When the Blind Man spoke – Extended version

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).

Many thanks.
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.

“Click, click…”
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.

It exploded.


#RYG – Conclusion 3

#G R E E N :plant host

It took hours, until she was completely bloated, her physical body had metamorphosed. Her brain had been infected. Her infected body was a fungus carrying sac of parasite with ominous stems waiting to release spores. Her face had been disfigured beyond recognition, that resembling of Ophiocordyceps unilateralis. Her hand or what of it, held the receiver and continued to slam it gently against her morphed head. She’d been engulfed by Cordyceps Brain Infection.

Flittering eyes grew alert as her head sharply turned towards the sound of an opening door. Burst through was explosive fire, from a flamethrower. Exterminating her until she was torched and turned to burnt black ash, decomposed.

Until there were no infectious spores left.

#RYG – Conclusion 2

#Y E L L O W :biohazard suit

That’s when it took him by surprise, potent burst of unknown gas particles burst forth, spraying his face. His face drenched like it was wet from tears. His throat was a protrusion of lump, swelling and blocking his airways. He grabbed at his throat, with both hands. Coughing and wheezing. He was gulping. His heart was an explosion waiting to happen.

His right hand dropped onto his thigh as he fell into a crouch. Face reduced to a wince, eyes blinded with this burning gas. His nose blocked, he felt no oxygen channel through his nostrils. He tried to plead for help, but his throat was swollen. Soon he collapsed to the floor. Dead.

The yellow telephone began flashing again.

#RYG – Conclusion 1

#R E D :mutilated girl

Just as she began crying, the room was suddenly pouring down, raining with transparent liquid. She lifted her head, like she were dazed and tired. She allowed herself to be washed away.

Then her skin began burning, from this corrosive sulfuric substance. It tore through her skin, inflicting piercing skin tissue damage, and then dissolving her bones. Not once could a scream escape her throat, only her body writhing in agony. Until she turned to black ash. And then completely dissolved, until her corpse was no more.

It was acid.

#RYG – Pt.5


He quickly moved towards the suit, began to suit-up like an astronaut. Before he covered his head and face completely, he saw the telephone flash again. He took a deep breath. Sighed quietly. There was a shiver after an exhale. Now, there had to be two reasons for this. Either, it was to warn him, even if he couldn’t hear a voice or sound, or this was the last warning to suit-up for the predictable but unknown.

He forced his head into the mask of the suit, his face visible through the dome-visor glass. He begun to take deep, long breaths. To eliminate any concerns and fears of any contaminated oxygen. All good, no signs of any hazard, contamination. He didn’t suffocate and die.

He waited. Eyes darted everywhere for ducts, from which any chemical would be introduced. He couldn’t spot any traces, it seemed. #Yellow, 05.4.

The green telephone began flashing again, she’d noticed it, but physical control had begun to diminish. She stared at the telephone, when a white stem began to spout out, a growing seed in the centre with black dots edging around it like tiny needles. Before she collapsed, from exhaustion. #Green, 03.5.

#RYG – Pt.4


She felt a sensation release inside her head, around the brain area, like a gentle air bubble was pushed out. It made her lightheaded. But the next few seconds, something begun to sprout from within. And there was pain, like a pulsating wound exposed to air.

Her face grew to a wrinkling wince, her hands now covering over head. It was far, far worse or excruciating than a headache or even a migraine. Lifting her head back, her eyes begun to flitter, back and forth, rapidly like crazy. Insane. She had no control over the flittering, it was scary. #Green, 03.3.

She tore its cord and aggressively threw the telephone onto the wall. It bounced against it, before dropping to the floor. Broken to pieces.

Suddenly she felt a tingling sensation on her tongue. Rolling it sideways, she felt subtle pressure. Something seemed different. Far more disturbing than the expression, unusual. She opened her mouth and touched her tongue with her fingertips. It was gone. Removed. Like it were torn out.

A strong surge of tears rose to a brim, she inhaled and exhaled quickly. The churning feeling in her stomach sank. Hopelessness clouded over her. Why would someone have done this to her? Who? #Red, 01.5.

Blink! It stopped. The flittering of her eyes, but they’re more concentrated in colour. Much more darker. Seemed like veins crawling in and out within them. This wasn’t possession. No ghost-jacking. A vessel for something far worse. Something was actually spouting inside her, and within moments, it would engulf her completely.

She’d felt her head pound faintly from the inside. Inhaling and exhaling rapidly, she knew it was too late now. This was it. Something rather horrible was going to happen to her. She’d die in the process of whatever was infecting her. Taking her as host before it killed her. #Green, 03.4.

#RYG – Pt.3


Slowly, she positioned her arms away from her view, by her side, and stared at the green flashing dial of the telephone on the desk in front if her. Her eyes, natural dark brown, had turned creamish with glint. But there was no mirror for her to see that for herself. Something was seriously wrong with her. And this only occurred 3 hours ago.

She tried calling on it, and she had heard a male voice. Just three words. No words more or less. Just 3. #Green, 03.2.

She had tried to console herself after having cried for 15 minutes now. Her winced face, wrinkling and wet. She’d realised this much, this was no nightmare. This was so FUCKING REAL! She was alone, even if she died, no one would come to know of her existence as she faded away like a dream. Nothing right now, could give her a sense of acceptance.

The telephone rang again, it sent an instant throb to her heart, startled her. Ellie turned towards it now. Staring at it. Then raced towards, hoping there was a voice, a person was present on the other side of the receiver.

She waited for a voice, tried again to speak words. Nothing came out. She began gently tapping the tip of her index finger over the receiver. No response. No voice, excerpt a tapping sound. Like the one she had generated. She tapped again. Again, no response. #Red, 01.4.

He turned towards the phone again. And, it was flashing again. He lifted it up to his ears and waited again. No sound as before. He positioned the receiver in front of him, and tapped at the transducer with his finger. Probably the telephone was faulty. But then he couldn’t hear the tip of his finger tapping.

He dropped the receiver back down, with some force. No sound. Curiosity was strangling his stomach like a tightening, spiralling vortex. What if this was a warning? The biohazard suit? What if this was testing chemicals lab? Anytime soon, he could be introduced to a life-threatening infection. #Yellow, 03.3.

#RYG – Pt.2


Jonathan Isaac stared at the rotary dial telephone, a bright yellow one. It was flickering, brightly. There was no sound, no ringing tone. But it was, flashing underneath the dial. He was dubious with doubt, should he pick the receiver up? His brows remained squashed.

His hand gripped at the receiver as he pulled it to his ear, and waited for a voice. He heard nothing. His eyes darted right and left, aimlessly. But there was no voice. #Yellow, 02.1.

Her dark emerald eyes seemed wet, but mostly, so vulnerable. Gently, she held the receiver into her palm, and slowly raised it to her ear. There was a no voice. She felt like she heard a breathe, the dilations of her wet eyes had registered this response with alert.

She tried hard to roll off any words off her to tongue, nothing. Fearing any loss of transmission, she quickly but forcefully tapped at the transducer. Again, and again. Eventually, she lost connection. Placed the receiver back. #Red, 01.3.

“Hello?… Anyone there?” He called out. But not a reply, no tone. He gently placed the receiver back. The dial stopped flashing.

He’d woken two hours ago and saw two things present beside him, the telephone and a bright yellow biohazard suit. He stared at it once more. Deep down, there was a churning feeling in his stomach. Like something horrible was going to happen in this void, white room, which seemed like an interrogation room, but without any windows and an interrogator.

Could this be some kind of a quarantine zone? Was he infected? If so, from what? There had to be a valid, logical reason to why a biohazard suit was present. It so had a purpose… and that fucking muted telephone. #Yellow, 02.2.

#RYG – Pt.1


She tried coughing but any words just wouldn’t roll off her tongue, she knew this much that her voice box had been disrupted after she had woken up from a sedated state. Ellen Michigan, tried yelling but nothing. Forcing pressure only worsened the ache. Her mouth was numb, she felt that much.

But the fact was, her tongue had been mutilated. She wouldn’t have realised this due to the substance injected into her, still intoxicating her system. Her dark reddish knuckles had been bruised, after having punched the walls from frustration. #Red, 01.1.

Coffee Anderson had her forearms in front of her, stared at them. Her veins seemed like creamish-yellow, mustard. It was evidently different to her skin complexion, which was a warm skin tone, veins would appear to be green.

Which they were, and she watched as they turned to that colour. She strongly felt some kind of a substance had been injected intravenously, going by the tiny punctuated hole pierced on her right forearm.

It was clouding her mind, because she saw that mustard fluid gently move up through her arms like a peristalsis motion of a tapeworm. Feeding into her. She could feel it, the sensations. Like something was crawling under her skin. It wasn’t a psychological delusion, there were physical changes. Some kind of metamorphosis. #Green, 03.1.

The telephone began to ring. She quickly turned towards it. A bright red one, flashing from the dial. She waited. It was still ringing. #Red, 01.2.

The Man with the Yellow Skin – 8, ONYA, SOLACE, & REDEMPTION

Dorian’s eyes were still blurry, but he continued to blink forcefully until he could see her clearly. And there she was, afloat in front of him. Shimmering.

He tried to spoke, but his lips were concrete stone.

She draw closer towards him, and with a soft touch of her palm over his cheek, the same shimmer began to project from Dorian too. Transferring supernatural energy. He began to un-stone.

It was like purging him clean from the depths of his addiction. The stone began to burn away to particles, like it were an outer skin within which Dorian had been cocooned inside. Along with the yellow spray painted that covered his skin, it turned the water around him yellow. It continued to purge him until Dorian was back to being himself.

His brows almost squashed together in dishearten as he slowly moved his hand towards Onya, but watched as she faded away with a smile.

When he was completely free from this power, he blew out from his mouth bubbles of yellow smoke like it were a supernatural infection that had engulfed him from within since her death. Now cleansing his inner self from the addiction.

He swam out for oxygen. The whole of yellow-ness was gone, even the red spray on his face had washed away too.

Dorian let his body float to the top, laying on his back. Eyes closed. He thought of her, when a smile finally declared his redemption. Onya had saved him. He thought of her words and let his body seal along with the tides, when she played her guitar, the sounds of which he could reminisce and hum. When she sang, she sounded so much like Agnes Obel, especially when she sang DORIAN.

We’re like ATOMS / tethered to form a DNA strand
And here we were / sharing minds sequences
We were hallucinogenic