Something soft brushes against my palm then gently clasps around my fingers. I don’t start with surprise, as I would expect. I simply accept it and look down to see what appears to be a woman’s hand holding mine. I bring my eyes up to a face that isn’t there. I find only darkness where it should be.
She feels familiar. I am certain I should know her, but without a face I can’t attach a name. I stare into the darkness where it should be but still find nothing.
I don’t feel fear, only curiosity. I sense secrecy. I feel that she is hiding from me. As if she does not want me to know her identity.
As I watch, she lifts her other arm, bringing a pale hand into the air before me, index finger stiffly extended as the others curl against her palm. As she stretches out, I follow her finger with my eyes, turning my head slowly to gaze upon where she is pointing. Sitting atop a metal post, directly in my line of sight, I find a rectangular sign that reads South Millston Street.
The faceless woman tugs on my hand, and I turn to see that she has already stepped onto the curb. She starts up the leaf-strewn walkway, and I follow her without question.
As we silently make our way up the crumbling stairs, time shifts, leaping forward, then back, then forward again. There is no warning, yet there is no surprise.
It simply is.
I am standing in an empty room. The walls bear soot marks from the fire. There is water damage to the sheetrock, causing it to warp and crumble, leaving holes that reveal the bare wooden studs beneath. Trash litters the floor, and a heavy coat of grime and dust seems to coat every surface. I know that I am in the house.
I glance around and see that the woman is now gone.
I understand that she has brought me here for a reason but has left it unspoken. I am beginning to feel like I am acting out a scene from a twisted parody of a Dickens novel. As if the ghost of murders past, present, and future has brought me to witness my own fate.
I wonder at the feeling.
Curiosity at my lucid state creeps in and tries to usurp the vision before me. The grainy tableau shifts and flickers.
A sharp odor assaults my nostrils-metallic, harsh, and unique as it overwhelms me. It is liver being cooked. I feel a thin wave of nausea tickle the back of my throat. I can tell by the stench that it isn’t being properly prepared.
The softness touches my hand again.
The faceless woman is pulling on me now. She seems impatient, as if dealing with a small child who won’t listen.
I realize that I am the reason for her irascible state.
I follow her as she tugs, leading me through the trash-scattered room and deeper into the house. We stop before a door. It is partially burned. A pattern of thin cracks spreads out along the edge of the charred wood in a scaly pattern, like those on a burnt out shard of blackened log from a fireplace.
I look at the woman and she merely points.
I turn back to the door then reach out and touch the surface. The fire-ravaged wood is stone-like to the touch. I grasp the handle and pull it toward me. The barrier opens, and I see a long flight of stairs descending into blackness.
I look to my guide, but once again she is no longer there, so I bring my gaze back to the stairs. As I stand there, for the first time since crossing the veil, I hear something besides the sound of my own heart.
Wafting up from the darkness comes an androgynous voice. “Just a little sting… Don’t worry it will all be over soon…very soon… I envy you. To be chosen like this. It’s such an honor… I wish it were me…”
I feel a slight pressure on my back.
I turn around and find the faceless woman standing there. Without a word she thrusts her palms outward against my chest, and I fall backward into the darkness.
A barrage of words assaulted my ears with an unmistakable Celtic accent wrapped firmly around them. “Damn your eyes, Rowan Linden Gant!”
Behind the crystal clear exclamation, a flood of other voices were chattering, yelling, and generally creating an unintelligible cacophony. Some sounded authoritative, while others came across as excited, and still others seemed almost conversational. In any event, they blended together to create a boisterous hum in the cold air that only served to add to my disorientation.
My head was pounding again, my too brief respite from the migraine now over with a vengeance. However, that wasn’t the only pain with which I was forced to contend. My shoulders were arched up into the sides of my neck, and it seemed that someone was manhandling me. I could feel knuckles digging into my chest as a pair of arms hugged beneath my own. It took me a second to realize I was still moving backwards, but instead of a sensation of falling as before, I could tell I was now being dragged.
“Is he bleedin’?” Ben Storm’s gruff voice penetrated the overbearing murmur.
“I can’t see,” Felicity said. “His shoulder is in the way…”
“Get that paramedic over here!” my friend shouted.
My wife’s soft hand slipped into the fold between my neck and shoulder then pulled away.
“No blood,” she announced. “Thank the Gods.”
We had stopped moving, but Ben was still holding me up in a bear hug from behind. Disorientation was now giving way to a thin thread of lucidity, and I seemed to be remembering where I was. Of course, knowing my location didn’t keep me from being completely out of synch with my surroundings. After such an intense trip through the veil between the worlds, my mind was still trying to sort out what was real here, what was real there, and the in between where it all overlapped. This was far from a new experience for me, but old hat or not, it was never an easy process.
It crossed my mind that it would probably be a good idea to let them know that I was okay, instead of letting them run amok as they seemed to be doing at the moment. I tried to say something but couldn’t seem to get the words out. It was then I realized that Ben was holding so tightly around my chest that breathing, in and of itself, was more than enough effort on its own. Talking was simply out of the question. However, before I could attempt to wave my hand or try to grab their attention some other way, a fresh voice entered the mix.
“We need to get his jacket off,” the paramedic ordered.
The pressure released on my chest as Ben let go and supported me with a single arm while the paramedic quickly stripped off my coat. I immediately wheezed in a deep breath then exhaled heavily. After drawing in another, I started to speak, but apparently I still wasn’t able to form actual words, and all that came out was a moan. By then, they were already lowering me onto the asphalt. A shadow immediately came over me as I felt a pair of hands groping around my neck and another pushing up my sleeve.
I sputtered as I tried to demand that they stop, but for my trouble I was treated to a flashlight in my face and a pair of gloved fingers in my mouth as my head was tilted back.
“Labored respirations, but there’s no obstruction,” the paramedic barked. “Get the oxygen.”
A soft hand pressed against my forehead as my wife brought her face in close to mine. “Rowan, can you hear me?”
“Ma’am,” the paramedic said, trying to push her away. “You need to step back so we can work.”
As he pushed her, I was already moving my arms to fend him off before he hurt her or could continued gagging me. I slapped his hand from Felicity then grabbed his wrist and wrestled his other hand away from my mouth. I was still out of breath from the bear hug, but I managed to suck in a fresh lungful of air and finally form words that made some kind of sense as I groaned, “Better watch it. She’ll make your hair fall out.”
“Rowan?” Felicity was up in my face again.
“Yeah…”
Her concern made a quick metamorphosis into anger, “What the hell were you thinking?”
I gulped air again and said, “That you were going to be really pissed.”
“Aye,” she replied. “You’re right about that.”
“We still need to check you out, Mister Gant,” the paramedic told me.
I tried to shake my head as I objected, “I’m fine.”
“Best see if you can do something about his thick skull while you’re at it then,” my wife snipped as she pulled herself up to her feet and stalked off.
