Hold the Light (20 page)

"You're right, I don't understand and I think you've lost it, man. You drank too much. It's been awhile since you've been drunk ...if this is some damn prank like when you ..."

"It is not."

"Alright, fine then, I'll play along. But if this ends up being another prank I'll kill you. So, let's just say you're in danger. What the hell is the gift? Why does he want it back? And if you do have it, just give it back."

"He wants it back because he loved doing what the gift does," Randy said looking around again.

"Well, that's helpful."

Randy's voice relaxed and his body loosened up. His face unwrinkled and his shoulders sank. And as quickly as he dragged me away, Randy walked into the street as if nothing happened like he was taking a stroll. I stood in the alley perplexed and angry.

"We are safe, I think he left. I cannot smell him now. But we will have to keep a look-out," he stated.

"Oh no, you don't. You have to explain this," I demanded.

"Just wait and ..."

I knew one moment could change a life. I think of my father to answer that. But this moment was far different and it came from nowhere. A black smudge of a figure, shrouded by a flapping long coat that spread out like bat wings, pounced on Randy. I stumbled backwards into the brick wall. I was stunned.

The dark person was so large that he eclipsed Randy with darkness as he pounded on him both fists. The attack happened so quickly that I barely had time to gasp. They struggled on the sidewalk. Randy writhed, trying to break free. The dark figure landed more jabs until Randy collapsed to the ground and the figure fell off him. Randy stood and grabbed the figure by the shoulders. With a grunt, Randy heaved him out into the street. The figure's black coat fluttered around his head and curled him into a ball as he rolled.

I ran over to Randy to see if he was all right. His left had landed heavily on my chest, holding me back. His shoulders heaved as he caught his breath.

"Hey, Randy what the hell is going on?"

A rumble sounded. A delivery truck screeched down the street. The dark figure slowly rose into a hunch, his dark coat dripping down to the oily street. There was no difference between his darkness and the streets. He stared at us from the middle of the road, anger and grit smeared across with what could be seen of his face. With outstretched and contorted fingers, the massive figure stepped forward to charge, snarling in the bright streetlights. The city lights blinded me, but the headlights were brighter. The horn had less than a second to sound before the truck barreled into the dark figure.

The hulking shape tumbled on top of the hood. He rolled up the windshield and onto the top of the truck. He slid, face first along the entire length of the top as the driver slammed on the brakes. The giant figure dropped from the top and down the side. He quickly found a grip on the edge of the truck but couldn't hold it for long and plummeted down the side. A bloody stain streaked a swift brushstroke of maroon along the stark white frame. His body hit the ground and the truck rolled over him, coughing the body out further down the block.

"We are leaving," Randy ordered and grabbed my hand. "Now!"

Running swifter than before, Randy never looked back. But I did. A crowd began to gather around the run-over figure. Several huddled around him as some shouted out for aid. From what I could see from the corner of my eye, the onlookers around him backed away from him as he picked up his own hulking body off the cement.

Chapter 36

We retreated to my sister's place at Randy's request. I mulled about the place while Randy slept. I was pacing over every inch of the apartment. I walked a few steps, ran into a picture of Amber, took a few more steps away, and ran into more pictures. Her face and the faces of her friends littered every open space. I grew tired of seeing her and wandered into the bathroom. I washed my face and looked up into the large mirror. I turned and caught my reflection in three other places. How vain do you have to be to have four mirrors in your bathroom? I shook my head in disgust and walked into the living room, beginning to worry about the problem at hand.

Randy awoke from his nap on the couch. I sat on the recliner adjacent to him, impatiently playing its arm like a piano, wanting to ask him thousands of questions. My mind was swirling and I couldn't figure out what to ask first.

"What was with that guy? Why did he attack you? You said he's dead? How? What? And you said something about a demon," I said, finally spewing all my curiosity.

"Can I wake a little more?"

I gave him a wide-eyed stare. I couldn't wait. Already waited long enough.

"Well ...um, I ...well. To explain the demon part ...well I am not totally sure what it is," Randy said, rubbing his eyes. "All I know is that it is watching me. I only see it once in a great while. I assume it is a demon because it is always dressed in dark robes and has red glowing embers for eyes and charred skin. It torments me, like it did the convict. It loves to watch me work. Sick one it is."

"To do what? To watch
what
!"

"Kill." Randy locked with my eyes, cutting up the air between us. "To take the lives of people when it is their time."

"Kill?" I asked, fearing he had lost his mind.

"Yes," he said. "The gift was forced unto me by the convict and was given to him by the demon. The convict enjoyed it, like I said, but had to give it up before he went to the electric chair." Randy looked away from me and towards the crack between the drapes. "It has been sixty years since I last saw him."

"Sixty years! Impossible. You don't look a day over twenty-five," I yelled, "How do you expect me to believe all this."

"The gift slows the aging of its symbiotic host. Listen, I went into prison in the thirties, during the depression, for something I did not do. On a terribly rainy night, that still crashes in my head, I met the convict."

"Good God," I uttered.

"Not to me."

I didn't get it. A bit of an overload, if you ask me. He was crazy. He had to be. But as I thought on his words, strangely enough, I believed him and then knew I could go crazy.

Between the attack and Randy's certainty, I had enough trust in him that I

wanted to believe him. But that was as far as I could leap at that moment.

"You think I am mad."

"It's a lot to ...I just think ...oh shit." I leaned back further in the recliner, gripping the arms tightly, not knowing how to react. The soft velvet bristled against my hands as I tore small finger holes into them, feeling the soft fluffy cotton inside. "This is all too sudden."

A rancor wiped over Randy's face. He looked pained. The muscles in his face quickly loosened as he leaned back in his chair and began to convulse slightly. He rubbed his palms along the cushions of the couch, lightly at first, like he was caressing a woman. Then his chest erupted skyward into a violent heave and his hands slinked into his black long coat. His back arched and his convulsions grew intense. His eyes rolled back in his head to where only the whites showed and his blue button-up shirt strained and stretched against his chest. I watched him go into a fit. A horror built inside me that made my hair stand on end.

"Watch this," he whispered, "You will believe me."

As quiet as his whisper, he let out a breath that shot out a thin blue light. The light was so brisk that I wasn't sure if I even saw it. Then his body went limp. I released the arms of the chair from their torture and leaned in towards my best friend. Hovering over him, I surveyed him with my eyes as much as possible, not trusting the unpredictable situation. I held his right wrist and couldn't find a pulse. He was clammy and cold, enveloped by a strange sense of frailty. Lumped in the chair like a sick infant without the means to move, a frigid air circled around his body.

Dear God, he's dead!

I tried to shake him awake, but no matter how hard I pulled at him, his body was limp. My mind raced and I panicked. I looked about the room searching for something, but I didn't know what. I rested my finger below his nose and felt no breath. I contemplated CPR but I didn't know how to administer it beyond what I've seen in TV. Gathering my wits in a solemn breath, I stood and debated to move him; he looked so uncomfortable slouching in the chair.

The room's stark white walls became bright and I had to squint. I carefully reached to lift him up, but goose bumps littered my skin and stopped me. I didn't want to touch him. I didn't know what to do. I took a deep breath to calm myself. Slowly and safely I reached my hands under both his armpits. I locked my knees and lifted him. His head cocked back on his limp neck and I jerked trying to catch it. His gaping mouth shut with a hard snap of chattering teeth and I jerked his body to get a better stance. Protective of his head as it rolled onto his left shoulder, I flinched, thinking I was hurting him. Silence tickled my ears as Randy limply pressed against me.

"Sorry," I whispered to him.

No breath or sound stirred anywhere. I put my ear to his chest and it was vacant of a recognizable heartbeat. My eyes were wild. I scanned over his pallid face and felt nauseous. I thought I was holding a corpse. My fingers trembled and I began to loose my grip.

"No, you can't be dead Randy, no ...I don't know what to do." I said beginning to sob. "This isn't real, you feel like a doll. You can't be dead!"

I shut my eyes and tried to calm myself again. My teeth began to chatter.

"911. I'll call 911," I rationalized.

Through my wet eyes, I scanned the apartment for the phone.

Randy's head rolled back. I stopped. I looked at him curiously. His limp body became heavier and my muscles tried to compensate. His muscles tensed and I held strong. His pale skin began to color. A shiver ran over my flesh like a frigid stream as life flushed back into him. My heart skipped a beat and I let go of him. Randy shot back to life like a bolt of lightning powered him. Color returned to his face. I stumbled backwards and hit the floor. He rolled his eyes forwards and reached out to me.

"That was a really long one," he said.

"What the HELL was that?!"

"The gift in action. No-one has ever seen it take place like you just did. Well, that I know of. Tell me, what exactly did I do?"

"Al ..." I muttered in shock.

"What? Al?"

"Al .... Al ....Alcohol. I need a drink."

Chapter 37

It was hard to settle down and even harder to find a bottle in my sister's house. Thankfully, a bottle of whiskey was hidden behind the breakfast cereal cabinet in the kitchen. Pouring a full glass, I splashed in some ice and sat back down. Even after a few big gulps, I was still bewildered. I scanned around her apartment looking for a distraction, but came across more pictures of my sister littering the walls. I rolled my eyes and scanned further until I came across a small crucifix. It was our grandmother's; it didn't seem to fit well in her place. It captured my attention. The depiction of Christ was dreary and his penitent eyes stared at me. Our eyes locked until I shook my head and realized I was staring at a sculpture. I looked at Randy but was quickly drawn back to the sculpture. Then it began to hit me. I wondered if we'd ever be safe from persecution.

I swirled the ice around the walls of the glass to distract myself. In vain, I repeatedly attempted to talk to Randy, but when I opened my mouth my bottom lip would just dangle. With every failed word that wouldn't come out of my mouth, I compensated with another drink. He had explained so much to me as I drank yet so much didn't want to make sense. It all seemed so damned magical; like some unreal fantasy. I stopped believing in such childish things long ago. But that massive convict was definitely not fantasy. Larger than life but not fantasy.

"The convict will come again," Randy warned. "He is linked or informed in some manner. He knows when I kill and seems to be able to hone in and follow some trail I leave. I will be found no matter what efforts I make to stay hidden."

I noticed he called it killing, like he was fully responsible. He didn't seem responsible for much when he was dead limp in my arms.

"What's the deal with him anyway?" I asked.

"The convict? Well, from what I have pieced together, he is old. The demon had made a deal with him centuries ago. His soul for the gift. He lived on but was apprehended in the thirties and pushed into my cell. That's most of what I know. His arrest was the end of him and the beginning for me. The demon obtained the gift somehow, gave it to the convict, and he gave it to me. I've searched the gift, asked it questions and probed it for information. But I cannot seem to wrestle much out of it."

"Why now? Why is he after you now?'

"I have been ...well, let us just say that I have been less than enthusiastic about the role I have been playing. Since the convict died, it appears I have been given a trial run to fill his shoes. I figure the demon uses the gift to torment the convict. After many decades, the gift has grown and taken its toll on me. The demon knows that the convict is faithful and maybe even addicted to the gift. The demon knows it has a servant in the convict. Which makes me expendable. He brought the convict back for an encore because it is sick of dealing with me."

"Alright. Whatever. It's still a bit of a tall tale, but I trust you. I don't know why, but I do. But now what?"

I watched him rise and walk to the window and realized why I believed him. I knew I was tangled in this already, somewhere deep down I knew, yet I couldn't help but to wonder when I knew. With my mother? With my father? I could never know, I can only remember what seemed important. But I think I believed him because deep down I knew much more than I was willing to admit. That and, as I retell this, I cannot remember a time, it seems, that this gift didn't haunt me in some way or another.

Randy brushed the curtain aside and looked toward the afternoon sun that illuminated him for the first time in hours. He leaned his left hand onto the window and sunk his head down. My sister would have instantly yelled at him for leaving a greasy handprint, but the scene looked like a painting. All the glowing brightness of the sun peeked through the crack in the curtain as it tumbled down on Randy, over his black trench coat. It was a painting that a master would have done. The moment carried the burden he was lugging. His life, my life, and everyone else's in fact were resting in his hands. Resting there, waiting for their fate. As his shoulders drooped I could imagine that he could see all his victims asking him, with their big, round, childlike eyes if everything was going to be all right. Hoping that he wouldn't fail.