I snatched a lamp from the end table, darted two steps toward the wall, and hurled it at a curtained window. The window glass shattered, but the evil laughter only intensified. As I moved, another window exploded, then another.
Shards of glass rose from the floor and began swirling throughout the room, deadly leaves borne by an ill wind. Charles and I stood in the middle of a maelstrom, a curtain of death separating me from freedom. The shards spun faster as other objects entered the made dance: picture frames, assorted knick-knacks, even the fireplace tools joined the lethal array.
The rotation increased, individual items blurring across my vision, and my sanctuary in the eye of the storm shrank in contrast. Heart pounding, I tracked the destruction with all of my senses. The armchair shredded in one pass, my equipment soon followed, and my life became a demented strobe-light flicker as the remaining lamps rapidly fluctuated between light and darkness.
In desperation, I shuffled toward Charles. He seemed distracted by the chaos: head thrown back, eyes closed, horrid laughter issuing from his open mouth. Lashing out with my fist, I took advantage of his momentary lapse. My punch, inept as it was, struck his jaw, and he stumbled back.
Directly into the storm’s path.
Red mist showered the room. What remained of Charles, barely recognizable as human, joined the maniacal parade. His body slowly crumpled as it revolved around the room, and the swirling debris began to slow, then collapse.
I ran. I didn’t stop to help Charles. I couldn’t imagine he was even still alive. I didn’t call the cops. I didn’t think about collecting my things, my life’s work. I just ran. Some superhero I would have made.
Once at my van, I jerked out my keys and drove away as fast as possible. I sucked in the first full breath in hours during that drive, or so it seemed, and my brain finally processed the night’s events. In the end, as much as I wanted to, I didn’t go home. For, if nothing else, I am endlessly curious. I drove to my office and the small lab I use for personal experiments. Once there, I was able to collect enough samples of Charles’ blood from my clothing to run numerous tests.
The police arrived on the following day. I should have expected that, but I didn’t. I offered no resistance, and they quickly took me into custody.
Throughout the court proceedings, it was clear that nobody could or would believe my story. Even the priest, fascinated by my recounting of the events, stopped listening when I mentioned what I had found. I can’t exactly blame them. If the roles were reversed, I wouldn’t believe me. However, my lawyer did manage to get me committed to Cedar Springs instead of prison.
I really don’t understand what I encountered that night. If I were a religious man, I would call it evidence of demonic possession. Instead, I believe I found some sort of parasite contaminating the blood and spreading beyond even that medium during the short time before I was taken into custody.
I know I don’t have much time left. The doctors say the fugue states are increasing in duration, so I can only assume the parasite is still spreading. It seems to thrive on intense emotion, particularly fear. If I had my instruments, I’m sure I could confirm my theory that it produces EMF as a by-product of its concentrated existence.
I now believe that nearly all paranormal activity is a direct result of the parasite’s influence. I also suspect that all negative human behaviors causing suffering, a blend of powerful emotions, are directly related to its presence.
Like any other life form, the parasite seems to have only one imperative: the need to spread. I really didn’t notice at first, but now I’m sure my bed has begun to move. I believe it’s because I’ve spent so much of my time strapped down, increasing the rate of transmission. Last night, the pen I use slid across the table into my hand.
I can only hope that, somewhere in my ramblings, I may have left a clue to ridding the world of this infection. I know I won’t be able to write much longer. Somehow, the parasite must have evolved, even figured out what I intend, because I now struggle just to open the journal you hold.
For much of my life, I imagined I could be a superhero, but I guess I’ve looked at things from the wrong perspective. Superheroes aren’t the only ones who have names with double letters. Most of the villains do, too.
You now know how I became infected. Through me, the objects I touch are infected. Because you have read this, you’re infected, too. I’m so sorry.
You don’t have much time.
About Steven J. Bitz
