Back of the Envelope

Old Post: The beginning of this story is here, while the previous chapter is here.

Aha! The story now has a title. I would have come up with one sooner, but I needed a better idea of what the story was about. Even then the title ended up being vague and confusing. I brainstormed a bunch of different titles before coming up with this one. Some of them were pretty good, but I decided that this one worked best.

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Chapter 4
Dreams and Visions

Ryan fled through the many-roomed house, and Red-eyes pursued him.

He did not understand this house, with its rooms and doors but no windows or furniture. It had no logic behind its design, no overarching theme, only fading yellow wallpaper and dusty hardwood floors beneath and bare lightbulbs overhead. All the rooms looked alike, small and square with doors in every wall, and he did not know whether he was going forward or in circles as he chose doors at random. He looked for footprints in the scattered dust, but he saw no trace of anyone's passage, not even his own when he looked behind him. He did not know where Emily was, although he thought she too was in this house. He could hear doors opening and closing, heavy footsteps echoing through the nearby rooms, and he turned away from them, moving as quietly as he could without relinquishing too much speed, trying to avoid Red-eyes' notice. In all the time in this house he had not seen Red-eyes, and he knew that once he did he would die. So he ran, or tip-toed when the sounds of pursuit drew near, turning the next doorknob slowly and praying the hinges did not creak as he slipped into the next room.

He did not know how long this pursuit had gone on, but he was sure it had been hours. He was panting and gasping, his breath long worn-out, sweat dripping into his eyes, and his chest sore from his hammering heart. It was not the running which had worn him down, as this chase was practically sedate compared to the previous mad dashes, but from the tension, hour after hour of near misses and narrow escapes. He thought that his heart would burst soon, the stress having overwhelmed his poor physical conditioning.

Ryan heard loud, thudding footsteps to his right, and he turned to the left, opening the next door with all the stealth he could manage.

His ears must have deceived him, as he found that Red-eyes was not in the room behind him, but in the room directly before him. Red-eyes' hand was reaching toward the same door that Ryan had just opened, and as Ryan tried to slam it shut, he caught it on his open palm and pushed it back open. The door swung open with enough force to shove Ryan back. He skidded in the dust and then fell on his rear, with Red-eyes towered above him.

At first glance Red-eyes was still a tall man with dark hair and a dark mustache. He wore sunglasses now, but they were not enough to hide the crimson glow coming from his eyes, seeping around the edges and even through the lenses. His long trenchcoat was buttoned up tight, but it bulged and twitched as odd shapes pressed against it from the inside. The chest bulged outward as the shape of a hand pressed against the inside of the coat. The two hands which were where they should be reached toward Ryan, the ill-fitting black leather gloves not hiding deformed claws within. All around Red-eyes was a darkness which seemed to leak out from within. The glow from the lightbulb dimmed as this dark aura hid it as Red-eyes leaned over Ryan.

Ryan scooted backwards on his bottom, pushing with his feet while using his elbows for support, and noticed that the left pocket of his coat dragging on the floor, drawing a rough scraping sound only partly muffled by fabric and dust. He always had things in the pockets of his coat, but this was too heavy for the usual pen and paper and calculator. His hand fumbled at his pocket, closing on cold metal, and he drew out the item. It was smooth, heavy, and cool, and when he saw it at first it was so out-of-place that it wouldn't register. A round cylinder the size of of his fist, a narrow barrel wider than a finger and as long as his hand, a grip wrapped in plain black leather. It was a silver revolver straight out of a Western. As he closed both hands around the grip, he was surprised at how comfortably it fit his hands. Ryan had never fired a pistol before, but now was not the time to argue. Red-eyes' twisted hands were mere inches from his throat, so Ryan pointed the pistol at his forehead and pulled the trigger.

At this range he could not miss, and the pistol's report echoed back and forth through the small room even as its recoil sent his head thudding against the floor. The loud crack was audible even above the pistol's echo, but Ryan could not spare a moment for the pain. He used his left hand to push himself up while his right still held the pistol pointing toward where Red-eyes had been. He saw the large man stumbling backwards, a hole in his forehead and the red eyes and dark aura gone from his body. Instead, the red-eyes and dark aura had remained where they were, unmoved by the pistol shot. A dark shadow still loomed above Ryan, having sloughed its human body like a dead skin. It eyes, now completely red except for a cat-like pupil, blazed crimson while dark talons reached for Ryan's throat even as the cast-off human body hit the wall and slid down it. Ryan fired twice more, but the bullets only passed through this shadow. It had a shape which was vaguely human and vaguely animal, and though its black mass was indistinct and even translucent, Ryan could see the bird-like talons clearly until they passed beyond his vision and locked on his throat. The fingers were icy cold and hard, more like rock than flesh despite the gaseous figure of its owner. He felt his windpipe collapsing under the pressure of those fingers, and Ryan gasped for breath as he fired once more into the darkness. The chill was radiating from those hands, spreading through his neck to his head and his chest. He thought the cold might kill him even faster than the lack of air. His vision was fading at the edges and he knew he could not last much longer. He stared into the blazing red eyes as he continued pulling the trigger, even though only a loud click came from the weapon now. The mouth opened--to Ryan it seemed more beak than mouth, but his dim vision could not hope to make sense of the indistinct form before him--to reveal a crimson glow leaking from within, and Ryan heard a single word in that deep, resonant voice which now wasn't so distant, just before all light and sound vanished with Ryan's consciousness.
* * *
Ryan sat up straight so quickly that he got a headrush. "Yow," he said, putting a hand to his damp forehead. The covers had slipped from his bare chest, also damp from sweat, to collect at his waist. He rubbed the sweat from his chest, wondering whether it came from the heat or the fading dream. The hotel room was too warm to be under the covers, but Ryan felt too naked in his underwear to sleep without covers with Emily in the same room. Fortunately, she was still asleep, soft and easy breathing coming from her bed to his right, so she wasn't a witness to his near nudity and less than athletic physique. His eyes were well enough adjusted to the dark that in the light streaming in even through the closed blinds he could see the generic furniture in the room.

Emily had shown little modesty when undressing for bed, and lay under a thin sheet which did little to hide her figure. Ryan looked away, not wanting to stare, and got out of bed on the left side. Placing his left hand on the wall for guidance in the dark, he followed it to bathroom. The wallpaper was embossed with elegant filigree, and the simple sensation of the patterned roughness against his fingers was comforting after the vague and overpowering dream. Turning the corner he came to the door to the bathroom. It was dark inside, the wall blocking the light from the window and only an illuminated lightswitch providing any light, and little enough at that.

Ryan reached for the lightswitch and then thought better of it. He didn't need much light and he really did not want to wake up all the way, even after that nightmare. Fumbling, he found the sink and turned on the faucet, setting the water to where it ought to be slightly warm. He had never met a faucet that actually gave the expected temperature, and sure enough the water was scalding in no time. His questing hands had found a washcloth by then, so he held it under the water without much regard for the temperature. The washcloth was unpleasantly warm as he rubbed his face with it, but it was bearable. He could already feel the stubble on his face, and without a razor he would look pretty unkempt in the morning. Quite an adventure, isn't this? It's been less than a day and already I'm missing the comfort of my own home. Apartment sweet apartment. Ryan used the washcloth on his chest and stomach next, cleaning off the sweat and dampening the top of his boxers. Done, he set the cloth down and forced his eyes open so he could face himself in the mirror. In the dark, all he could see were shadows and a vague, man-like shape. With bright red eyes.

The shape in the mirror wasn't him, couldn't be him. It was too big, lean and tall rather than stout. The shadows in the mirror had dissolved into a grey blur, while in the center, filling his vision, was the dark shape in his dream. It lacked distinct lines, its edges blurred and streaming and billowing, as if it were made of smoke barely able to hold its shape. Its resemblence to a human being was no more than a stick figure's--the same uprightness, the same number of limbs, a single head. Beyond that, Ryan could not make out much more. The head was indistinct, but he did not think it was human, as he could not make out nose or mouth or jaw, only the crimson eyes with the slitted pupils. The arms--if they were arms, for they moved with a fluidity more akin to tentacles--ended in talon-like hands, five fingers with long, sharp nails and no palm. These hands alone were clear and distinct, as they reached toward him. Out of the mirror.

Ryan would have cried out, screamed like a madman or a child, but he could only squeeze the barest wheeze out of his throat. He would have run, but his feet seemed rooted in place. He raised his right arm to protect himself, and his left went for the light switch, still glowing orange on the wall. His fingers found the switch even as one of the creature's talons swept aside his upraised arm.

The overhead flourescent flooded the room with light, reflecting from the mirror and the tiles and the porcelain to chase all the shadows away. Even in his horrified paralysis, Ryan blinked in the sudden light, and when his vision cleared the creature was gone. There was only himself in his boxers, bare chest and pouched stomach covered in dark curly hair. Ryan's head swiveled back and forth, looking for the thing which had been in the mirror. "What the hell is going on here?" he asked himself in the mirror, taking a good, long look to make sure it was him in the mirror.

He placed his hands on the edge of the sink, leaning on his arms as he took several deep breaths and let his galloping heart resume a more normal pace. His heart was in no condition for these sorts of shocks, nor was his mind. One or both would give if this continued, and he could only hope that his mind had not broken down already. His eyes were red with dark spots underneath. He really needed sleep, but he doubted he'd be able to return to sleep now. Had he fallen asleep standing up and dreamed? Was it a vision like what Emily claimed she saw? What else could it have been?

His right forearm burned, and he looked down to see blood running down his arm, to where his hand was flat against the porcelain edge of the sink. Ryan picked up the washcloth and wiped away the blood to reveal a long, shallow scratch across his arm. How...? He remembered the creature reaching for him, its talon brushing aside his right arm, a nail scratching across the skin. Ryan pressed the cloth against the cut and looked at himself in the mirror. It was just him now, looking unnaturally pale and frightened. He clenched his teeth to prevent them from chattering. That couldn't have been real; it just couldn't have.

Ryan was more tired than when he had first lay down, but he didn't think he'd be going back to sleep now. He didn't even want to return to the dark hotel room. Think, Ryan. Think! Was his mind really starting to crack under the strain? Or... is this situation even crazier than I first thought. He needed to come up with a course of action, but there were too many unknowns.

"Approach this logically. Like a scientist," he told himself in the mirror. Technically speaking, Ryan wasn't really a scientist. He was an engineering Grad student at MIT who did experimental research in semiconductor physics, but it was close enough. Since he was an electrical engineer, his affinity was for the design side of the experiments, but he knew how to do scientific research. This crazy situation might seem well beyond the laws of science, but was that really the case? Just because it was outside the known laws of physics didn't mean it didn't obey any laws. He just had to determine what those laws were, which could be done by forming and testing hypotheses. Apply the scientific method and everything would fall into place, right?

"Okay, problem one, I don't know that. It may be that logic doesn't work here and it doesn't obey any rules. If I try to pretend that it does, I'm dead. Problem two, even if it does, and I could apply the scientific method to mutants or demons or ghosts or whatever this is, attempting to disprove a hypothesis is liable to get me killed. There are way too many ways to die here."

Ryan stared at himself in the mirror and wondered how he had gotten involved in this. Was it just a coincidence, that he was there and Emily latched onto him as a part of her delusion? Or was there really some sort of prophecy involved, as she believed?

Okay, her visions provide me with a testable hypothesis. He could compare her visions with reality and see if they truly could predict what would happen, preferably as part of a double-blind test where people could not be influenced by her visions. Only he couldn't see how to make it work. He would need to record each vision in a lab notebook, carefully marking time and date and each detail of the vision, then keep a record of incidents which might be matches with the visions. As he was intimately involved in them right now, there was no way to make it a double-blind prophecy. To properly do this sort of study might take years, selecting for those visions where the subject did not know about the vision, and Ryan didn't have years. All right, let's save that one for a later date.

What about Red-eyes? What is he? Natural or supernatural? Science or religion? Flesh or spirit? How do you test something like that? For a start, let's list his traits. Ryan's coat was hanging in the closet directly outside the bathroom, and he braved the dark to retrieve a small notepad and a pen from an inner pocket. As an afterthought he grabbed a pencil as well. He kept a ready supply of writing instruments since he was always looking for one. Always be prepared. He kept the notebook so he could record any brilliant ideas he might have. Given his usual dearth of brilliant ideas, instead he found that he used it to write down pithy sayings of his own invention, such as Tempus fugit... et sequimur postea. and If we are what we eat, does that make us cannibals? Opening the six-by-four notebook to the first blank page as he sat down on , he considered what to write.

Tall. Big man. Strong--unnaturally strong? Dark hair and mustache. Ryan paused. Everything else he wrote would be about his unusual traits, those things that made him abnormal or even supernatural. Unnoticeable. Red irises--glowing? Super traction? That sounded silly, but he had seen it himself. Red-eyes had no more difficulty walking on ice or snow than pavement. Super fast? This one Ryan was less sure about. It had seemed that no matter how fast they ran they could not gain any distance from him, but if that was the case, how had he not caught them in the mall, where they were careening off people but the crowd parted for him like the Red Sea? It had only been outside that he had the real advantage, where even plowed streets were slick and gritty and filled with people. It could be a manifestation of that super-traction thing. Or perhaps he was applying logic to where none belonged.

"Okay, that's gotten me nowhere. Now what?"

Dream? He surprised himself with that one. But yes, he could not ignore the dream, nor the after-dream phantasm which had nearly ripped his arm off. So, yes, maybe this thing could cause nightmares. If it could cause people not to notice it, why couldn't it cause nightmares in its targets? Hallucination? And if dreams, why not hallucinations? Maybe prolonged exposure to whatever it was which caused its non-targets to ignore it also cause nightmares and hallucinations in its target. And the cut? Well, he'd had dreams which incorporated physical sensations before. That didn't mean the dream caused the physical sensation.

He looked at his notebook and wondered whether he'd accomplished anything. He'd done a fine job of rationalizing his experiences, if by rationalizing you meant accepting the fact that he was being chased by some freakish mutation which could be invisible to everyone but him and Emily while causing him to suffer strange dreams and hallucinations. And Emily? She already had hallucinations, so how could she tell the normal insanity from the new stuff? Why don't I just accept the fact that I've gone mad and check myself into a mental institution? Emily could come too. It would do her good.

Ryan looked himself in the eye. "I'm not insane." He smiled at himself, not because he was happy but because he believed it. It was true, the insane never thought themselves insane, and perhaps he was just deceiving himself, but up until yesterday his life had just been so normal, ordinary, and boring that it was impossible for him to believe that he'd gone off his rocker, just like that. Maybe the stress of the current situation was getting to him, but if so, it was because he really was in a situation worth getting stressed about. Now he could write off the dream as just a dream, and even the phantasm he'd just witnessed might be no more than that. He'd only been half awake, he'd been completely freaked out by the nightmare as much as by real life, and sometimes dreams did incorporate physical sensations, such as cutting his right forearm on something while walking around half asleep.

On the other hand... what if the dream and phantasm were not just his subconscious, but something outside at work. Whether supernatural or superscience or telepathic or something else, it could be significant. In which case... Ryan took pen to paper again and wrote out a brief description of the dream. That took up two pages of his notebook. Then, trading the pen for one of the cheap mechanical pencils which he bought by the dozen, he began to sketch the thing he had seene. The problem, aside from his complete lack of artistic ability, was that the shape he had seen had been blurred and indistinct when he'd first seen it, and his fading memory was making it more so. He found himself starting over several times, and he had ripped out three pages until he came up with a passable sketch. The shape of the head was a bit of a puzzle, and he smeared the lead with his thumb until it was as indistinct as it had looked to him, but the arms and talons, at least, looked like what he remembered. Satisfied, he stuffed pen, pencil, and notepad back in the pocket of his jacket and returned to shut off the light. He felt a moment's fear looking into the mirror with the light off, but nothing appeared but his own shadowy reflection. He found his way back to his bed, once again using the wall to navigate. The clock said it was three in the morning. He didn't remember the exact time when he had awoken earlier, but he thought it had been about an hour. He was feeling much better, his writing and drawing having leeched the emotional strain out of him. He was asleep again within minutes.

[OOC: I'd have drawn a picture, but sadly my artistic abilities are even worse than Ryan's. My attempts came far short of the image I saw in my head.]
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When Ryan woke up, sunlight was filtering in through the blinds and Emily was talking on the phone. He heard her mention tickets, but he wasn't conscious enough to figure out what she was talking about. He sat up and rubbed his eyes until he could see clearly. Emily was already dressed, and she was brushing out her hair as she spoke on the phone. He yawned as she hung up.

"You're awake!"

"I guess so," he mumbled.

"Good. I let you sleep in while I made arrangements but we have to hurry if we're going to catch our plane."

"Catch our what?"

"Our plane. I got us some reservations on a flight to Columbia. It was really expensive on such short notice but I have a pretty high limit on my credit card and it is an emergency--"

"Whoa, hold on, you got tickets to Colombia, as in South America?"

"No, silly, Columbia, as in South Carolina. Although I guess it does sound sort of the same."

"Okay, first question, what do you mean `us'? I can't just join you for a trip to South Carolina or South America or South anywhere out of the blue."

"But it's an emergency! You have to come with me! We're in this together!"

"Which brings me to the second question: why South Carolina? What's there that it makes a good place to run when fleeing Red-eyes?" Ryan had never been anywhere south of the Mason-Dixon line, so his knowledge of it came only from television shows like Dukes of Hazzard (Where did that show take place, anyway?) and high school classes on US history and the civil rights movement. He knew that such things hardly covered the most positive aspects of the South, and the few Southern friends he had at school made fun of those stereotypes when they weren't offended by them, but even giving South Carolina the benefit of the doubt, it was no place that he wanted to go. He could do without the hicks and the racists and the Bible-thumpers, assuming they weren't all one and the same.

"It's where I'm from," Emily said. "My parents still live there. They can help us."

Ryan had never noticed that she had much of a Southern accent, but that was not the part of that he was interested in. "They can? How?"

"Well, my father's a minister... I'm not sure how, but I'm sure they can. I feel it."

"Look, Emily, I know you think Red-eyes is a demon or something, and I don't mean to offend you, but, what if you're wrong? What if he's a mutant or something?"

"You still think he's just a mutant?"

"It's what I'm going with, yes." Since when is someone just a mutant? "I'd prefer to think he was just some dangerous psychotic who was good at mind games, but we'll go with mutant."

"So, he's just a mutant? Or just a psychotic? Or whatever? Anything but admit that he might be a demon?"

"My point is that if he's not a demon, how is the fact that your father's a minister going to help? Is he going to pray away a psychotic?"

"Why not? If prayer works against a demon, why shouldn't it work against a psychotic?"

"Why? Why?! Can't you see the difference between a physical threat and a spiritual one? Sure, if he's really a spiritual entity--which, by the way, I'm not convinced of--then maybe he can be prayed away. Spiritual beats spiritual. But if he's a purely physical being, than how can the spiritual have any effect?"

She looked at him for a long moment, and Ryan thought that maybe his argument was sinking in. "You really don't know anything about religion, do you?" she asked.

"Argh! Why do I even try to argue?"

"Good question. Anyway, I've already bought the tickets, so I'm going. Even if my parents can't `pray away' the psychotic mutant demon, they can help in other ways. So, are you coming?"

"Yeah. Sure, why not? I've come this far. How much worse can it get?"

"I don't know, but you better hurry up and get dressed if you want to find out. We need to be out of here in twenty minutes if we're going to catch our plane."

Ryan slunk out of bed and into the shower, wishing he had more time. As he hurriedly washed himself, he reflected that in the light of day his silly nightmares seemed insignificant compared to the trouble he was really facing.

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This is Chapter 4 of a story in progress. This chapter is 4,511 words long, bringing the total to 14,310. It's not yet in novella range, but it's creeping there. It might be novel length by the time it's done. I really have no idea where the story is going from here, but it's bound to be a fun ride. One thing I really liked about this section is the phrase "psychotic mutant demon." I briefly considered making that the title of this story, but felt that it didn't quite fit. I do intend to use it more, not just in this story or even this blog: it's the sort of phrase that needs to be worked into everyday conversations.

Old Post: This story begins here, and continues here.

It's a day late, but here's the next chapter of my story in progress. Just in time for the next Storyblogging Carnival.

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Chapter 3
A Brief Respite

"So why the Burlington Marriott?" Ryan asked.

"Huh?" Emily's eyes blinked groggily. She appeared to have dozed off in the aftermath of their flight, slouching in the seat of the cab. Lights from streetlamps and cars gave the the backseat of the cab an unsteady illumination. They were now on Mass Ave, near Harvard Square, and about to head beyond the area of Boston and Cambridge which Ryan knew well. He vaguely knew that Burlington was out this way, but he rarely travelled so far. Boston was a city where people walked or took public transportation, and he rarely had reason to head out beyond the limits of its public transportation.

Ryan asked again. "Why did you tell the cab driver to take us to the Burlington Marriott?"

"Oh." Emily stifled a yawn. "It's a nice hotel. I've been there before."

Ryan held his jaw firmly shut lest it fall open. "We're running from that, that man, and you want to go to a nice hotel. Are you out of your damn mind?" That's a dumb question. Of course she is. I knew that from the moment I met her.

Her mouth twisted in a frown. "I asked you not to curse. And, in fact, I do know what I'm doing. Sort of."

"So what are you doing?"

"Running. I asked the driver to take us to the only place I could think of that's well outside of central Boston but within range of a cab. It seemed as good a place as any."

"I can think of a better one. How about a police station?" Although, come to think of it, Ryan didn't know where any of Boston's police stations were. The cabbie might, though. He seemed a bit too concerned about the Boston police. "Whoever this guy is, the police could handle him."

"No they couldn't. They wouldn't even see him. You saw how most people didn't notice him."

"They were just afraid. You know how people try to mind their own business in big cities. The police are different. It's their job to help people." Which is kind of sad, Ryan thought. People ought to show some concern for others even when you don't pay them to do so.

Emily shook her head. "You don't understand. It's not just apathy. I tried to get help from one of the security people at the mall, but he could not see him. He didn't see him when I pointed right at him, and when he was right on top of me, the security person just lost interest in me too. It was like he was invisible and no one could see him but me, and when I was close to him they couldn't see me either."

"You sound like a... you sound paranoid." She sounds like a paranoid schizophrenic.

"Just because you're paranoid doesn't mean that nobody's after you. And he was after me. You saw him too, right? Uh, right?"

She's wondering if she is crazy. If I were in her place, I might be wondering the same. Hell, even in my place I'm beginning to wonder. "Yeah, I saw him," Ryan answered, and was not surprised when she visibly relaxed. "I wouldn't say he was invisible. People saw him enough to move out of his way. Maybe more unnoticeable."

"See. People aren't just unnoticeable. There's something unnatural about him, don't you think?"

"Maybe," Ryan grunted. Does she mean unnatural, or supernatural? Ryan didn't reject the supernatural out-of-hand, but if it did exist, he expected it to be subtle and inobtrusive, a gentle sea underlying the fabric of the universe. He didn't expect to meet it large and in-person and trying to hurt him. By far the most likely explanation was general Bostonian apathy combined with this girl's schizophrenic delusion. "What do you think it is?"

"I think he's possessed by a demon."

"Huh." Well, if you wanted a supernatural explanation, that's about as supernatural as you can get. "Are you sure he's not some kind of mutant? He might emit some kind of pheromone which causes people to tune him out."

"I'm serious!" she said.

"What makes you think I'm not? I'm not sure I believe in demon-possession. I do believe in mutation and pheromones. I don't know whether they could do what we just saw, and I admit it seems unlikely, but I think it's more probable than what you're suggesting."

"You don't believe in demon possession? Why not? You do believe in God, don't you?"

"Yeah, I guess--"

"You guess? But, how can you be the guy I'm supposed to marry if you're not a believer?"

"Hold it! Whatever you believe, I'm not so sure about this destiny... prophecy... or whatever it is stuff. I don't even believe in love at first sight."

"Who said I loved you? That has nothing to do with it."

"Huh?" That should not have hurt. Whatever attraction he might or might not feel for Emily--and he just hadn't had enough time to sort out, or even necessarily feel, any reaction to her beyond "not bad looking"--he certainly didn't love her. Why should he care whether she loved him? Why should he assume that she felt anything at all toward him? But he had assumed that she felt, well, something. "What about all that talk about fate?"

"I don't remember saying anything about fate. I don't believe in fate; I do believe in God."

"Okay, I'm not sure that made any sense at all," Ryan said.

"It's just, well, it's prophecy. God wants it to happen, but sometimes prophecy can be conditional. On the one hand God can be disobeyed, on the other, he can be convinced to show mercy and relent. Fate is unconditional, unavoidable, unchangeable. God responds to us. I guess I'm not explaining this very well. I'm not a... theologist? No. Theologian? Whatever."

"So are you saying you intend to convince God to relent and not make us get married?"

"No. I'm saying that God wants us to get married. If we're obedient, we will. How we feel about each other is secondary. I think we'd come to love each other, but I think it's silly to think we'd feel something like that right away. Don't you agree?"

"On that, at least, I do agree. Love is not a word I just toss around unless I mean it."

There was a long silence. Ryan looked out the window for a while, watching as they passed Porter Square and its T station. He had only the vaguest idea how to get here by car, although he had taken the subway to that T station plenty of times. He knew how he got to this point, but he didn't really know where it was. That might be a fitting analogy for the current situation. He glanced at Emily. God wants us to marry, huh? He didn't really know what he wanted in a relationship, but he was pretty sure sanity was in there somewhere. He wasn't quite sure whether Emily was a religious fanatic, since he didn't know enough about religion to know where the line between fantacism and normal religiosity was. He was pretty sure the mainstream churches didn't include a lot of people who saw visions.

He frowned. My skepticism isn't a whole lot of help here, is it? Probably not. She was being chased by someone--something--that wasn't normal. From her worldview, assuming a supernatural explanation made as much sense as assuming science gone awry made in his worldview. So that part wasn't so crazy, even if he cringed at such an irrational approach to the world. No, what was so crazy was the vision thing, that she believed she had seen him in a vision and that somehow they were meant for each other. Anyway he sliced it, that was a little nuts. Perhaps not stark raving nuts--lots of people believed and did strange things; he knew a few New Agers who made this girl look like a hardnosed skeptic--but enough to make him very uncomfortable around her. Still, he shouldn't jump to conclusions.

"All right," he said. "I admit I don't understand what is going on here. Whatever he is, why is he chasing you?"

"I have no idea. It could be because of the visions, but I... I'm just not sure."

The visions again. "Maybe if you told me how this all started, I could make some sense out of it."

"I doubt it," she said. "But I can try. There's not that much to tell, really. I was alone in my apartment--it's on Newbury Street, the west side of Mass Ave, where the houses are, not the east where the shops are, although..." Ryan started to say something, but Emily must have caught his mood. "So, anyway, there I was when the door just opened and that weird guy walked in. I don't usually keep my apartment door locked during the day, since the building's locked anyway and I've never had trouble. I don't usually worry about my neighbors, and if someone else came into the building it'd have to be because someone propped the door open or let him in or something, and I don't think any of the other tenants would do that. But I suppose that with his unnoticeability, or whatever, that guy could sneak in without any problem. Anyway, I was in the kitchen, not my bedroom, or else that would have been the end of it. But I was in the kitchen, and at first I thought it was my roommate, but when I turned to look it wasn't her but this big guy coming right towarda me and moving fast. I knew right away that he was dangerous. I mean, some big guy comes into your home and comes after you like he means to grab you and of course you're going to assume that he's up to no good, he's a murderer or a rapist or whatever. But when I saw him I knew he was something worse, something unnatural. I don't think it was that I saw his red eyes right away; it was more like I felt something, I felt his... evil. I suppose that sounds silly to you, but right then it was so obvious that I screamed and I ran without stopping to think about it. There's a back door to the apartment, which leads down some stairs and out into the back of the building, where there's this paved over area. It's not an alley, since it's pretty open, but nothing's back there except for some junk people have thrown out and the trash cans and such. So I ran down there as fast as I could, screaming at the top of my lungs, and I can hear him coming down the steps after me. I'm out the door and running, but of course there's snow everywhere, and I'm tripping and falling and knocking over garbage cans but somehow he doesn't catch me, maybe because he had to climb over those garbage cans I knocked over, maybe because I've stopped screaming and I'm praying that I get away. I tend to think that's the real reason, but I suppose that you don't believe that either. Anyway, I get out to the street where it's plowed and people are staring at me, but I keep running as he's coming after me, and I'm asking people to help me and to stop him, but no one stops him and then someone grabs hold of my arm and he says he'll help me if I tell him what's happening and I point to the guy, but he just keeps asking what is it, what's wrong, so I push away from him and he watches me run but the guy walks right past him, and then I know, I mean really know that this guy can't be normal. Soon I'm on Mass Ave and it occurs to me that I should find a crowd, that that may help, and I cross the street and nearly get run over because I can't stop long enough to even check the traffic, much less wait for it. But I get over and get into the mall. I think I told you about how I ran into a security guard and he couldn't see the guy either, and then I ran into you. And you know the rest since you were there."

Ryan is staring at her in awe, wondering how she managed to tell all that without running out of breath. Still, it didn't make any sense. "So, the gist of it is that he broke into your apartment, you ran from him, you asked for help but no one else could see him, then you ran into me--whom you recognized from your vision, I guess--and I could see him, and then we both ran."

"Well, sure, if you want the short version of it. To be honest, before I first ran into you, I was beginning to wonder whether I was imagining the whole thing. I've had visions before but this was nothing like any of those, so I was wondering whether I'd lost my mind. And then you showed up, and you could see him too. Unless... I guess you both could be figments of my imagination."

"Well, I know I exist, but I don't see why that should convince you."

"Let's ask. Mr. Driver?"

"Yes?" the cabbie replied.

"Do you see this guy?" she asked, pointing at Ryan.

The cabbie glanced up at the rearview mirror, where Ryan could see his eyes, so presumably he could see Ryan. "Why? What he doing?"

"Oh, nothing. Never mind."

"You sure? If he not behaving like--what the word?--gentleman, I can kick him out."

"That won't be necessary."

"Okay. But let me know..." The cabbie returned his eyes to the road in time to honk and shout obscenities to the car in front of him, which he'd come dangerously close to rear-ending.

"Was that necessary?" Ryan asked, his face flushing bright red.

"Well, I had to be sure. I know he's not imaginary, cause if he were, who'd be driving the cab?"

She has a point. "Okay, strange madman who may or may not be demon-possessed or a mutant aside, what about these visions? You say you have them. How often? For how long? How do you know what they mean?"

Emily frowned. "I don't know if you'd understand if I tried to explain. It's a spiritual gift, I think, maybe the gift of prophecy. My brother says that that's not how theologians usually interpret the gift of prophecy, but he also thinks theologians may water down the spiritual gifts because they don't see the spectacular ones very often. It has something to do with sensationalism, no, dispen-something, er, some -ism or whatever. Of course, he also says he has the gift of punctuality, and I'm pretty sure that's not in the Bible."

Ryan sighed. "Just forget that for now, okay. Do you think these visions have something to do with why Red-eyes is chasing you?"

"I don't know. Maybe."

"Did any of them involve him?"

"No. I've never seen him in a vision or in real life."

"But you have seen me?"

"Well, yes, but that didn't have anything to do with this."

"Are you sure?"

"I suppose I'm not really sure of anything. I know God wants us to marry, but I didn't know anything else about you. I suppose I should learn more about you."

Ryan fought the urge to sigh again. "Forget me for the moment. So you don't know why he's chasing you. Do you know how he found you in the first place?"

"No, but he knew where I lived."

"And you don't think that was random?"

"Would he chase me so far if it was?"

"I don't know. If he's just some psycho..."

"Some psycho mutant, you mean. You agreed earlier that he's not ordinary."

"Okay, so some psycho mutant. If he's not right in the head, sure, he might chase you all this way without some clear reason. He might head back to your apartment and try to find you there, so you shouldn't go back, but there's no reason to think he could track you anywhere else."

"No, I don't think he can follow this cab."

"Okay, that's good. It's pure speculation, but good anyway. But what if it's more than just some psycho. If he knew where you lived, could he track you by your credit card or cell phone or something?"

"I thought only the police could do that."

"Them or anyone else who can crack your bank's computers."

"In that case, maybe you should pay for the hotel room."

"We're staying in a hotel room?"

"That's where we're going, silly. What did you think we were going to do there?"

"But... don't you want to stay on the move?"

"On the move to where?"

"I don't know, but getting in a car and driving to New York might not be a bad idea."

"I'm tired," she said, as if that explained everything. "I don't think I can drive a car right now." She looked him up and down. "I don't think you can either. I think it's best if we find a place to stay for the night."

No, Ryan didn't think he was in any condition to drive. It didn't help that it'd been a couple of years since he'd gotten behind the wheel. Living in a city where everyone walks had atrophied his driving skills.

"So you think this hotel will be safe? We could just stay at my apartment. It'd be cheaper."

"Where do you live?"

He hitched a thumb over his shoulder. "Back there a couple of miles."

She shook her head emphatically. "I really don't want to head toward him. Anyplace a couple of miles back is too close. The hotel really isn't far enough, but it's as far as we can reasonably get with a cab."

Ryan had to admit that heading in the direction of Red-eyes didn't seem like a great idea to him either. He'd feel better if they were farther away. "Okay, one last protest and then I'll shut up. Did he hear you when you told the cabbie where to go?"

"He was outside, on the ground in front of the cab. He couldn't have heard."

Ryan tried to remember exactly where Red-eyes had been when Emily had told the cabbie where to go. Was he in front with his bright red eyes glaring at them from the dark, hulking mass, or was he by that point pounding on the window, causing it to shiver in its pane? Ryan couldn't remember, and he was finding that he was too tired to care all that much anyway. Even if Red-eyes came to the hotel, what were the odds he'd be able to find them there?

* * *

They shared a hotel room but didn't sleep together. It surprised Ryan that this seemed strange to him. The girl, though she insisted they would one day marry, had no intention of having sex until they were married because of her religious beliefs. She said all this without any prompting from Ryan. She seemed to think every guy was just looking for a chance to bed every girl they met. Ryan had told her, rather acerbically, that he had no intention of sleeping with a woman on the first date, even if they were engaged--he had quickly amended that the last part had been sarcastic and he did not in the least bit believe that they were supposed to marry. And what he didn't say aloud was that while he thought she was attractive enough, he wasn't sure it was wise to even sleep in the same room with this strange woman who saw things and thought she was his fiancee. So if neither of them had the least intention to sleep with the other, why did it seem so odd that they were not doing so? He realized, as he lay in the dark listening to her soft breathing, that it was all a product of his culture. If this had been a movie, he was certain they'd be sleeping together. It made sense: guy saves girl from certain death (or something), they share a hotel room while hiding from the mysterious man chasing them, guy sleeps with girl. That was the natural and logical progression; he could even remember a couple of movies where that exact sequence had happened. And considering his movie-going habits, that must mean it was pretty predominant. Except, in the movies, the plot would normally make more sense.

He was just about to drift to sleep when he remembered that short, doubtful, insincere prayer he'd said just before all this started. God, he decided, had a bizarre sense of humor. Still, the prayer had been answered in a way, so he decided another, more serious one couldn't hurt. "God, help me through this." He glanced in the direction of the girl, breathing softly as she slept. "Help us both through this."

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This chapter is 3,601 words long, bringing the total of the whole story to 9,799. I'm beginning to think this story will reach novella length before it's done.