The Glimpsing (11 page)

“Like Portia?”

“Almost identical to her, except she had short black hair and,” he waved his hand in front of his face, “very dark eyes.” Janice thinks she may have had something to do with it.”

“Janice?”

“My housekeeper.”

Gabrielle gazed at him incredulously.
 
“So what are you saying, Jack?
 
That some woman in a dream made you kick me out last night?”

“That’s what Janice believes.”

“Jack, I don’t care what Janice believes.
 
I want to know what you believe.
 
How do you explain last night?”

Jack leaned forward, folding his hands.
 
“Sleepwalking.”

“What?”
 
Gabrielle said as if caught off guard.

“Sleepwalking,” Jack repeated, almost smugly.
 
“I used to do it pretty regularly as a child.
 
I’d stay up all night sometimes, making sandwiches, watching television, playing board games with imaginary friends.
 
The next morning I’d wake up sprawled on the kitchen floor or huddled in a closet, not having any idea how I got there.
 
Used to drive my parents crazy.
 
Thankfully, I’d grown out of it by the time I reached my
teens.:

“Sleepwalking.
 
That’s what you expect me to believe this is all about?”

“It’s often accompanied by extremely vivid dreams, just like the one I had last night.
 
And it’s also a good explanation for why I don’t remember doing it.”

Gabrielle sighed long and heavy.
 
“That still sounds awfully convenient, Jack.”

“I’m sure it does.
 
But it also makes perfect sense.”

Gabrielle paused.
 
“And if I don’t accept it?”

“Then I suppose we are over.
 
But before you consider going down that road, I want you to ask yourself something: if I really wanted to get rid of you, would I be trying to save what we have?”

Gabrielle blinked at him, somewhat surprised by the statement, actually touched that he would refer to their relationship as if it was something meaningful to him.

“And just what is it we have?” she asked probingly.
 
But she wasn’t even certain Jack had heard the question.
 
The waiter had returned with their drinks, and Jack seemed distracted by him.

“Are we ready to order?” the waiter asked, placing the drinks before them.

“We’ll need a few more minutes,” Jack said.

“Yes, of course.
 
And I do apologize about earlier.”

“Fine,” Jack said, waving him away with his hand.

As the waiter departed, Jack noticed a group of four individuals, three men in business attire and a woman in a pant suit, standing near the patio door.
 
They spoke amongst themselves for a moment, and then one of them gestured toward both himself and Gabrielle.
 
They all stared for a moment, turned to each other and began conversing again, and then went back inside, the woman in the pant suit casting one final glance at them before disappearing.

“So tell me about her,” Gabrielle said, her tone now absent of sarcasm, perhaps even betraying a hint of contrition.

“Who?”

“The woman in your dream, this Rose.”

“Why would you want to hear about something that doesn’t exist?”

“She intrigues me.”

“Why?”

“Oh, I don’t know: red dress, dark features, she looks like my best friend.” She paused for effect.
 
“And you’re dreaming about her.
 
I’d say that’s enough to intrigue just about any woman, wouldn’t you?”

Jack shook his head.
 
And to her surprise, he said absolutely nothing.

“Well?” Gabrielle chimed.

“Well what?” Jack replied.

“Are you going to tell me about her or not?”

“There’s nothing to tell.”

Gabrielle frowned,
then
said in a playfully suspicious tone.
 
“What happened between you two last night?”

Jack glared at her.
 
“Nothing happened.
 
She’s just not worth wasting time on.”

Gabrielle chuckled lightly.
 
“I thought you said she was just a dream.”

“She was just a dream.”

“Well then why are you acting like she’s real?”

Jack could only stare blankly.

“So tell me,” Gabrielle continued, “how did you two… meet?”

Jack sighed.
 
“We met in my bedroom.
 
I heard a loud noise and when I got up to investigate, there she was, lying at the foot of my bed.
 
Her eyes were open.
 
I thought she was dead.”

“Not exactly a good first impression.”

Jack finally smiled, though reluctantly.
 
“No, I guess not.
 
I tried to take her pulse but couldn’t get one, so I put my hand on her heart.
 
I got this really hard throb, just one.
 
It was disturbing.
 
I suppose that should have told me I was dreaming, but I never caught on.
 
Anyway, when I realized she was alive, I picked her up and put her in my bed.
 
I thought you had gone to the bathroom so I called down the… What’s wrong?”

Gabrielle was tilting her head at him, greatly puzzled.
 
Then her face broke and she grinned.
 
“That’s very funny, Jack.”

“What’s funny?”

“Don’t be coy.
 
I’m not that easy to fool.”

He grinned uncertainly.
 
“What are you talking about?”

“You know perfectly well what I’m talking about?”

Jack’s smile faded.
 
He shook his head.
 
“No, I really don’t.”

“Jack, if you expect me to believe that what I saw in your bed was really this woman from your dream then you are sadly mistaken.”

Jack suddenly stiffened.
 
“What did you see in my bed?”

Gabrielle frowned in bewilderment. She still wanted to believe that he was merely playing a joke on her, but nothing about his demeanor convinced her that was true.

“I don’t know,” she said.
 
“I thought it was a blanket.”

“You thought what
was a blanket
?”

“What I saw behind you while you were sitting on the edge of your bed.”

“And what color blanket did you think you saw?”

“A red one.”

Jack grimaced bitterly.

“What’s wrong?”

“What’s wrong?
 
I don’t own any red blankets!
 
That’s what’s wrong.”

“Oh Jack, you don’t really believe I saw the woman from your dream, do you?”

But Jack didn’t answer.
 
He was staring off, muttering to himself: “She told me she would prove her existence.
 
This is it.
 
Her sign.
 
Her omen.”

Gabrielle was incredulous.
 
“Jack, it could have been anything.
 
A
shirt,
or a robe.”

“It wasn’t just anything, Gabrielle.
 
It was her!”

“Jack, you’re being ridiculous.”

“Oh.
 
Then what shade was it?”

“Shade?”

“Yes, shade!” he snapped.

“I don’t know,” she said, a bit thrown by his outburst.
 
She gazed around the patio, looking for the color in something nearby.
 
Finally her eyes settled on one of three flower
petals that had drifted onto the tablecloth.
 
She picked it up and held it out toward him.
 
“About this shade,” she said.
 
“Almost exactly.

What Gabrielle held in her hand was a rose-red flower petal, indeed the exact color of Rose’s dress.
 
Jack stared at it bitterly, as might a vampire at a cross.
 
“That’s it,” he said in a beaten tone.
 
“It’s her color.”
 
But as soon as those words came out of his mouth, something else, something rather profound, entered his mind.
 
“Where did you get that?”

“You saw me, I just picked it up.”

“I mean where did it come from?”

“It fell, Jack.”

“Fell?
 
From where?”

“From the tree.”

“From what tree?”
 
He glanced around the patio.

Gabrielle gazed at him in wonder.
 
“What’s wrong with you, Jack?
 
From the tree right above us.”

Jack cast his eyes up… and was confronted with a spectacle so chilling that his eyes gaped in horror.
 
The tree that had formerly been filled with lovely oriental blue flowers was now possessed with hundreds of devilish red ones, each identical in color to Rose’s dress.
 
At the center of each large and oddly shaped bloom, there seemed to be a dark liquid,
a crimson
nectar that actually made the flowers look like they were spewing blood.

Stunned, Jack slowly rose to his feet.

Gabrielle stood up as well, somewhat startled by his reaction.
 
“What is it, Jack?
 
What’s wrong?”

Just then the waiter appeared.
 
“You’re not leaving already, are you?”

“What the hell is going on here?” Jack fumed.

“Excuse me?”

“This tree, what did you do to it?”

“Oh, of course, the tree.
 
Would you like to relocate inside?”

“I asked you a question, damn it!
 
What did you do to this tree?”

Sounding like he’d become fed up, the waiter said: “We didn’t do anything to it, sir.
 
When we arrived this
morning, that
was how it looked.
 
No one knows why.
 
If you find it disturbing, then I’d be happy to seat you inside, just like everyone else.
 
Otherwise you’ll have to dine at another locale.”

“Where are the blue flowers?”

“What blue flowers, sir?”

“The ones that were all over this tree when I got here.

“Are you feeling well?” the waiter said.
 
“There were never any blue flowers on this tree.”

Jack turned to Gabrielle, frantic.
 
“You saw them, didn’t you?
 
You were looking at them when I arrived.”

But Gabrielle only stared somberly,
then
reluctantly shook her head.
 
“No, Jack.
 
They were always red.”

Dismayed, Jack gazed once more up at the tree, watching as a stiff breeze moved through the flowers like a great hand.
 
Fear gripped him.
 
He had been wrong, of course.
 
Rose’s omen had not been Gabrielle’s sighting of her in his bed.
 
The real omen had been just above him the entire time.
 
It was an omen of flowers.

Jack suddenly jerked, startled badly by a loud and terrified scream.
 
Peering up, he saw Gabrielle with one hand over her stomach, the other covering her mouth.  Her eyes were bulged and trained on the tablecloth.
 
He looked at the tablecloth himself… and also gasped when he saw the massive blood splatter residing there.

I fear for them,
this Jack and Gabrielle,
because I know what’s coming. 
I’ve seen it myself, experienced it myse
lf, all the ugly horror of it.
 
They will know fear like they’ve never known before.
Once more blood will be spilled. 
And o
nce more I will be forced to
endure the
savagery, the
unrelenting
violence
of it
.  May God grant me
strength
.

If you don’t know who I am, then allow me to tell you. 
My name is Collin Freely.  I am the one Portia commonly refers to as her “first love”.  M
ore
importantly,
I am the cause.  I am the reason.  It is because of m
y
actions
, because of what I did to Portia twelve years ago,
that t
wo more people are about to die. 
What troubles me most,
what digs at my soul to this very day,
i
s
that it could have been avoided
, had I only believed.

Portia
was only sixteen when our paths first crossed.
 
That encounter
was purely a matter of coincidence,
just
a
seemingly insignificant events
that is, in reality, so grand, so monumental, that it completely alters your life’s fate.   

The occasion was
Kingman High School’s yearly rendition of
Romeo and Juliet
.  My
nephew
Charles was playing the part of Romeo
in the play, and since
my brother
was
away
in London on business, I had agreed to support Charles by attending in his stead.

I didn’t want to be there.  Frankly, I would have preferred working late at the office, trying to arrange the portfolios of two potential modeling talents: one a nineteen-year old waitress, and the other a twenty-year old college dropout.  I knew neither of them would amount to much
, b
ut my career as an agent was waning, and I had little choice but to take what I could get.

I sat in that auditorium, coping with the play more than enjoying it.  For the first ten minutes, I was pestered by the sight of Charles prancing around in white tights to loud choruses of flute-filled music.  A dozen other ridiculously dressed fellows joined him in thankfully short stints of song, dance, and merriment.  I checked my watch frequently

Twenty minutes into the play, the young girl playing the part of Juliet
finally
emerged.  It was then that
this seemingly
insignificant event showed itself for what it truly was: the most significant
event
my life would ever know.

The instant I saw her, I felt a tremendous rush, not only because she was so strikingly beautiful, but because I could already sense the monumental appeal she would someday have.  My struggles as an agent
, I believed,
were about to change. 
             

Portia was only sixteen at the time.  After the play, I had rushed backstage
to
m
e
et her face to face.  Her drama teacher had gladly introduced us after I
told her I worked for
Madeline Model Management. 

In person, Portia was far shyer and more reserved than I had imagined.  She spoke very little, answering my every question or comment with a simple chirp of “yes” or “no” or “thank you.”  She kept turning bashfully to
her
drama teacher as if I were speaking a language she needed help understanding.
 
I told Portia that I believed she was special, that I’d never seen a more remarkable looking girl.  I told her I believed she would have a bright future in modeling, and that if she worked hard
,
she might someday be one of the world’s best. 

Was I exaggerating a bit? 
Perhaps.
  But time would prove me true.
             

We left backstage together, and met up with the girl’s mother outside the auditorium.  Angela
Childress
was the woman’s name
, and
I knew there was something desperately wrong
with her from the very beginning. 
 
             

There was nothing direct that gave this away, but there were
small
signs.  As I spoke, I noticed that her eyes tended to drift, that she often appeared to be looking
around
me more than
at
me.  Just as odd, she seemed to have little regard for my comments concerning her daughter, what I believed about her
future,
and the lucrative lifestyle it could bring them.  In fact, Angela made no reply at all, but merely took Portia by the hand, bid me goodbye, and whisked her away.

In hindsight, I wish I would have gone back to my office, focused on the other girls I had plans for, and did my best to forget about Portia
Childress
.  I wish I had taken this initial brush-off as a sign, a bad omen of some sort, sure evidence that it simply wasn’t meant to be.

But I didn’t.  
             

Two days later, after tracking down where they lived, I made an unannounced visit to the
Childress
homestead. 
Angela
was gracious, allowing me to enter, and Portia to join us.  In my hand, I held a check for five-hundred dollars, money
I was offering from my own pocket just
to
have
Portia
come down to the studio and take
some test shots.  Even that,
Angela
had refused.

It wasn’t long before
Angela began down a
rather strange path of
questions.  She wanted to know what I thought about God and
some vague phenomenon called glimpsing. 
Caught somewhat off guard, I professed a general belief in God, but admitted that I wasn’t deeply religious in any way.  As for this business about glimpsing
,
I claimed no knowledge.

Somewhat annoyed, both by the dismissal of the money and what was beginning to look more and more like an attempt to evangelize me, I told Angela that I had not come to hear a sermon or participate in a séance, but to offer her daughter what I believed was the opportunity of a lifetime.

I left that house,
money
still in hand, believing two things. 
One, that
Portia’s mother
was insane, and two, that Portia absolutely did not share her mother’s point of view.  I knew
that
because the gleam
,
that familiar star struck awe so typical of girls who are offered such opportunities
, so quickly faded from Portia’s eyes when th
e conversation had turned towards the supernatural, to glimpsing and the like
. Portia
had begun to stare aimlessly into her lap. 
Not
once did she raise her head for the rest of my stay.

Within a week, however,
Portia had found the card I left behind
.  She
called me
in secret,
apologiz
ing
for her mother’s behavior, particularly the part about glimpsing.  She recounted how since
childhood she c
ould remember
how
her mother spent night after night, claiming to converse with entities in her bedroom—entities only she herself could see. 
Sometimes she’d
awak
e
to the thudding sound of her mother’s feet as she ran around her bedroom
,
pursued by things unknown. 
Sometimes it was her mother’s
mournful wail
ing that woke her.
And sometimes it was just the eerie form of her mother standing in her doorway, looking out over her bed as she slept.

Portia confessed that for most of her life she had believed
what her mother saw and heard was real,
but
was now beginning to
doubt.   Although she loved her mother dearly, she was growing weary of her
behavior.  More
than that, she was growing weary of the harassing thought that her life was destined to go nowhere.

On that day, Portia and I joined one another in a secret pact of doubt.  Together, we doubted her mother’s tales; doubted her mother’s entities; and doubted the existence of
the invisible world of which she spoke. 
We promised
each other
we’d set out to create our own world, not one of spirits and specters, but of bright lights, wealth, glamour and fame.

Fate, however,
had its own promises to keep.  And it all began with this one wicked deed.   
             

I immediately set about removing Angela from the equation.  Since Portia was a minor, I needed Angela’s consent before signing her to any sort of contract.
 
That was something I knew Angela had no intention of giving.

But during my conversations with Portia, she had mentioned something that set my mind on a devilish course.
 
She told me that her aunt Eileen, a woman who lived in Jersey City, had once, when Portia was only eight, made an attempt to take legal custody of her.
 
The reason had been that Eileen believed her sister was mentally ill.
 
She’d long been aware of Angela’s near daily episodes of glimpsing, and believed that Angela, under the influence of the delusional entities she claimed to see, might someday be encouraged to harm Portia.
 
The matter wound up in family court, but the judge promptly ruled in
Angela’s favor, citing Portia’s excellent health, her exceptional grades, the lack of physical or mental abuse, and the fact that Angela showed no history of violent or deranged behavior of any sort.

Where Eileen failed, however, I was almost certain I would succeed.

My plan was simple.
 
With the help of some connections and a few people who owed me favors, I would seek to have Angela declared legally insane.
 
Eileen could then take guardianship of Portia, and I would in turn get the contract I so desperately desired.

Did I ever consider this plan unethical or immoral?
 
Not in the slightest.
 
I truly believed Angela was insane.
 
I had witnessed it first-hand, watched those crazed eyes of hers peering over and around me, staring at things that clearly weren’t there.
 
The way I saw it, I wasn’t ripping a young girl from the protective care of her mother, I was saving her from a life of certain misery.

Of course, I could never let Portia know I had planned any of this.
 
If she knew I was responsible for having her mother dragged off and institutionalized, she undoubtedly would have severed all ties with me, and consequently ruined all prospects of the financial opportunity I was so certain would come.

To my amazement, my plan went more smoothly than I could possibly have imagined.
 
After a call to Eileen to make sure she was still concerned about Portia’s safety and would be willing to take custody of the girl, I enlisted the help of no less than three lawyers, two psychiatrists, and the head of one mental health facility.
 
I had Eileen contact Child Protective Services and report Angela’s condition to them, and within two days Angela was brought in for a psychiatric evaluation.

Almost immediately Angela began acting strangely.
 
During her interview with a Dr. Jennifer Sumner, she’d exhibited the same wandering eyes problem she’d shown with me.
 
Sumner asked the woman what she was seeing, and Angela told her that it was perhaps best that she didn’t know.
 
When Sumner pressed, Angela merely said: “They’ve taken a great interest in the boy.”
 
Sumner had asked what boy she meant, and Angela had replied: “Your seven-year-old son.”

Later that night, while under observation, Angela had awakened and began walking around her room.
 
At one point she dropped to her knees and began crawling from corner to corner, trying to evade some unseen presence.
 
“I’m sorry.
 
I’m sorry,” she had apologized furiously.
 
The next day, when Sumner had questioned her about the incident, Angela informed her that they weren’t very happy that she had revealed their plan’s for Sumner’s son.