"You do not speak to it...”
– Father Lucas Trevant
The Rite, Mikael Håfström
. . .
“How long have you been blind?...” The journalist asked, staring cautiously at the blind man. Especially his eyes. His cigarette smouldered with faint curving clouds of smoke.
“Blind?” Confusion fell over the blind man.
“... the cloudy white... the, over your eyes... that, cataract!” The journalist continued.
“Anyway, I’ve not heard, anything go bump in the night... so far.”
“You,.. How long did you hear the sounds, being emitted inside your home? The voices, or voice?”
“3 days back...” The blind replied.
“So, where are they?”
He continued to stare at the fluorescent bulb, as it seemed. His head raised towards the bulb, his chin edging forward, his nape leaned back. His diseased-cataract eyes, bulged and wide. Like there was no iris, pupils. The whole of it was clouded. Despite any sight, those cloudy eyes seemed fascinated.
“Listen you white-eyes! You’re wasting my time, I’ve been here for 3 hours straight and no response, nothing!” The journalist coldly confirmed.
A smile stretched wide over the blind man’s face. His ears could hear the sounds of bees humming. Clicking, chirping sounds too. These sounds become his thoughts, like he were counting one clicking sound at a time.
DISTURBANCE OF SOUNDS
. . .
The journalist angrily sighed. But then, he was interrupted.
“You’d swallow your tongue if you heard them too.” The blind declared.
The journalist felt a strong jolt from inside him, his smouldering cigarette fell out between his fingers. His eyes grew to a bulge. Wide and frightened after hearing this. He’d never heard such an unusual tone from the blind man. His voice, distorted, like he was channeling not one but two voices at the same moment.
“Excuse me?...Hear them... What? Who?...” The journalist asked cautiously.
“Your heart drums along with them... the bees...” The blind answered and yet distracted.
“Click, click...” He faintly whispered. And then he spoke a few startling words some more.
“They crawl under your skin, like ants...” After which, he began tapping the top and bottom-back set of his teeth together gently. Just tapping, like a spoon against a cup. The travelling vibration by this, created a similar kind of that feeling. Only slightly. Disgusted from this, the journalist frustratedly rose from his chair, only to be held by his forearm by the blind man. A gentle grip.
“Were you frightened?...”
The blind man then pointed towards the bulb and questioned.
“Did you not see that?... It’s been watching you...”
Startled, the journalist quickly stirred his head towards the celling, the bulb. His bulge eyes darted everywhere over the ceiling, around the bulb, and then the bulb. Nothing.
HUNG WHITE EYES.
. . .
“See what?...” The journalist’s heart was pounding now as he turned towards the blind man and questioned slowly, almost a fading whisper.
The blind man collapsed after this.
The journalist observed only with his bulge eyes, staring at the blind man’s chest. There was no signs of chest inflation, deflation. He was so dead. He know this from his gut.
Silence fell over him, like a harrowing ghost.
“The Medium’s dead...” A distorted voice whispered.
The journalist slowly turned towards the ceiling, directly towards the bulb, very slowly like a snail-worm. A morbidly feeling crossed over him, his stomach churned. But the journalist hoped to see nothing. Except a plain paint-white ceiling and a bright projecting bulb.
Frightened, he fell back, tripping over the blind or dead man’s shoes. One moment, there were bees humming around a noose with a, probably dead, deer’s head and neck fell to one side, and then...
The deer’s head was facing him, with bulged-wide, white clouded eyes staring at him now. Only a head and neck, no body, no blood. A plain rounded neck. He heard the humming, the clicking. This grip of fear now stirred his soul. It was enough, the trepidation, fatality had darkened his terrified, bulge eyes as he stared, and stared. Those eyes had now clouded his soul. Pounding hard, his loud drumming heart.
Went his heart.