Preying on the Innocent by Darkspade and Rickey Tenet.
Upon touching the reflective surface of a mirror adorned with the aura of darkness, the Unholy One’s entire being drifted away from Charon’s view until there was no sight of her father.
From a different perspective, all was absolute darkness, no feeling whatsoever. Even as Darkspade thought he was forcing his eyelids wide open, darkness still penetrated his every view. Was this a death?
No. It was a transference.
Time moved differently here—it was realized that time had not one, not three, but four dimensions—similar to the properties of space.
Then, the sensation of falling overtook DARKSPADE’s body. A feeling was now coursing through his existence as if his life was being destroyed and replaced over and over again.
With each passing sensation of time and space, a faint light in what appears to be a far-off distance was finally seen…. Slowly and surely did this light grow, until the Darkspade reached out to it— he now saw his dark metal gauntlet— and then the light overtook all. The next scene shows the Unholy One alone, standing in an environment of white light, except for what appears to be the floor —a puddle of pure mercury.
A figure rearranges from nothingness as it walks straight to him.
The figure fully materializes into a dark knight adorned with cryptic runes laced with black human hair tied through facets littered across his armor.
The Darkspade squints his eyes at the Unholy Knight of Darkness — without a word from either of them— the knight backs up slightly to then lunge forward such that he enters DARKSPADE’s mouth!!
Then, abruptly, we are graced with a setting—pitch black, nighttime, overlooking a city….
A bit longer in time, a cross fade showing a sea of human beings walking in many directions on a busy street populated by tourists, looking for ways to enjoy their night, filled with laughter, and booze…
The perspective shifts to that of “someone” walking through the sea of humanity—its gaze to the left and then to the right—as if scanning for something or rather someone.
The next scene shows the interior of a nightclub…one adorned with signage reading “XANAX.” Its revelers dance to simple rhythms, engaging in their frivolous mating rituals. Simplistic and carnal.
That “someone” drifts through the bodies that collide with ample joy and intoxication, repelling all who come near them. Their eyes, their focus, is on one particular individual standing alone on the balcony.
On Ricky Tenet.
Ricky's general malaise at the assortment of patrons below drips from his face, his attention drawn to that “someone.” His tanned face washes pale as that “someone” tilts their head toward him, an arm raised, then a hand, then a finger.
Then, unexpectedly, a fleeting wisp, like soft flakes of burnt particles of firewood, whooshed by Ricky— from a face unrecognizable— yet, a familiar nightmare— the finger did not touch him. However, the vibration from inches away was noticeably felt, leaving Ricky in a state of bewilderment.
“Who. What?” anxiously inquired Ricky.
From Ricky’s view, the form standing just inches from his face was blurry, face undefined. In that moment, a potent, unreal fear overtook his every cell. Feelings of despair, trauma, and expectations collided in every direction. Ricky yearned for a touch from this stranger, a touch that would ground him in the present moment, stronger than any mindfulness anchor, and silence his primal thoughts.
Someone spoke, “You are not him, are you?”
“The hell…” Ricky gasped, drawing some attention to those nearby. He backed away from the railing and fell into a booth, nearly on the lap of a canoodling couple. They raised their voices and pushed him away, but Ricky held still.
“Please…p-please tell me you saw him,” he uttered. No response came from this club's goers, the party he interrupted, and Ricky rubbed his eyes. “Dream, dream, it's just another dream.”
He stood up and dusted himself off, waving away the complaints behind. A step forward found that nobody against the railing, nothing, and Ricky walked toward the bar.
“Diet Coke, light ice,” he requested. Within seconds, the young woman tending bar gave him his drink, and as Ricky turned to sip it he froze, eyes affixed to that same “someone” that now stood beside him.
The male figure’s face was blurry, making it impossible to decipher. Ricky’s amygdala was firing signals clear down his vagus nerve- causing all parts of his vital organs to shift into freeze mode. A sense of paralysis overcame every ounce of his being. He couldn't shake off the feeling that he knew the man, but the blurry face made it impossible to confirm.
That someone, with a glass of something in his right hand, turns ever so slightly to his left and eerily stares face-to-face.
“You know him?”, unemotionally stirred, the someone.
“What the actual fuck?!” Ricky manages to motion to the bartender— she finishes serving a client and paces over to address Ricky. She notices his frantic gestures and the look of terror in his eyes, but she doesn't see anyone else beside him in the bar. “You see him? RIGHT?! (The young woman looks in the general direction he was frantically pointing to.) “Um. See who.. mister?” she asks, her voice tinged with concern.
Panicking— with sweat falling down the curves of his skin to the floor- Ricky backed off a bit and said, “You…. You don’t see him, do you?”
Ricky heard the voice permeating in his head— its vibration penetrating his heart— “Do you know, yourself? Or, are you simply a figment of your own imagination?” The voice was deep and resonant, echoing in his mind like a haunting melody.
“Son of a…” he trailed off, gulping his Diet Coke down. It was liquid ash in his throat, a desiccation that could not - would not - cease.
He stared back at the figure, that shape that only he could see, and nodded. It motioned to him, a vague gesture toward a quiet booth in the corner that shouldn't have existed. Behind it Ricky followed, his teeth chattering behind tightened lips the entire time.
Ricky didn't remember sitting down. In a blink, he was awake in his bed. No recollection of a conversation, of a struggle, or of anything else over the course of the night flowed in his mind as his eyes darted from corner to corner, floor to ceiling. All he had was a pool of sweat beneath him and a crumpled note clenched in his fist.
“What in the hell,” he whispered. Ricky brushed his sweat-matted hair from his face and unfurled the letter - made of some parchment, not plain paper, more woven like a cloth scroll - and read it. His eyes clenched shut as his heart raced, each vein in his body tensed and readied to burst.
The note read:
How exquisite it was, that brief unraveling—
a flicker behind the eyes,
where shadows danced with something long buried.
I saw the tremble in your stillness,
and the quiet scream beneath your calm.
Wounds leave echoes,
and yours sang in a language I almost remembered.
Thank you for letting the veil slip, if only for a moment.
I wonder what other ghosts will speak next time.
Until then,
Your Darkest Hour.
Ricky's hand trembled as he dropped the mysterious parchment in shock… he quickly looked down to find nothing.
The next scene unfolds with Darkspade and Charon sitting at their grand dining room table…. Charon notes that her father, Darkspade, has not touched his dinner…
“Dad, you have not eaten a thing.”
To which he replied, with a grim smile that held a hint of mystery, “Why, my love, I am stuffed.”
