THE DREAM WEAVER

(Testimony of a werewolf)

PROLOGUE

A dark evanescent shadow crept like a breeze then with the shifting tempo of speed veiled in, then twirling as a weaver’s needle has woven dreams inside the prey’s head. Veins were pumping hard, valves were dilated and taut, eyes dazzled bright in fear as cold chill permeated through the man’s body as he hysterically were shrieking panic as he strode the declining slope. It was nightmare pure and distorted. From where does his fear emanated from? Or whereto the envelope of horror must have trailed onto? To whichever travail ended, fear has its twitching disgust no man would ever be desirous of, much so, if it was fatal.

As sweat were splattering off and the naked feet gorged in festering wounds, blood and mud, the heart as an overheated engine was adrenalized to faults then tiny electric sparks hitched to a brain glitch. Eyes jolted open wide as violent twitching of the body persisted, hands tightening on both temples as the body was jolted to a push, falling off dead from the bed, as tiny electric sparks were playing on his eyes burning its iris black.

Was it heart attack or stroke or was it witchcraft?

Neither! It was the dream weaver’s craft.

Noticeably it was full moon and farther off, the discernible distinct thud thud thud of a drum was intimidating along the Banzhee-shriek of a woman in seemingly ritualistic sacrificial God-offering. The howling of dogs permeated as though they were frightened as they were visualizing blood paints oozing and splattered over the rocky ledges. Then the high pitch of a woman’s laugh dissipated and dispersed off the air.

Then the dream weaver drifted through like a veil of shadow, grazing through the meadows yet without tangibility.

THE VENUE

A small town, bordered by rocky ranges would be the main setting of the story, it was where I lived now where I have personally witnessed something that has not been kept and hidden. The Rock, as it was better known was a place within the crescent embrace of the ocean. I lived dangerously at the rocky ledges above the raging sea. Alone, it was my desire, secluded, I adapted as it was most favorable for all. I have an unusual disease, I am a werewolf. And only the specific healing balm of the Rock’s ocean prevented me from transforming into a beast thus I sojourned by the ledges. In contrast to our mansion in Louki my dwelling home was not even considered a house. Actually a small cave I supported with scrapped off lumber. With the small money I had from home I used my talent in writing to earn. I bought a laptop after I stacked an old typewriter and kept writing articles for an online newspaper, THE ROCKY LEDGE. Before I came here, it was constantly during full moon when the lull of the moon light magnetized my neural conduction, its stream would always permeate through thus my transformation, a werewolf, bigger and more powerful than a pack of ordinary wolves.

It was blood that I crave to, yet I struggled against. I enchained myself once at home, Papa chained me down in the dungeon as a boy often. At first it was successful but then as I grew older the chains became mere sewer’s thread, it broke as I had my first victim, a maid. If you only knew how it felt, the guilt and remorse that came in raging whips, I roared as deep as I could then frenzied, I recklessly bushwhacked to whichever direction. From our mansion in Louki I propelled down blindly from the third floor and broke my knee. It was not pain enough to numb the greater pain I had. I limped to whichever pain should have been stronger til a trailer truck hit me to comatose. It was a month of unconsciousness.

Since then my eyes were opened, I begun to see what were invisible—the dead!

I am Jeanne Pierre and this is my story.

1

Train station, Louki 5:45 AM, 1990

Misty morning, cold and snow drizzling, it was Christmas eve. I reached the station having only Papa’s wallet I hastily grabbed from his room. Impulsively, my thoughts were to run away, it was not bec of guilt, or my family’s curse against me but bec of shame. I felt distorted shame to Papa I have dear beloved. At the age of 16, wearing Papa’s coat and a bag of clothes, I intended to get off Louki. Disorderly and disturbed I bought a ticket to a city I never has been acquainted of. Sitting beside the window, the reason of my permanent evacuation was bec Papa became my last victim in Louki. It came reflected on as tears streaked on my face like forked streams, then a girl sat beside.

 ‘Jeanne, are you going to the city, too?’ It was Katherine. I was silent though the girl beside me has mutual romantic understanding with me. ‘hey! what’s wrong with you! You’re kind’a acting strange!’

‘I’m not well, are you going to the city too?’, she clasped my hands by her soft hands.

‘me and mama accompanied Julie here. She is going to the city for college.’

Just as talks begun to lengthen the train signaled departure thus we bid goodbye. Looking back on the humped somber boy, her heart being pricked by love’s impulse darted back and tapped my shoulder, ‘Jeanne,’, I looked but electric shock was my last memory of the town i have known and dwelt in. The girl’s moist lips snapped to and adhered to mine as flamboyant high electrified us both in union of affection then quickly she ran back leaving me stupefied. What the girl has not known was the fact that I was not returning anymore so as I intended.

It was a memory that made Louki not totally forgotten though. It was bec of Katherine.

As the thud thud acceleration of the train was in motion he looked through the window to an ardently in love girl waving outside, then I cried, looking at her as she mouthed, ‘I love you!’. Stream of tears was captured momentarily in the reflection on the glass window as I waved back. Then through the slithering winding train trail, I slept through to numb the nagging pain. Two pains intertwined within; that of killing Papa and the other was the pain of leaving off Josephine.

Morning 6:45 AM, Christmas day, Malna Train Station

It was still foggy and snowy when the train reached its terminal. Peeping through the foggy window, it was yet dark but the distinct lights and shadowy surrounding suggested that it was not rural anymore. Hungry, I came off and loitered around. I came to a bricked-sidewalk where food commerce was 24/7 active.  Ordering from a vibrant bakery, I sat on one of the stone benches lighted by a street lamp then gobbled on voraciously like u verru. Jolted by the sight of a decomposing rat on the gutter, nauseating, I violently threw it all away then running towards where the darkness may have hid my past palatable but remorseful crime, it rained on me like my mouth was still cannibalistically indulging. I violently puked, aghast and horrendous as it was too psychologically adherent, mental torments was flooding in me the repercussion of being a werewolf.

I blindly ran and I do not know where to. I was merely been dictated by blind impulse. I hitched on a bus thinking nothing but to run and run. To whichever the bus led to I didn’t care. I was a teen-ager then just buoyed and to whichever the tides were heading to would been my destination. It led to this town, most regarded as the Rock. I regarded it home. It was here were my werewolf nature was suppressed, by the healing balm of the sea. I discovered it years after when people have mounted militia men and hunted the werewolf down. It brought me to this ledge and nowhere to go, the plunge to the sea was better than death. Instead as moonlight was strongly my instigator, the salty sea was my antidote thus every full moon I was down there immersed til the encapsulating influence of it faded at dawn.

I built a house immediately at the ledges having found a small cave. With the money I had I transferred from a small apartment to the remote sea border. Bought scrapped wood and some galvanized iron and some nails carpentered through as it rained strong and severe. The wind was battering and whistling as the threatening storm materialized fully. Drenched and cold I was happy, the most joyous time of my life as it was then that the harrow of being a werewolf has been severed clean. I have the sea. Struggling I made my bunker, a cave I covered with planks and been comfortably my sanctuary since then.

I bought a typewriter afterwards and thus was how I came to be a writer. I never graduated scholarly yet somehow the capacity to write was outstanding. I brought my first article to the town’s newspaper, the Herald and after which I was made a regular contributor. It was then that I begun writing about many things relevant to this town then suddenly this peaceful town after it was disturbed by a werewolf has now been being harrowed again and this time mystically, and mystically-wise, it was eye-charring.

All nightmare victims have their brains after forensic examination hints of burning but paramount evidence was the total blackening of the eyes to char. Thus by it enthralled the town to horror as each time the full moon reigned, one or two has been fallen victim. They considered the phenomena unusual. Indeed it was extraordinary later ascribed to as by an imaginary entity they called the Dream Weaver. It was witnessed how the typical interplay of electric sparks danced from the eyes of a twitching victim as gradually he resigned in internal cranial combustion leaving the brain partially burned and the eyes charred to black. It was a ripping agony nightmares inflicted but then it was not ordinary nightmares, it was a craft by whomever we have never known.

I am Jeanne Pierre, a werewolf and this is my memoirs of the battle against the Dream Weaver, and too, my romance with Katherine Arguelles.

‘JEANNE! JEANNE! WHERE THE HELL ARE YOU!?’ it was Claire, my fiance’. She was a fast food manager and a local Rockie. We met while I was dining at the Rockie’s best while she was on the counter serving. How it was and how it developed was ordinarily as romance must been.

‘DOWN HERE!!’ I hollered from below. I was fishing from a personal fishing pen I constructed then nurtured fishes, I have too shrimps and crabs I sometimes barter in town. She descended through an improvised staircase that spiraled to the seaside. ‘I have news you might want to write.’, we kissed and curled around as we convoluted. ‘what?’, I asked. ‘another dream weaver’s victim, it’s Polly’,

‘Polly?’, I begun investigating on the dream weaver as I believed I have to repay the town I disturbed. ‘yes’, she affirmed, ‘he was found dead last night,’ she informed. We sat on the rocky sea side as waves were battering on and spattering in froth. As always such news were hot media delicacies but using now a lap top I made the news from this remote town global, I have made a web site and called it, The dream weaver’s atoll. It was year 2010 AD.

IN THE CAVERN

‘Jeanne, what’s with you and the ocean?’, indicating my improvised dwelling house, ‘you can come live in me in town,’ ‘you’re holing in here like a wolf!’..

‘it feels comfortable,’, I was preparing fish stew and rice, ‘besides, a good writer needs the power of nature’s seclusion,’ ‘why don’t you come here instead?’

‘craaa!’, she humorously lifted her arms in disdain, ‘its too far from town!’ ‘and besides would you let your family blossom in a cave?’

‘it’s decent!’, I exclaimed.

‘No, it’s not decent!’, slapping me romantically on the face, ‘build a better one then perhaps, I’ll think about it.’

I did. I made a new house. Acquiring legal rights, I built a house on the ledge. It was March as I begun building it. Helped by friends we built it in 3 months time, a wooden house perched at the cliff’s edge including the cave I renovated. A two storey house I would be proud to say was an architectural beauty and it was my design.

‘thanks Nathanaiel!’, ‘you’re such a handy woodsman!’, he was living in the forested part of town, tinted, hollowed, mysterious, creepy side where evil gossips on it were shuddering, yet laughed off by him, ‘I am the woodsman and I am king of the woods!’. It was opposite my place.

‘that’s not a problem, Pierre, just come anytime if you need anything,’, he was activating his car as initial dark smokes puffed off the rear, ‘me and boys be going,’, he bid. I saluted. ‘Pierre’, one of his sons enticed, ‘visit sometime, we’ll butcher a ram for you,’, Tony articulated.

‘yea… come one time. The woods seems interesting lot!’, the younger one said.

‘yea.. Thomas, I promise but not this time..awful times, just be there when I got the time.’

‘yea.. writing, writing and writing… it makes the,…why not try find something interesting to write from there,’

‘such as?’

‘oh you see! You are saying you’re not coming,… ok then, we be the one coming…’

In deed I went, not bec I went as they requested. I went bec one of the boys was a dream weaver’s victim.

‘I’ve seen’, his mother lamented, ‘it was like a shifting shadow from the sky’, she sniffed looking down on his coffin, ‘it was when the full moon was too clear,  while I was enjoying it that out from the sky a dark hue like mist drifted down like it was tracing on the moonlight,’ ‘it seems gliding then it entered the house’, ‘a moment by, I heard Tony in trouble, I dashed in, then I saw how he suffered. His muscles, neck and face were twitching and flexed, veins bulging then his eyes brightened in electric sparks,’, she recalled, ‘then out from his mouth, the shadowy thing came out then like a shadow crept on the floor then disappeared,’, she cried. I held her close compassionately in silence communing with her the pain of losing a son. I helped around til finally he was interned.

Then walking home through the jungle trail, I saw Tony on one of the mounds crying, it was not the first time I was acquainted with the dead thus the impact was less, he looked at me. I passed by pretending not to see him but he screamed at me, ‘PIERRE! CANNOT YOU SEE I’M IN PAIN AND DESPISE ME BY! HAVE WE NOT BUILT YOUR HOUSE ALONG?’ a brush of wind grazed on me then he appeared in front, ‘help me!’, he pleaded, as blood streamed down every holes in his face, from his nostrils, eyes and ears, ‘help me or she will have you, too. I’ve seen she’ll have you too!’, I knew by then, it was a warning, my life would be in danger but then I was determined, I would uncover the mystery besides what am I a werewolf for if I won’t use my wolverine capacity to use? But then I was avoiding the compulsion of eating a victim but would there be not in me residual power even during normal times?

I directed to town instead. It was a town perched on a plateau, southwards was the ocean and northwards lain the mystic forest in its wavy and wide stretch of varied breeds of flora, and too, mystery. None knew except me that it was the dream weaver’s lair but then only afterwards when tragedy would have revealed it. Hunting ground for all beastly inhabitants, it was, and during the summer season, I occasionally joined. Through the jungle instinct coerced me to diverge on an old trail, faint, but then inherently, by my wolf’s nasal senses, the trail smelled suspicious, I trekked along. Slowly and carefully, I slithered through the overgrowth  besides it. Cogon, grass, shrubs and various plants aggravated the thin slice of faintly threaded and winding path. Slowly it descended downwards to a depression. The glinting sun was becoming scorching but it was not preclusive enough. Why I followed on the almost obliterated road was bec of something I felt compulsive like it was some magnetic pole attracting me for it. My blue shirt was drenched in sweat but my denim jacket hooded me from the agony of sun drying til finally coming off a hill, almost 50 kilometers away, I spotted the house. It was half-bricked and wooded 2 storey house, first floor was bricked but the other floor was wood paneled but obvious dilapidation, clinging vines and grass growth suggested it as though it was deserted. I purposed for it.

Coming in front, the door was awkwardly hanging and partly burned, through the half opened door, the interior was visibly a time-worn disorder, I decisively entered. Why I entered? I don’t know, it was curiosity, coming on the porch, I peeped in a window, through the darkness I trained my perception in, it has nothing but chairs and tables and shelves of dusty and cob-webbed books, but as I diverted gaze off, peripheral vision caught a movement. I abruptly looked, the tail end of a creeping shadow paced I called, ‘hey!’, there was no response, ‘hey! I know someone’s in here! I’m coming in, okay? I mean no harm! May God bless you!’, I emphasized to highlight clean intention. Discernibly, I heard a growl, it was womanly but scornful, was it a beast? It sounded human as though resisting my mention of God. I rushed in.

Fear? I never thought about it. I found nothing on the first floor but the second floor revealed something horrible, something that seclusion and distance have hidden through til I came. It was the decomposed bony remains of a family, scattered around in the three big rooms. On the left were kids, the other room were two female and on the gray bed cover, dark stains in a splashed pool was evident, it was harsh death they had, last room were obviously the parents room but only the father was there humped and beside it a loaded shotgun. On the table, I found a diary, the dream weaver’s diary. A creaking door below alerted me thus taking pictures quickly by the phone I descended down to the reception room and looking no sign of foot prints on the dusty floor except mine thus I headed back, passing the kitchen studied in then to the back door, sniffing, the clear distinct pungent smell of tire air was evident and strong. The afternoon sun dimmed by vapors then darkened as I was sleuthing, coming to the door I looked upwards to the crest of the nearby hill trailing on the stench, the womanly form of a figure was there looking, eyes were glowing coals then she shrieked, high-pitched and vengeful then on sight she vaporized slowly like violet froth then disappeared. It was my first acquaintance of the dream weaver.

Coming to town I directed to a computer shop then made the article on the bony find as I uploaded the pictures, I ended it with, ‘who are they? Who might have killed them? If the dream weaver’s killing was of revenge against this town, could it be not from this forsaken crime that debauchery caused dream weaving to be conjured? It was simply by intuition thus I wrote it, but going home the diary revealed something that may have been supportive.

Then Nathanaiel died likewise then suddenly, the mysterious dream weaving stopped.

2

The diary, it was deteriorated but still the pages were intact, I read through and have known, it was fully as alleged been written by Melinda Curgi, a mother, 55 years old as of 2008, it contained the very heart of a mother under travail. At first it spoke of family matters but then on the last pages, the horrifying truth were revealed, inked along the dark stains of printed dripping blood, conspicuous and heavy printed, shaky and unstable handwriting goes,

 ‘my anger!.. my anger!...why have they killed my babies…’ dark round drips obliterated some letters, still, the anger was indelible, ‘it would be their nightmare for allowing me to live…. Hell hath no fury like the wrath… seething in me…(blood marks)..it is my oath this very day… to give my soul to Satan just so to have them… maniacs to taste hell like they never had before…. They will all die and all their families… I swear by the last drip of my blood… they must pay!!! THEY MUST ALL DIE BEYOND WHAT PAIN CANNOT GIVE!!! EIGHT MUST BE AN EIGHTFOLD GRAVE!!!’

Then a distinct signature medium was used, her blood, it was crudely written in capital form, LUCAS THE DEAD, it was superimposed in dripping bloodstains.

Reading it I clipped, it conjured a horrifying intimidating thought. It aroused tingles of dread in me, ‘who could hinder such ill?’ then I sighed out, ‘whoosh! such hatred! But could she be blamed?’, on second thought, ‘But was she the dream weaver?’ It gave me the thought to pursue the Curgi case for anything that might have been needed for justice then perhaps the killing would stop. Disregarding the ghost’s warning, it had imperiled my life to near death, actually to death but it would be later part of the story, how I revived was something I thanked love for, indeed love would always be the most powerful weapon of all no magic, witchcraft or satan can decimate. I informed the police about the discovery. Then I called on Claire.

‘hey! Chap! Where you?’

‘home why? Oh.. okay! Now?... ‘

She then fetched me off. In her car, she insisted, ‘Jeanne, why not come live in my apartment, I think its time to leave past ill memories  behind,’, she knew of my past, everything, she knew I was a werewolf, ‘you have instant electric access for your lap top,’, she looked at me imploring, ‘or… or…’, I knew she was implying marriage, but diverted, ‘buy a car..’, I smiled, ‘yea I was thinking of that..’, I thought it’s a nice thing she diverted I was not ready for marriage yet.

‘serious?’, she doubted. ‘accompany me to the city will you?’, I requested.

‘now?’

‘why not?’

‘oh! I have to… yeah, why not? It’s Sunday.. we’ll be back Tuesday! Two days leave won’t hurt much!’,

She proceeded to her apartment. While packing some necessities and after my gadgets were recharged, we travelled 12 hours to the city.

6 AM Malna city… Crow Transit Station

As the bus was parking inside the central bus station, another bus from Louki arrived simultaneously. I didn’t know why but my perception was enchanted to look through the window. Claire was beside me head leaning on my shoulder either asleep or just in pretense but me I was asleep for a moment but something awakened me to snap, it was a whisper, ‘wake up!’. I thought it was Claire but as I looked she was not, but trying to discern, the voice was distinct and memorable. It was a memory from Louki. It was how Katherine played on me teasingly. Breathe on my ear with any words of endearment. It was a memory etched. She often did that while laying mutually on the meadows even too when we did what we should not done. I took her virginity away. She awakened me from the woods with that way, breathed on my ear, ‘wake up!’ Gut feel I traced through the bus window, a blue butterfly fluttered and perched on the glass in front of me, and as the Louki bus paralleled along, the butterfly I was focused to glade gracefully then perched on the other bus’ window as though it was tempting me to look, it puffed out in bluish mist. It simply vanished. Was I dreaming? I looked and focus through the glass, wearing a cap as cascading hair flowed on her shoulder was a gorgeous lady framed within the parallel bus window. She has a resemblance of Kat, I thought, then she looked, I didn’t flinched, shielding her eyes from the glare of the station’s electric light, our glances were affixed, electric then as recognition was almost complete the buses diverged to their appropriate parking stations.

‘Kat!’, I mumbled. ‘Kat who!?!’, the now conscious and curious Claire naively asked. Frankly I answered, ‘nothing. I thought I recognized someone.’

‘somebody special?’

‘guess so!’

‘Katherine?’

‘yea…’, as I kissed her forehead for an assurance, past is past but was it indeed?

Loitering on the huge, inter-provincial terminal we sat on a bench near a donut shop, Louki suddenly flashed back in memory as rain in a clear summer day. Was it bec I’ve seen a disappearing butterfly or was it bec it hypnotized my attention to my past? What was it in my past that I should look back to? That depends by the twirling spirals of life, let fate tells what the future holds.

‘ow! My bladder’s full.’, Claire slightly agonized thus we sought out for the nearest C.R.

Luckily we found the one farther as the first was under repair, ‘should I come in?”, I teased. She chuckled, ‘if only the other girls inside won’t be ape-aghast?”

‘ape?!’, ‘hahaha!’

It took her quite some time, I sighed, ‘girls!’, then out from a distance, brought about by my wolverine senses, my ears were pricked as though someone was calculating me, I looked and at 20 meters apart, there she stood, Katherine, in flowing parka, hooding her cap. Still the same Kat I knew back then. I greeted. I saluted as she approached.

‘Jeanne! Is that you?’, she nervously chuckled. ‘hey, Kat! Been some time, how’s Louki?’

‘you’ve been gone too long,’..I followed her on a bench, ‘don’t worry about your Papa’s case, the police never suspected you, in fact they thought you were dead!’

‘you never spoke about me heading…’

‘yea.. I mum even though it hurt me bec I knew it was you!’v

‘you knew that..’

‘you killed your father?.. more than that, I knew you were a werewolf!’

‘you knew?..but you never hinted it..how about ma and siblings..’

‘bad thing though, they repulse against you!’

‘til now!?’

‘go home Jeanne, I think you left things unresolved.’

The silence became heavy then she un-loosed, ‘I missed you!’ It was then that Claire appeared, ‘hey! You must be Kat! Hi! I’m Claire, Pierre’s fiancé!’ Though it must have been hidden by the dimness around but nothing evaded Jeanne’s wolverine keen senses, the sudden slight drop of demeanor and voice indicated disappointments, she erected in composure though, ‘hi! So Jeanne has been whining a lot’a things about me, ha! Did he tell you we were….’

‘yea.. everything..’

There was awkward silence, to break it I asked, ‘so what’s up? how’s life?”, I asked instead of the awkward, are you married kind of question. ‘I have a daughter, she lived with me here in the city, I am a surgeon at the Trinity Medical city and a house at the Green Ville Subdivision’, she smiled, ‘that, basically is my present status!’

‘husband?”, Claire asked. ‘hmmm… zero!’, she replied.

‘so you achieved your long time dream,’, I complimented. ‘how about you Jeanne?’

‘me? Nothin’ just some insignificant writer on the web and the Herald at the Rockies, that, basically is my present status!’

She slightly chuckled, ‘copy cat!’, softly said, then ‘I guess my car is here,’, noticing his driver as he approached, ‘I’ll be going, nice meeting you Claire,’, farther she looked back as some sort of pain was evident in her eyes, then waved for me, I knew what it was I waved back. It was too fast. No correspondence addresses of sorts were exchanged. I thought, better though. I love Claire and I don’t want to muddle the present love we already shared. I wished to marry her.

As dawn was bright in the horizon and as it herald a fine weather we embarked for our prospective agenda. Inside a cab we inquired from the driver which best store sells discounted cars, ‘oh, you should have tried it on Christmas for the sale but I think the car bazaar is not yet closed, wanna try?”

‘what were in store?”, Claire defined. ‘Revo, pick-up…honda sort..’

We went and bought a red pick-up, and having legalization of ownership, we stayed in the city for recreation then honeymoon. A week after we went back home using the pick-up. Claire’s supervisor was fuming, ‘I thought two days, now its five, it’s a nice thing Susan covered for you!’

‘sorry  Dick!’, I apologized for her. ‘don’t worry I write some nice things about you!’

‘owh!? ‘the heck Peri!’, she quickly evacuated. ‘what? I’ll be going..’, indeed but not directly home. I went to the Rockies High Police and inquired. Information was relevant. The family was that of Kurt Curgi. Her four daughters and youngest son were all brutally murdered with hints of rape. Only the mother was unaccounted for. Date of death: somewhere between March to July 2008. Suspect/s: none of the moment though the diary was telltale, no evidence were found. It came to the point that the Police questioned: the victims were they all the suspects? There were kids.

‘of course, if the tally is correct it was the men’s family,’, I deducted. The tally in order goes:

1.        Nathanaiel and Tony, his son

2.        Polly, 2 of his kids suffered the same travail.

3.        Adonis, with 12 0f his kin suffered brain combustion.

4.        Truman with his parents.

5.        Frosty with all his family

6.        Stan with all his family

7.        Chiu with 3 siblings

It has been recorded that the specific characters so as named were the last in line to have suffered internal cranial combustion. But then as the Melinda Curgi diary indicated there should have been eight. It gave me thought who was the eight suspect so as it was indicated? Then it chilled me deep, was the signature name as a diarist’s identity or was it Melinda’s harboring the gravest hate for? It implied to me that LUCAS THE DEAD was not a pen name. What was grippingly appalling was bec of the fact that LUCAS was my father’s name. As far as I can recall he had been gone sometime from 2007-2008 and when he returned had been mentally disturbed?

Looking aghast, my brain was crammed like it was burning napalm if so that LUCAS was indeed him would it not corroborate more probably the ghost’s prediction? Was it then that I must be in flight farthest from danger’s epicenter? Should I? Was a question neither have been decisive or ever been a dilemma?

If not him, then who’s the eight?

I brushed off the mental ordeal then downstairs, I lit a gas lamp, opened the latch to the ledge’s cave then descended in. On the ledge’s shelf, I constructed an open porch overlooking the ocean. I walked the rocky shelf to the left then maneuvering off the wooden fence. I climbed down 30 meters below, as splashes of waves were concentrated. With only the gas lamp hanging on the fence, it sparsely lit me as a shadowy figure sitting on one of the shore’s boulders.

TO BE CONTINUED... (#draft)...