Chapter II: Second Sight.

Red.

Large splotches of rich splatter filled the tub. Terror gripped Michael's chest. Was this Alex's blood? In the middle of all this, encrusted with coagulation, was the book of Mantorok.

It had pried off with a disturbing crackle as he looked over its contents. The cover had been emblazoned with an ancient purple symbol, featuring an unblinking eye at its center. He turned it over and over in his hands -- it was all too familiar to him. He checked to see if it had been damaged, and his eyes fell transfixed on an illustration found a third of the way in. He hadn't noticed that before.

It was a picture of a man. It seemed more like a silhouette than anything else, as if the artist had drawn only the shadows that were cast over his face without filling in the rest.

Below the image appeared a name: Charles Lee.

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I am blind. But I was not always this way. I am no longer able read my own writings, and thus I have recollected what I have transcribed within my own mind. It is quite a bitter fate: friends had once joked that I was extraordinarily intuitive -- that I had a 'sixth sense'. I suppose that number has now gone back to five.

It all began to happen when I had started keeping a record of all the eerie occurrences that I observed during my stay at the Ferdinand Villa. I wrote what I saw then saw no more.

"Charles!" shouted the master.

I hurriedly scampered over to him, bent down on one knee, and gave him my most sincere apologies.

"I should have you flogged for your lateness," spoke Ferdinand Vermillion, rubbing his dry neck. "Now get up, and even out the fire."

Sure enough, I had sifted the logs at the fireplace until they were satisfactory. The master seemed a harsh man, but years of being his servant had revealed a fascinating spectrum of repressed emotions that were implanted beneath the thin surface of his personality.

He called out again. "Charles! The invitations were all accepted. Prepare the dinner table for 19 seats."

I had already done so, but I was not about to acknowledge his error. "Yes, master."

Those whom he had invited were taking as much time as possible to arrive at the villa, as none wanted to get here first. Let us say that the Vermillions were not known for their luck and good fortune.

The earliest known member of the family line died of the plague after fathering two daughters. One of the children had passed in her sleep after a head injury, and the other suffered massive blood loss while birthing her only child.

It continued in each generation -- wild, unpredictable death. The family line extended henceforth, finally ending at Ferdinand's mother, who became mentally ill. She committed suicide shortly thereafter on this day, seventeen years ago. It was to be commemorated at dinner that night.

The master gently tapped his glass to quiet the table, though it was certainly clear that no one had been talking. "Tonight," he began, "we will honor the life of one special woman. If you all would raise your cups, please?"

The group did so, mawkishly.

"To Vera," said Ferdinand, "She was more than a mother; she was a friend."

The group saluted.

Later that night, as I set the dishes in the basin, I began to hear the soft whimper of the master in the den. I supposed it would be rude to walk in on him during such a tender moment, so I let myself out through an alcove set between a bookcase and the den wall.

Finding myself facing the shore of the villa, I felt inspired and resumed my daily journal entry that had been interrupted by the master earlier. The night sky hadn't fully darkened, the last few embers of day still fading into obscurity.

"Charles!" came the distant cry of the master.

"Coming, sir!" I assumed I would never get my entry done.

Returning properly into the den, I gave a bow, then asked what the problem was.

"They are after me, Charles!" he said with a sob. "I can feel it." He gripped the sides of the couch. "You know what has happened to my family. The Vermillion name is cursed!"

I felt embarrassed for him. "Sir, would you like something to drink?"

"NO!" he uttered. "It could be poisoned. I refuse to die that way!"

He hadn't eaten in days, and it was getting the better of him. If it weren't for Vera's anniversary, I should think he would starve.

"Should I draw a bath?" I asked.

"Charles, don't you remember? That is how Aunt Margaret died."

Then I started to wonder. "I hope you would forgive me for saying this, sir, but the prevention of your early passing actually seems to be causing it."

Ferdinand eyes suddenly focused on my face. "Come again?"

"This stress, sir. Not eating, and all of these strenuous exercises in preventing your demise. They may be what ultimately lands you six feet under soil. Sir."

The master buried the knuckles of his right hand deeply into the fat of his underchin. "Charles." A pause. "Draw a bath."

It was not long after that I was removing his robe as he dipped into the water. I discreetly left the bathroom, thumbing the journal concealed in my evening coat. I had barely taken a step past the closed door when I beheld what stood before me.

The oil paintings of past Vermillions had all been terribly torn. Some lay in shambles on the carpet, other were jabbed into the woodwork supporting the upper floors. Who could have done such atrocities?

A pool of translucent liquid ran up the carpet, continued around the corner, and went straight into a solid wall. Perplexing, to say the least. The room behind the wall seemed to contain an ever radiant, throbbing source of light. Perhaps curiosity got the better of me, but I felt the irresistible urge to open that door. It was the worst decision of my life.

A space somewhere in the back of my eyes had erupted with total, unrelenting, unsympathetic pain. The pure shock brought me to my knees, and the immense agony had nearly caused me to black out. It hurt too much to even scream.

"Charles!" said a voice. "Charles!" said the master. "Charles!" said Ferdinand Vermillion. "Charles!" said the Reaper.

"Charles!"

It was hard to tell which way was up. I dumbly sliced my hand open on something cold and metallic and finally got to my feet. Reaching out without sight, I staggered about, desperately taking in what I could feel at the tips of my fingers.

The master's voice became stronger, more pronounced, and I could recognize the texture of the door that lead into the bathroom. I entered.

"Charles." His voice was weakening. "Charles, I think I'm dying."

I feel to my knees, no longer caring. The back of my head felt like it was on fire. "Sir," I spoke through gritted teeth, "I think I am, too."

"I can't feel my arm," he said, apparently not caring much for me himself. It is surprising how little we feel for others when our own emotions are distracted.

"Before I go," he continued, "I would like to tell you how much I have been satisfied by your performance." At least he cared that much. "Also, you may have all that is left of my fortune."

"But you have not anything other that the villa."

"Errrgh!" he groaned. "Please, accept it."

So I did, moments before he passed away.

In the aftermath of Ferdinand's death, it almost came as an afterthought that I had become blind. After a thorough inspection of the site, and having found no evidence, it was decided by the authorities that the villa belonged to no one. The Vermillion line had ended. But I had resumed inscribing the events, right up until these last few words. I had realized the truth.

Second sight is only a fragmented, distorted illusion -- an echo of the first. That is how I ultimately rest my quill.

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It was all Michael Edwards wanted to read for now, and so he closed the book.