Dr. Preston Howard Porter, Superintendent of School Administrative Unit Number 94, looked at the date--Wednesday, May 2--on his desk calendar. He pushed himself away from the polished mahogany desk and leaned back in his chair, relaxing. He was a tall man, just over six feet, and weighed two-thirty, which wasn't all that bad for forty-eight-years-old. His pale powder blue eyes provided a touch of out-of-place softness to an otherwise stern face that was topped by a thick shock of gray hair. Porter has been involved with Alison Bissonette, the High Priestess for The Group, for several years.
For the first five years of his tenure as Superintendent in Asbury, California native Preston Porter kept his eye open for other career locations. The brutal White Mountain winters, burying Asbury under incredible amounts of snow, thoroughly depressed Porter, leaving him dreaming longingly of days spent lounging on a Pacific beach. With every nor'easter, he would retreat emotionally once again, plodding through his daily chores with no enthusiasm. Asbury was to be nothing more than a stepping stone to a better life.
But things began to change two years ago when something very extraordinary happened during Porter's daily meditation. As he sat closed-eyed in his home, chanting his mantra, a rustling began-quiet, soft, like feathers gently brushing against the walls of his living room.
Porter looked around, trying to determine the location of the sound. He stood-no longer chanting-and walked the perimeter of the room, his outstretched fingers gliding along the hardwood paneling, as if he believed he could physically touch the unseen sound.
The gentle brushing slowly metamorphosed, increasing in volume-louder, louder, louder-until it became a mad beating of invisible wings, evil, leathery wings that thundered and crashed as if an invisible freight train was riding mystical rails through the room. Porter screamed, his mind stretched to the limit, and he wondered if he was on the brink of insanity. The beating reached its crescendo, with horrible vibrations rocking the room, threatening to grab Porter and hurl him into some unseen crevice that would hold him prisoner in perpetual agony until the end of time.
And then, suddenly, it stopped.
Silence reigned supreme in the large living room. Porter looked around, fearful at first, surveying the expected damage wrought by the terrifying storm of sound. Nothing. All was the same as before.
And then Porter heard the voice.
He knew, instinctively, who the voice belonged to. Fear sent pinprick shivers up Porter's spine, as if he were lying on a bed of icicles. The cold penetrated his body, from his outer extremities right down to the core of his very being, and he began to shiver uncontrollably as the voice of the one he had sought years ago continued to call his name, over and over.
And then Porter answered, sealing his contract with his evil master for all time.
Copyright 2005 by Bill Dolack