The First Male (21 page)

He sat in the passenger's seat and stared out of the window simply watching the familiar landscape pass. Run-down buildings. Kids playing in the street. Fast-food restaurants. When they crossed the Chatnum Bridge, he avoided looking at the Mississippi River out of fear its waves would make him nauseous again; but that really was the least of his concerns. His mind was numb; still reeling from his experience with Clara and the resulting assault of images so disturbing that they defied words.

In the company of Brooke, he fought desperately to hold on to his stoicism; but he was shaken to his core, and rightly so. In the sanctuary of the vehicle, watching the city pass by, everything
seemed fine, but everything felt wrong to him. He felt wrong, too. The world, in his view—dimmed by an ash-gray film that muted the city lights—no longer seemed to fit. He felt foreign; as out of place as a polar bear in a barren desert. Everything had changed.

He was shaken, not only because of what had happened to Clara, but also because of what he had seen and felt during his reading; things he did not dare share with Brooke out of fear of being labeled a monster. During the reading, his head was filled with terrible—almost unimaginable—images.

A dense forest where the dead bodies that hung from the trees were so numerous that they looked like low-hanging fruit.

Burning bodies being tossed into the street; he could smell the rank scent of searing flesh.

A vast field decorated with decapitated heads atop wooden spikes.

He also saw an image of a massive hole in the ground filled with screaming and crying children; he stood over them with a wicked smile as they were being buried alive.

In the vision, he felt his own rising darkness; it was a burning force that utterly consumed him.

Simon ravenously sucked the last bit of alcohol from his glass and got up hastily to make a new drink. The images that wrested in his head made it difficult for him to find even a second of peace, but the vodka was beginning to help. He wanted to believe that what he had seen was simply his imagination reacting to the very unusual circumstances or that Clara was somehow responsible for planting the seeds of the nightmare into his mind; maybe she worked her mojo—or voodoo—and made him see what she wanted him to see in order to control him. On the ride home, he had continuously blamed her for his woes, cursing her to the high heavens and trying to convince himself that he had fallen
under her spell and that she had used some kind of witchcraft on him. He even blamed her for the intense lust he felt toward her and accused her of using magic to bring him so close to the edge of orgasm during his reading.

In spite of the strong case he made, he failed to convince himself of her chicanery. What he had seen was not some nightmare or random images planted subliminally into his skull by witchery. It wasn't a drug-induced hallucination caused by inhaling the fumes from some unknown burning bush. He desperately wanted to believe he had been high during the reading, but he knew that wasn't so.

What he saw at Clara's had chilled his bones; it was what was to be; it was the future.

When he reached for the bottle of liquor to make his drink, he had difficulty holding on to it because of his unsteady hands; his hands shook as if they had been stricken by disease. Brooke saw his struggle and moved to pour the vodka in his stead, rubbing his back in a soothing way, attempting to calm his frayed nerves. Simon forced a tiny smile and retook his seat on the couch, burying his face in his hands.

He wanted to weep. During the reading, he had felt the true darkness that lived within his own heart. And, he had seen the grisly figure of a hooded man with no face. The hooded man had seen him, too. This was no doubt the man that Clara warned would come to claim him; but this thing, was not a man at all. It was something else altogether, something that hovered in the shadows, lingering between life and death.

“Baby,” Brooke finally said, “we have to talk about this.” She took a seat next to him and put her arms around his shoulders. “We have to talk about what happened. What did you mean when you said you had been to the house before? When?”

These days there weren't many things Simon could say with certainty about his life; he knew the sun still rose in the east and set in the west, but that was about all he'd stake his life on—except the fact that he had a connection to Clara's house. He had been there before. He didn't know when or why or how, he only knew that he had been there before; and he knew it in a real place in his soul that he couldn't reach with his mind; a place that didn't allow access; but, he was absolutely certain. Absolutely.

She sighed. “I don't understand anything that's going on.”

“I don't know, either. I don't know anything anymore. Last week my biggest concern was not going to class or how I was going to get enough money to pay rent, but now, I got some supernatural shit going on. None of this makes any sense.” He leaned back into the folds of the couch. “Clara was right about one thing, something is after me. I don't know what it is, but I've been sensing . . . something, for days now. My dreams aren't dreams at all. Something has been trying to get to me. It's starting to all make sense.”

“Something like what? Is it . . . evil?” She broached the word
evil
cautiously as if to not offend listening spirits.

Simon lifted his head and stared blankly at the wall, searching his mind for the right response. “Nah, it's something more than that. There's evil and then there's this shadow thing.” His creepy words sent a cold chill throughout the room. He turned and forced a weak smile when he looked at Brooke, whose face reflected the horror that she felt. “More than that, though, I think I'm evil, too. Clara said it. I have darkness in me. And I feel it.”

“Baby,” she said as she took her hand, placed it on his chin, and turned his head, forcing him to look at her, “that's not true. You are the kindest, most gentle man I have ever known. That's why I fell in love with you. Your spirit fills a room. You are not darkness. You are my light.”

That's why I fell in love with you
, he repeated in his head. Yes, she loved him, but would her love be enough to save him?

She released his chin and continued, “How many hours a week do you spend volunteering at the homeless shelter or the children's hospital or tutoring at-risk youth? You do so much good. If the world was full of people like you, it would be a much, much better place.” She was right. He did spend a lot of time giving back, even though he didn't have much to give. He always figured that because he didn't have money, he could always give of himself. “Do you remember a few weeks ago when I screamed in the bathroom because there was a big spider? I wanted you to kill it, but you caught it and took it outside and set it free. A man who won't even kill a spider is certainly not filled with darkness.”

He leaned in and placed a needy kiss on her willing lips. “Thank you, baby. You always know what to say.”

“Anytime you feel like you're bad, hold on to what's in there,” she said as she placed her index finger on his chest, right at his heart. “Hold on to love.”

He kissed her again, this time with more passion. “I'm tired. I need to rest. Can we talk about this later?”

She smiled. “Uhhh, of course.”

Simon needed to get away from her for fear of breaking down. If he lost his composure in front of her, it would be a complete breakdown and he'd have no control over what he shared with her. He'd end up telling her what he saw and felt during the reading. More importantly, he'd end up confessing what he was becoming. Finding the words to tell his girlfriend that he was becoming a beast wouldn't be an easy task; he wasn't even sure he knew the words. In the car on the way home, he realized that in order to save her he'd have to send her away, ultimately banishing her from his life, maybe not forever, but at least until he figured
this thing out. He needed her to go now, but he wasn't strong enough for that, yet. Not tonight. He wasn't ready to be alone in the house with his own thoughts. He needed her comfort, at least for one more night.

A tear formed in his eye and streamed down his cheek and he quickly wiped it away before she saw it. He moved from the couch and toward the bedroom.

“Simon,” she said from across the room, “I'll always be here for you. Remember that.”

Simon smiled, nodded his head, and continued into the bedroom. Quickly, he flipped on the light and closed the door behind him, leaving a sliver of a crack. The idea of being sealed in a room alone terrified him.

Once he stepped into the room, he carefully inspected it to make sure that nothing was lurking about in the corners. He leaned against the wall and took a few deep breaths to calm himself and to focus. He knew what had to be done. Clara had told him everything, and she had told him how to do it. He needed to contact Adelaide Thibodeaux, whoever she was. He needed to reach out to her, but in order to connect with her, he needed to be open. As crazy and far-fetched as it seemed to him, he was going to try to make contact with her. He didn't have a trick bag, out of which he could pull any of the herbs or teas or bushes that Clara had, but something told him he wouldn't need one. After all, this woman, who might be his savior, had already contacted him.

He moved over to the dresser and lit the lone candle, although he wasn't sure why; it seemed like an appropriate thing to do, given the situation. Then, he kicked off his shoes and lay across the bed on top of the covers, his hands folded across his stomach, his back resting against the headboard. His breathing was labored
so he took a few quick, shallow breaths to settle himself. What he was about to do was certainly risky. He knew that. He didn't know anything about this Adelaide woman and he didn't really understand how to reach her, nor did he know whether he could really trust anything Clara had told him. He didn't know her, either. Maybe Clara wanted to get him to this Adelaide for some nefarious purpose. He couldn't be certain of anything anymore except that his world had been turned upside-down and that sitting idly around doing nothing while he waited to be transformed into something hideous, or waiting around for some undead thing to claim him, were not options.

Then, a thought paralyzed him: what if he accidentally made contact with the hooded man, bringing him closer to him? His course of action was dangerous, but he made a decision to move forward, breaking away from the fear that almost held him back. What choice did he have? He raced through myriad options in his head, and they all led back to him confronting, head-on, the issues facing him. There simply wasn't any other option.

He thought about it again and then began to focus on the grave task at hand. He didn't even really know how to begin, but, intuitively, he stared at the flame of the candle to help center his thoughts. His eyes were wide, even though he felt relaxed. Slowly, he inhaled and exhaled as he let her name echo in his head repeatedly.

Adelaide Thibodeaux. Adelaide Thibodeaux. Adelaide Thibodeaux
.

He repeated this action for several minutes to no avail. His eyelids began to sink and sleep wanted to claim him, but he resisted; mainly out of fear of what his dreams would bring. He didn't want to dream of snakes or see the hooded man or see any more graphic images of death and blood. He wanted to remain in complete control of what happened next. He adjusted himself
in the bed and continued focusing; fighting back the fatigue. His eyelids drooped several times, but each time he willed them open.

Simon
.

When he heard his name, it sounded like someone was in his room. He looked around, but no one was there. Then, he heard it again.

Simon
.

He had connected with her; he was sure of that. His name sounded like a mere whisper; a faint echo in a vast tunnel. It was distant, but he still clearly heard it. He concentrated harder. A warm, prickly sensation washed over his body. It started in his toes and moved up through his legs, his abdomen and chest. and then his head. His entire body felt sharp, like he could draw blood if anyone dared touch him. Physically, he was immobile, and he was not concerned about his sudden paralysis; his mind had never felt so free. In his head, he moved rapidly—at lightning speed.

Now, he could close his eyes, without fear of sleep.

When he opened his eyes, he found himself in a field bursting with color. The sunlight was so bright that he had to squint and use his hand as a sun shade. All around were flowers. Purple. Orange. Yellow. Red. Blue. Butterflies flew delicately about and the weak buzzing of bees could be heard in the distance. The sky was the bluest blue he had ever seen. He looked around at the shimmering world. The entire place glimmered and was ethereal, almost fragile
.

“Simon, you must come,” she said to him faintly
.

“How? Where are you?”

“Come to me.” Her voice grew weak. He looked all around the vast field and did not see anyone stir. The tall grass bent gently in the smooth, warm breeze. Beauty stretched out as far as he could see
.