THE SECOND SIGHT
Chapter 44
THE FURY WITHIN
Location: THE CHAMBER
The fact that his father is suffering so much within that monstrous body is more than Boat can bear.
Suddenly real terror begins to as-sail him.
He tries to hold on to his anger, but it is dissipating fast. He tries to concentrate on that beast, forcing himself to forget his father’s torture.
But he simply can’t function. He keeps seeing his father’s agonized face, and it drives his terror upward.
The Thing smells Boat’s fear and indecision. Its look is sly now, the beginning of a gloat forming.
Boat is gripped in the throes of fear of the unknown, caused by the unbreakable bond between parent and child, that age-old love that comes first above all, and his terror of causing more pain to that man within that monstrous thing.
The monster suddenly goes into a rage. It alternates between showing Boat that tortured face of his and its own demonic face. Each time JOe Boat’s face emerges Boat feels that pull at his heart, and suddenly he begins to move backward, shaking his head unconsciously, the shattering agony tearing at his heart.
BOAT
(M0-ning)
Stop it, oh please stop it!
But he knows the monster will not stop, not now that it has Boat reeling on the ropes. It is close to throwing its suc-ker punch, and Boat is too weak to counter.
JOE BOAT MONSTER
(mockingly)
PUNY EARTHLING! WEAK EARTHLING! THOU ART BUT ZERO! THOU ART FILTH! THOU ART NOTHING! THOU CANST STOP ME!!
Its voice is now spilling with cruelty.
It is more than Boat can bear.
He raises his my right hand and points a badly trembling forefinger towards the beast.
BOAT
(screaming)
I command you, vile spirits, come out of him now! Come out now! I command you!!
The Legion lets out a loud laugh of pure mirth, the sound of celebr@tion, the derisive claim of superiority, the taunting laugh of a winner.
It is the victorious chant of the monster, just that this time it is not a single voice, but a thousand evil voices! They are all laughing, the tintinnabulation of their laughter almost driving Boat deaf.
He clamps both hands over his ears, bending almost double as the derisive laughter hits the walls and echoes over and into his head.
Boat is in agony.
Why?
What has happened?
What didn’t happen?
Why doesn’t that thing leave his father’s body as he had commanded? Has Anderson lied? Had his prayer not been incomplete?
Hadn’t Anderson said, or written, that he will have powers that goes with the Second Sight, powers of an Unblind when he chooses God?
That damn demon had taken a look at Boat and had been scared witless!
Boat is still glowing!
He has felt the power in him. To all intents and purposes he should have been able to send that little dung to hell and back.
So why the hell hasn’t it worked?
What in the name of great aces is happening here?
But doesn’t have time to enjoy his whimpering.
The monster rushes at him, and for a wild moment its claws come up, ready to tear into Boat, but Boat’s for-ce-field shines so terribly that the monster lifts itself off the floor with a shriek of fear!
JOE BOAT MONSTER
(screaming)
YE LOST, PUNY EARTHLING! LET THY FATHER’S BODY BE THY ne-ck STONE TILL ETERNITY! THOU HAST KILLETH THY OWN FATHER, EARTHLING!!
The monster is travelling upwards at great speed, and as Yaw Boat stares at it he knows what is going to happen, and his heart screams with sudden agony and horror!
BOAT
(sobbing)
No, no, no! Oh, please no! Please don’t, please don’t…
The looks down briefly at Yaw Boat, an expression of sheer vindictiveness and malice crossing its face.
Yaw Boat is screaming with agony as he realizes that his dear father is going to be murdered right in front of his, and there is nothing he can do to stop it.
He tries to close his eyes, but some terrible for-ce holds them open, forcing him to watch every last detail.
With startling speed the monster shoots headfirst at the concrete roof.
At that speed any impact with the roof will be fatal.
Yaw Boat is screaming stridently, a high=pitched wail that shakes the chamber to its foundations!
At the last second, before impact with the roof, the monster retreats, and it is the real body of Joe Boat that sails at the concrete roof, and it is Joe Boat’s head that crashes into concrete roof with a terrible, sickening impact!
With a triumphant wail thousands of terrible demons leave Joe Boat’s body!
Yaw Boat sees them, thousands of frightening forms, separated for a moment, then coming together rapidly to form that hu-ge horned beast. It moves across the roof quickly, almost in total anxiety, and shoots with frightening speeds towards the darkest shadows of the room.
Its derisive victory cry comes from the dark recesses of the room.
JOE BOAT MONSTER
(derisively)
SEE THEE AROUND, EARTHLING!
It is a de-ep, rumbling, ominous laugh!
THE FURY WITHIN
The impact is terrible, and although Boat sees the sudden shower of red that smears the roof at the point of impact.
It is all over!
Nobody can survive that collision!
Joe Boat’s body falls from the roof – limp, heavy, without control.
Yaw Boat is still screaming.
He rushes forward on ru-bber legs and catches his father before his body can crash to the floor.
His father is a hu-ge man, and we both of them crash to the floor.
But Yaw Boat doesn’t let him go.
He holds held him ti-ght even as the agony tears his heart apart.
He cradles his father in his arms.
There is blood all over his face and hair, and although Boat wipes it away frantically his father just wouldn’t stop bleeding.
The top of his head is a pulpy mess, and Yaw Boat can see some skull bones sticking out and br@in tissues oozing out slowly.
He has obviously died without much pain; his ne-ck has been broken on impact, but Boat takes no consolation from that in his grief.
He holds his father ti-ghtly against his bosom, burying his face in his father’s face.
In that terrible chamber Yaw Boat bawls like a baby and screams out his agony!
His tears are like rains of fire that scorch his face.
The pain is an unbearable band across his che-st that cuts into him.
Phlegm pours out of Yaw Boat’s mouth, and snot falls from his nostrils as he wails his agony.
Still screaming, he raises his head and sees the red splotch on the ceiling, and in that instant his agony is total.
His teeth gnashes, grinding together so badly that his gums hurt.
And throu-ghthat pain, throu-ghthat agony, his che-st fills up with a fury so de-ep that it feels like someone has inflated his anger-veins to balloon proportions.
He can feel his father’s blood on his face, in the gown he is wearing… everywhere.
Joe Boat is looking peaceful, and a little smile even plays around his li-ps.
Boat is convinced that somehow Joe Boat has known that he has triumphed; his sacrifice has saved his beloved son, and he has spared his son the turmoil of the hell he had gone throu-gh.
Boat has lost his father.
His happiness is gone.
These demons called the Legion…
They have taken his mother… and now they have taken his father!
Everything is gone…
Only one thing remains:
The fury…
The fury within…
The fury within the heart of Yaw Boat!
Boat gazes up at that red splotch on the ceiling.
His voice is a grating, gnashing, terrible furious outrage as he screams at the ceiling.
BOAT
(weeping bitterly)
You demons, all of you, EVERY SINGLE mother****** ONE OF YOU, are you listening to me? Legion, are you hearing me? Go on and run! Flee to the heavens, into the air, within the sea, un-der the earth!! Wherever you go, I will find you, and I will make you pay!!
_________________
AFTER THE STORM
My name is Yaw Boat.
If you’re reading this, it means you’ve probably heard about the ordeal I went throu-ghwhen my life came crashing around me one Friday night when I met the man in black.
It means you remember the nightmare I had for a whole week, and you remember that strange night when I made love to a woman in the dark without knowing who she was.
It means you remember the white crows and the ordeal they took me throu-gh.
It also means you remember people like Elaine Blankson, Samson Basoah, Bob Sarpong, Pastor Paul Anderson, Pastor Geoffrey Sam, Henri Didier, Zeke and Frank Styles, all of whom played vital roles in my life.
Also read – The Second Sight – Episode 12
Then of course you remember Joe Boat, my loving father who sacrificed himself to save me from the most horrible future the mind could imagine.
If you remember that horrible chamber where I finally came to accept Christ, gained my own for-ce-field, and watched my dear father die in my arms, then I’m pretty sure you must be craving to know how it all ended and, of course, whether I ended up being an Unblind, and what happened to me.
Well, I am going to tell you all about that.
It is my hope, and my fervent prayer, of course, that you will stay with me, and at the end of it all maybe, hopefully, you will learn a thing or two about life as we live it, and be better enlightened, and more strengthened, to as you continue to live on earth.
The insanity ended with the death of my father.
Two months after his burial I still wallowed in total grief.
It gripped me and just wouldn’t let me go. Watching him go like that tou-ched something de-ep within me, a nerve-ending I never thought existed, and for weeks I lived in a haze, not knowing when night dawned and day began.
I called Miss Bondzie shortly after I had carried my father’s inert form to his bedroom.
He was quite a man, tall and absolutely heavy.
And so I had to tie clothes on him and fashion out a makeshift hammock with protective covers around him that I could drag.
It was not an easy task, but in my fury and de-ep mourning that night, I did it without getting tired, or caught because, as it turned out, Samson Basoah sent the security guards away the previous night.
I carefully arranged him on his bed.
It was around five in the morning by the time I finished.
Miss Bondzie had arrived in a wind of agitated misery and called some of Golgotha Height’s senior pastors.
I had left them then and retired to my room.
I had been restless the rest of the day, ba-rely noticing the hours, caught in a suspended kind of craziness. It was when night dawned, and I heard the de-ep muted tones of the great grandfather clock chiming in the main living room that I remembered how my old man had lived with that clock for almost a decade.
A terrible cold had gripped me, and something ti-ght had seized my che-st. The tears that poured out were frenzied and violent. I clutched myself in one corner of the room and wept silently but powerfully. It was as if a kind of pain center had been turned on in my bosom, and there was no way of turning it off.
I grieved from there…for a lot of weeks.
I was aware of meeting a lot of people, but I really didn’t care about what we discussed. Time, to me, at that time, didn’t exist. It was a life of hollowed existence, a life without awareness…only prolonged grief.
It was much later, probably after the funeral, that I learnt that the story that had gone out was that my old man had died quietly in his sleep. Obviously, the good Lord had called him to glory.
I didn’t know how they did it.
With his shattered skull and the great influence he wielded in the world the cops should have swooped down on our house like crazy dogs on the trail of a b***h in heat.
I had told them the truth, in that hour of grief and disorientation, exactly what had happened to my father. The senior pastors had been distraught and queried me in harsh tones. I had flared at them, screamed at them actually, and they had backed off.
Later, when I was lying in a stupor of mental and emotional anguish, they had come back and begged me not to divulge what I said to anybody else. Obviously, the death of my father and circu-mstances surrounding it couldn’t be told to the world.
Any form of death, apart from a tranquil one (he pas-sed away peacefully in his sleep with a great smile on his li-ps), would disrupt the firm foundations of the church; any implication towards the abnormal or violent nature of his death would cause a lot of fragile hopes and faiths to crumble.
I let them play their mind games. In truth, I was a little grateful for it. In the end my old man and I had found each other, and I wanted – nee-ded – the world to remember him as a great crusader for a cause he believed in, even if his life had been nothing but a sham.
The funeral was hu-ge. Dignitaries from across the globe showed up to pay their last respects to a man considered one of the greatest of the century, a man who had lived up to his calling and changed a piece of the world.
So we gave him a king’s burial – I threw the first shovelful of dust over that coffin – and the world mourned the pas-sing of a man many would consider a saint for a long time.
Much later, the senior pastors came to see me with my father’s attorney.
They were worried, but for selfish reasons, of course.
My father had willed everything he owned to me. As it stood, Golgotha Heights and all its holdings belonged to me.
I was a multi-millionaire at the age of twenty-five.
Leo br@nd, the balding old attorney, showed me docu-ments and rights which my old man had bestowed entirely on me.
Joe Boat had invested widely and diversified his riches in a way that only the greatest business minds could have put together.
Simply put, I simply one of the really wealthy young men in the world.
My first inclination was to have nothing to do with it all, to let it all go.
But after second thoughts I hesitated.
Money, a great amount, meant power.
And I nee-ded power in my hunt for a very special being; a multi-being.
Devilish beings.
Legion.
So I let the senior pastors take the church and whatever it represented, and I let them keep a sizeable part of income from church activities, but those funds that the old man had running as investments I continued to hold on to them.
I didn’t want anything to do with the church as it stood, but I wanted that portion of money it brou-ght. I also took the great house and all the investments.
Soon, my own special kind of hunting would begin.
Soon.
Above all else, I felt fury.
Fury at a coward named Paul Anderson who had come into my life, shot it all up to hell, and disappeared without a trace, leaving me in the grips of the foulest evil any human eye had ever beheld. He had no right for leaving me all alone when he knew the kind of hell I was going to go throu-gh.
Fury at a divine being above who had seen it fit to endow me with the foulest of all gifts…and left me all alone to be terrorized by beings greater than all the greatest intellects in the world rolled into one.
And, above all else, fury at a host of demons so foul that they would crash the skull of a beloved father against a concrete ceiling and explode his br@ins out just to punish…and out of pure cowardice.
I walked the grounds of my inheritance aimlessly. I just attended to the basics of everyday life, and neglected a lot of the things I was supposed to do. I knew I had to leave and go out there after the devilish for-ces that had shattered my world, but somehow I loathed moving.
Maybe it was because I was scared that leaving the house would disconnect the bond to my father, and so I stayed.
I spent a lot of time in my father’s libr@ry reading. There were practically no novels on the shelves, only great works in natural phenomenon and the sciences, covering a wide genre. I read things hungrily, sometimes forgetting to eat. I was intent on cramming myself with knowledge.
Sometimes thoughts about what had happened intruded, but I always managed to push them away. Luckily, there were no nightmares, and my sleeps, as rare as they were, couldn’t have been more peaceful.
There were times when I wondered about Uncle Samson and Elaine for long hours. I wondered what had happened to them, and whether our paths would ever cross again.
I missed Elaine sometimes, as horrible as it sounded.
Even after everything I still craved for her badly. Maybe it had something to do with that ‘ordained’ wife thing, but I found it really ha-rd getting over her. I wished so much that we would meet again.
Maybe I could get Anderson – that man I hated so much – to exorcise the demons out of her so that we could get married.
One day.
TBc….