The Eye of Madness

  There was no other option left in Steff’s troubled mind than to get away from this place and get back to her family. Her mental image included all them, even Abbs. Perhaps the only decent thing her grandfather did was not tell her of Abbs death. It didn’t matter now though because she was hell bent on getting away.

  The simple, salient thoughts did not occur to her such as it would be dark in two hours. She also did not know how she would get to them, and no idea where they were. No, the first and only order of business was to get out of her prison. To Steff, the White House was nothing more than Alcatraz Island, surrounded by a menacing sea of dark souls.

  She knew she did not want to go back into the hallway because Carmella or the Secret Service would stop her before she could make it to the door. She decided her only option was to try and make it out a window. She was on the side of the White House facing Lafayette Square. As she studied her possible escape routes, she noticed something gruesome. The bloodstains from her grandfather’s spree gleamed on the brick and concrete street like a demonic sign, reinforcing her grandfather’s guilt. Her resolve tightened and she began to try the locks on the window.

  Steff pushed until her thumbs were sore, but the window lock would not budge. She considered breaking the window with a wooden chair, but changed her mind. She remembered hearing her grandfather say one time that all the White House windows contained bulletproof glass. If they could repel the bullet from a high-powered sniper rifle, it would certainly deflect the weak attempts of a little girl swinging a chair.

  She searched the room and found a shiny brass letter opener. With heaving, panicked breaths she carried it back across the room and began to dig at the lock; it still would not budge. Her breathing became more labored as anxiety started to course through her. It was as if the very air was turning to water and she was drowning, fighting to get to the surface. The surface was on the other side of the window. Finally, after several strong jabs from the letter opener, the lock moved about a half-inch. She hit it several more times, causing her knuckles to bleed as they smashed against the sash. Finally, it swung clear. She did the same thing with the other side, attacking it with much more fervor. Sweat began to pour down her face and her trachea constricted to the size of a straw. Each breath was a high-pitched whistle. Just as she felt as if consciousness were about to leave her, the lock popped free with a loud crack. She grabbed the sash and jerked the window upwards with a couple of hard tugs. The semi-cool evening air wafted into her face filling her with promise. Her relief was short lived as something else hit her in a cruel wave. She had been sealed inside the White House since arriving with her grandfather. She was not prepared.

  While the city and military performed an admirable job of cleaning the corpses out of the nation’s capital, it was not perfect. The stench of death was still heavy in the air. As it wafted into Steff’s nose and mouth; the odor seemed to have a putrid taste. She felt as if she was going to vomit. This, coupled with her starved lungs, was more than her poor brain could stand. As consciousness left her body, she thought of her family. A brief and pleasant image bloomed in her head of her birthday party a year ago where everyone was together. Everyone was happy and all was right with the world. She never loved them as much as she did at that moment.

  Steff was unconscious for what happened next. She tottered forward and fell headlong out of the window, plummeting almost thirty feet before landing on her head. Her short life ended with a terrible snap.

  Gestas followed Rebekah and Malakhi all day as they wandered about the camp. They didn’t seem to be doing anything out of the ordinary, but that is what scared him. He knew this dark soul was self-serving and held no regard for Malakhi. His only concern was to escape the dark void by any means necessary. Even if it meant clinging to Rebekah for decades like a corporeal life raft. Of course, Gestas knew how the dark souls thought. He knew sooner or later Malakhi would become a useless burden. It would cut him loose by the most efficient means available … death.

  Shortly after dusk, the dark soul and Malakhi left a play area. They began to walk in the general direction of their tent. Gestas followed a good distance behind, but it was too far. Perhaps in the young male body of his former life it would have been close enough. In the broken down, geriatric body he now inhabited, it was impossible. The old heart in his chest almost seized when the dark entity turned and headed toward the darkness beyond the perimeter. Gestas pushed the old woman’s legs as hard as he could, but only managed a fast totter as he tried to weave through the tents to catch up.

  The harder he pushed, it seemed the further they drifted away from him. The dark soul pranced along pulling Malakhi by the hand like a mother lion bringing dinner to her cubs. The old woman’s body resisted his efforts. Still, he pushed forward.

  They were less than twenty yards from the darkness when something unexpected happened. Malakhi pulled loose from the dark soul’s grasp and began running towards the camp, towards Gestas.

  Gestas held out his arms in a beckoning gesture, but Malakhi did not trust the crazy old lady either. She had murdered someone in the tent right in front of him. He turned without thinking and bolted the other way. When he saw what he already suspected was not his mother, he stopped abruptly and lost his footing, landing on his back. It was on him in an instant. Grabbing him by the hair, it started to drag him toward the perimeter. It shouted curse words loud enough to be heard across the camp. It was hell bent on throwing the boy into the hissing gloom.

  This short delay gave Gestas the time he needed to catch up. He wrapped a bony arm around Rebekah’s neck and pulled her to the ground. Malakhi fell forward with them as it tightened its grip on his hair. He let out a scream of pain. The cries got the attention of the guards a short distance away and they came running with their weapons drawn.

  Gestas saw the guards out of the corner of the woman’s cataract eyes. He had no intention of being arrested and thrown in jail. The thing inside Rebekah could then feed Malakhi to the darkness at its leisure. He tried something desperate. He grabbed Rebekah’s head between his hands and held on for dear life as the dark soul raged, cursed, and spat at him. The countenance on Rebekah’s face was inhuman. Gestas was bringing the dark soul to the surface to reveal its true identity. Keeping a single minded focus, he moved his face closer until their foreheads touched. With all his spiritual might, he leapt forward. For a few moments, he was in a disorienting darkness, and then he began to adjust to his surroundings. The dark faded and he realized he had somehow accomplished his goal. He was inside of Rebekah. He could see her cowering in the background, just as the old woman did when he inhabited her body. There was something different. Something he should have expected. Somebody else was there.

  Gestas hoped when he entered the body of Rebekah it would force the dark soul out. He wasn’t completely sure how he had been able to enter her body since she was not incapacitated. Yet, in a way she was. The rightful owner of the body remained in the background. This dark soul now stood in front of him. Gestas didn’t recognize the man. The void was a large, dark, and formless place.

  The dark soul’s eyes bulged from underneath a mop of black stringy hair. His lips peeled back to his gums, exposing a line of teeth so misshapen, they seemed pointed. He wore a generic tan tunic with long leather boots disappearing underneath. His fists clinched at his sides. Gestas knew this soul couldn’t harm him, not physically. However, it was still in Rebekah and he could do considerable damage to her if he chose. Gestas knew he must tread carefully.

  “So, what were you in for?” Gestas asked.

  “For skulling do gooders like you,” he growled.

  This brief introduction yielded no name. It left no doubt in Gestas’s mind that this was going to be a difficult task. He didn’t think he possessed the strength to force him out, not by sheer will. Maybe there was somebody who did. The only way a dark soul could inhabit a body is if the owner agreed to it or were incapacitated.

  The rightful owner was always so incap
acitated with fear afterward, they were incapable of fighting back. This was the state where Rebekah now found herself. If Gestas could get to her, he hoped he could shake her from her fear; perhaps he could help her force it out.

  It was as if the dark soul read Gestas’s mind. It began running towards Rebekah who cowered in the corner of what appeared to be a large room with a hazy white floor, walls, and ceiling. Gestas, now unencumbered by frailties, took off at great speed. Even though the setting was all inside of Rebekah’s mind, the stakes were every bit as high as if they were in the physical world.

  The dark soul got there first, pulling at Rebekah with violent fervor. She screamed and covered her face. Gestas was there an instant later, flying headlong into the sadistic hijacker. It was not a collision of two bodies hitting each other. The impact was more like two waves colliding. Their spirit mass rippled across the room of Rebekah’s mind in strobe lit shadows. After a few moments, they each recomposed themselves and dashed back towards Rebekah. She shrieked and buried her head under her arm when she saw them coming.

  This time Gestas arrived first and embraced her, shielding her from the dark soul with his body.

  “Rebekah, everything will be okay, trust me. You have to tell him to leave, you have to make him leave … you have to resist.”

  “Gestas?” Rebekah asked.

  She did not recognize him since he was now outside the old woman’s body. His long hair and stern features, not to mention his knee length brown tunic and sandals were unfamiliar to her.

  “Yes,” he said and winced as the dark soul struck him from behind. This time he did not go careening across the room, he grabbed Rebekah tighter and hung on.

  As he pulled her closer, incredible horror and disgust distorted her features. This close vicinity to Gestas caused all his memories and thoughts to pour into her at once. She saw, knew, and felt every bad deed he ever committed. A sickness washed over her. She thought she would rather die than live with the memories of Gestas’s sins. She tried to get away, but Gestas pulled her closer.

  “No … I saw the things you did … you monster!” Rebekah wailed.

  “I’m sorry!” Gestas pleaded. “That’s why I have been helping you and Malakhi. I was wrong and I want to atone for it.”

  Rebekah thought Gestas had lot more to atone for than helping a woman and her son would cover. Nevertheless, something made her pause. Maybe it was the mention of her son’s name. It was only part of the reason. She felt something else coming from Gestas. Despite all his horrible crimes, it made her feel pity for him. She felt sincerity. Rebekah began to empathize with him.

  “Please help me,” Gestas pleaded. “I can’t get rid of him myself. This is your body, it’s time you took it back.”

  Rebekah stared blankly for a moment. Soon, comprehension dawned on her delicate features and she rose to her feet.

  “I’m going to kill your little bastard,” the dark soul taunted from across the room. “While you two have been cuddling in the corner, I already started taking him back toward the woods. We’re almost there!”

  CHAPTER 36

  A FATHER’S CHOICE

  “He who spares the rod hates his son, but he who loves him is careful to discipline him.”

  ~Proverbs 13:24

  Cecil thought his first meeting with his father would be one of snide indignation. He would tell the old man what he thought about him. Then he would make some heroic proclamation such as ‘do with me what you will’ before throwing himself on his father’s mercy. Of course, this would be under the sole condition he not mistreat Steff or Barbara. It did not work out quite the way he planned. Much to Cecil’s shock, his first emotion was pity for his father. He gaped at the bandage covering the old man’s eye. Tiny spots of blood blossomed on the sterile white surface making a macabre polka dotted monocle. The face staring through the bars was ashen and sallow, not to mention livid from pain. When he saw the rage burning in his father’s good eye, his pity melted into fear. It was like seeing the gaping jaws of a stealthy shark emerging from the deep.

  “Where are Barbara and Steff?” Cecil asked.

  President Garrison did not respond. He continued to glower at his son.

  “Where are they?” Cecil demanded after almost a minute of silence.

  “Do you know how you made me look?” President Garrison sneered. “My own damned son acting against me!”

  Cecil stared at him, incredulous. This is what it boiled down to? He was more concerned with the embarrassment he felt than the health and well being of his two granddaughters. He knew the old man didn’t see it that way. Everything that had happened since the night at the camp was due to the actions of his ungrateful, disloyal son. The prodigal son … the one who his father believed would burn in Hell for his betrayal of him and God.

  The long shadow of President Garrison’s silhouette extended into the cell as he leaned further in. As the whispering of the dark souls dwelling in the silhouette of the ignorant man got nearer, anger exploded in Cecil. He leapt to his feet. His first instinct was to spring forward and seize his father by the throat, but the shadow prevented it. Instead, he hurled the only weapon available. Cecil spat in his father’s face. It was a miraculous shot from almost six feet away, striking President Garrison in his good eye.

  Garrison cursed as one of the veiled figures behind him stepped forward and offered a handkerchief. Cecil recognized the individual as Avery Cooper. He never met the man, but he knew the alleged nefarious relationship with his father. President Garrison snatched the handkerchief out of Avery’s hand and wiped the saliva from his eye. He then wadded it up and chunked it back at Cecil, hitting him in the chest.

  “I don’t have a lot to say to you … son,” he said with sarcastic emphasis. “I’ll make this quick and to the point.”

  He cleared his throat and asked his two companions to leave. They did so, but under protest. The other person was Joan, who offered to gouge Cecil and Musial’s eyes out before cutting out their hearts with a screwdriver. When they left the building, President Garrison turned and addressed Musial.

  “What is your name?” he asked.

  Musial remembered his instructions from Cecil before they arrived. “Lieutenant Sam Andrews,” he said, shooting to his feet and standing at attention.

  “So, am I to understand my son here forced you into being a traitor?”

  Musial glanced at Cecil. It was a split second, but the short delay spoke volumes.

  “Correct, sir,” Musial said.

  “Son, do you know who I am?” President Garrison asked.

  “Yes sir. You are the President of the United States.”

  A satisfied grin washed across Garrison’s face. This caused the bandage to bunch together, crinkling some of the blood spots into a single crimson blemish. He seemed pleased with Musial’s response, yet there was something underneath the twinkle in his good eye. Something that threatened to explode at any second.

  “Indeed I am soldier, indeed I am. Chosen and ordained by divine providence. You do believe in God, don’t you soldier?”

  “Of course, sir.” Musial replied.

  The truth was, neither Musial nor Sam Andrews were religious men. In fact, Andrews was closer to being an agnostic than affiliating with any religion. Musial had never considered the possibilities one way or the other, not until the dark void gave him plenty of time to reconsider. Garrison squinted his eye skeptically.

  “I have a strong personal relationship with God, lieutenant. Did you know that?”

  Musial was not sure how to reply, so he gave a single nod.

  “I stepped out of line when I got too close to my work. God punished me for it,” he said, pointing to his eye bandage, which was now much more red than white. “But he has blessed me far more than I could ever hope.”

  Musial watched him stone faced, waiting for him to continue.

  President Garrison glanced at Cecil and then said, “In spite of the curse of a blasphemous child, the Lord chose me for g
reat things. I am now the most powerful man in the world. I am charged with the task of defeating Satan’s armies which hide like cowards in the darkness.”

  Musial was finding it difficult to keep from laughing. A flat thin smile creased his face as he suppressed a chuckle. Garrison must have taken it as a smile of agreement because he continued. “These Impals are now showing themselves for what they really are. Nevertheless, I, and a handful for other good servants, are immune to their influence,” he said. He stepped back into the darkness of the hall to prove his point. The whispering and clicking grew louder as he penetrated the dark, and then fell silent.

  “You see, they can’t hurt me. God protects me from these foul beings so I can protect the world,” said President Garrison from the shadows.

  Musial was good at concealing his secret life when he was living, but he was never any good at holding his tongue. Especially when someone made claims that were downright false. He began to laugh; he couldn’t help it. This brought President Garrison back from the gloom and he grasped the bars.

  “What the hell is so damned funny?” he demanded.

  “You,” Musial snorted. “First of all, those aren’t Impals in their true forms. They are dark souls who didn’t work and play well with others while they were living. I’m guessing they probably pissed your God off.”

  “Shut up, Musial!” Cecil shouted, forgetting the identity ruse they were supposed to uphold. It didn’t matter. Musial was about to blow it to smithereens. Musial ignored him and continued his tirade. “And you aren’t immune to them, you ridiculous one-eyed jack! You are one of them! You know … birds of a feather and all that crap!”

  President Garrison didn’t seem to comprehend the meaning of Musial’s words. He did comprehend the tone. “You watch your tone you little prick and remember who you are addressing!” he hissed.

  “Musial, shut the hell up!” Cecil yelled again. It was no use. The argument was on.