The story so far:
My encounter with this black clad man had some how drained me of all my energy. My head began to swim, as if I were breathing the thin air of some high altitude. I made as far as the sofa, only feet away, before my knees buckled. Gentle slumber engulfed my mind and I began to dream of days long past. Peace at last. The aftermath of my family’s passing had left me a shattered, hopeless shell. I no longer felt the overwhelming emptiness. For the first time, in what seemed like an eternity, I was relaxed. It did not last long however.
I began to see horrid visions of my wife and children crying out for me to save them. The lies I told the preacher and myself, always melted more quickly in my sleep. Usually I would relive what was ultimately the end of my life. I would come home from the airport with presents for the kids from my business trip to Denver. I would see them hanging upside down in the tree, bled out like live stock. This, time, however, I saw them under that tree in our woods, begging for mercy and calling for help. I can not be certain if those awful nightmares woke me or the pounding on my front door did. Either way it gave me a start.
I opened my eyes and saw nothing but red. Panicked, I was not sure if I was awake, and the hammering of my front door continued more violently.
“Help” I cried out. “I can’t see.”
Just then the commotion ceased. After a moment of silence, the frantic sound of a lock being picked could be heard. I only recognize this because I put myself through night school as a locksmith.
“Who’s there? And what the hell are you doing? I’m calling the police!”
“Oh don’t do that” a man with a thick Scottish brogue said, “you wouldn’t want to alarm the neighbors. Besides, you’re blinded. You admitted it and I can see the blood coming from your tear ducts.”
“Oh my, it’s worse than I thought. So, I take it he’s been here already. Christ, hold on…I’ve got something here somewhere. Oh yeah, here…drink this.”
The Scotsman held a petite glass jar to my lips. It was the sweetest thing I had ever tasted. Within moments, I regained my vision and my eyes stopped bleeding.
“So the deceiver has been here, has he?” the Scotsman asked.
“Who!? The bloody wanker who made your eyes bleed. The man who made your stomach turn. Look in your fridge, I’ll wager your milk’s sour. How long was he here? Sometimes a really good refrigerator will be sturdy enough to keep the milk for a little while.”
“Who the hell are you?”
“Oh, my apologies, what with your ocular cavities hemorrhaging and all, I didn’t feel it prudent to start with an introduction. The name’s Macarthur.”
“Who is ‘the deceiver’? And why were you trying to break my door down? What is going on here?”
I felt weak again. My legs turned to rubber. I began to slide back on to the sofa as Macarthur told the tale of his arrival at my stoop. His story seemed insane. It was insane. He told it with such maddening spirit, that I at least knew he believed it to be true. Coupling the strange phenomenon with my eyes, and my experience with the “preacher”, I believed him with little hesitation.