PARANORMALS
Other Works by Christopher Andrews
Novels
Pandora’s Game
Dream Parlor
Hamlet: Prince of Denmark
Of Wolf and Man
(Bronze IPPY winner for Horror)
Night of the Living Dead
Collections
The Darkness Within
Screenplays
Thirst
Dream Parlor
(written with Jonathan Lawrence)
Mistake
One More Round
(written with Roberto Estrella)
Web Series
Duet
Video Games
Bankjob
PARANORMALS
A Novel by
Christopher Andrews
Copyright © 1980, 2002 by Christopher Andrews
Paranormals
ISBN Number: Hardcover 0-9774535-1-0
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the creator’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
This book was printed in the United States of America.
First Rising Star Visionary Press edition: January, 2006
A Rising Star Visionary Press book
for extra copies please contact by e-mail at
[email protected]
or send by regular mail to
Rising Star Visionary Press
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Contents
Dedication
FIVE YEARS AGO
EMMETT
SARAH
THE CHILD
PATRICIA
PHILIP
YESTERDAY
TODAY
VORTEX
TAKAYASU
POWERHOUSE
VORTEX
SHOCKWAVE AND TAKAYASU
POWERHOUSE
VORTEX
TAKAYASU AND SHOCKWAVE
POWERHOUSE
VORTEX AND TAKAYASU
TAKAYASU, VORTEX, AND SHOCKWAVE
POWERHOUSE
VORTEX
TAKAYASU AND SHOCKWAVE
POWERHOUSE
VORTEX
TAKAYASU AND SHOCKWAVE
POWERHOUSE AND VORTEX
VORTEX AND POWERHOUSE
TAKAYASU, SHOCKWAVE, AND POWERHOUSE
TAKAYASU, SHOCKWAVE, VORTEX, AND POWERHOUSE
PARANORMALS
PARANORMALS
About the Author
Special Thanks, as always, to my parents.
To David Vance, who played "super-heroes" with me long after the rest of our friends had decided that it was way too uncool.
To Yvonne Isaak-Andrews, my wife, editor, and Imzadi.
And to my late brother, Stephen James Andrews, a powerhouse who left this world far too soon.
FIVE YEARS AGO
EMMETT
Emmett Morris was at home the Night of the White Flash.
As a twenty-seven-year veteran of the United States Postal Service, Emmett sure appreciated his routine. Never having the public relations skills necessary for a position as a clerk — and pulling in every favor he earned to stay forever out of the backrooms and warehouses — Emmett enjoyed his pick-up and delivery beat just fine, thank you very much. The few individuals who took the time to greet him were usually the nice sort (unlike the perpetual bitchers who flooded the lobby every weekday, and Saturday mornings, too), and he rarely had trouble with neighborhood dogs. Bad weather generally didn’t bother him, either; for every day of showers, there was another of crisp sunshine. The quiet routine provided him with plenty of time for reflection and amateur poetry writing, though if he had a dollar for every line he’d lost when he didn’t take the time to write it down because he was just sure he would remember it later, he could retire to the Bahamas. Unlike so many in his age group who found themselves longing for some other career — usually anything besides what they had chosen to do with their lives — Emmett Morris had no complaints.
Well ... maybe one complaint: Bone spurs.
In the last few years, Emmett had developed bone spurs, essentially little spikes, on the heel of his left foot. He’d tried changing his shoes and adding special pads to the interiors, but any relief provided by these measures was nominal. His family doctor had informed him that these things weren’t uncommon with individuals who spent a great deal of time on their feet. They had treated the condition twice now with injections of cortisone, but each time the little bastards slowly crept back out, and the doctor was hesitant to recommend a third cortisone shot because of the long-term effects it could have on the bones of his whole foot. The spurs were like having little bits of gravel stuck in his shoe, and the worst part was his doctor’s warning that it was possible — maybe even likely — that he would eventually get them on his right heel, too. A couple of tablets of Bufferin with breakfast and lunch held the nastiest ache at bay as he performed his rounds, but by the time those last letters left his hands, he felt like he was walking on glass.
So, combining both his doctor’s advice and his own assumptions, Emmett had taken to keeping off of his feet whenever possible ... which was pretty much from the minute he got home until the minute he went to bed, calls of nature notwithstanding.
And it didn’t take very long for this to first annoy, then irritate, then wholly piss off his wife.
Judy was almost ten years younger than Emmett, and though she never had cause for complaint before, she "sure as hell" wasn’t ready to spend her every evening lounging around the house. She had a day job, too — the nice little sitting job of a secretary — and when she came home, the first thing she wanted to do was go back out.
At first, Emmett had tried to compromise. Her favorite activities weren’t that demanding — dinner, a movie, visits to the shopping mall, whatever. But as the bone spurs sharpened their way into his flesh, Emmett found it easier and easier to resist her whining. Unfortunately, soon enough, the whining turned into all-out bitching.
Emmett was a fair enough man, but he also had no desire to listen to the same tone of voice at home that he so steadfastly managed to avoid by keeping away from the Post Office front desk.
So Emmett encouraged Judy to go out without him. And she did, rarely coming home before ten o’clock, and returning well after midnight on more than one occasion.
It wasn’t until about a year ago that Judy stopped wanting to have sex with him. Emmett assumed that it was her way of getting back at him for making her go it alone so often. Truth be known, as he approached the big Five-Oh, he found that his potency wasn’t what it used to be, anyway, so if it was revenge she was after, he hoped she never realized that it wasn’t bothering him ... at least, not much.
So Judy Morris pretended to be frigid as a punishment to her lazy husband. That was what Emmett Morris decided.
And that was what he continued to believe, until the Night of the White Flash.
Emmett was one of the few people to actually see the Flash. Many people caught it out of the corner of their eye, of course, and many more noticed the pulse-like brightening that never quite dimmed back to its original levels. But Emmett was actually looking up into the sky at the time.
As he often did during warm summer nights, Emmett was sitting out on the front porch
in his rocker. The battered notebook that he used to doodle out his novice lines of alliteration was on his lap, but his muse was somewhat quiet this evening, so he had turned off the porch light and taken to stargazing — frustration from writer’s block aside, he didn’t mind the lack of attention the darkness offered from the local insects. He was rocking gently to and fro, careful as always to use the toes of his good foot, never allowing the traitorous left heel to so much as touch the wooden deck. "How Am I Supposed To Live Without You?" whistled through his pursed lips. He, of course, would have preferred if Judy had been here with him, but otherwise, he was about as content as could be.
The White Flash originated just to the left of the Little Dipper. The display was actually less dramatic than accounts to later generations would suggest, but it was still a sight to see. The tune dried up between Emmett’s lips as his eyes widened. It was like something out of a science-fiction movie, like the Death Star blowing up at the end of Star Wars ... no, wait, that wasn’t it. It was like that other sci-fi series, Star Trek. In one of the films, the opening credits had climaxed with the explosion of a Klingon moon. There had been a flash, and then a shockwave of pure energy shooting outward like a ripple in a pond. That’s what this was like. Just to the left of the Little Dipper, a pulse of brilliant light, then a wave of energy shooting out three-hundred-sixty-degrees. The wave spread from the point of origin to the edge of the horizon in less than five seconds.
A lot of people panicked that night, but for some reason, Emmett did not. He was captivated by the sight of what the White Flash left behind: What before had been a relatively clear portion of sky was now a new, very prominent star. Or at least, Emmett thought it was a star at first. Upon closer scrutiny, he realized that it was in fact several stars. Seven, if he was counting correctly. They were clumped together in the tightest constellation Emmett Morris had ever seen — people around the world would soon be referring to them as The Seven Stars.
Emmett sat there for several long minutes, staring intently at these Seven Stars. He paid no attention to the sirens that began wailing in the distance. Somewhere fairly close by, a woman screamed, but he paid no more attention to this than he did the sirens. He simply gazed up at this fascinating new constellation, his breath tight in his excited chest.
Then he saw something else.
It’s not that it obscured his vision — he could still see just fine. It was more like a double image, some sort of overlay that he had again seen in the movies. His eyes still saw the sky and the Seven Stars; his mind saw a motel room.
In this motel room, a man lay upon a bed. He grunted and flexed and panted and humped. Emmett did not know this muscular, dark, thirty-something man.
Also in this motel room, a woman knelt upon the man. She also grunted and flexed and panted and humped. Emmett did know this woman, knew her very well.
Emmett watched in numb, nauseating, growing horror as his wife rode the younger man and rode him hard. She pulled his hands to her breasts and urged him on and showered him with lewd compliments that she had never offered to the man she had vowed to honor and cherish for the rest of her life.
Allowing a whimpering sob to escape him, Emmett shut and covered his eyes; he only succeeded in blinding himself to the celestial display — the vision of the motel room remained.
Judy was having an affair.
Emmett forgot all about the White Flash, the Seven Stars. He forgot about his bone spurs as he reopened his eyes and clamored to his feet. The double image of visual and mental caused him to stumble and bump into things as he found his way back into the house.
He ascended the stairs, hoisting himself hand-over-hand along the railing, and he nearly fell over backwards at the top as he saw ... no, not "saw," witnessed ... as he witnessed Judy move off of the younger man and onto all fours, encouraging her partner into a position that she had always told her husband she did not care for because it was too awkward.
Finding his way into the bedroom, some small part of Emmett that was chiefly self-respect and preservation realized what the majority of the shocked and shattered Emmett was planning to do. That small portion began pleading with the rest of him: She wasn’t worth it, not this. Didn’t he want to know what had happened in the sky tonight? Wasn’t he enthralled by this new ability, regardless of what it had unfortunately selected to show him first? Didn’t he want to explore the possibilities, try out what promised to be an all-new and different life? Didn’t he?!
It didn’t matter. None of it did. Maybe he didn’t feel like going out with her anymore, and maybe he didn’t lust for her like he once did, but the inescapable fact was that Emmett Morris loved his wife dearly, and she was rutting with another man in a motel room even as he ... witnessed from home.
Emmett pulled the .45 caliber pistol from the shoebox on the top shelf of the closet. He confirmed that it was loaded, pulled back the hammer, and placed the barrel between his teeth.
For God’s sake, pleaded the little voice one last time, aren’t you worth more than this?!
In the motel room, Judy Morris screamed with orgasm.
In their bedroom, Emmett Morris pulled the trigger, and the vision, mercifully, ceased.
SARAH
Sarah Baxter was asleep the Night of the White Flash.
Sarah was a kind woman, a gentle soul probably doomed to die an Old Maid thanks to a defective thyroid that left her nearly four-hundred pounds overweight and gaining. Her youngest sister — an eternally petite goddess whom everyone adored — had borne five children to three different husbands, and come what may, every single one of the little angels considered Sarah their favorite Aunt in the whole wide world.
On the Night of the White Flash, Sarah had agreed to babysit the children while her sister went out on a date with the man who seemed increasingly likely to become Husband Number Four. The youngest of the bunch, David, had been having serious nightmares in the last few weeks, so all adults and the three-year-old himself were in perfect agreement that if the Sandman chose to be cruel again this night, then it was far better for David to scream his way straight into Aunt Sarah’s all-encompassing arms than those of just any old sitter.
All the children, except for the oldest, were already in bed when the White Flash occurred, and she was upstairs about to fall asleep in front of her favorite video game. Sarah sat upon the loveseat with David nestled upon her considerable lap — the sofa which normally seated two comfortably was just enough for Sarah’s girth. She planned to stay awake until David’s mother came home ... if she came home this evening. But a day with a little too much excitement for her vying heart had drained her more than she realized, and she was soon snoring so loudly, it was a wonder that she didn’t wake up poor little David.
Both aunt and nephew entered REM sleep at the same time. David’s dream began as it had over and over again: He was in the backyard, playing in his sandbox. The sun passed behind a cloud, and the wind acquired a bit of a chill. David shuddered against the cold for a few minutes, then decided enough was enough and headed in to watch some TV. The part of David that was observing the dream rather than interacting with it dreaded what he would find inside, but he was helpless to prevent this horrific drama of his subconscious from playing itself out.
Sarah dreamed of a beach in Mexico. In reality, she had appreciated the salty air while sitting fully dressed on a bench overlooking the hundreds of shapely tanned figures, male and female alike. In her dream, she was one of the shapely figures — perhaps the shapeliest of them all — and she did not sit upon a bench perched on the pier above, but lay sunning herself in the skimpiest bikini the beach would allow, and this was not a conservative beach.
Sarah had dreamed of this beach periodically over the years since her actual visit. In spite of the pang of disappointment she inevitably suffered upon wakening to her usual, bloated physique, Sarah always considered this a good dream, a pleasant vacation from herself that she was otherwise incapable of experiencing. She had decided long ago to tr
easure the good over the bad, and enjoy it for what it was.
And that was how she continued to feel, until the Night of the White Flash.
A whimper slipped from David’s tight lips and a smile played across Sarah’s as the Seven Stars pulsed into view overhead, the White Flash stretching out over the dome of night.
In Sarah’s dream, an Adonis of a surfer was approaching her. Sometimes she played coy with him — sometimes she gave in to his lures, and on those nights, Sarah’s dream had been known to turn a bit more to the erotic. She waited for him, casually deciding if she was in the mood this time.
Paranormals (Book 1) Page 1