M Sellars - Harm none

“Yeah,” he sighed. “Ya’know I’m gonna have ta’ check out your alibi with your dad.”

“I figured you would. In fact, I’d be disappointed if you didn’t.”

He looked quietly out his side window and then turned his eyes back to the front. It was apparent that he was wrestling with something other than my whereabouts Wednesday night. “Ya’know, I’m still kinda weirded out about this stuff,” he finally admitted.

“I know.”

He looked over at me. “For your own sake, keep this between us.”

“I will,” I told him.

The dull background noise of the city was sharpened momentarily as a horn blared to our rear, angrily alerting us to the fact that the traffic light had changed. Ben pushed the van into motion, and we rolled on through the intersection and down the street in the general direction of my suburb.

“Mind if I use this?” I asked, picking up his cell phone.

“Go ahead. Gotta call the little woman?”

“Yeah,” I replied, punching in my number. “She should be home by now.”

After a pair of trilling rings, the phone was answered by my wife’s tranquil voice. The evenly spaced, rattling noises in the background told me she was in the darkroom, probably processing the film she had shot on her outing. We exchanged greetings, and then I relayed a sketchy outline of the morning’s events before filling her in on the plans for the evening. I had gingerly talked around the incident involving the table lamp and my forehead but knew that I had better warn her before she saw me. I had to pull the phone away from my ear quickly to protect my hearing as soon as I uttered the words x-ray and stitches. A moment or two later, I held out the handset to Ben.

“She wants to talk to you,” I told him.

Fortunately, Ben knew Felicity well, and as a cop, had dealt with distraught individuals a number of times before. He allowed her to decompress and simply listened as she vented her feelings regarding the circumstances of my injury. Just as fortuitous was the fact that Felicity was not one to hold a grudge and worked through her anger very quickly. By the time we pulled into the driveway of my Briarwood home, they had both apologized to one another, and the entire incident had somehow become my fault for having my face in the wrong place at the wrong time.

Ben dropped me off and headed, I assumed, to his own home in order to spend what little time he could with his family. He planned to return for the meeting somewhat earlier than the rest and had told me he was still trying to figure out how to make it up to his wife and son. Something told me he would be taking time out to visit my father along the way. After a quick wave, I ambled up the stairs to my front porch and was greeted by Emily, our calico cat, who leapt lithely down from the window ledge and began weaving herself about my legs, purring madly.

“Yes, I missed you too,” I told her as I stooped to pick her up.

Emily continued her throaty trill as I allowed her to drape herself across my shoulder, then lifted the lid on the mailbox and retrieved the contents. There was the usual mix of bills and junk mail, as well as a yellow pickup slip for a package that had needed a signature-most likely one of my client’s software in need of modification or repair. Felicity had probably been in the darkroom ever since returning from her photo expedition and had missed the postal carrier. I resigned myself to picking it up at the branch office on Monday since it was already after noon. Besides, my evening was already booked, so working was out of the question anyway.

I twisted my key in the deadbolt lock of the heavy, oak front door and pushed it open, following it inside then closing it behind me. I lifted the rumbling ball of fur from my shoulder and gently placed her on the arm of the couch then tossed the mail in the small wicker basket Felicity kept by the door for just such a purpose. Fatigue washed over me, and the sofa was all but screaming my name. I sat down and within moments became horizontal on the soft cushions. Emily remained perched on the arm, near motionless, her ears at full attention, as if she were a small furry gargoyle watching over me. Scarcely had I reclined that I heard my wife’s footsteps as she came up from the basement and into the living room.

“I thought I heard you up here,” she said softly, seating herself on the edge of the sofa next to me.

I looked up to see her lightly freckled face, framed by her auburn hair wrapped loosely in a Gibson Girl about her head. It never ceased to amaze me how this woman I had married could easily slide from hippie activist to china doll in the blink of an eye. Her bright green eyes stared back with concern as she reached out and lightly touched my forehead near the stitches.

“How are you feeling?”

“Physically or spiritually?” I asked, weakly smiling back at her.

“Both.”

“Physically,” I told her, “like I’ve been hit by a truck. Spiritually…drained, but still grounded.”

“I wish you wouldn’t do these things to yourself,” she gently admonished, lightly placing her hand over the wound on my head. “A person can only take so much.”

“I’ve got to be honest with you.” I relaxed, feeling the healing energy she was directing through her hand. “I lost control today. When I channeled those last few moments of Ariel’s life, I couldn’t keep myself separated. She kept breaking through and taking over. I know it scared the hell out of Ben.”

“Oh, Rowan,” she whispered. “It scares the hell out of me too.”

Felicity was filled with an inherent desire to make everything well and at the moment, she wore a deeply empathic grimace. I watched her close her eyes and felt her ground and center, directing a cool wash of energy over me that appeared in my mind as a soothing green light. Soon, my dull headache subsided, and the last knots of tension uncoiled from my neck and shoulders.

“Have you eaten?” she asked me.

“No,” I answered. “Not yet.”

“I’ll go make you something.” She leaned forward and lightly kissed me on the forehead. “You just relax.”

I vaguely remember the smell of corned beef hash and eggs wafting into the room as I drifted into tortured sleep.

Screaming.

Screaming forever with no pause. Distorted noises. Sounds of ripping and tearing. The forever tortured banshee wail. I am in Ariel Tanner’s apartment. The kitchen. I am standing in the kitchen. The room is bathed in a surreal wash of white. I shade my eyes against the stark brightness.

Silence.

Clear, unbroken silence.

My heart pounding. Thump thump, Thump thump, Thump thump. Louder. Fighting to escape from my chest. Blood rushing in my ears, pushing back the silence.

Fear.

Pure, unadulterated terror.

“ Please come in,” a voice.

I turn to face the direction of the voice. Ariel Tanner is standing before me, radiant and lovely in a white lace gown. She smiles at me.

“ Rowan, how nice to see you.” Her voice floats mellifluously, displacing the rushing in my ears. “It’s been so long.”

“ Ariel?” I question.

She jerks spasmodically, and the smile flees her lips. Her eyes grow wide and she looks down. A spot of crimson appears on the high neck of the lace gown and begins growing. Spreading. Her mouth falls open in shock, and she looks back at me with questioning eyes. The vermilion stain waxes unceasingly, covering her chest.

“ Why, Rowan?” she mouths. “Why?”

Darkness.

Falling. Wind rushing past. Faster, faster, faster…

An unearthly sound. A demonic chord growing stronger.

Impact.

I’m standing in Ariel Tanner’s bedroom. Everything is cast in an eerie blue light. Her body is spread across the bed, her dead eyes staring at me. I walk toward her, and they follow me. The bloodstains appear black in the supernatural light. A sound at my back, slow and rhythmic, but unintelligible. I turn. A figure in a robe is there lighting candles.