flesh centuries later. It was a covert government operation designed to rid the world of them for good. The descendants of these fallen angels who were mainly stuck here with their beastly nature after countless years of not mating with humans, had lived out their existence in the dense, dark woods away, for the most part, from civilization. They only interacted with people when they were ready to cannibalize them, use them for sacrifices, or just brutally kill and dump them — and so forth. For centuries, many people were slaughtered in this city and no one knew what was really going on until someone spotted them in the woods one day — some decades ago — who had narrowly escaped with her life and told authorities and anyone else who would listen what she saw. That woman, partner… was your mother."
Trent got up and walked over to the window. He shook his head as the wave of information felt overwhelming. "How do you know all this?" He asked.
"Your friend, Peter."
Looking out of the window, Trent said: "But I never told him about my family's secret. How could he possibly tell you all of this — which is much more than I ever knew?"
"He's over there now and is privy to this information. Nothing there is a secret," Deed replied.
"He said he's trapped — that they're keeping him there, wherever there is."
Deed sighed. He wasn't quite as animated anymore. "He's trapped in his own guilt over what he did to you. They're not keeping him there — they're just making his stay as miserable as possible every chance they get. He's trapped there because he hasn't made it right; he can’t seem to get past the guilt. Maybe somehow, you can help him. I know I can't. I'm just a listening ear, partner."
Trent turned and looked at him. "How?"
"I'm not sure. Your heart is gonna have to guide you with that one."
"I'm reluctant to say this… because it didn't make any sense at all, but he mentioned something about my son."
"Yeah. I was getting to that rather delicate subject. You have a newborn?" Deed asked.
"Yes."
"Plain and simple — they want him, but you will have to willingly hand him over. There's no other way."
"Why?" Trent probed. "Why do they want my son?"
"The foot soldiers of these fallen angels desire to initiate him. When was he born?"
"July 6th," Trent responded.
"Figures! The date the season started for the so-called Mortica Tribe. Apparently, the half-human, half-beast that comes forth into the world on that exact date assumes the position as leader and whoever the current leader is gets the boot and becomes like all the others. His power is stripped as well as his pride."
Trent pondered the explanation. "That's why he tried so hard to kill me."
"Excuse me. Who?" Deed asked.
"Tarrow, a.k.a the Evil One — their leader."
"I guess that explai
ns it," Deed said.
"I thought all along that he despised me because he felt my father had betrayed the tribe by sleeping with a human, my mother, but all the while, he had another motive in mind."
"Precisely."
"Well, I'm not turning over my son to anyone — certainly not to a pack of demons. They'd have to go through my dead body first!" Trent snarled.
"That's what Peter's afraid of," Deed replied. "Tell me, do you notice anything weird about your son?"
"Weird?"
"Yeah. Would you say he's growing at an accelerated rate?" Deed came straight out with it.
Trent's heart sunk to the floor. "Yes… he is. What does that mean?"
"It confirms to me that he's no ordinary child — not even quite like you although you, yourself are not what one might call ordinary. Peter said some time ago that it would grow at a rapid speed. Before I did my research, I thought he was talking crap, but I see, from what you've just said, that he's right."
"Tina was right all along." Guilt bubbled back up more than before.
"Tina? Who's that?"
"My fiancé. She had been seeing certain things that I didn't think or didn't want to believe were real. If what she was saying was true, then I would have had to face the grim possibility that my worst nightmare had not really ended months ago," Trent explained. He went and sat back down again. "Tell me… what do these foot soldiers you mentioned look like?"
"All I know is that they're always dressed in black," Deed replied.
"Are they hooded? Void of faces?" Trent probed.
"The real them are flesh and bone like you and me. What you described is their appearance after they've astral projected into someone else's domain."
"My God… she saw them and I didn't believe her. I thought she was…"
"Nuts?"
"A little." Trent was ashamed to admit it. "This only started happening to her after the baby came. I have to get her out of there."
"Where is she?"
"In a mental hospital — I just wanted her to get better," he said.
Immortals- The Complete Real Illusions Series Page 26