Stained fingers racing across the jagged word landscape of the open newspaper, the jittery man known as the Watcher shut his eyes and emptied his mind, just as the terrifying specter had instructed. Oblivion arrived easily. The old Denver public library had just opened for the day and only a few people had settled into the hard chairs and small cubicles. Soft morning light filtered through the grimy windows, casting dim streaks across the frayed carpeting.
The library yawned briefly then came alive with the hiss of books being tugged from tall shelves, snatches of laughter from an already weary staff, and the clatter of fingers on keyboards, searching vast databases.
The rugged-faced man immediately stood out from the other patrons, many of whom were local denizens of the street shuffling early into the library, hoping for a few moments of warmth before discovery. Not just for his black-leather jacket, tight jeans and alligator shoes. Nor for the partially missing fingers on his left hand or for the ghostly soul patch which hugged his lower lip.
Harold R. Holt’s uniqueness stemmed from two amazing characteristics: he was blessed with clear blue eyes, and his demeanor often snapped and hissed like a broken live wire. Sometimes, given sufficient rage, his eyes glowed a stunning indigo. This was a man with a deadly mission.
The Watcher blew on his eight remaining digits, bruised from months of wear, and sighed. Such hard work seeking, stalking and planning to destroy the Chosen One.
“In time, awareness will flow from the words as a lie from an unfaithful husband,” the specter had whispered in the bottomless, raspy voice that made the former stock trader rue the day he had squirted free of his mother’s womb. Of course, that could have been a line, just like the one the supernatural tongue had hissed about perpetual youth and everlasting life before slithering into his facial orifices and enslaving him forever.
Now he was possessed by a demon, trapped into a zombie-like existence. Not one of those wild-eyed, bloodthirsty, foul-mouthed lunatics from the Saturday afternoon horror flicks of his youth, but a waking dead, all the same. He no longer aged, needed sleep or protein, and survived on a sugar diet of Twinkies and Ding-Dongs.
The Watcher’s unholy hardship was straightforward: travel the country, personally reviewing local and international newspapers and magazines, searching for any references to miracles or other unexplained religious phenomena. For anything other than the Chosen One, he was to investigate, disprove and report. The work was taxing, but what else could he do trapped in the purgatory between life and death? And he really cursed the flying.
In his twenty-one months as the serpent’s disciple, he’d nosed his share of inexplicable cures and holy shrines but never a whiff of the Chosen One, and he wasn’t sure he wanted that “special” experience. Sometimes, it’s better not to know.
He remembered how years ago he had suspected his father, the principal of the local high school, of poking Miss Meredith, his twelfth-grade teacher. It hadn’t been so bad when it was still a suspicion; he could find excuses for the sudden, late-night curriculum meetings and whispered phone calls and his trepidation and unease were bearable. He both craved and dreaded the truth.
But on one particular moonless night, when he was passing the schoolyard returning home from a movie, he spied them, outlined as one against the blinds of his father’s office. Suddenly, he knew and hated himself for it. He wished he didn’t know but it was too late. From that second, when he witnessed his father’s hand on another woman’s breast, his world twisted. He had to act, to expose his father’s infidelity.
After the confrontation, his father left. His wounded mother and older sister were shattered by disbelief and anger, with which they punished him. Four days shy of his eighteenth birthday, Harry split. Like father, like son.
Of all the major centers he visited, the Watcher loathed Colorado’s mile-high city, finding the air as feeble as the local hospitality. He’d never felt so crappy in all his forty-something years. Here he was, supposedly immortal and instead, he was bloody wasted.
The morning was dying; he had several newspapers to go and needed to piss. But he pressed on, noticing a prickling in his left index finger. Without opening his eyes, the Watcher turned the pages in rapid succession and continued his digit scan.
It had taken weeks after his initiation to acquire the exact sensitivity to read by hovering, and to adjust for his missing fingers. Early on, he’d scalded his fingertips, permanently lost his fingerprints and couldn’t “watch” for fourteen days. The Big D had freaked at the respite, penetrating his core with such brutality that the Watcher feared for his internal organs. Lesson number one: never, absolutely never, ever disappoint the monarch of Hell.
He sighed again, forcing his fingers closer.
The article was short. They usually were. Somehow, the fourth estate shied from in-depth reporting of mystic phenomena. Now, as he always said, give them a good Clintonesque dalliance, and their words were on it like ketchup on fries.
He skimmed the New Mexico news brief, rubbing his pulsing fingertips against the tuft of hair beneath his lower lip. His forehead tightened at the phrases “…reports of a miracle...” and “...bleeding Virgin.” He smiled briefly when he read her name under the byline: Rachel Willingdon. Shit, that woman was good.
Harry pursed his thin lips then pushed them out, releasing a small pop. This he repeated three times. Energy crackled along his skin. He almost felt alive again.
He took a deep breath and strolled to the exit. As he stepped through, Harry hesitated. Ah, what the hay? he thought. What’s the point of having special powers if you don’t abuse ‘em?
Outside the library he spun, held up his right palm and blew. As the door inched shut, the library lights blinked twice then died, shrouding the massive building in gloom. He smirked at the startled cries from within and flipped open his cell, pumped up enough to arrange an immediate flight. Seemed like the Watcher was due for a southern holiday.
