Would like to thank everyone for this short fiction not only received great tweet-reviews, highly praised for its narrative and my writing abilities, but had also crossed 500 views on #Storehouse. As a token of appreciation, I’ve extended this fiction with an opening scene. This is a re-release, (originally released on 14th Feb 2014).
Hope you enjoy this piece as much as I loved writing it.
. . .
“You do not speak to it…”– Father Lucas Trevant
The Rite, Mikael Håfström
0, fascinated wide eyes
. . .
Eyes widened as if fascinated. Those cloudy eyes, yes, cloudy-white eyes were staring at the projecting fluorescent bulb above the blind man’s head. The bulb swung sideways, gently. Most likely by itself. He was following its movements. Were his eyes, diseased by some sort of cataract?
He’d heard sounds humming into his ears. Humming back, mentally. Like he were counting. There weren’t any bees here, but there was sounds of them present. At the sound of a knock at the door, gently the bulb swung back to its position. Untouched. The blind man’s eyes sharply twisted to his right, towards the direction of the sound. He’d been expecting a visitor.
The journalist removed his black hat off from his head, paused to see the blind man wearing black shades and then made his inside. He sat down into the chair, eyes narrowed as he watched the blind man. A tilt of his head to upper right, he took a peek to see the cloudy eyes hidden behind the shades. There was something intimidating about them. He’d felt that in his gut. The blind mad turned towards him, really slowly, as if he were watching him. He could see him?…
The journalist edged forward almost out of his chair, he was reflecting on the surface of the shades. Once the blind man removed his shades, the journalist’s reflection was consumed into the cloud. He placed the shades onto the table… And waited.
1, diseased-cataract eyes.…
“How long have you been blind?…”
The journalist asked, staring cautiously at the blind man. Especially his eyes. His cigarette smouldered with faint curving clouds of smoke.
Confusion fell over the blind man.
“… the cloudy white… the, over your eyes… that, cataract!”
The journalist continued.
“Anyway, I’ve not heard, anything go bump in the night… so far.”
“You,.. How long did you hear the sounds, being emitted inside your home?
The voices, or voice?”
“3 days back…”
The blind replied.
“So, where are they?”
The blind man didn’t respond.
He continued to stare at the fluorescent bulb, as it seemed. His head raised towards the bulb, his chin edging forward, his nape leaned back. His diseased-cataract eyes, bulged and wide. Like there was no iris, pupils. The whole of it was clouded. Despite any sight, those cloudy eyes seemed fascinated.
“Listen you white-eyes! You’re wasting my time, I’ve been here for 3 hours straight and no response, nothing!”
The journalist coldly confirmed.
A smile stretched wide over the blind man’s face. His ears could hear the sounds of bees humming. Clicking, chirping sounds too. These sounds become his thoughts, like he were counting one clicking sound at a time.
2, disturbance of sounds….
The journalist angrily sighed. But then, he was interrupted.
“You’d swallow your tongue if you heard them too.”
The blind declared.
The journalist felt a strong jolt from inside him, his smouldering cigarette fell out between his fingers. His eyes grew to a bulge. Wide and frightened after hearing this. He’d never heard such an unusual tone from the blind man. His voice, distorted, like he was channeling not one but two voices at the same moment.
“Excuse me?…Hear them… What? Who?…”
The journalist asked cautiously.
“Your heart drums along with them… the bees…”
The blind answered and yet distracted.
He faintly whispered. And then he spoke a few startling words some more.
“They crawl under your skin, like ants…”
After which, he began tapping the top and bottom-back set of his teeth together gently.
Just tapping, like a spoon against a cup. The travelling vibration by this, created a similar kind of that feeling. Only slightly. Disgusted from this, the journalist frustratedly rose from his chair, only to be held by his forearm by the blind man. A gentle grip.
“Were you frightened?…”
The blind man then pointed towards the bulb and questioned.
“Did you not see that?… It’s been watching you…”
Startled, the journalist quickly stirred his head towards the celling, the bulb. His bulge eyes darted everywhere over the ceiling, around the bulb, and then the bulb. Nothing.
3, hung white eyes….
The journalist’s heart was pounding now as he turned towards the blind man and questioned slowly, almost a fading whisper.
The blind man collapsed after this.
The journalist observed only with his bulge eyes, staring at the blind man’s chest. There was no signs of chest inflation, deflation. He was so dead. He know this from his gut. Silence fell over him, like a harrowing ghost.
“The Medium’s dead…”
A distorted voice whispered.
The journalist slowly turned towards the ceiling, directly towards the bulb, very slowly like a snail-worm. A morbidly feeling crossed over him, his stomach churned. But the journalist hoped to see nothing. Except a plain paint-white ceiling and a bright projecting bulb.
Frightened, he fell back, tripping over the blind or dead man’s shoes. One moment, there were bees humming around a noose with a, probably dead, deer’s head and neck fell to one side, and then…
The deer’s head was facing him, with bulged-wide, white clouded eyes staring at him now. Only a head and neck, no body, no blood. A plain rounded neck. He heard the humming, the clicking. This grip of fear now stirred his soul. It was enough, the trepidation, fatality had darkened his terrified, bulge eyes as he stared, and stared. Those eyes had now clouded his soul. Pounding hard, his loud drumming heart.
Went his heart.