The eye of balor, p.1
The Eye of Balor, page 1
part #1 of The Morrighan's Song Series
Other Works by J. Webb Garrett
Available now at Amazon.com and other online retailers.
See the sample after the Author Bio.
The Eye of Balor
Book 1 of The Morríghan’s Song
Copyright © 2018 J. Webb Garrett. All rights reserved.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictionally and should not be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental or is intended with the utmost respect.
No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. For more information, please contact the author. See the author’s bio for more information.
Cover by Brandon W. Stevens.
Printed in the United States of America
ISBN-13: 978-1718912342
ISBN-10: 171891234X
The Eye of Balor
J. Webb Garrett
SPECIAL THANKS
AND DEDICATIONS
I would like to thank my family and friends for helping to make this passion-project of mine a reality. Special thanks go out to to Brandon, for designing the cover of the book, Deb and Leia, for being amazing proofreaders, my aunt, Mary, for always being there when I need her as well as putting up with all the struggles that come with being a teacher, and my mother, for everything she has ever done for me and for all of the many patients in her care. Her dedication to family and to the community is awe-inspiring, and a constant reminder of the importance of having people in the healthcare industry who care.
I would also like to dedicate this book to everyone out there who has ever had to fight with depression. The struggle is real, and it can be difficult to find reasons to keep moving forward. Don’t give up. You aren’t alone.
PROLOGUE
Death waits for me in this frat house.
The whole notion of fraternity parties never grabbed me. Sure, I get hanging out with friends, dancing, drinking, and looking for a quick fuck or a more long term thing, but there has always been something about these specific parties that doesn’t sit well with me. Maybe it’s the whole cult-ish thing they’ve got going on, at least from an outside P.O.V. Maybe I’m biased, being more of a "nerd girl.” I love dancing, though. Given the opportunity, I’m rocking out at a club any chance I can, so that’s not it. Anyway, whatever the reason, I tend to avoid frat parties out of habit. Tonight, though… well, tonight, here I am. Insert sarcastic “Woo.”
Approaching the House-of-Bros on Fourth Street, a couple of blocks from the Castle, a.k.a. EIU’s Old Main, I make my way inside. It doesn’t matter which house is running the show, I don’t know anyone. No one stops me from working my way through the door, past the front porch where a few guys in football jerseys are making out with girls who could still be high school cheerleaders - I hope they aren’t - and into the cluster-fuck of a front room. They’ve got some rap song - also not my thing; I tend towards metal - blasting out of the sound system while a bunch of white kids pretend they can dance, trying not to spill their cheap-ass beers.
I take one step in the door before one of those cheap-ass beers is thrown into my hands by some guy who smells of AXE Body Spray, desperation, and loneliness. He launches into a semi-flirtatious spiel. The thing is, he’s standing right in front of me and I still can’t make out a word he’s saying over this crazy loud music. Pretty sure he’s trying to hit on me, but he could be trying to convince me to vote Libertarian and I couldn’t tell the difference. Polite as possible, I hand him back the beer, give him a clear “No thank you,” and push past. Sorry to give you the cold shoulder, pal, but didn’t come here for you.
Trying to find the guy I am here to see is much easier said than done. The house is packed with teens and twenty-somethings all hoping for a good time. Most are students, or at least wearing EIU blue. A lot of students come to college in this tiny Central Illinois town for the parties. EIU has a half-decent rep as far as colleges go, especially when it comes to teaching. For those who came here from Chicago - it’s far enough away from home they don’t have to worry about too many surprise visits/inspections from mommy and daddy. It’s a pretty laid back place overall, with a bit of a reputation as a party campus. Enough it’s a draw for kids who used to watch those stupid “dorm-life” coming-of-age movies where the main character always gets the girl, goes to lots of parties, and never does any actual studying.
It’s a different story for locals. Most of them go to EIU because it’s pretty affordable as far as colleges go and they don’t have much in the way of options. You can tell who’s local by how much school spirit they don’t have. Don’t get me wrong, though, I’m hardly a local myself. Hell, I’m as much of an “out-of-towner” as you can get, but I’ve been here a few years and have gotten a pretty solid read on the place.
Making my way through the improv mosh-pit, past the beer-pong table, around a cluster of dolled up sorority girls, and past the wall of awkward, where people who aren’t sure why they’re here congregate, I search downstairs for my guy. No luck. Worming my way over to the stairs, trying to avoid getting “accidentally” groped along the way, I head up. I squeeze my way past a few couples who have decided the stairway is the perfect place to make out, but otherwise ascend without trouble.
The second floor is much more chill than the first. Music still thunders in my ears and reverberates through my rib cage, but it is a bit more tolerable - one might even be able to have a conversation, albeit by shouting. The strong, sweet scent of weed hangs thick in the air as a cloud pours from a side room. Across the hall is another room where a bunch of guys and a couple girls are circled around a flat-screen TV trying to bash each other off of a platform in Super Smash Bros., screaming curses and insults at each other, laughing the whole time, voices shrill enough to be audible over the din. A bathroom and a couple of closed doors, one with a sock hanging off the knob, draw my eyes to the end of the hall; near a window, I spot my guy.
Standing there all on his own, staring off into space, he’s unaware of anything going on around him. No one is paying any attention to him, either. A cute black girl in a revealing outfit - seriously, don’t you get cold? It’s fall in Illinois! - brushes past him on her way to the restroom, not even glancing as their shoulders come close to connecting. He’s as out of place at this party as I am with his frayed jeans, faded t-shirt, crappy Walmart brand tennis shoes, mussy hair, and “I haven’t seen the sun in a week or so” pallor. He doesn’t react to my presence but keeps staring, the world lost in a fog to him.
I make my way over. “Hey, Shawn,” I say, trying my best to sound friendly, leaning against the wall. Despite the noise, I don’t shout. My voice will reach him.
He doesn’t answer right away. Fine. I give him a bit, and get a “Hi, Morgan,” back, though his voice sounds distant and a bit echo-y.
More awkward silence follows. Shit. What should I say? Don’t want another mistake like last time. Or the time before. So… what do I say? I mean, I don’t know him. We met a week ago. This is the worst part of awkward first dates, where neither person wants to say anything because they’re afraid of fucking the whole thing up. Only this isn’t a “date.” This is, well, this is on a whole other scale of heavy. Swallowing hard, trying not to think about how nervous I am right now, I open my mouth to speak, but he beats me to it.
“Did you check on her?” he asks, breaking the silence.
“I did,” I tell him. “Your mom is fine.” No, stupid! She’s not fine! Dammit, Morgan. “I mean, she’s… she’s hanging in there, still a bit sore after the, uh, accident, but she’ll be okay.”
“Are you sure?” he asks, his expression unchanging.
I nod. “I spoke to one of the nurses who said she’ll be able to go home in a couple of days, in plenty of time for…” Shit. Don’t say it. Or should I? He’s gotta know, right? It isn’t news or anything. I let it drop, waiting for his response.
He doesn’t. Shawn doesn’t say anything. He continues staring off into nothingness.
I give him a few, but when it is clear he’s not going to say more, I ask, “So… that’s it?” Nothing. “That’s the last of it, right? So now it’s your turn to…” He still doesn’t say anything. What the hell more am I supposed to do in this situation? “Come on, don’t make this any harder than it already is, man. Stop with the whole silent treatment thing already!”
The girl who went into the restroom comes back out and passes the two of us, ignoring Shawn but giving me the most awkward of glances, asking “Are you okay?” with her gaze. I force a smile back and she walks away, heading back downstairs to the party. Can’t blame her for worrying. My talk with Shawn has got to appear strange.
Shawn lets out a sigh. “It’s not fair,” he says.
“What isn’t?” I ask, knowing what he means but asking anyway.
“Everything!” he says, his hands balling into fists at his side. “It’s not fair you and everyone else gets to keep on going, keep on living, while I’m…”
Dead. Yeah, it’s not fair. It sucks, but you’re stuck with it. “I know,” I tell him. “I do. It sucks and it isn’t fair, but…”
“But what?” he asks, his eyes turning towards me.
I take a breath. “But that’s the way things turned out.” Okay, that may have been a bit rough, Morgan. I mean, it’s not his fault he died.
Yeah, cue the fucking joke, “I see dead people.” Haha. You’re so funny. Yes, I can see ghosts. I can talk to them too, and it sucks. Why? Because I haven’t met anyone else who can. Because it means I’m all they’ve got to try and help them pass on. I’m their last fucking link to the world, and who the hell am I...? I’m some random chick they’ve never even met before. Some random emo/hipster girl who just appears to them and asks all the fun questions.
“Hey, did you know you’re dead and you shouldn’t be here anymore?”
“Do you want help finishing your unfinished business?”
Oh, yeah, and did I mention I suck at it? That’s not even where it stops. “Oh, sure,” the ghosts say, “if you can do this and this and this and this for me, I’ll pass over fine and not give you any more problems.”
And I get to say, “Yeah! I’d be glad to help you, ghost-stranger! Why not? It’s not as though I have anything else I want to do with my life.” Oh, wait…
Standing next to Shawn, the latent energies binding his spirit to the world swell with power creating a charge all around him. He’s getting angry! When you’re a ghost, your emotions give you strength. No, not all your emotions give you ghost strength, just your negative ones! They give you a lot of it. The more pissed off you are about being dead, the sadder you are, the stronger you become. The stronger you are as a ghost, the more you are able to do as a ghost. I’m talking poltergeist-ing all over the place, possessing people, causing visions and bad dreams, and a whole bunch of other horrific powers that tend to disrupt - or outright end - the lives of the living.
“Hey, hey, Shawn!” I call out to him, trying to pull him out of his rage before he decides to go all incorporeal-psychopath on me. “Shawn, listen to me. I know it sucks, alright. I know you didn’t want to die, and I’m sorry you did. I am. But let’s try to stay cool here, man. Let’s not be thinking about things we ought not to do.” God, I am bad at this.
“Why not?” he shouts, the force of his words alone knocking me off of my feet, which, if that wasn’t obvious, is a bad sign. “Why should they get to keep on living? Why should you? You don’t care about me! You don’t even know me! No one knows me!” The lights in the hallways flicker. Oh, this is bad. Shit. “You’re only helping me because you’re afraid of what I might do, right? You’re trying to pacify me. To keep me from doing what I should have been doing all along!”
“No, Shawn! Stop it!” I call out, hoping the stoners and gamer-guys don’t poke their heads out into the hall anytime soon. Shawn is losing it right now, and it won’t be long before he snaps. The last thing anyone wants is to get killed by the pissed off ghost of a freshman.
Shawn laughs, the sound echoing through the hallway. He understands his own strength now. He’s realizing what all he might be able to do, another bad sign. Everything from here on out is going to be bad, who am I kidding? “Why?” he asks, floating a few inches above the floor. “Why should I?”
“Because you’ll lose yourself!” I warn him.
It’s already happening. As I watch him, the image of Shawn is already fading. One moment, he is as he was in life. Next, he’s a shadowy form, a Ringwraith-looking version of himself without any semblance of solidity or realness. It’s happening fast and will get even faster as he becomes overwhelmed by his darker desires. He draws closer to me, a hateful, lustful gleam in his eyes. His anger is taking over, changing him into something else, something monstrous and wicked. I can’t let this happen. There are too many people around for him to hurt, myself included.
“Shawn, you have to stop this or I’ll have to stop you,” I tell him. “Please, there is still time for you to find peace and pass on. Trust me, you don’t want to do this!” Please listen to me, Shawn. Please, I don’t want to do this!
His form flickers back into the wraith-shadow as he asks in a cold, near-demonic voice lacking human inflections. “And how do you plan to stop me, Morgan? You’re just some damn wannabe hipster chick. I’m not even human anymore! How can you stop me? How can anyone stop me?” His hand reaches out for me, his fingers long and skeletal, wrapped in swirling tendrils of darkness. “Let me show you,” he says, leaning in to try and pull out the air from my lungs.
No choice now. Sorry, Shawn. I race forward, plunging my outstretched arm into his chest. His wraith-form freezes, melting away, revealing Shawn’s face now wracked with a pain I can’t imagine. His eyes are wide, the already ghost-pale face somehow growing even paler, lips trembling. He hasn’t felt anything since the moment he died except this. Pain.
“How?” he asks, staring at where my hand pierced his chest. “I was already dead… wasn’t I?”
“This isn’t Game of Thrones,” I tell him. “What is dead can sometimes die again.” The whole of his form fades away. He’s not passing on. He’s… he’s not going to be anything anymore… he’ll be gone. Forever. I tried to warn him. I didn’t want to do this. I never want to do this.
“What are you?” he asks, his words trailing off into nothingness as his form fades away, leaving little else but a painful memory. I don’t bother answering him. There is no point. He’s already gone.
Any witnesses I need to silence? By which I mean beg not to tell anyone. A quick glance around tells me no. Good. Gamer-guys and gals are too entranced in their efforts to kick the digital shit out of each other. The stoners are all too content with their bongs. Exhausted, I head back downstairs and work my way back through the crowd, this time headed back to the door. I’ve had enough of people, living or dead, for one night. I want to go home, take a long, hot shower, and pretend tonight never happened.
One of the bros blocks my exit. “Hey, it’s you,” he says. “We were in European Studies together, right? You’re, uh, you’re… Dyer, right? Morgan Dyer? You’re the Scottish girl!”
I roll my eyes. “Morgan O’Dwyer,” I correct him, “and yes, we were in the same class. No, I’m not Scottish. Will you move now, please?”
Taken aback, expecting a way different reaction from me, the guy backs off. “Jeez, no reason to be such a bitch. I was only trying to talk to you. Damn,” he says, stepping out of my way.
“Sorry,” I tell him. “I’m not in the mood, it’s been a rough night.”
CHAPTER 01
My name is Morgan O’Dwyer and my life... well, if it isn’t obvious already, my life is kinda weird. How weird? Well, stabbing ghosts in the chest aside, it’s hard to say since my life has two beginnings. Let’s get the easy one out of the way first, shall we?
I was born in Croagh, or “Cróch” if you’re being all traditional or fancy. It’s a small town of dairy farmers in the Golden Vale. You’d find it between Rathkeale and Adare, a stone’s throw from Limerick City. When I tell people, they tend to get this look on their faces like they think I come from some faraway mystical land bordering on Middle Earth, Narnia, or fucking stab-happy Westeros, but no, I’m Irish. Funny thing is, here in the States people get real excited about someone being Irish, especially around St. Patty’s.
God, I love St. Patty’s over here. I never have to buy my drinks, no matter what bar I find myself in. Makes it easy to get drunk enough to ignore all the “are you for real Irish, or are you pretending?” questions shoved in my face every year. Yes, I’m Irish. No, I don’t have much of an accent anymore because I’ve been living over here for more than a damn decade!
...
Sorry. That came out a bit more harsh than I wanted.
Anyway, I’m getting ahead of myself. My folks moved to the States when I was ten. My mom’s cousin lived over here, working for some computer company, and my dad needed the work. Dairy farming isn’t the most lucrative living, and he wanted a bit more out of life. Can’t blame him. So, a quick plane ride later and here we found ourselves in the grand state of ‘ol Abe Lincoln himself. I say that because, man, Illinois folk - at least non-Chicago ones - are sure damn proud to remind everyone this is the “Land of Lincoln.” It’s on their state border signs and everything. There’s big ‘ol statues of him freaking everywhere, not to mention all the paintings, his quotes on these big, fancy metal plaques… hell, I’m surprised more people here aren’t trying to rock the hat or the wicked beard he had going on.
