The Uninvited

by F. P. Dorchak

  The cop slowly eased up and took a more relaxed stance—alert, but relaxed.

  The doctor continued to examine Tiger. “I don’t know how much you recall, but you’re in a hospital... awaiting transport to the county jail when you’re better, I might add, if that’s anything to look forward to. You’ve been severely attacked by fire ants... some eighteen-hundred to be exact. Small consolation, if you ask me. You’re lucky you’re not allergic.”

  Tiger relaxed. He was physically and mentally exhausted. He searched his memory and found... images... visions he preferred to ignore...

  “Where am...” Tiger started to say, but ended up choking on the last word.

  The doctor soothed him, beckoning a nurse to bring water.

  “You’re in a hospital—”

  Tiger raised a hand. “No... where am I... what... state?”

  The medical staff and cop exchanged looks.

  “Maybe I’m not the kind of doctor you need.”

  Tiger again asked the question, following a sip of water.

  “You’re in PC—Port Charlotte—Memorial, in Port Charlotte, Florida.”

  But Tiger wasn’t listening any more... at least not to the doctor. There came the winds again... the hot, dry blast of that damned incessant gale, and something else modulated onto the sound of wind. He heard it a lot lately. It was the sound of water... rushing water, incredible amounts of angry, rushing water...

  Tiger didn’t just close his eyes, this time, he closed his mind...

  He liked the dark.

  3

  Nora Stoker, fifty-five, paused, her pen hovering just above her note pad. “Is that it? Anything else to add?”

  “No, that is all,” the psychically channeled Enoch personality replied, speaking through Nora’s sixty-three-year-old husband, Howard.

  A light breeze filtered in through the windows, gently stirring the pages of a nearby newspaper. Nora relaxed, reaching for, and taking a sip from, her wine.

  “Wait... give us a moment,” Enoch/Howard added, in his rather high-pitched, flat, tone.

  Nora put down her wine and went back to her note pad. There was silence for a moment as another breeze wafted on in through the house, only this one wasn’t as pleasant. It was, surprisingly, stifling. Hot. And riding upon the breeze came a distant sound of thunder. It startled Nora so that after uncomfortably squirming she dropped her notepad and uttered a surprised “Oh, my!” She stood, looking toward the windows.

  “What was that?” she asked.

  “My apologies,” Enoch/Howard said. “It was not my intent to startle you. In fact, I am quite amused at the intensity of the image’s delivery—and your perception of it.”

  Nora retrieved her pen and paper. “What was it?”

  “It was... my attempt at a different form of delivery. We have progressed much over the years, and are learning at an accelerated rate. I endeavored to try a new approach with you two, tonight. Give us a moment....”

  Nora got up and again walked to the windows. She looked outside into the balmy Fort Meyers evening. There was, once more, that familiar, cool, evening breeze that drifted back in.

  “What you experienced,” Enoch/Howard said, with Nora quickly returning to her seat, “was a new method of delivery. I wanted to try to present data in a new way, and am surprised at the intensity of its... manifestation... and that so much made its way through to you. Again, my apologies.”

  Enoch/Howard got to his feet and began to pace.

  “Your husband—Howard—will be involved... in a very different kind of case in—in your terms—the near future. This case will both shock and enlighten... expand awareness... of all involved. It will also involve an energy personality essence of such intensity that it could not be contained within one earthly body. In fact, three of them existed in the same time period, with one killed early in his life.”

  Nora hastily continued her speedwriting. “Can you elaborate?”

  “I am carefully choosing my words, here, in order to not... adversely affect... the situation. Your husband is inadvertently blocking me on this one....”

  Enoch/Howard sat back down and closed his eyes.

  “He’s worried,” Enoch/Howard continued, “for reasons he does not entirely comprehend—or, more to that point... does not want to. He does not wish to upset his current comfort zone.”

  “I see. Anything more you can tell us?”

  “This trial will have far-reaching implications that no one in your world could ever have predicted... perhaps not immediately—except for those involved. The trial will be convened uncharacteristically quickly, due to the energies involved. I will not say more, given your husband’s worrisome attitude on the matter, and his laudable efforts at trying to remain objective.”

  Enoch/Howard opened his eyes.

  “More will be forthcoming. You may remove these notes from his view, for the time period specified, if you wish. I know he dislikes it when I predict his caseload!

  “Do you wish to have another break, or discontinue for the evening?”

  Nora looked to the clock, which read 11:37 p.m. She flexed her hand, which was growing tired. “I think we’ll call it a night, Enoch.”

  “Then, a good evening to you both... and do not be worried about this new material... it will be most beneficial to all involved, though it will take all personalities out of their comfort zones. My fondest wishes for an enjoyable evening!”

  “Night.”

  Before Nora finished writing, her husband was staring at her as her husband again.

  “How was it?,” Howard asked. “We do good?”

  Nora finished her notes before looking up. “Yeah... we have some really good information... but a really weird thing happened that’d never happened before.”

  “Really?” Howard stood and stretched. Clearing his throat, he took a sip from his wine glass. He turned to the window and said, “I see images... thousands of horses... thundering across a great plain.”

  Howard finished stretching, still staring out the windows, then turned to his wife.

  “And a really uncomfortable heat... oppressiveness.

  “Wow. That’s weird,” he continued, “It feels familiar... but very uncomfortable—oppressive.”

  “That’s exactly what’d happened! A blast of heat and the sound of thunder—horses, I guess it could be, charging.”

  As Nora talked, she spirited away the last page of notes discussing the impending trial.

  “Well, honey, feel free to read the notes, but I’m tired, so I’m off to bed. Have an early day tomorrow.”

  Howard again stared out the windows. “Very interesting....”

  Nora came up behind Howard, sliding her arms around him, and placed her head onto his back, eyes closed. “I love you,” she whispered, sighing.

  Howard smiled, and twisted around into her. He kissed her on her forehead. “Love you, too.”

  Nora left for bed, Howard looking after her, smiling.

  4

  Howard B. Stoker III read over the session’s notes for the evening. Wasn’t it incredible how life worked itself out? If someone had told him about a judge who claimed to channel “energy personality essences,” not only would he had moved to disbar the freak, but he would have also moved to have had a battery of psychoanalysis performed on the individual’s state of mind. Yet here he was, one of Florida’s Twentieth Judicial Circuit Judges for twenty-five years, channeling an “EPE” that called itself “Enoch.”

  Snatching up a refreshed glass of wine, he entered the study and sat beneath the lone floor lamp. He readjusted the light to its lowest setting and sat in his high-back chair, notes and wine in hand. He took a sip, set the glass on the end table, placed the notes in his lap, and closed his eyes.

  Peace. Quiet.

  Two relatively unknown concepts any more.

  Everything had to be extreme these days, fast paced. Everyone wanted a piece of you, either through voice mail, e-mail, or snail mail. Facebook. Cell phone
s. Twitter. Telephones or court appearances. Faxes, television, or hallway meetings. Let’s do lunch, drop me a line, stop on by! Traffic tickets, arrest warrants, search warrants, and summonses. It was neverending! And this didn’t even begin to factor in whatever surveillance equipment was out there, all that high-tech gadgetry orbiting high, and not-so-high—drones!—above everyone, or in the form of department-store or traffic-light cameras. PIs. Good Lord, it boggled the mind! Now throw in beings like EPEs, and one really had to wonder—were we ever, really, alone?

  Howard opened his eyes and looked to the notes. He still couldn’t believe it. Had fought it. But, in the end... it just simply... was. It had, as these things normally do, initially manifested itself in childhood. His parents thought he was simply doing what all kids his age did... playing with an imaginary friend. But his never went away as he’d grown up, and his gave him information that couldn’t possibly have been made up. Like when his grandmother across the country was dying, and little Howie told his parents how her “limp nodes” were being “eaten away.” Or, back in the seventies, when a friend of his was being let go, young-man Howie steered the man toward another job that involved “tiny cities” that everyone would eventually have in their homes, connected by some kind of an “Interstate.”

  His parents had tried to “breed” it out of him, but the little voices and inclinations merely hibernated—and Howard found that he had begun to unconsciously use his incredible insight in very useful ways... and when a friend suggested that he change his degree program to law and become a judge, well, that just clicked.

  Howard B. Stoker III had found his calling.

  But Howard had also found that he just simply “knew things.” Information just seemed to keep popping into his head. He had an incredible propensity for knowing when someone was lying, but also realized, very early on, that just “knowing” wasn’t enough—especially in the eyes of the law. This country needed—and rightly so—the burden of proof. “Beyond a reasonable doubt,” the directive went, and with good reason. Howard thought wouldn’t it be neat to have a type of person who could be a kind of “Truth Seer”? Like the medical or clerical profession this person would exist solely to help seek out the truth in the world. They would be like Holy Men and Women, who’s character and morality were above reproach, and would be used not only in law enforcement, but on a global scale to seek out untruths and wrongs, and set people straight about it.

  Real-life Jedi.

  Of course, life being what it was they would also exercise extreme good judgment, knowing when would be the proper time and place to tell all. Some secrets were better kept as secrets. But imagine the possibilities! Judges and lawyers no longer worrying if they’d made the right decision! Truth in advertising! And politics—whoa, there was a thought! No longer could people hide behind lies. Of course, it would bring about a whole new life paradigm, and he wasn’t quite sure how ready the world was to live so openly and honestly. How ready he was. As Friedrich Nietzsche had once said, that which does not kill you, makes you stronger.

  So, Howard picked up the notes, and began to read what words had come out of his mouth without any conscious knowledge on his part...

  5

  Allan George sat on the floor, back in the corner of his cell, hunched over and huddled about his knees, hands occasionally clamped over his ears, trying to shut out the wailing from that girl at the end of the cell block. She’d scream, stop, then start up screaming again. The images just wouldn’t go away... and all that blood... where had it come from? What had he done?—why was he—

  A person in the cell next to him was again making those damned thudding sounds... sounds Allan also desperately tried to shut out. He didn’t want to think what he or she was doing. He’d had enough screaming and wailing going around inside his own head. Didn’t want to think of... it was just too much. Please, make it stop!

  Make it all just go away...

  Allan looked up, slowly removing his hands from his ears.

  The screamer had stopped. He hoped she’d be all right. But always, he came back to the same question... why the hell was he locked up in jail? What the hell—

  Then the wind started up again... that howling, wailing, desolate raking of his mind... that internal cry of anguish that had only just begun to take over his life about a year ago. And the horses and blood, all the blood... just wouldn’t go away. On his clothes. In his mind. But it was the wind that was the worst that was always there, loud or faint, in the background of his psyche, in the background of everything...

  Allan looked to his hands. They still shook. Good Lord, the last time he’d looked to them, they’d been covered in a dark, sticky, substance. And he’d held a small hand scythe, something he’d picked up on his way here—he no longer remembered where, Oklahoma, Tennessee... what difference did it matter, now? He’d be in jail for the rest of his life, barring capital punishment—did Florida have the death penalty? He’d find out soon enough. And, apparently, he’d earned it—fair and square. There were cuts and bruises all over his arms and hands, still raw and sore. He couldn’t even clench a fist into a ball for any length of time before it spasmed out. Jesus Christ, he wanted all those evil memories to be a dream—a nightmare—he wasn’t a murderer. He was a family man with three kids and a wife back in Idaho. How the hell had he found his way down here? He didn’t even like Florida.

  Allan kept his head down low, eyes closed. He tried to keep out all the other mumbling and sobbing from the other cells, but closing his eyes only made things worse. He didn’t want to open them, because then he was faced with the grim reality. He missed Liz and the kids. Missed Ranger, their Golden Retriever, and—he couldn’t believe he was saying this—but he also missed his job. He missed his home, his friends, his state. He missed everything about, what was quickly forever becoming... a former life.

  Well, get used to stir, bra, cause this be your last stompin grounds. Oh, and by the way, d’you remember how you stomped that eighty-year-old man’s head into the floor?

  “No!” Allan said, shooting to his feet. “No-no-no-no-no...,” he continued to chant as he again took to pacing his cell. “No-no-no-no-no....”

  Yeah, Allan, bay-bee, that was after you removed his throat with that little tool you’d been carrying around for a half-dozen states... he wouldn’t stop pumping his life’s blood up all over you—guess he had a stronger heart than you’d imagined, huh?—so you rolled him over and tried to stop the madness by crunching in his little, nearly hairless and age-spotted, head...

  “Nooooooo! I didn’t do that... I did not do that! I WOULDN’T do that!”

  Oooh, but you did, Allan, that’s the beauty of it, see?... you did, but you don’t believe you did... which is perfect! Don’t you see where this is headed (get it? “headed”!)?

  “Shut up! Shut up! Get out of my HEAD!”

  Now it was Al’s turn to pick up the slack in cell block “D.” Now, no one was talking except for him, no one was wailing and yelling, but for him. He was the one all the others were now focused on, all the others were momentarily extending their hearts out to, feeling sorry for a brief respite from their own madnesses. Even Thumper in the next cell had stopped thumping and was listening and feeling for him. Crying for him, because they were all similarly fucked, awaiting the same fate. Before this day, none of these people had ever killed a soul... before one-twelve a.m., none of these people had ever even met each other, and now they were all awaiting trial together.

  Misery loved company.

  Pleased to meet you, I’m Allan George, and I killed Mr. And Mrs. Jim Dandy and their neighbors. What’re you in for?

  Oh, so nice to meet you, Mr. George. My wife, Gina, and I did in the Robertsons, Kings, and Farnsworthies. Small world, ain’t it? What’d you use?

  Allan had never smoked a joint, never hit his wife or kids or dog (though he had slapped Ranger once, kinda hard, across the rump when he’d run across the road and not come back when called); never cheated on any o
f his girlfriends, or, once married, his wife... and now it seemed for such a perfect life lived he was getting it all in one fell swoop. Hell, he even did all the required reading for raising children. Attended every offered management class and actually listened to his coworkers and subordinates...

  Why was all this happening to him?

  Why had that faint wind he’d heard every now and then, and which his doctors had conveniently labeled tinnitus, decided to grow into a full-out wailer and possessed his life? Seduced him into leaving his family? Forced him to travel cross-country to a state he didn’t even like? To steal a tool from a farmer’s barn and pocket it all this way, only to imbed it into the throats of a bunch of elderly people he didn’t even know?

  None of this added up... none of it. Maybe he should have gone to church more... idle minds, you know... maybe he shouldn’t have had those thoughts about Monica, in QA... maybe... maybe, he should just... just...

  Put himself out of his misery.

  Allan George began to, slowly, at first, tap his head against the cell wall. He picked up the rhythm a bit and increased the force of contact... but the winds were still there... the charge of the horses... their snorting... their hooves, pounding and pounding away at the imaginary earth with their thunderous imaginary passage...

  Chapter Five

  1

  Kacey Miller didn’t just wake up one morning and decide, Gee, I think I’m going to leave my husband and child, and strike it out on my own—no, it had actually been more of a gradual thing.

  Wilmington, Delaware hadn’t so much been a bad place, as it had just been where she’d ended up. Originally from Alexandria, Virginia, Kacey had grown up an adventurous spirit, her father in the Navy, her mother a travel journalist. When Kacey had graduated high school, she’d tried college—for two-and-a-half years—but kept getting into trouble, which, invariably, lead to trouble keeping her grade point average up. She just wasn’t cut out for academics. She’d had enough of school and yearned for excitement; traveled the world as a Flight Attendant and worked on dive boats in Hawai’i and Australia. Experienced skydiving, base jumping, and bungee jumping (she’d also picked up some part-time work hang gliding and surfing). Then, when she’d returned home to visit her parents, she’d met Mark and they just clicked. He wasn’t into everything she was, but was a private pilot (had his instrument rating), skydived, and was also a cave-diving scuba instructor at a local dive shop. Where Kacey was the “screamer,” Mark was the quiet adventurer.