Day 273 - The Ghost Hunter II

 The Ghost Hunter II

Matthew Ryan Fischer

 

An hour outside of the village, Nadia realized someone was following her. If she slowed or paused, the sounds would quiet around her. There was something foul and mysterious about it. She picked up her pace and the sound of wind across the fields increased as well. She had intended on following the coachman, but now she was more concerned with her own safety.

Nadia looked back. Whoever was there, if there ever was someone, they had disappeared into the black of night. Nadia hurried away from there.

Nadia made her way to the church when she noticed a cat had followed her. White with black and brown patches, it paused when she turned to look at it. It watched with curious eyes. She moved a step closer and the cat did not run. A brave creature, she thought. Nadia continued towards the church and when she looked back the cat was gone.

Inside, Nadia caught Abigail Sturn meeting with Brother Darius. Nadia wondered if this was a confession or something else. She didn’t have time to stop and listen.

The stone statues behind them began to move. Nadia blinked to make sure she hadn’t gone mad. This place of the dead, returned to life. The statues? Or something else? The spirits within, those buried and gone long ago. The visions overwhelmed her. The secrets! Her vision was flooded. The dead, the dead, the dead! No crimes could stay buried. They all needed to come back to the light.

Nadia blinked again and the statues had returned to normal. The sound of a cat hissing made Abigail and Darius turn towards her. She faced them, but no one moved.

Then the statues did begin to move and Nadia screamed in fear.

Day 272 - The Shadows Grew Darker II

The Shadows Grew Darker II

Matthew Ryan Fischer

 

The crows were on the move. They gathered at the covered bridge and waited.

There were eyes in the darkness. Then movement.

The crows cawed and flapped their wings and turned their heads. The spirits were about and the broken calm inspired fear and chaos.

Soldiers appeared from the shadows in-between the trees. A scout, then others. They traveled east to west, along the old roads. Death followed them close. The spirits were angry. Bloodthirsty.

The crows flapped their wings and made their noise as if in approval.

The soldiers faded away and the night grew quiet.

Then a woman approached. A young blond villager, out after midnight, perhaps returning from a secret rendezvous. She clutched several loose papers in her hand. A secret meeting perhaps.

The crows watched.

She paused, noting the bridge was covered in crows.

They watched one another. The crows were silent. Nearly obedient. She moved slowly. The crows watched her approach, but did not react.

She stepped onto the bridge and began to cross. Suddenly the crows took off, swirling in the night sky.

The woman ran!

The crows were on the move.

Day 271 - A Brother Fallen

 A Brother Fallen

Matthew Ryan Fischer

 

Brother Kendrick lashed out, dirk in hand, blood running from his teeth and lips, a bloody cross carved into his forehead. Brother Peter lay dead on the floor, his throat torn open, blood splattered everywhere. Brother Marcus was not a fighter, but he knew he must win this moment if he were to survive.

Reverend Harding was missing and Marcus had gone to his chambers in search of clues and in an attempt to recover a box of religious relics that contained a prophecy of warning written years before. Harding had spoken of riddles and secrets from the past decades, but never explained fully what was to come. Marcus was not one of his trusted, but Harding let certain things slip from time-to-time when libations were imbibed.

Marcus needed to know those secrets. But this daemon had beaten him here and killed two of his brethren. Kendrick’s body may have still been alive, but Marcus couldn’t imagine the man he once knew was in there or would do such heinous things.

Marcus dodged as best he could, then ran for the door. There was no time to recover the locked box. He would be lucky to escape unscathed. Kendrick pursued, but Marcus was able to slam the door shut. He said a silent prayer then wiped a tear from his eye, mourning the loss of life and a natural reaction to his own fear over being attacked.

Kendrick’s monstrous screams echoed down the halls of the monastery as Marcus escaped. It was as though the shadows themselves cried out, shrill and awful. The darkness come to life to attack the living. If Harding’s prophecy foretold this, Marcus wasn’t surprised he and the others had already disappeared. But why had they not thought to include him? Marcus shuddered in fear, wondering aloud if they told of something worse.

Outside the crows cried in response to Kendrick’s horror. Terror in the monastery, terror in the skies, thought Marcus. But perhaps it was a warning. Perhaps the crows were aware of the danger and were there to give him a message.

Marcus followed the crows into the night, hoping their path was the righteous one.

In the forest, the shadows fell, the trees opened turned their gaze and watched Marcus run.

Day 270 - The Shadows Grew Darker

 The Shadows Grew Darker

Matthew Ryan Fischer

 

The shadow fell across the land. The moon grew dim and the night turned dark. Something stirred and the animals grew restless. The Necromancer had cast his spell and something was coming back.

The swamp land bubbled and spread, the green came to life and made its way onto land. Deep in the woods, the trees opened their eyes and all the secrets were seen. The soil began to turn as something far below pushed towards the surface. Long buried graves remained closed no more.

The wind kicked up and the crows were on the move.

Day 269 - Captain Hawkins

 Captain Hawkins

Matthew Ryan Fischer

 

In the dark forest, on a hidden path, a solider made his way, sure to remain hidden in the shadows. Captain Hawkins. His militia was stationed south of the town, waiting and ready, but he had business to attend to first with several of the town elders.

The nights grew dark and long. The winds were cold. A shadow had fallen over the village and past sins were coming due. If his men were to go to war, he wanted answers first. His men were brave but he wouldn’t waste their lives needlessly.

Hawkins studied the trees, looking for a clue. Someone had carved a face. Nature meant something here. Nature had power. Ancient power. He wasn’t sure what he believed, but knew not to question the men in charge. They were in touch with something beyond his comprehension. They didn’t explain and he didn’t want to know. They frightened him, but he had learned to live with the feeling.

This was the place. Sacred and protected.

He made a campfire and waited for them to arrive.

Hawkins read the notes in the journal. An ancient text telling of explorers and native tribes and their gods. He saw no secrets that mattered. There was no future here, only the past. He wasn’t sure why she had given it to him to read. Vanessa. A lovely creature, but an enigma. He wished he didn’t need her so. He was a fool and would do anything for her. He wasn’t sure she would feel the same.

What secret was there that he should be looking for? What battle was fought that he was to learn from? Vanessa had been unclear.

The smell of the bog wafted through the air. There was no reason for it here. It was miles away. But he could feel the stench, the warm mush of mud beneath his feet. He was no longer at his fire, no longer protected, but was somewhere else. Watching something else.

He caught a glimpse. Eyes in the dark. There were leaves where there should have been hair. Bark instead of skin. But the features were soft, gentle. Feminine.

Hawkins didn’t understand. He hid his eyes. He wanted to be back with his men. He wanted to leave this countryside and never look back.

He opened his eyes and the moment had passed. He was in the forest again. The smell was of fallen leaves. The trees were still. The creature, gone.

This night couldn’t end soon enough, he thought to himself as he inched closer to the warmth from the fire.

Day 268 - Vanessa the Immortal

 Vanessa the Immortal

Matthew Ryan Fischer

 

Vanessa struggled to remain conscious. The chatter was incessant. A hundred voices, fighting for her attention. They battled for dominance. All she heard was greater noise.

She could feel it in the woods. Calling. Summoning her. But she knew to avoid it. One set of voices was enough. She didn’t need another.

The owls paused to gaze her way. She wondered what witchcraft had summoned them. If they were here, then her mission might already be known and spoiled.

The fields, stick to the field, she told herself. She had seen the village in her vision. She knew what was there, what had happened. The ghosts, long buried, had begun to stir. Someone was meddling and it was her duty to stop them.

The other voice, the once she knew so well whispered for her to wait, to hide, to beware.

Too many commands, too many warnings, she thought. I can’t do them all. I can’t listen to them all.

The other voice reminded her of the relic they had stolen the night prior. The woods were full of more and more thieves. Their campfire was dying down and the men had fallen asleep. She could have slit their throats, but all she wanted were a few items the thieves wouldn’t have known what to do with anyway. The ghosts were rising and the thieves had robbed what seemed like an ordinary house of God. But Vanessa knew it well, as a place of worship and a place of Brotherhood. The thieves would never miss it. And she needed it. The other voice told her so.

Vanessa passed through the old village from long ago. Burnt. Broken. A brutal savagery had occurred. The people were possessed with rage. A decade later, the blood-soaked ruins called to her. The ground still stained; the buildings smeared with the remnants of the dead.

There were half-souls everywhere. Bitter shards, split spirits, lost without an ounce of their former self. They had no voice. They wouldn’t have been able to reach her or call her here. She was in no position to help them anyway. Their lives destroyed; the trauma of their end still reflected in their pointless afterlife wanderings.

The other voice told her to hurry. They had to reach the manor. They had to stop him. There was no time to waste worrying over these dead, when there was so much more carnage that needed preventing.

The church was in ruins, but someone had been there. There were carvings on the door, rows of salt across the steps and in front of the door. Someone had cast a spell. Perhaps this was who had sent her the visions and summoned her here.

Beware, screamed the other voice, but it was too late. The rotten step collapsed and Vanessa fell backwards. She hit her head and nearly lost consciousness. Her vision blurred and she lost focus. A robed man stepped out of the church. Vanessa tried to sit up but her head was swimming.

There was a faint greenish glow that followed him as he approached. It took shape and revealed an apparition.

Vanessa reached for her satchel. The other voice screamed at her to get up, to fight, to use the relic. Vanessa couldn’t find it, but she could hear the robed man chanting some devious prayer.

The apparition surrounded Vanessa and entered her, consuming her from the inside.

The other voice was silent for the first time in an eternity. Then, Vanessa began to hear another woman’s voice speaking from her mouth, speaking to the robed man. She could feel her body moving, but she wasn’t the one making it do so. She leaned towards the man, embracing him. Vanessa could feel the lust fill her body despite herself, despite not knowing the man. Vanessa was no longer in control.

Then everything faded into darkness.  

Day 267 - The Ghost Hunter

 The Ghost Hunter

Matthew Ryan Fischer

 

The sky was clear and the moonlight lit the fields. Nadia could make out the mill in the distance. There was a coach on the far side. She couldn’t see the coachman.

Slowly she approached across the field of wheat, when suddenly the coachman ran from the mill. Nadia ducked down to avoid being seen. She waited as he untied his horses and rode off. She waited to make sure no one else was around. The night was silent. A hushed calm fell over the realm. Eventually, after much time had passed, Nadia rose and approached the old mill.

Inside, she found broken spectacles. Were they the coachman’s, she wondered. Or had someone else been there before? She wondered what the coachman had been doing there and why he had left in such a rush.

Nadia began to feel faint. Her vision blurred as it often did in moments such as these. She had been called to this place, but wasn’t sure why. The dreams were never clear. She could feel something sinister, but didn’t know what. A warning of some kind, but unhelpful, full of more mysteries than answers.

The floor was burnt and scraps of paper remained in the ashes. Someone had been using the mill for their own purposes. The coachman? Or some other companion?

A black feather fell from the rafters above.

Nadia looked up.

The crows watched, seemingly with a keen interest. The crows remembered, she thought. A dark bird that portended dark deeds. Nadia felt a sudden chill and the night seemed to grow a little darker.

Day 266 - The Brotherhood

 The Brotherhood

Matthew Ryan Fischer

 

Brother Marcus sat in quiet reflection. Something was stirring, but he knew not what. The candles flickered as a cold breeze filled the room. The windows were shut, the shutters were closed. The wind was an abnormality. But then again, nothing at the monastery was normal anymore.

Brother Darius, Brother Janus, and Reverend Harding had disappeared. There were whispers, tales told in the shadows, but Marcus tried not to involve himself in such things. Still, he heard them and could not ignore the insinuations. The Brothers were gone, but it was said they were all part of The Brotherhood. Not the one at the monastery, not the one with a reverence for the Holy, but something else, dark and sinister. Religious men who had faced temptation and came up wanting. Marcus had read about the darker arts, but he had largely disregarded them as fables and foolishness. But it was hard to ignore now as man after man slowly disappeared.

If there was such a Brotherhood, Brother Marcus had not been invited and had no idea of their desires or machinations.

Marcus went in search of any others. The quarters were empty. The kitchen was empty. The door to the library was broken and ajar. Evil may indeed be amiss, he thought. Marcus entered carefully, only to find the room devoid of others, but the shelves in shambles. Books thrown to the ground, cabinets over turned, relics smashed against the walls and floors.

Marcus said a silent prayer. Who would do this? Who would be so dire? What had they been looking for and what could they have taken? He searched the library for a few select texts, but they were nowhere obvious. Perhaps taken, perhaps destroyed or lost. He would have to clean and sort the entire room to be sure. But there was no time for that. Evil lurked and the threat remained and there was no time.

Marcus went to the desk and took a key from a drawer. It opened a locked box in the Reverend’s room. He would have to break the door down, but he needed what was inside. He said a blessing, took a vial of holy water and headed for the locked room.

Day 265 - The Ghosting

 The Ghosting

Matthew Ryan Fischer

 

The temperature dropped and the seasons changed and the leaves began to brown. Fall was upon the village; the nights grew longer and colder and dark. The people closed their windows and lit their candles and threw extra logs on their fires. During the day they nodded and spoke their pleasantries, but at night they stayed away from one another and averted their eyes when they had to go out.

Past the fields and across the river, a robed man crept through the burnt ruins of a church. He lay a flower on the ground and tears rolled down his cheeks. He held a handkerchief close to his heart. The wind kicked up and he looked around, half-expecting to see someone there beside him. It sounded as if animals crept through the darkness. The man was not afraid. He kissed the handkerchief and lay it on top of the flowers. He took out a vial and poured a liquid on the ground in a circle around the flower. Finding a mostly intact pew, he sat back and waited.

There had been a battle fought years ago. Those in the village didn’t speak of it or what went on. Every year, every fall, they turned their heads in shame and never said a word. The children wondered why their parents seemed so sad, but no one said a word.

Past the fields and across the river and down the road was an abandoned village. The children were not allowed to wonder there alone.

The apparitions would return. Men in militia uniforms. Crossing the bridges. Guarding the doors. Running through the fields, charging into the forest. Step by step, the same path every year. The villagers abandoned the town and built a new one and tried to forget. But the ghosts remembered. They could not forget.

The robed man sat throughout the night and just after midnight, the faint greenish hue began to form. First as some sort of mist or fog. Then it took shape. A floating apparition. A spectre, there to watch him.

The man opened his eyes and a look of sadness turned to fear turned to excitement. She was here. She was back. He had always known she would return. He had been sure of it. Slowly he stood and crossed to her. She floated down to his level and they wrapped their arms around one another. The man had plans, for her, for the villagers. But first, he shared a moment of contentedness. He sank into the fog as she enveloped him and they were once again together, one. His sweat, beautiful wife returned to him. And the villagers would pay for what they had done.

Day 264 - Soulcatcher

 Soulcatcher

Matthew Ryan Fischer

 

Where had all the souls gone, wondered Duncan. His soulcatchers were bare. They had been for days. The numbers had been dropping for weeks and months, but they had absolutely cratered this past month. There had been none. The odds were against it. It didn’t seem natural. Duncan worried something was amiss.

Duncan lived in the woods, basically in the middle of nowhere. There was no good reason for so many free-souls to find their way to him, other than perhaps the fact that he had so many soulcatchers and that he was a good soul known for setting them free.

His aura or the energy emitted from his property acted as a lighthouse or a beacon. He liked the idea that he was a soul-beacon lighting up the dark and lonely night, and the free-souls couldn’t resist coming his way.

He had made hundreds of soulcatchers and hung them everywhere on his property he could think of. The field was full of them, as were the woods. He had them hanging from the house, the barn and laundry lines. He had so many, he couldn’t check them all in a single day’s time.

Where were they, if not here? People hadn’t stopped dying. Souls were still exiting bodies. Was someone stealing them? His brother Saul had been a thief. The soulcatchers were his idea. But he had wanted to use the souls they captured. Duncan wanted to set them free. But that had been years ago and Saul had come around to seeing things Duncan’s way. Or had he?

“Have you noticed?” Duncan asked his brother Saul.

The line was silent for a moment.

“You’re talking about the free-souls, aren’t you?”

“You’re not using, are you?”

“Fuck you. Always fun talking to you.”

“I’m just asking. I’m… concerned.”

Saul had been able to distill what was special in each soul and take a little bit for himself. The abilities never really lasted, but it was an exciting ride while it lasted. Duncan was embarrassed to admit he had partaken in the process. He believed in releasing the souls he found, spending some time with them as friends and then helping them to cross over to wherever they were bound to go. He would hate to any of those he had helped that he had also used one or two along the way.

Duncan apologized and explained what had been happening at his home.

“It’s the same here. From what I’ve heard, it’s the same everywhere.”

“Everywhere?”

“Yeah. Maybe it means free-souls are staying with their hosts. Or its become easier to cross over into the next world.”

“Or there’s a soul thief.”

“Yeah. Maybe a soul thief.”

“What do you think?”

“Odds are there have to be some out there. But on this scale? That would be nearly impossible. To do this around the world. All at once. All the time. They’d need to be the nexus of some massive spiritual energy.”

“And that’s possible?”

“I guess.”

“You guess? You’re supposed to be the expert on this stuff.”

“Expert? I never claimed I was an expert.”

“Well, the catchers were your idea.”

“Yeah, I had one good idea in like the last decade. Most of my time anymore is spent trying to meditate and find some other spiritual parallel world where I made better choices. I’m hardly an expert.”

“Were you able to do it?”

“Find another me? No. No. Not at all. I sleep better at night. My blood pressure and anxiety are way way down. But that’s about it.”

“Jesus. What are we going to do?”

“Um, I don’t know. Nothing. It’s not your job. You were doing some free-souls a favor by being a good guy. I don’t think it’s up to you to save the whole world.”

“I don’t like you sometimes.”

“Sure. Blame me for being practical.”

“Is there a lost and found or a missing soul tracking system or anything like that? Someone you can talk to or call? Like a council?”

“I know some people, but we’re not really that organized.”

“Can you do it? For me? Maybe meditate and see if you can find any souls floating around out there?”

“I will try. But be careful. If there is some massive power out there stealing or consuming free-souls, then they’re gonna know about you and that property of yours. You have the largest collection of soulcatchers I’ve ever heard of. Sooner or later, someone is gonna come looking to see what you’ve got.”

“That doesn’t make me feel better at all.”

“It wasn’t meant to. Please be safe. Move, go somewhere else, get out of there. But if you stay, please be safe. I’ll ask around and try to send you a mental message later on.”

“You can do that?”

“We’ll find out. If the phone doesn’t ring, you’ll know it’s me.”

 

 

Additional reading: Soul Catcher Story - The Daily Fischer - Story# 264, September 21, 2013

 

Day 263 - Eighteen Years of Celibacy

 Eighteen Years of Celibacy

Matthew Ryan Fischer

 

It had been eighteen years. Maybe. Molly couldn’t exactly tell. The days blurred and merged and she had lost count at some point that seemed like a lifetime ago. Of course, it wasn’t really years. Or lifetimes. It was a trick. An illusion. Something the spell had conjured up to keep her busy. Still, the days felt real, even if she was pretty sure they weren’t.

Jermaine was out there somewhere. She hoped. She prayed. Somewhere. Maybe he was trapped too. What would his loop be, she wondered. Had he figured it out? Or was he still repeating time, blissfully unaware? Maybe he had escaped. Maybe he was on his way to find her right now.

What would she tell him, she wondered. She had been unfaithful. So many times. For years and years. But if none of this was real, then did it really happen? If this were in her imagination, then it was as harmless as a dream. But the spell had given her a life to live. She had no idea how many days or weeks she had been in this life. If any of it was reality or if she were in a trance somewhere. Days and weeks and years here could be seconds there.

Jermaine would never understand. Even if he had done things in his looped existence. He’d never understand her choices and he’d never forgive himself whatever he had done. He took everything too seriously. There would be no arguing with that.

A year in the life, over and over. A daily routine, but a life. And life was meant to be lived. And she hadn’t remembered herself, let alone anyone else. Not at first. Not when it began. Who was she to not fall in love, to not embrace opportunity. She thought she was living her life after all.

One day she thought she heard a voice. “Molly, Trent, Jermaine, Mike.”

She thought she knew the voice, but didn’t recognize it. She was sure she knew it.

She was, of course, worried at the fact that she was hearing voices.

But then it faded and she went about her business.

But the seed had been planted. Deep down. Her subconscious went to work. She didn’t recognize the names, but she knew them. There was a hidden truth somewhere deep down.

After who knows how long, she realized the voice was from someone she knew. And that she was Molly. One day she woke up and knew it. In her bones. Her name was Molly. Despite everything she had thought for her entire life. Of course, she slowly came to understand that what she thought of as her entire life was nothing more than a yearlong loop, she had been trapped in by some renegade spell. That took some time getting used to.

Derrick was out there. He was trying to find her.

One day things felt strange and she met a man named Jermaine and Molly realized that was her husband’s name. This man was not her husband, but she knew the name and knew he was out there.

The pieces came together slowly.

How many years had she been here? 1000? 10,000? She had no idea. They all blended together. The years, the faces, the times, the activities. Once upon a time she had need of a perfect memory. Now she had to focus. Focus on each and every individual.

The year repeated. But she remembered.

She couldn’t sleep with anyone else now, now that she knew her husband was out there, somewhere.

Eighteen years of penance for what she had done.

Now, she paid the penalty of some puritanical self-restraint and ascetic abstinence. As a favor to herself. She didn’t know if these other people were real or not, so perhaps as a favor to them too. And in some small way as a favor to Jermaine, so she could tell him she tried if she ever saw him again.

Perhaps eighteen years wasn’t long enough. She had lost her virginity at eighteen. Molly thought that perhaps eighteen years of celibacy might break the loop. But it seemed to start over and over and over again until she lost all perspective on how many years it had actually been.

It blurred. 1000 years or more and memory faded. But the loops remained. It was frustrating. The solitude was driving her mad. The knowledge of the outside world was driving her mad. If Derrick or Jermaine were out there, why weren’t they sending any more messages.

“Molly, Trent, Jermaine, Mike.”

The voice had said it countless times. Like a mantra. But where was he? Where were they?

Maybe she was meant to suffer forever for the things she had done.

Wallow in self-pity or find her own way out? That was the choice. Someone had sent her a message. Maybe she could send them one back.

Molly began to whisper Jermaine’s name. Over and over again. She prayed he was listening.

Day 262 - The Morning

 The Morning

Matthew Ryan Fischer

 

The bells rang out.

Trent was already awake. Staring at the ceiling. He could remember 3:13 and 4:42 and then 5:59. He had looked the clock, rolled over and hoped he could get another couple hours in, forgetting all about the season, nature and the fact that he had set the alarm the night before.

 The plantation blinds were closed tight, but the sunlight had begun invading the cracks in between an hour or so ago. Once upon a time, he had needed an alarm to wake. Then for about a year, he woke at 5:00 am every day. Every damn day. His father had collapsed and died at 5:15. Somewhere deep in the back of his mind, something had nudged him awake, as if being awake at the same time would have made any difference at all. 

Trent didn’t need an alarm. He used this one. Set it every night. And it rang every single morning. 

Why? It was insufferable. The routine was pointless. He was already awake. He was always awake. He had beaten the clock for weeks if not months. Basically, ever since he began setting it. He could have shut it off. If he had wanted to. 

Trent had his smart phone. He had used that as an alarm years ago. He certainly didn’t need a mechanical clock. But he would wind it and set in and fall asleep to the ticking pendulum. He could have written a tune to that pattern. He could have counted down to when the chimes would sound. Routine. That’s what it was. Set in stone. Immutable repetition. 

His mother had bought him a morning sun alarm because it was more “natural”. But for some reason it took the annoying repetition of his father’s father’s father’s old alarm clock to give him what he needed. 

Usually. 

Not today. 

Trent, already awake, stared at the ceiling. He had woken in a state of uncomfortable mixed anxiety. His sleep had not been relaxed. His dreams had been all too real and all too full of heightened emotions. His heart beat too hard. For a minute he wasn’t quite sure whether it had been real or not. 

It was getting annoying. Very very annoying. 

He vaguely remembered his dreams. He had certain commonly repeated dreams. Last night he had had two of them. But last night was so far away and it was already beginning to fade. 

One dream was about choice. Something where he had a choice to make. It was something about freedom. Or that was what he could remember anyway. Some dream analysis website told him that this must mean he was confused about a situation in real life. He felt stuck. He didn’t see a way out. What was he confused about? What wasn’t he confused about? Every single day was chaos. He had no control over his life, his choices meant nothing. His life was repetition with no end in sight. It was no wonder that his subconscious was a struggle and his dreams were chaos. 

The other dream was worrisome. He never remembered the beginning, but he always remembered the end. He could see clear as day, the machete, as it swung down. And he knew, just knew his was going to lose his hands. Sometimes he saw the dismemberment, sometimes he didn’t. It jarred him awake. Cold. Scared. Confused and freaked out. Different websites said it meant different things. He feared loss. Of himself. Of someone close to him. Of a special personal skill or ability. An absence of a hand might mean that he felt like he didn’t have enough freedom. 

Freedom. Again. Apparently, all roads didn’t lead to Rome, all of his led him right back to trappings. 

It didn’t matter how much he thought about it. How much he told himself to relax. To not worry about it. His sleeping mind was beyond his control. 

What was he losing? What had he already lost? Trent didn’t know. He could just tell that something, something deep inside was different and wrong. Something had happened. He just had no idea what.

Trent kept all this to himself. He didn’t tell his friends. He didn’t tell his mom. He hadn’t seen his dad in what seemed like an eternity. Some people had told him to try and talk to his father, either at his grave or in some other way, through meditation or shared activities. That felt a little too much like prayer and no one ever answered his prayers. He wondered what he would do if he father did answer. 

Trent’s dreams were his own. 

But he had his father’s clock. He could have that. Everyday.

Couldn’t he just roll over? Couldn’t he just close his eyes and go back to sleep? Couldn’t he just take one day off? One day of rest. A break from the routine that was his life. But that bells weren’t going to let him.

So then why didn’t he get out of bed? 

He was waiting on something. A moment. A sign. A thought. Some spark. Something special that would make him. 

The bells kept going. And Trent kept waiting. Unsure which of them would give up first.