M Sellars - Perfect Trust

However, this was the first time I could recall ever having been outright pushed around, for lack of a better description, by a vengeful ghost. It was a wholly new experience for me and something I wasn’t enjoying in the least. But then, I knew better than to do this without someone to back me up, so I had no one to blame but myself. And trust me, I was already pointing all four fingers and a thumb right where they belonged.

As I had told Heather Burke before this all began, I wasn’t entirely certain that I wanted to see what she had to show me. But that no longer mattered because I wasn’t seeing it; I was living it. What was worse, I knew that the piece of her life I’d shared thus far was only a prologue to the real horror show.

The only saving grace was the fact that on the physical plane, Heather was sitting right in front of me. Alive, uninjured, and for the most part, well-very well, in fact, for someone who had been through what she had. This meant that at least I wasn’t running the risk of following her into death.

Of course, until now, she couldn’t actually remember any of the events that had transpired in any detail. So the question was: Just how well was she going to be after this was all over?

Or perhaps the real question should be: Just how well were we going to be after this was all over?

I awake.

I don’t know where I am.

My head hurts and so does my side.

I’m too afraid to move.

I try to move.

I can’t.

It’s like I’m just too tired to do anything.

I feel as though I am sitting.

But where?

My hair feels funny.

Like I’m wearing a stocking cap or something.

My scalp is hot and it itches, but I’m too tired to scratch it. I try to ignore it.

Where am I?

I try to remember.

Someone was chasing me, yeah.

Did he catch me? Did I get away?

I’m supposed to be afraid now, right? I think I am. I’m just so tired that I don’t care.

I take the plunge and slowly open my eyes.

I think I’m staring at my lap.

The light is subdued, dimmed, and almost ethereal.

It’s just a bit on the cold side.

I blink slowly, and my eyes begin to adjust, then my lap comes into focus.

Hmmmph, interesting. I don’t remember owning a red garter belt and red stockings.

The fog in my brain parts a bit more.

Well no wonder I’m cold, I’m half naked!

A rough hand comes out of nowhere and cups my chin. I would scream but I’m just too tired. Still, terror rips through me as my head is tilted back.

Tired or not, now I am definitely afraid.

I manage to whimper.

I smell B.O. and cigarettes.

Smoke rolls cloudlike in front of my face and I gag on it.

I hear a familiar voice; rough but filled with a bizarre reverence, “Almost perfect…”

My head is tilted even farther back. My hair feels so very odd. My scalp feels tight and constricted, but the hair against my shoulders feels fluffy and teased.

Bizarre.

I must be tripping on something…It’s almost like when I did acid in college…but…not exactly the same.

At least I enjoyed myself then.

That’s it, he must have drugged me.

I stare upward, afraid.

All I can make out is a shadow.

The voice comes again, “Almost her…”

I see a hand come toward my face. I try to shut my eyes, afraid that I am about to be struck. I feel his fingers on my eyelid, and he pries my left eye open and holds it wide. I still cannot see him. I watch in horror as his other hand comes directly at my eyeball.

I whimper and try to struggle, but he holds tight.

My eye waters against the foreign object that has been inserted, and now he does the same to my right eye. My vision is so completely blurred now that I cannot even make out complete shapes. Only shadow and light.

I whimper again and feel a hot tear roll down my cheek.

“Stop crying!” the voice demands, the former reverent tone disappearing. “Why do all of you have to cry?!”

All of you?

I wonder about that.

I must not be the only one here.

Are they just as afraid as me?

The hand grabs my face once again, and it feels as though it is crushing my jaw. He shakes my head, pressing his fingers and thumb hard into my cheeks.

“Stop crying, dammit! You aren’t HER! You don’t have the right to cry! Stop it!”

I whimper and feel more tears begin to flow. I can’t stop. I’m so afraid.

He releases his grip, and I see the shadow seem to turn. Then it suddenly spins back to me, and I feel his palm slap me hard across my face.

My head is wrenched to the side, and the hot sting on my cheek spreads outward. I just cry harder.

“Now look what you’ve done,” he screams. “Now I have to fix your makeup!”

The shadow moves away but returns quickly. Something hard stabs into my side, and my teeth chatter as I stiffen and vibrate with the electric shock.

The last thing I hear is the voice screaming, “YOU AREN’T HER!”

I was swimming toward the surface again, laboring to break free of the current that had swept me so deeply into Heather Burke’s recent past. The darkness around me was thinning; changing in hue from black, to indigo, to blue, then charcoal grey. I felt myself break through, and the colors of the room bloomed around me.

I felt a wave of relief that was followed by a tsunami of confusion. I knew that I should be staring directly into the eyes of a petite blonde who was positioned across from me.

Instead, I was staring directly into the eyes of a long-haired man who was sporting a greying goatee and a blank expression. The problem was, I wasn’t looking into a mirror.

I wondered if Heather Burke was now occupying the body sitting across from me, looking at herself and wondering what was happening. Or were both our psyches crammed tightly into her body, and mine was now nothing more than an empty shell?

Neither of those options was particularly comforting at the moment.

“So what happens now?” Detective McLaughlin queried Ben in a low voice.

I could tell she was whispering, but to me, her words rang out clear and strong through the void. I called out to the two of them to help me, but my plea fell on deaf ears.

If I could hear them so clearly, why couldn’t they hear me?

I tried calling again, louder this time, but realized quickly that even I could not hear my own voice. I had no choice but to simply listen.

“Guess it all depends.” I could sense the shrug in my friend’s voice when he answered her.

“On what?”

“On what he sees.”

“What do you mean?”

“I dunno. I’ve watched ‘im do this maybe half a dozen times. Either he sits there starin’ for a minute then just snaps out of it, or he starts floppin’ around and screamin’ like a banshee.”

“Why would he do that?”

“‘Cause of what he sees, I guess.”

“I don’t understand,” she sounded puzzled, “I thought he was going to hypnotize her.”

“He did,” Ben grunted. “Look at ‘er.”

“But shouldn’t they be talking or something?”

“That’s not ‘zactly how he does it.”

“How exactly does he do it then?”

“I dunno. Hocus-pocus Twilight Zone shit, ya’know. He’s the Witch, not me.”

“So what’s he see that would make him start screaming?”

“Fuck, I dunno. I don’t really wanna either. Do you?”

I didn’t hear Charlee’s answer, but I knew my own, and right now it was “No.”

I’m drifting in a semi-conscious haze.

I remember flashing lights.

Bright. Blinding.

Over and over.

Darkness.

Flash!

Darkness.