Larry Summerson was not a rich man. Some would consider him wealthy, others just well-provided, but he wasn’t rich. He had a small but distinguished house, which stood alone in the centre of an almost three square miles area. Outside his house rested—or rusted—his old car. He preferred to walk. He had enough good reasons to stay away from those. . .things, as he now called them.

Larry was walking the road back home with nothing but the moonlight to guide him. He’d postponed his going home during the entire day. He wasn’t afraid of what he was about to do, nor afraid of doing it at night, because, strangely as it seemed—mostly for him, anyway—he felt, not knew, felt, that it was safer for him to do what he intended to when the light of the day was gone.

The sun had set almost four hours ago and what had been a relative warm day, turned to a cold, almost shivering night. This night was one when he could feel the demons that were about to be summoned—demons from his own past and others from a more ancient one. Demons born of his memories and demons from evil, evil that—he knew it now—was also related to him.

A car drove by Larry and the driver signaled him with the headlights. Larry waved to him in response and continued on his way as nothing had happened. Later on, if someone decided to ask him if he recalled seeing anyone during that day or, more specifically, during that night, he’d probably say no—a somewhat unsure no, but a no, nonetheless.

Tonight, his thoughts were definitely elsewhere.

An hour later Larry arrived home, took off his now dried coat and threw it on the couch. The promising morning storm had only lasted about two or so hours, the rest of the day had been mild and relatively warm. But Larry—who’d spent the past sixteen hours roaming around, thinking and rethinking on what to do, better yet, on how to do it—couldn’t care less about the weather. All he cared about was. . .how?

How to do it? He wondered to himself. Nothing else mattered to him at the moment.

A growl from his stomach woke him up from his daydreaming.

Well, he thought, whatever I do, I better not do it with an empty stomach.

Time to feed the monster. That was something his father used to say. He never understood what it meant and before he had the chance to ask, he was boarding the plane that brought him to Europe. However, he understood the basic idea of that bizarre expression and, at the time, it applied to him one hundred per cent.

He went to the kitchen and made some tea and toasts. It would be his second meal since he had awaken the past dawn—almost twenty hours ago—to mourn his family’s death. And then, there he was again. He fought against it but it was useless.

The entire room began to vibrate, the frame of reality torn like it was being subjected to some kind of outside manipulation. Objects started to disappear and years of accumulated dust were instantly gone. Larry knew that this would happen sooner or later. It was exactly like every other year. Other people remembered things; some had the luck—yes, that’s the word—of being able to forget. Larry was not like that, not like that at all. He didn’t need his memory to recall past events; if he wanted to (and even if he didn’t), he would go back in spirit and re-experience everything once more, this time as a mere watcher, unable to stop what was to happen.

He arrived at the scene, same space, twenty years in the past, and watched as his younger self interrupted his three hours wait to go answer the phone.

“Hello?” His voice was shaky. He hadn’t meant for it to sound like a question.

Larry the observer knew he could not change the upcoming events, but he could hope so. If only he could stop his younger self from listening. Unfortunately, it was too late. He was there only as a guest—a forced guest, but a guest nonetheless—a simple spectator to the play.

“Mr. Summerson?”

“Yes. May I ask who’s calling?”

The voice on the other side spoke almost mechanically. It was a human voice yes, but it seemed to have lost something. What, he wasn’t sure. “I’m sorry to call you at such a late hour but. . .It’s about your family.”

Larry noticed the pause—impossible not to—a long badly hidden breath from the other side and he knew. He knew what had happened before it was even said. To say the truth, due to his gifts, he knew what had happened even before it had actually happened. He had ignored the visions, prayed for them to never become real. Well, there he was, about to be told otherwise. He knew what, but had no idea how or why. No, that was not entirely true. Some of the why derived from his own lack of action. He had no reason to take the vision seriously, except that this wasn’t the first time he had seen the future unfolding before his eyes. Maybe he just didn’t want to believe. That had been his choice and now, no matter how painfully it could get, he had to deal with the consequences of it.

“How?” Larry asked.

“Excuse me?”

Had he been surprised about the question? Probably. At least to Harry he sounded like it.

“How did they die?”

“How did you know that?”

“I’ve been waiting for them to come home for almost four hours, its’ the Devil’s storm out there and the way you made that pause, it’s easy to guess that you’re not about to tell me something good. So, if not for this, what possible reason could you have for calling me at this time of night?”

“They were involved in a car accident.”

After saying that, the voice on the other side, more human than before, proceeded to relate the events as they had happened; exactly as Larry had envisioned them. Told him about their instant deaths, how they didn’t feel anything. Told him where the bodies were. Larry wrote down the address. He would go there as soon as the call ended.

“They were luckier than the other driver.” The voice on the other side said. “He’s going be a vegetable for the rest of his life. If you want my opinion, I think it’s better like this.”

Larry never got to knew who that voice belonged to. Maybe it had been just his imagination.

About half an hour or so later, when he got to the hospital to see the bodies, everyone was surprised to see him there. That only strengthened the hope that it had all been a dream. If he turned around and returned home, he would be welcomed by his wife and son. He was almost inclined to believe that, but when a doctor approached him and called him by his name, he realized it was real.

He recognized the doctor from a coffee-shop he used to go to. He was an acquaintance, a drinking buddy; he was not his friend, but he was the closest to that right now. They shook hands.

“Larry, I’m very sorry. . .”

“Thank you, I appreciate it.” He was trying, but couldn’t remember what the doctor’s name was. Probably, he was never told. Someone makes a comment about a match, next thing you know, you’re drinking beers with him. And you don’t even know who the guy is.

“How did you get here? I mean, how did you know?”

“Someone called to tell me.”

“That can’t be. They only got here ten minutes ago. And besides, our phone line is dead.”

“I’m not interested in knowing when or how, I want to know where they are.”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea. They are–”

“I don’t care how they look. I want to see my family.”

The doctor took a long breath and nodded. “Alright, Larry. Follow me, please.”

They walked across the white corridors, all the way to the Morgue. As they entered the “Archive Section”, they were acknowledged by another doctor on his way out. The doctors nodded to one another—it seemed like the only type of greeting they could have on a place like this, at least in the presence of an outsider.

Larry looked around. The room was cold and smelled of loss; not death, not antiseptic, not ether, just. . .loss. He saw the two bodies disposed on the autopsy-tables, waiting to be filed. They were covered by a white sheet from head to toe; their soles badly burned. He couldn’t see their faces, but he could feel their spirits. They were troubled, as if trying to warn him of something. But Larry wasn’t paying attention. He was too shaken to do that.

He saw the doctor walking to the bigger body, placing his hand at the edge of the cold metal table. He looked into his eyes, Larry’s eyes, made a brief pause before asking: “Are you sure you want to do this?”

Larry nodded. And he swallowed. Hard.

Slowly, the doctor pulled the sheet down. Once the head was visible, Larry’s face paled and he had a hard time suppressing his vomit. His beautiful wife had been reduced to something beyond recognition, something beyond visual tolerance. The doctor pulled the sheet back on, went to Larry and placed a friendly—at least condescending—hand on his shoulder.

“I’m sorry.” He said.

But Larry didn’t hear him. He was looking at himself in the mirrored ceiling: going older by the second. The walls around began to shine. A light so intense and so dazzling he had to cover his eyes. The ground started to shake and he felt himself falling into a deep hole. There was nothing he could hold on to.

This is it. Larry thought.

But, suddenly, he stopped—he was back on solid ground. For a while, he just stood there, afraid to look, afraid to see what would be standing before him.

Again, he heard the Voices, like so many other times before. Again, he ignored them.

Then, having nothing else to do, he opened up his eyes and realized that he was back where he had started: his kitchen, face to face with a cup of tea.

This year’s remembrance was over.

After twenty years remembering it, it never went any easier. The questions he had had when he received that phone call, the how and the why were seemingly answered. He knew the how, but not the why; at least, not all of it—he knew, felt, that some of the why had been because of him. Maybe, just maybe, the rest of the answer could be in those scrolls. He knew they held some answers. Maybe that could be one of them. It was somewhat farfetched, but it was worth the try, wasn’t it? Larry thought so, to a certain extent he even believed it and, as he ate his meal, all he could think off was the future. Something big was about to happen. That he knew. What he didn’t know was what or when. At least, not yet.

When he finished eating, he put the dishes in the sink and went back to the living-room. He sat on the couch, adjusted the cushions and closed his eyes for a few seconds. When he reopened them, everything was still the same. Why wouldn’t it be?

He checked his watch. 2 minutes to midnight. Time to summon the demons. In a matter of speaking. Or was it not? He opened the inside pocket of his coat and produced the two scrolls discovered at the beach the previous morning.

He unrolled the first of them and began to read the words carefully. Most of the text had been erased by way of time or water but Larry, unbeknownst to all, could see what others could not. In his mind he could see the images; he could hear the Voices, as the archaic characters strode by before his eyes, like musicians on a parade.

During the following hours, there was nothing. Nothing except the words. Even his own thoughts had been ordered to stay put, and that they did. When he finished his reading he was, some would say perplexed, others pensive, but yet, surprisingly calm. He focused on one of the passages, the one he considered to be the most important.

When at night the demons lure, The Centre shall rise

An evil place born of greed and lust for power

Throughout generations, it shall breed its own demise

From the ancient past to the distant future

The Chosen will be found by way of blood

And then all secrets shall be revealed

The man with no past, a boy named Jarod

Firstborn to the woman with fiery hair on the seventh day of the tenth month

Eight shall be his number—the key to upright infinity

Next to him, stays the Hunter, the broken half of an all

The woman with no name, his nemesis and his helper

Blood ties will rule their fates, the quest for power a goal to kill for

Her bond will be unbreakable, forged by true love

Some will harvest hate upon them, until one man arrives to answer their questions

Take faith in the Shifter and in the Hunter: they will bring peace

These are the words of power which only the Chosen ones and their helpers can endure.

From this day forth, hope shall rest upon their future.

Larry rolled up the scrolls and put them back on the inside pocket of his coat. He recalled the name mentioned: Jarod. It was all related to him, to him and to the woman with no name.

It was time to make a journey. His future quest was about to take him to the place in the world that still caused him nightmares. Back to the land where he had spent the first years of his childhood, the same land where evil now lured—evil that could consume the entire world unless he did something about it. He promised himself this time he would. One thing he knew for sure: it all depended on the Chosen ones.

Larry closed his eyes. Time took his advantage on him and he fell asleep almost immediately. Surprisingly as it may seem, his summoning hadn’t woke up any demons, they remained quietly asleep. Perhaps he would meet them on his dreams. Perhaps. He wasn’t afraid. Tonight, since a long, long time, he had the feeling he would rule supreme.