Eleanor could feel a migraine coming on. And this was going to be a doozy. She was hoping for it, perhaps then she wouldn't have the ability to try and analyze what she had seen.
Or what she had thought she had seen.
Hallucination or not, Eleanor refrained from looking behind her even once. She made her way through the entrance to Prospect Park in a quick shuffle, her gaze focused only on what was in front of her. She tried to focus on getting to the train station, finding Charlene, and then getting home. Putting all of this behind her.
She would put it in a little box and lock it up in the dark recesses of her mind. She knew it wasn't so easy. She had always been more of a realist than an optimist. The therapist had suggested the box idea for troubling thoughts, but she knew better than to expect them to stay in that box. Her mind had always been more logical than creative. That was why she had been a reporter. She focused on facts, sought the truth. If that weren't the case, she would have been a writer of fiction, and not a researcher for a well-known author.
That's why the box never worked for her. She lacked the imagination to vividly paint the picture in her head and make it real.
And therein lay the crux of Eleanor's problem. Reality. As inexplicable as the thing was, she couldn't shake the nagging feeling that it had been real.
That's how it felt to her, anyway. Possible drug-induced hallucination or not, it had felt real. And that begged another question.
What if her hallucination was following her?
CHAPTER 10
Looking only in front of her was the hardest thing Eleanor had ever done.
She didn't enjoy the beauty of Prospect Park as she usually did. She kept looking ahead of her, willing her feet not to break into a run. She strolled along the Vale of Cashmere, through the Ravine, and eventually past the Concert Grove without seeing any of it. Her sole purpose was getting to the train station without looking behind her and freaking out.
Having the willpower not to look around, stop, turn and look behind her every few seconds was a Herculian effort. Her mind kept producing images of her sudden and violent death.
Whenever she wanted to turn to see if the thing was stalking her, she could see in her mind's eye how it would kill her. Sometimes it was a mercifully fast death where the thing would decapitate her with one powerful swing of those gigantic arms and sharp claws, sending her head rolling across a pedestrian pathway.
Or perhaps it will rip my throat out? Does it hurt bleeding to death, she wondered.
At other times, she imagined a slow, painful death. She jumped at every unexpected noise around her, thinking this was it, the end of Eleanor Kraye.
What if it decided to hunt her down like a wild animal would? It would rush her from behind or from the side and bring her down hard, claws in her side so she couldn't escape. The thing was so big; Eleanor was sure it had to weigh well over 350 pounds, that it would probably crush some of her bones as it bowled into her. What if it then proceeded to stomp on her with its muscular legs and pulverize every bone in her body? The coup de grace would then be a foot coming down on her head, making it explode like an overripe watermelon. That would be mercifully pain free, but her bones being crushed before that, would be agonizing.
Or, the thing could spin me around, disembowel me and play with my intestines. Maybe make a lasso out of them and snare his next victim? What if he liked guts and proceeded to slurp them up, straight out of me, like a demonic spaghetti dish? How painful would that be, she wondered.
For someone who prided herself in being a realist, her mind surprised her with the amount of ultra-violent and graphic deaths it could come up for her. She even imagined the people's reactions as she was just strolling around and all of a sudden she was reduced to a bloody, pathetic, crumpled corpse, with no killer near her.
Wait, rewind. Eleanor realized something. Something in what she was thinking resonated with her and she thought back. Something to do with the spaghetti incident.
A demon?
Could that be it?
Why would she be able to see a demon? It didn't make sense to her. Ever since she became a crime reporter and saw what human beings did to each other, she had forsaken her Protestant upbringing and beliefs. She couldn't allow herself to believe in a God that allowed little children to be slaughtered.
She was by no means pious or even religious, so why would she be able to see a demon? If belief in the supernatural was the key factor, then she was not the ideal candidate. She also didn't believe in ghosts, goblins, gremlins.
Even a horoscope seemed like too much hocus pocus to her.
I am a realist, she reminded herself.
I believe in facts, figures, proven science.
You also used to believe in only what you could see, another part of her mind chipped in. What happened back there wasn't in your head. You saw what happened, and so did others. You saw it happen, didn't you? it asked mockingly. Now you can't believe your eyes anymore? You saw this thing, ergo, it must be real.
Bullshit, she told herself as she reached the end of the park. She looked at her watch and saw that her internal clock was spot on as usual. Without stopping to sit down and enjoy the scenery, she thought that she was going to reach Parkside Avenue Station way too early.
I guess my rubbery legs helped to slow the pace, she thought.
She had to stop in order to cross the road, but instinctively kept walking along the sidewalk. She didn't want to stand by the side of the road and wait for a light to change ever again. No dump trucks for her, thank you. She kept walking to the next set of traffic lights, trying to time her walk so that she wouldn't have to wait.
What do we do now, Eleanor? she asked herself in all seriousness.
How do we move forward? See a psychiatrist? Go for a brain scan, hoping for a lesion to explain all of this?
It didn't change the fact that someone had been killed. The thing had first pushed the bike messenger and then the pedestrian, that much had happened. Other people saw it happen as well.
But could those incidents have been nothing more than accidents and her mind had chosen to make something more of it?
Could it be the onset of a mental illness? Of all the possible explanations, this one chilled Eleanor the most. She prided herself in her mental abilities. She was a clear headed, rational thinking person.
It wasn't something she dwelt on for very long. She somehow knew she wasn't going crazy. Then again, that cynical part of her mind chipped in, you wouldn't know you were going crazy, would you? Wasn't a prerequisite for mental illness that there had to be other family members with the disease?
Mental illness was only worth putting on the table because it was something that had to be considered, even if it was a long shot.
As Eleanor crossed the road, ensconced and escorted by scores of other pedestrians, she filed the mental illness suggestion away. She would pursue that avenue of discourse as soon as she had exhausted all other options.
By the time she reached the train station, she tried to replay the day's events in a progressive sequence, trying to find something that could explain what she had seen a few minutes earlier. She started with her waking up routine, followed by breakfast and getting ready for her trip to the city.
Nothing had been out of place. She couldn't recall any strange smells in her house, didn't see any mold, didn't eat anything that tasted strange or off. As far as she could tell, it had been just another normal morning. Everything at home had felt right, everything had seemed in place. She would however, check when she got home. Perhaps call out a professional to check for a mold that could be growing behind the walls and rotting her brain. That was the explanation that made the most sense.
Home taken care of, she moved on to external factors like getting in her car and driving to the train station. Could there be a hole in her exhaust pipe somewhere spewing out dangerous carbon emissions into her car? Is that one of the side-effects of carbon monoxide poisoning? Hallucinations? She'd have
to check it out, she decided, even though she doubted it. After her short ten minute car drive from her home to the train station parking lot, she had spent nearly three hours on the train. Then she caught a cab to the 78th, met with Dan Almeida for a good forty-five minutes, and only then did she start to hallucinate. So no, that couldn't be the answer.
What else?
Something in the cab? Something she had eaten? She hadn't eaten nor drunk anything during the train ride or during her ride to the precinct. She also didn't accept any gifts from strangers, no one had bumped into her, she couldn't remember anyone injecting her with anything. Would she even have felt a pin prick during the bustle of a busy sidewalk?
The first time she had something to eat and drink was with Detective Dan. It brought her back to the idea of someone spiking her coffee with LSD. Surely Dan would have phoned her if he was experiencing something similar. Or perhaps, that cynic chimed in again, his reaction is a little more severe. The guy is almost at retirement age. Maybe he can't phone because he is being rushed to hospital at this very moment. Maybe he's dead already.
Annoyed with herself, Eleanor took out her cell phone as she honed in on her specified platform.
Dan picked up on the third ring.
“Miss me already?” he asked. Eleanor could hear the smile in his voice.
She floundered for a second. What's her excuse for phoning?
“Uhm,” she began. “I feel stupid for asking,” she paused.
“Yes?” the fatherly figure asked. It always sounded like Dan was in a rush and the world was about to end.
“Did I perhaps leave my sunglasses there?”
“I'm at my desk now, but no, I don't think so. You didn't leave it on the table where we were sitting. I'll go check in the break room for you, in case you put it down somewhere else.” His rapid speech pattern mimicked her fast-beating heart. “And if it's not there, at Lost and Found. I'll give you a call when I have news. Did you go to a bathroom while you were here? Stop at anyone else's desk or office?”
“No. I stopped to chat to a few people, but didn't sit down to chat and never for more than a minute. I didn't go to the bathroom,” She was rambling and knew it. “Thanks Dan,” Eleanor finished sincerely. “I have to run,”
“No problem,” the voice came. “We'll talk in a few.”
The call was disconnected and the phone was replaced by a frown.
Okay, not LSD-laced police coffee or woefully stale donuts.
She thought of phoning Dan back and asking if there had perhaps been reports of hallucinations around the city, but that would only make him worried and curious. She didn't want Dan prodding around in her head.
What happens when he thinks I'm ready for the loony bin? That would break both our fragile hearts, Eleanor thought.
No, she decided firmly. She was not going to involve Dan in her madness.
She was about to continue her self-evaluation of possible triggers when she spotted Charlene.
She was dressed like a typical teenager – black hoody, baggy white shirt, tight black shorts, white bobby socks and black sneakers. Charlene looked ready for the roller blade ring. Or a skate park. Her auburn hair hung loose and untamed from beneath a baseball cap and green eyes peered inquisitively at the world around her.
Unlike her best friend, Rosewater, Charl might not be the daughter of a supermodel, but with her penetrating green eyes, and compact svelte body, she got her share of looks from the boys.
Charlene's eyes lit up when she saw Eleanor walking towards her and she waved innocently. Eleanor couldn't help but smile and waved in return.
“El!” Charlene exclaimed and hugged her friend. She saw Eleanor as the older sibling she never had.
“Hey, Charl,” Eleanor continued with the smile, her problems forgotten for a short while. “It's been too long,”
“Right? We have a lot to catch up!”
“Like?” Eleanor asked, stretching the word out. She could see a mischievous glint in Charlene's jade green eyes.
“Oh, nothing interesting. Just news about boys,”
“More than one?” Eleanor asked, feigning a shocked indignation.
Charlene laughed. It was a bubbly, unfettered laugh that didn't hold back. Charl possessed one of those laughs that was infectious and had other people join in the merriment. People smiled as they walked past them, ready to board the train.
“Maybe just one in particular. But I'll tell you about him later. First, I want the lowdown on Stephen Delaigne's new book. I want the exclusive inside peek only you can deliver. Please?”
Charlene was a big fan of mysteries and thrillers, and Stephen Delaigne was in her top ten list of favorite authors. He was no Baldacci or Gillian Flynn, but he wasn't bad either. He had a handful of really good books and seemed to be getting better at his craft. Charl was convinced that this was due to Eleanor's involvement in the research and writing process.
“Please?” She repeated the request, this time pouting her lips, tilting her head and batting her eyebrows excessively, ala Rosewater Prouza style.
Eleanor looked from side to side and leaned in closer in a conspiratorial fashion, as if afraid that someone would eavesdrop on them.
“Okay,” she whispered. “But remember,” she glanced around again for dramatic effect, “if you tell anyone, I'm contractually obliged to kill you.”
“Deal!” Charlene giggled. “I won't even tell RW. Cross my heart and hope to die.”
And just like that, Eleanor's mood changed back to dark and gloomy. Although lighthearted, the talk of killing and dying triggered a replay of the morning's events. Eleanor couldn't stop the frame-by-frame replay in her mind of the pedestrian being pushed under the dump truck by that thing. She looked around hurriedly and grabbed Charlene's nearest bag.
“Let's get on board,” she said.
CHAPTER 11
This was what Urøk had been looking for. Something and someone different in this city of gray. Even in summer, you could feel the listlessness in the air around you and in the ground beneath your feet. The city was a busy place that gave the impression that it never slept, but that was all show. At the heart of it, its heart was beating slowly, beating slower with each decade, until one day it would stop and its citizens would tear it apart. They would raze it to the ground and bodies would litter the street. Either that, or these clever little humans with their enormous egos will have created a weapon that would level the city in a heartbeat, leaving nothing but ash as a reminder of what had once been.
He was confident that he would be able to find and eventually use such weapons against mankind, but that wasn't his mission. His mission was to find the Harbinger. A human that would bring about the destruction of Earth.
And on his first day, within his first few hours in this dreary place, he might have a candidate. She was trying her utmost to pretend that she couldn't see him, but after he pushed someone in front of a large moving machine (its smell had somehow reminded him of the decay in the Pit), he was convinced she could see him.
She fled and entered another green zone. It was a pitiful human attempt at sculpting and containing nature. There was a sign as she entered the greenery that read PROSPECT PARK. There were several meanings for the word prospect and Urøk supposed that it referred to the panoramic view the park was supposed to offer. He didn't get it. There was no panorama here. No sprawling, spread out view across the horizon. This was nature in a cage.
For the umpteenth time that day, he wondered at the absurdity of humanity.
This park was smaller than the one he had used to enter Terra, but he could feel the same oppressiveness to the place. There was a heaviness overhanging the park, pressing down upon it. Urøk thought it was called Progress.
As he followed the fleeing fawn, he deliberately stepped on leaves, kicked pebbles and rustled branches in his passing, but the woman refused to turn around. She heard him alright, the slight jerk of her head and shoulders confirmed this every time.
H
er glow might be faint, but her will was strong.
She refused to acknowledge his presence and give him the satisfaction of turning into a frightened fleeing mouse.
Instead of hunting, Urøk was reduced to merely following and observing.
There were many other humans that he passed, but none had the real Glow. One or two had a shimmer, which made them look around in confusion as he passed near them, knowing that something was wrong, but unable to put their finger on it.
Urøk ignored them and focused on man's creations instead. He thought back to the crowded streets just outside this stockade of greenery. The sheer amount of vehicles was mind-boggling. Even in this park he could hear and smell them. He could feel their constant vibration in the earth under his feet. He loved them. So far, they had been the highlight of his visit. He loved that they came in different shapes and sizes and colors, each spewing forth its own trace amounts of poison, adding to the toxicity of this place. Urøk venerated all of these new machines and technological advancements, for they were all soulless. In his mind, this made them the perfect creations.
One day, they might even have their own intelligence (if the human species could survive that long), and man will have joined the pantheon of the gods.
It's a pity I have a job to do. If the Dark One chose to wait a hundred, perhaps two hundred years, man would have brought about his own downfall, he thought. The ingredients were already in the mix. They were destroying their planet, they cared less for each other, only looked out for number one, and their machines were evolving at an incredible pace.
It would only be a matter of time before the inevitable would happen and the cycle would reboot anew.
Therein lay the problem though. The Dark Lord didn't want them to restart and rebuild their civilizations. He wanted them eradicated for good. They needed to become extinct.
Stirring Embers: An urban fantasy action adventure (The Light and the Void Book 1) Page 7
