THE SECOND
SIGHT
Chapter 29
THE SECOND SIGHT
INSIDE THE HOLE
Location: SAMSON’S RESIDENCE
Whatever power has shown him that vision wants him to know the truth or otherwise, and maybe whoever that powerful Being is, He will be able to protect Boat from whatever evil is lying in wait inside that house.
He holds the handle of the door and pushes it down.
The hu-ge door opens and swings inward silently.
Boat suddenly feels like the little beetle entering the web of a tarantula.
Boat steps inside, and as he reaches out for the light switch on the wall, he seems to see a shadow, a darker shadow than the blackness of the room, moving past him, heading towards the wall on his right.
Of course it might have been his imagination.
The light came on, flooding the living room with soft brilliance, chasing the shadows away, restoring some balm to his stretched nerves, bringing with it the sanity that comes when light triumphs over the permeating evil of darkness.
He pauses just inside the plush living-room and looks around. This is Samson’s Haven, Boat’s favourite place on the whole estate.
Here he has grown up, had eaten, slept, fooled and turned upside down. Here he has known real life and joy, with a man he loves beyond measure.
The fear dissipates quickly as he looks around the familiar room. The rich comfortable furniture, the electrical appliances, the paintings on the walls, the biblical tapes and literature.
A man’s well-kept room.
Suddenly it feels absurd just being there.
It is as if he is invading the man’s privacy, and he feels a rush of shame. He almost turns away right then, but something makes him stay; something that won’t be denied or satisfied until he enters that bedroom, and pulls that bed away from the wall.
He crosses the living-room quickly.
de-ep down Boat knows he has but a few minutes before his father and Uncle Samson return, and so he nee-ds to move fast.
He approaches the door that leads to a short corridor that ends at the door of the master bedroom.
Boat reaches for the handle of the door, and something strange happens again.
The door is closed alright, but at the very last moment before Boat’s hand touches it, it moves forward, as if some for-ce is pulling it shut ti-ghter, and he hears the sharp creaking sound it makes, as if the hinges are being tortured, pulled in too ti-ghtly.
Boat feels a cold eerie blast of air, and goose bumps stand out on his arms. He has to fight the apprehension ha-rd – real ha-rd – to reach out for that handle again.
Somewhere de-ep down he prays that it will be locked, for the first time ever, refusing to open…
He turns the handle, and as it has done for almost two decades, the door opens slowly and smoothly.
The corridor is dark, save for the light that filters in from the living-room, forming an inverted V on the floor and a patch of lighted square on the left wall.
Boat takes a de-ep breath and steps into the corridor.
Up ahead, looming darkly at the end of the corridor, is the bedroom door, looking extra sinister because it is abnormally tall and broad to allow for Uncle Samson’s great hulk.
Boat can see light around its four edges, giving it an alien holy look; evidently, Uncle Samson has forgotten to switch off the bedroom light.
That strange door looms larger and darker as Boat approaches.
This time the door will surely be locked; for the very first time ever in his life, that bedroom door will be locked…
But it is not locked!
Boat opens it.
The bedside lamp is on. Obviously Uncle Samson had been reading before rushing out to meet Boat’s father at the airport.
The room is hu-ge and neat, everything in its proper place.
Uncle Samson is a very fastidious sort of man in his own way. He hates dirty surroundings, and that is one of the areas they have always had troubles with because he hates the mess Yaw Boat makes.
He is always picking up stuff after Boat, and sometimes berates him gently to be more responsible about neatness.
Everything in its proper place; pristine order is a virtue he never lacks.
There is a great aquarium in the room, taking up almost the whole length of one wall. This is Uncle Samson’s joy. He can spend countless hours just standing and staring at the fishes. He has given them names, almost all of them, and Boat sometimes wonders how he Uncle Samson is able to distinguish such a great number of fishes.
There is a hu-ge wardrobe across the room against the wall directly opposite the bed.
A Panasonic 32-inch LED television is mounted against one wall, opposite the head rest of the bed so that he could lie in bed and watch television.
Below that is a miniature sound system and DVD recorder. Near to that is a computer desk on which stands a monitor. The system unit is un-der the desk. To one side of the desk are three tall compact disk holders, all of them filled with CDs.
The bed is hu-ge, made from polished African mahogany wood. It is neatly made, and at the foot of it, down on the floor, are wool-lined white sli-ppers, precisely placed.
The door to the bathroom is slightly ajar, which makes Boat scowl briefly. That is so unlike Uncle Samson.
He might have been in a great hurry to leave.
Yaw Boat stands still and surveys the bed.
He knows he is hedging.
He balks, and he is scared.
Scared to move that bed.
This is it.
He has to do it.
He is suddenly as-sailed by a sudden bout of sadness.
A man he has loved all his life, a man who has been more close to him than his own father. This man who has taught him so much and loved him unreservedly.
This gentle giant with no malice in his heart, and here is Boat, about to repay all those years of loyalty by coming into his most private environment and trying to find out if some damn vision I has had – probably due to some delayed reaction of months of drug use – is actually real.
What will Boat say if Uncle Samson walks in and sees him messing around with his bed?
Boat walks to the foot of be bed, bends, holds the lower wood ti-ghtly, lifts and pulls, and it slides noiselessly and smoothly over the polished floor.
He sets the bed down and and slowly turns to the sp-ot un-der the bed.
There is no collection of dust or cobwebs on the floor, as would have been the case with most beds. There are no shoes or sli-ppers carelessly kicked un-der the bed.
Here too Uncle Samson has been as efficient as ever, his neatness finding character with the unusual cleanliness of the space un-der his bed.
Boat takes in all these in a second, because his eyes were wide open with horror.
It is there alright!
That square hole in the floor with the stairs leading downwards!
It is there …right there!
Exactly how he has seen it in the vision.
And he dies a little inside at that particular moment when he sees the hole!
Oh, Dear Lord …what is this?
He is as-sailed by a great sense of déjà vu as he stands looking down at that hole, and those stairs leading downwards into some great and forbidden un-derground.
It is not only because of that crazy moment when he thinks he has seen it in a dream. No. It feels as if he has actually been here before, that he has walked down those stairs before.
he hasn’t ever known that Uncle Samson’s sweet little haven has an un-derground pas-sage. He has always thought it is standing on good firm ground.
Now he remembers how Uncle Samson has taken charge of the whole building, from its architectural design to its physical erection.
Joe Boat had let the final decisions rest on Samson, because the giant is the one who is going to live in it, and that is the reason why Uncle Samson has put in little touches here and there, including the secret un-derground place without the knowledge of Boat and his father.
What can this secret place be?
What is hidden there?
Is it just an innocent room, put there by Uncle Samson as his own little safe hideaway, a retreat of some sorts?
Somehow Boat does not believe that.
He believes that he has received that vision for a purpose …a purpose that suddenly brings to question years of adoration for the man, years of loyalty and faithfulness.
Does it mean that all along Uncle Samson has been someone he is not? Has Boat and his father been deceived so totally for so long?
There are no answers, only that square entrance with stairs leading downwards stares Yaw Boat in the face.
Maybe, just maybe, it is safe after all, and Uncle Samson might have a perfectly good reason for keeping such a place a secret from them.
There is just one way to find out.
Boat steps onto the first stair.
By that single act he knows there is no turning back for him. de-ep down his soul cries out. Something tells him to get the hell out of there and go and wait for his father, but it is a muted voice.
The for-ces propelling him forward are too powerful to resist.
He is a helpless pawn who is Unblinded, and who is being for-ced to see the beauties of the wild for the first time; The Wild, a serene place with things that have fangs, a place where Goliath is the Goliath who has the propensity to give David a pain between the legs whilst stuffing stones up David’s orifices.
A place where David and Goliath ceases to be a motivation story for the kids, and become an adult’s nightmare.
Boat descends to the last stair and finds himself in a long corridor.
The floor is cemented, but it smells dank, and has a faint odour which is at once too familiar and yet still unknown, a pervading invasion of his nasal pas-sageways that refuses ardently to be identified although its origin is tantalizingly within reach.
It isn’t an overly unpleasant smell, but it is uncomfortable enough to make Boat wrinkle his nostrils and breathe shallowly.
He sees the edge of the bed above him, and the ceiling that has murals about the life of Christ. If he moves into the corridor it will swallow him up, and he won’t see the room above him.
With another de-ep breath and a bunch of trembling nerves he moves forward. The darkness closes around him, stifling and hot, almost claustrophobic.
He sets his teeth and steels himself forward. Boat isn’t a coward and damn if he is going to show a streak of yellow now.
He resists the urge to reach out and touch the walls on each side; Boat has this strong premonition that his fingers will touch something nasty, something really awful.
There is something on the floor, though.
It isn’t ha-rd concrete that he is walking on.
It feels somewhat squishy and sli-ppery, undulating too, something like a crawly structure. He looks down, but all he sees is inky blackness.
And then, he hears the steps.
Faint, muted, creepy, whispering…
Something is behind him…
Something is following him!
He stops, overcome by a fear so crippling that a sound close to a sob floats out of his li-ps. His heart thuds, and maniacal panic grips him.
This is it, oh Lord!
His worst nightmare!
Funky Grounds at last…
Live, coloured and in full HD!
He takes a step forward, and he hears the slithery sound behind him, and can feel the presence just at the nape of his ne-ck, long fingers tingling in anticipation.
Boat is covered with sweat.
At that particular moment he would have gladly turned and fled from that dark corridor, but his heart is heavy with dread close to total breakdown.
He is in raw panic.
It is more comfortable to walk forward towards the unknown, than to turn and face that evil thing behind him, and he knows it is there, a terrible thing with a face that will drive terror throu-ghhis heart and explode that most vital organ with devastating effects.
It is there alright, and it wants him to know it is there, and it wants him to feel the panic and the presence of death.
Boat knows it is gloating in its ability to drive him close to the edge of insanity, but he also knows, de-ep down, that despite the fear, none of those terrible demons can hurt him that bad because he is still important.
He is still the vessel that their master will use, and they all know it.
Boat comes to the end of the corridor, and his hand touches a door.
He reaches out and feels for a handle, but there is none.
He feels a w£tness on the door and on his hands, but it is too dark to see what has smeared them.
Behind him the thing has paused.
He can hear its malevolent breathing, thick and full of ill-will. He can also smell it now, a putrid rotted smell that comes straight from hell’s catacombs.
Boat’s breathing comes in wheezes, and he can feel the first signs of his tortured heart going into overdrive.
A heart failure is not out of the question now, and with all his willpower he strives to remain calm and to cool down.
Feeling utterly overwhelmed, he raises his arms and place them against the door, resting his head on his arms.
He knows he can hold that position forever, because if that door is refusing to open, there is no way he is going to be able to retrace his steps, no way he is going to turn and see the face of that thing behind him.
Fortunately – un-der the circu-mstances, of course – his weight presses ha-rd against the door, and suddenly it swings inward slowly…
Tbc…