Emoji Prison

By P. J. Pence

What if we were already marked by the beast, living in a giant prison governed and monitored by a powerful dark force called 'Social Media'? It then would explain why this is centred on a young lawyer and her journey through the dark and harrowing underground burrows of enlightenment. A journey that takes her across the sweltering heat of Africa to the frigid reaches of Europe and beyond, circling back to the root of it all in the United States. Along the way the protagonist experiences everything; from nightmares that leave telling evidences, meeting an eccentric doctor in a mental asylum who regales her of tales about death and destruction, an ancient being who shows her the path of illumination, and most mystifying of all, uncovers the blood curdling truth about her real purpose.
Dr.P.J. Pence seeks to unravel a tangled web of conspiracy theories by separating truth from fiction, taking readers down a rabbit hole of mysticism, drama and dreams sure to keep you stuck to pages of this book to the very end.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Sep 13, 2016
• ISBN: 9781365358364

Book preview

Emoji Prison

EMOJI PRISON

Do you connect to the internet in anyway? Are you on any kind of ‘Social Media’ platform?

If ‘yes’ then this book is for you: Take time, before time takes you!

BY

P. J. PENCE

CONCEPT

GENERATION

Yorkshire · London · New York · Virginia

©

Copyright©2016 P.J. Pence

ISBN: 978-1-365-35836-4

This Book was first published under the title The Virtual Symbol – The Real Deal

ISBN: 978-1-105-76923-8

(A CONCEPT GENERATION PUBLISHING HOUSE BOOK)

For any information on the book or the author,

Please contact the following address:

16 Norwich Cresent, Chadwell Heath,

EM6 4UW London, England.

About the Author

Although an Economist, Dr. P. J. Pence is also a writer and a speaker, with a wide range of research and studies to his credit. This includes sociology, theology, psychology and history, and has been a teacher in the field for 15 years. He is a philosopher, historian and an expert in ancient hieroglyphics and Babylonia cuneiform writings. He also is the cofounder of the London based Worldwide Miracle Outreach Church (WMO). He is an author of many brilliant works, including Hidden Secrets of the Holy Bible and 2000 AD, the False Millennium.

He is married to Caroline, with whom he has three lovely children; two boys and a girl.

Also by P. J. Pence

FICTION

2000 AD, the False Millennium

The Last Igwe of the Middle Kingdom

NON-FICTION

The Hidden Treasures of the Holy Bible

The Maze of Life, and the 49 Routes of Escape to Freedom

Hospital in Heaven

PLAYS

My Little Red Dress

*

Dedication

To my mother,

And the memory of my father

PROLOGUE

February 20th 2006

New York State University—Lecture By Professor William Welch on the Rift between Church and State, and the Connection with Darwin’s Evolution Theory—the True Interpretation

The division of Church and State runs deeper than can be understood by the ordinary man. It has been there since Adam, adopting as time goes on different tactical deceptions and styles of operations, with often convincing semantics as means to achieve maximum conviction. So, then comes Darwin's theory of evolution earning him the title: ‘The Man Who Killed God,' the name of blasphemy, strengthening the arm of the Statists with the necessary ammunition to achieve their schemes. Now the question is who are the Statists? Many fail to understand the gravity of the situation but what the masses know as ‘statist’ is a sharp contrast from the real facts. The actual Statist goes by many other names: Ancient Serpent, Accuser of the Brethren and the Dragon are all names among the list. Darwin’s theory, one of an endless number of ploys and guises accepted over the ages, has become his perfect tool. And mind you, while it remains nothing more than wild theory, it too was initially unpopular but gradually gained momentum and eventual prominence. God the creator, as was stated in the Bible had been finally marginalized, hence debasing the church and believers to the point where believers shy away from openly proclaiming their faith . . . William Welch paused, and regarded his audience. The jam-packed auditorium testified to the level of interest in what he had to say about the rift between Church and State, which was the basis of his latest work, Darwin’s Missing Link.

He continued. "Finally, an ancient papyrus document retrieved from the fraternity of the brotherhood—something the Great Fire of London of 1666 could not destroy as was secretly intended after the burning of some 87 churches and the London Bridge—helped prove that the 'Missing Link' to Darwin's theory was never actually missing. It had purposely been hidden by Darwin himself and his cohorts. Darwin, on his death bed asked of the church that he be buried in the church yard at Westminster Abbey; a narrative that would be twisted in the aftermath for the history books. Charles Darwin being a custodian of the Origin of Man Papyrus, which of course gave him the title to write an opposing theory to the brilliant biblical account of creation, had confessed openly to the church that his act was prompted by matters relating to an emotional loss he suffered and the pains he bore thereof.

Revealing that he himself was once a 'Gatekeeper,' Darwin agreed to the priest's suggestion that his confession be placed on a silver plate, known around the inner circles as SPC, acronym for Silver Plate of Confession. And this was to be affixed on his epitaph in the church yard at Westminster Abbey in the heart of London—the world's oldest city, of course besides Damascus for all its visitors to read. He was also to make available his latest written works with all the clarified facts and confession of the distortions. But the Statists would not allow what they described as Darwin's sudden surge of morality to see the light of day—just as they had over the years prevented him from publishing it.

Quantum leaping to 1999, I can confidently tell you that all of these, among other discoveries have finally been retrieved by the Gatekeepers. And it is their belief that these discoveries will halt the evil powers wreaking havoc and destruction on the planet and mankind as a whole. It was Archbishop Luring and the fraternity of Gatekeepers’ understanding that after these findings have been carefully established in their rightful places by the sacristans, mankind will experience a paradigm shift in the level of evil, death and destruction. But nine years on, epidemics, earthquakes, floods, tsunamis, enhanced weapons of mass destruction to commit mass murders are soaring at astronomical proportions. So then it might seem that retrieving these early documents does not pare down or curtail in any way the level of deaths and destruction. Perhaps something must be missing from this grand equation . . . Professor Welch paused again and glanced into his audience. The fraternity of Gatekeepers whose duty it is to destroy the works of the furtive enemy, Abosai, West African dialectic expression for the prohibited pronunciations of Lucifer, Satan, The Devil…."

What is missing from this grand equation, Professor Welch? called out a young man from the front row. And I’m sorry for the interruption but you didn’t say what’s missing….

The elderly professor smiled, "That’s why you have to purchase Missing Link. And for your information, there will be an introductory signing right after my lecture in the foyer."

The audience graced the professor’s remark with light laughter as the young man hissed, Darwin’s Missing Link, and he dropped back into his seat.

Seeing that the auditorium was quiet again, Professor Welch went on. "As I was saying, the fraternity of Gatekeepers whose duty it is to destroy the works of the furtive enemy, Abosai, the spiritual head of the Statists, unknown to many had to find out why the enemy's powers were increasing to the dimension where evil walks in broad day light: Dogs barking at the sight of them are now being banned by muffling them for twenty-four hours, the Church anxiously supporting licentiousness and unnatural unions. As I speak to you, laws to this effect are being drafted in both houses which will seek to promulgate those immoral acts. The powerful operatives, the Pretenders, the Statists if you will, who had cloned themselves as politicians are deeply embedded in the House of Representatives and the Senate here in the United States and other elite political echelons strategically positioned across the globe, who among other diabolical acts, have succeeded in converting most of the monumental orthodox worshiping sanctuaries and churches into pubs, nightclubs and discothèques all around the globe in the name of modernization… a sheer blindfold to the unsuspecting masses while moral decadence destroy the very fabric of society as we once knew. Those Churches were our pride and beacons of hope, and reminders of God’s presence and love—foundations upon which our nations were built . . . In God We Trust. It is not a mere coincidence that our founding fathers included this phrase even on our legal tender, accepted globally. They indeed were the forerunners in this battle." He paused to take a glass of water and continued in a more somber tone.

"Going to the root of this inexplicable power surge, which is enabling these unexplained mayhems and evil occurrences, the Gatekeepers have to locate Sehielore, the maiden and single person who can reach the spiritual heights to handle the ancient 'Sacred Rod of Ages', known only to the circle, and unspoken of; something Constantine deleted from the Book of Jude and substituted the records with the body of Moses. The same reason the Book of Jude was almost rejected from inclusion into the Holy Bible. The 'Rod' which Constantine kept for himself, he yet couldn’t handle and ended up placing its replica in the Vatican that the Holy See, the Pope in the ecclesiastical ordinance of his Pontificate-Dignity holds in St. Peter's Square . . ."

Are you saying what the Pope holds, is a replica? a young lady interrupted Professor Welch.

Precisely; the Pope holds in St. Peter's Square the replica of the retrieved Rod of Moses.

The fraternity knew it would happen at the beginning of the new millennium, but did not know who Sehielore was. Finally, after a long quest around the world, they eventually found her. But mind you, she had long been spotted by Abosai who, being in the cloak of darkness, sees even the faintest speck of light—something the Gatekeepers missed, for they are brighter lights themselves. Unaware of whom she actually is, Sehielore, the maiden works deep in the establishment of the Statists. Her heart is strong, pure, built naturally to resist abundance of influences, multitude of rituals, and interferences intended to convert her. That is why the seed of her fornication was caught up unto God and his throne: Revelation, 12:5. And she brought forth a man child . . . Professor Welch paused, looked up and explained, brought forth as to conception and not delivery . . . and on the seventeenth day of the first month she brought forth a man child who was to rule all nations with a rod of iron: and her child was caught up unto God and his throne. And from that day on, the seventeenth day of the first month of 2006, Sehielore, the maiden had been lost in the wilderness, and so she will be for a thousand, two hundred and threescore days. He continued, The depth of the maiden’s strength weathers down their attempts to nothing more than nightmares, which she has fought every night, as far back as the liminal years of her childhood.

The Statists’ intent is to lure the masses into believing there is no God; hence there could be no Satan but rather some bedtime Bible stories. This, they managed to execute with great efficiency. All one has to do is be able to read just enough to believe that the Bible’s creation is complete nonsense; therefore, Darwin's theory has to be taught. And there are powerful nations like China, France, Germany and the United States of America—operating both directly and indirectly through organizations embedded in them, like the Freedom from Religious Foundation, the American Civil Liberties Union and Americans United for Separation of Church and State, in the forefront of this battle.

As a continuation of his quest to overthrow God, which led to conflicts in heaven, Abosai, the Forbidden, had to take God out of the equation for the grand scheme of virtually branding mankind to succeed. And this he designed to carry out unknown to man. Abosai had waited for the right time, when even children of God were actually beginning to believe that the earth came by itself through the 'Big Bang' and that there was no intelligent design. Sadly and unknown to most outside the fraternity, the so-called 'Big Bang' theory itself was coined from the Holy Bible’s account of Adam and Eve in the Garden of Eden—their first sexual explosion. ‘Big Bang' being a jargon of wild sex, which initially was blasphemy of the highest order, had now been added to the multitude of words to blemish the Holy Bible’s account with a speculative scientific explanation backing it.

Using Darwin's plight of losing faith in God, although a known Gatekeeper who had turned his back on God due to the loss he suffered, Abosai fueled this by constantly whispering in Darwin’s ears a reminder of his pains, until finally Darwin wrote an opposing text, ‘The origin of man’, challenging the original truth of Intelligent Design as to man’s inception.

Now, chronologically unveiled in these chapters, is the journey to the actual discovery of ‘Darwin’s Missing Link.'

And that no man might buy or sell, save he that had the mark, or the name of the beast, or the number of his name; so now I say, the code is www."

All through the lecture a man in his mid-thirties, dressed in an obvious attempt to look younger, sat anxiously at the very last row of the packed auditorium. He wanted the auditorium packed for his plan to work, and although he had no doubt that students would foolishly throng the hall for that lecture, he took it upon himself to spread the news through spies acting as his eyes and ears on campus—just in case there was someone, just someone who the message of the pending lecture had not reached; he could not afford to spot a single empty seat while the whole idea was to have a cramped hall. He was a perfectionist—even in his killings—but this old fool was getting on his nerves with his long homily. Smiling to himself with those thoughts, he examined the back of his right hand for the last time as he presumed the lecture was finally coming to a close. He took a quick glance at his wristwatch. It was quarter past three and seven seconds, his mind went to the late afternoon traffic . . . the lecture had been certainly less than an hour, but knowing what was going to be said before it was said made it seemingly unbearable to wait. This frustration, coupled with the hatred of the response the Professor was receiving from the packed auditorium was bringing time to a complete halt. He looked at his watch again, and it had been only five minutes, thirty-two seconds from the last time of checking. He would have preferred to take a shot with his concealed revolver, and then he remembered he left the silencer in his haste, a compensation for the adrenaline pumping into his veins, since that was certainly not the plan- he must stick to the plan and not let his emotions get the better part of him. He had been waiting for so long for such a time, a time to bring all the nonsense to an end that would earn him the respect by all in his fraternity. And he would not wait any longer! But they said they needed him alive… ‘Patience, patience,’ he tried fruitlessly to talk himself down, missing what was said, and beginning to wonder why he heard noise and movements all around him. The lecture had come to a close.

He stood up, grabbing his attaché case in his armpit, he edged towards the Lecturer, who by then, was packing up his materials to proceed to his book signing whiles other students stood waiting to either argue on the concept of the subject matter or to just play good student. The stranger, pushing his way through them, now faced the professor.

Hello, I’ve really enjoyed myself with your lecture. The man said extending his hand.

Thank you. Dr. Welch responded taking the man’s hand. It was a firm hand shake.

Sorry, you’re a student here?

Oh, yes, sorry for my rudeness. I’m Leon, Leon Maxwell. I’m in your psychology class. The man said nervously.

Ok, Mr. Maxwell. I hope you buy a copy of the book.

I certainly am looking forward to it, Sir. He said and gaited off hurriedly, leaving Welch watching him walk away. There was nothing wrong with the stranger’s erratic disposition or his age. It was his face . . . He had certainly seen him somewhere before, and definitely not at lectures. More so, as strange as it sometimes seemed to his students, Professor Welch had always made it a point to know each and every one of his students by name, at least their first name, but this man- not only did he look like a complete stranger, he also did not know of any one by that name.

He thought of many things, and one of that was to abandon his book signing schedule and go home. ‘I’m living recklessly now’, he thought to himself.

His eyes followed the man out of the auditorium and still kept gazing, until a voice broke his seemingly suspended animated state.

Professor Welch, you ok? It was a female student.

Yes, yes, Magdalene. I am fine. He studied her face for a tad to give the impression of normalcy.

I just wanted to know if the signing was today… Or we need to wait for next Christmas?

Don’t be silly. Christmas would be too soon. He said, forcing the laughter from the young lady and the others trooping to him, as they stepped to the foyer of the auditorium.

As the man got into a van parked outside, he carefully peeled off the film coating from the back of his hand and placed it in a small plastic bag he had taken from his attaché, and sealed it; placing it back gently into the case, he gave a sigh of relief, turned on his engine and inched into the late afternoon traffic.

The professor arrived home earlier than usual; beside the thought of the stranger forcing him to make this conscious decision, it would be a good surprise for Marci, his ever-loving wife. Being married to her for the past twenty-four years did not take anything from the love, care and respect they had always had for one another. And he was grateful. Now, what was left for him to do was explain to her that they had to relocate. But how was he going to do that, when after their daughter, Maria passed away some sixteen years ago, their home was the only thing that made Marci feel closer to their lost daughter, who to her, was still there with them. He knew the first thing Marci would say- William, how would Maria find us in our new home when she decides to come back? Although it happened in Pennsylvania, and they had long ago relocated to New York, after fifteen years, Dr. Welch had decided not to attempt to correct her on that anymore. He therefore had to bear the agony of travelling to Langhorne to lay flowers at her tombstone all by himself every blessed year. Except for her partial amnesia from the motor accident by a hit-and-run driver that killed Maria at a tender age of twelve, Marci was a bright woman of passion and sweet, sweet love for humanity- and for him William Welch, most of all.

He fished for his keys, inserted one, and carefully unlocked the front door, so as not to spoil the surprise of him arriving early. He knew she would scream with joy, and he would tell her that was how it would be from then on. No more staying late in the office and making her eat alone, and being her bread of sorrow, as she put it.

But he’d barely put his tote on the coffee table, when he noticed bloodied foot prints that seemed to have been coming from the direction of the bedroom, and continued into the kitchen.

It was the worst day of his life!

Someone lay on the floor in a pool of blood.

In his shock, he leaned closer to the body to identify it. Marci laid there, in her good old morning coat, blood still oozing out of her mouth. But there was something else- her breast had been severed and lay in a saucepan beside her. There was running water from the tap, and the stove burner was lit. She was still breathing. He dropped on his knees, and grabbed her, trying to hear what she was saying; Marci, Marci, who did this? Oh, dear who did this to you? But she convulsed with pain, choking on her own blood, then, she was gone. He sat there clutching her body to give her some warmth. But before he could make sense of what was happening, he heard sirens all over. The front door was smashed open and armed policemen stormed in. That was all he could remember. Besides them causing an awful lot of cacophony in the background . . . disturbing, what he deemed a dream, he was lost to time and reality.

You’re one sick man! he heard one of the officers scream at him.

It was all that registered in his lax brain. He remained stoic. His mind played games with him as the rush of adrenaline poisoned his judgment. ‘Who did this? Who would commit such a gruesome act against my Marci? But wait a minute, what if I truly did it? What if I’m indeed sick and did it without knowing? The door wasn’t broken into; the back door? Impossible, anyone breaking through a security door would raise an alarm . . . ? Oh, poor Marci, how could I do this to you? I hope you did not suffer pain, Oh Marci, how could you?"

He kept looking back at his wife lying in the pool as they hauled him away. Once outside, he could not help but notice that besides a handful of people who had gathered, the number of police cars was unprecedented for an arrest - homicide or not. He sat silently in the car, watching his nightmare unfold as he was transported to the place where his freedom would forever end, but what actually bordered him was Marci. The car stopped. But to his surprise it was not the precinct’s police station. They had brought him to W. 14th Street, New York. Who were they? Certainly not the police.

Chapter 1

Thursday, January 10th, 2008. 6a.m.

Twenty-eight year old Davida woke up from sleep dripping with sweat. She had been having her nightmares again. It was a prison cell and the horrible images on the walls were after her. This time, they were getting closer and one of them almost had her. Struggling to set herself free, she woke up just before they could take hold of her. Next time we’ll get you. One of her pursuers told her after scratching deep into her wrist.

You really were screaming. What was it this time, the jungle? Peter asked, dropping on the bed next to her. You really have to do something about these nightmares, see a specialist perhaps. He was her roommate.

I’m sorry, Pete. She turned her face to look into his eyes. They got him, Pete. I just couldn’t save him, I couldn’t. Davida sobbed.

You couldn’t save who? inquired Peter.

The little boy, they got him.

It’s just a dream, Davida, just a dream. He patted her on the thigh.

Holding her wounded wrist she argued, But it seemed so real.

What is it? Peter took her arm and plied open her fingers from around her wrist. You’re bleeding; it’s like a deep scratch. He looked at her; Hold on, running into the bathroom he returned with a warm damped towel, gauze, alcohol and a Band-Aid. He applied the damped towel to the wound. You might have scratched yourself in your struggle.

She shook her head in disgust. You know what, forget it, pulling her arm away from him. I don’t know how many times I have to tell you it’s not just any dream.

He took her hand again, picking the damped towel off the bed, it’s okay. People dream all the time and sometimes even scratch themselves in their sleep. There’s no need making anything out of it. He was now wiping the cut with gauze and alcohol.

You’ve got the answer for everything, why bother suggesting I see a professional then? she twitched in reaction to the pain. And with what nails could I possibly have used to scratch myself this deep? She extended her fingers to show her perfectly manicured nails, acrylic filled and all rounded at the edges.

Peter glanced at them, stunned.

How do you explain it? she wiggled her fingers.

You must have scratched your hand against something. He placed a broad Band-Aid on the wound.

She was gawking, Here in my bed? Show me, where is this thing I supposedly used to scratch myself this deep.

Peter looked around. He found a comb, picked it up and dangled it in her face.

Davida was not amused.

Davida was saying to Susan, a practicing partner, because I really don’t understand what’s happening, and I’m starting to believe if I don’t do something about this now, it might just get worse.

From what I understand, she’s one of the best in her field, returned Susan.

How did you come across this Dr. Smith?

The local tabloids, don’t you read them?

No Sue, I don’t. And you’re only into them because of the love ads.

Well, Susan slipped into the chair across from Davida’s desk. I’m not as lucky as you, you know.

Now that’s not fair. I’m as single as you are.

You know that’s not true, Susan’s voluptuous blonde hair lengthened to her neck. By the way, with that kind of arrangement you may as well be in each other’s beds.

Like I told you before, Pete’s not like that. He’s a real gentleman. And let’s not go there again today.

Real gentleman, huh? taunted Susan.

You know me; I would have told you if there was anything going on. After all . . .

Yeah, I’m your best friend . . . what am I saying? I’m your true sister. Susan wiped pretend sweat from across her brow, Whew! What was I thinking?

You’re such a lunatic. Davida was shaking her head.

Hey, I’m not the one going to see a shrink.

Now, that’s below the belt.

Give me your best shot.

Get outta here.

Susan got to her feet laughing, Hey, your appointment’s at two. And it’s already twelve twenty. If I were you I would leave before Godzilla gets back.

Don’t let him hear you calling him that. And maybe you’re right, I should leave now. Davida collected her pocketbook and followed Susan out the door. A few last-minute instructions for her secretary, and she was off.

As they reached the elevator Susan gasped, Oooo, my God! Just remembered something I forgot to tell you.

Uh-huh? Davida depressed the down button.

Putting on one of her sincere executive expressions as to emphasize the importance of what she was about to say, Susan whispered, If she gives you pills to take, pretend to take them, and when she’s not looking spit them out.

And why will I wanna do that?

The comical expression was back, Because that’s what crazy people do. I see it all the time on TV.

You know what? Davida sighed, You’re a real nut. The elevator opened and they stepped in.

I know the door closed. That was too good to pass up. Susan laughed heartily over her own gag.

Davida smiled along, shaking her head in disbelief.

They arrived at the underground parking, with Susan affectionately tapping her friend on her shoulder. Hey, drive carefully, and get back soon. I’ll cover for you in case Godz . . . umm Ian, comes back . . . Oh, and don’t forget how she receives her money. Put it into the envelope and drop it on her desk . . .

Three hundred, right?

You’ve got it.

As Davida left the underground parking lot, she checked the route-finder for Dr. Smith’s W. 14th Street office. Satisfied, she placed the device back on the seat, steered her red Mustang left onto Pearl Street and accelerated. Now it was her friend’s weird sense of humor she couldn’t seem to shake off. They had been buddies since fifth grade, but became best friends and grew much closer after Maria, her one time sweet-heart died in a fatal motor accident near their homes in Langhorne, Pennsylvania. And during those times, even at the tender age of twelve, Susan was there standing by her side. Years later when Davida’s father was admitted with a terminal illness and eventually passed away, it was yet again Susan’s willing shoulders on which Davida leaned for emotional and moral support. They were true sisters, Susan always told her.

After graduating together from law school, it was Susan who first secured a position at the offices of D. G. Tetteh near Wall Street in Manhattan. Weeks later, Davida was introduced to Ian Williams and hired without even a glimpse into her résumé—thanks to Susan and her flirtatiousness. Ian had eyes for her but the only thing Susan said she saw in him was Godzilla.

Susan had always known about Davida’s nightmares, but with current experiences taking on different dimensions and physical implications, she told her friend she was worried and suggested they move in together. Davida rejected the notion, not because it was not a great idea, but rather, she had learned her friend and sister had developed more than a platonic attraction to her. Davida had never suspected her friend was a bisexual, and had been all her life. And that was why she was shocked when she woke up one night to Susan fondling her breast. But now they had gone past that, and Susan had accepted they were of two different sexual orientations, and it was best to leave things as they were. A week later, they were friends again.

Thanks to her navigator Davida was pulling up in front of the Doctor’s office building at W. 14th Street on time. It was a high-rise pointing into the skies, with its own underground parking space. Once she’d secured her Mustang and shut off the engine, Davida did as she was told. She opened her bag, put the three hundred dollars into an envelope and sealed it before exiting her car to head for the lift.

In the elevator, Davida noticed that the building had no thirteenth floor, and went up to the fourteenth where Dr. Smith’s office was located. After ringing the doorbell, it took a few minutes before she heard the lock click and the panel flew open. The woman standing in front of her was petite, about forty-nine with sharp sparkling eyes. You must be Miss Ashford? She extended her hand, her smile warm and pleasant.

Yes, Dr. Smith? Davida extended her hand, I hope I’m not late.

No, not at all, the Doctor assured her. Come in. She ushered Davida in. The phone was ringing. Please have a seat. There are questionnaires on the table, if you’d please fill one. I’ll be with you shortly, the doctor disappeared into an inner room.

The reception looked abandoned, with no secretary or other patients, which pinned a peculiar sense of isolation. Davida dropped onto the nearest sofa. It was lime green with matching chairs and a loveseat. A few medical magazines were neatly displayed on a glass coffee table that looked a century old. Fallen petals from dying roses lay withering away on a high glass stand that could easily pass for a bar stool. And to cap the eeriness of it all, a strange, strong fragrance suspended in the air.

The doctor appeared in the door and said, Please, come in, and bring with you the form.

Davida picked up the sheet and pocketbook, got to her feet and edged toward her.

Dr. Smith waited until her patient entered and then shut the door. Taking the form from Davida, the doctor pointed to a long sofa under the window overlooking the street, Please have a seat.

The doctor skimmed over the questionnaire, took a note pad and scribbled something quickly. She looked up at Davida for a moment and asked, What exactly is the problem?

Davida was a bit nervous. Sorry, but I thought it was customary to give your clients a minute or so to lie down and relax, you know, find themselves…?

The remark didn’t generate the reaction Davida expected. It was as if the doctor had become a totally different person since receiving the call. The smile that welcomed Davida seemed long gone, leaving behind a desperate expression of a confused woman. Davida now noticed wrinkles at the corner of the doctor’s lips.

Waving her hand to draw the woman’s attention Davida said, Did you hear me?

The doctor found herself again and said, Sorry, I was lost in thoughts. She shook her head. You don’t need to do that.

Pardon me?

You don’t need to lie down. Dr. Smith said dryly. But if it makes you comfortable, by all means, please do.

No, I’m fine like this. Davida answered.

Okeydokey, let’s begin then. The doctor’s smile was back. You can begin when you are ready.

As Davida gave a vivid and exact account of her recurrent nightmares, Dr. Smith jotted on her pad at intervals.

And how long have you been experiencing this level of realism in your nightmares?

For about a month and a half now.

And have you told anyone yet?

Only my friend, she recommended you . . . and then Davida seemed thoughtful, oh, yes, another friend too, Peter, my roommate.

The doctor raised an eyebrow briefly, studied her patient’s face and jotted something down, Only those two?

Yes.

The doctor thought shortly and murmured, I see dreams as windows to the soul. And then she looked at Davida, but fleetingly. Okay, it’s not all the time I work within the context of my profession so this is off the record. She took in a long deep breath and sighed. My many years of experience tell me a case such as yours, where you’re carrying a baby and creatures pursuing you as to leave physical evidence associated with the dreams, perhaps requires someone I know. He’s at St. John’s Hospital. I think I have his card somewhere. She moved to her desk, searching for the card. Here.

W. Welch, St. John’s Psychiatric Hospital. Davida, already on her feet, read the card then raised her head to look at the doctor, Isn't St. John’s a psychiatric hospital for the criminally insane? And there is no phone number on this thing. Is he a doctor there?

Oh, he used to be a doctor alright, but now he’s a patient.

A patient? Davida seemed baffled, with his own call card?

Yes, I had it made for him. The doctor took in a long deep breath and breathed out again. It happens that I need him more than he needs me.

Davida was frowning, I don’t understand, are you saying I’m insane?

No, but I have to admit though, some of what you just told me sounds a bit far-fetched and fictional. She chuckled and then laughed, trying to hold back, but instead, cackled more hilariously, unable to control it.

Davida, now annoyed, went into her handbag and retrieved the envelope, placed it on the coffee table and walked out of the consulting room. Peeling the front door open, she marched out.

Not quite certain what to make of the doctor’s reaction she edged towards her car fuming. After listening to all the nonsense I spat out, maybe it was the only thing she needed to do to get rid of me. Am I going insane? Now she wished she hadn’t come. But she trusted her friend, and knew Susan was only trying to help.

Dr. Smith stopped laughing and pressed ‘redial’ on her mobile. She snuck after Davida as she listened to the receiver. Someone picked up and she said, She’s leaving and I don’t think she was that impressed with me.

She didn’t suspect anything I hope?

I don’t think so. And you were right; she does have a strong spirit.

I did tell you to be careful . . .

The doctor didn’t respond. Instead, she ducked when she saw Davida turning just before wrenching the door knob.

Are you there? the voice on the other end was saying.

Yes, and I think she saw me. I was spying her leave; I think she saw me . . .

She’s gone I hope?

Yes, yes.

Once we have her seed, that won’t matter anyway . . . your voice, you sound frightened. You’re certain she is the one?

Absolutely, there’s no doubt about that.

You sent her to the Voyager right?

Yes, I did.

Then make sure you conduct the ceremony. Once it’s confirmed, we’ll have no time left.

I will, as soon as I hang up. The doctor assured her associate at the other end of the line, and then hung up.

But the phone was ringing again. Reluctantly, she picked it up, Yes?

It’s me again.

I thought it was her. You almost gave me a heart attack.

Is she that powerful?

I couldn’t even keep eye contact long enough to say jack. Dr. Smith admitted.

Don’t worry; she does the same to me, the voice said and then added, By Toxcatl she will be done away with.

Well, I’m doing my part. The rest is up to you and the leaders to handle.

We’re counting on this because it’s our last chance to get it before Toxcatl passes . . . the voice on the phone paused, Do you think he will give it?

I still sincerely believe Austin has it, as the boys suspect. Dr. Smith asserted.

Well, if indeed it was handed to him, let’s hope this brings him out of hiding. It sure would be nice to kill two birds with one stone.

I’m truly looking forward to it. He left me with too many scars, and there isn’t much I can do to pay him back.

I have to go now. The voice said.

And I’ve got work to do.

Then we’ll meet at the vigil. Bye now.

After hanging up, the doctor picked the envelope off the coffee table, and walked to a giant mural painted only in red and yellow depicting melancholy setting of a grave sun. When she ran her hand over the top right ridges of the frame, the mural moved down into the floor exposing the chromium of an elevator door. Dr. Smith depressed the single button and the door slid open. Stepping in, she descended to the level directly beneath her consulting room. It was the thirteenth floor.

The room was dark, helped only by a dim glow of candle lights. Dr. Smith edged to the nook of the room where a blood red robe hung on a black rack. Standing there, she stripped completely naked, and then pulled the robe over her head. In front of a pitch black altar the doctor tore out the information she wrote on the pad during her consultation with Davida and added it to the envelope. She pulled open a drawer from within the pitch-black altar and took out an object covered with red linen. It was an earthenware bowl, and she placed the envelope and piece of paper into it. The doctor then sprinkled something from a bottle labeled ‘frankincense and myrrh’ and set it ablaze. The smoke filled the air, as was the case just before Davida arrived for her appointment. Amid the swirling smoke, Dr. Smith raised her hands into the shadows and said, "Ooooh szellem ból sötétség, Ura éjszaka, ez Én, lány ból sötétség hívás a mindenható név hol erő van megbízható. ÉN behív . . . (Ooooh spirit of darkness, Lord of the night, it is I, daughter of darkness calling your almighty name where power is reliable. I summon . . .").

Just about to enter her car, Davida spotted something moving by the rear tire of an adjacent sedan. Bending to investigate, the black head of a spitting cobra sprung at her. Screaming, she ran around to the driver side of her car and hurried into it. She sparked her engine, clumsily bumped into a car or two before steering out the lot.

A couple of yards down W. 14th Street, away from the doctor’s office, Davida slammed her brakes and slipped into reverse, causing speeding motorists to screech their tires to avoid ramming her. As she carelessly tried to steer backward, Davida paid no attention to the pandemonium she was creating. She stopped near a hydrant and stepped out the car, failing to slip it in park. The vehicle started rolling back and she jumped in again, hitting the brake before slipping into park. It jolted and stopped. Again, she stepped out and started searching for the complimentary card Dr. Smith had given her earlier. She’d tossed it out her window after convincing herself the whole thing about this Dr. Welch made no sense at all. What changed her mind was the sudden realization she had not actually accomplished anything by going to see Dr. Smith.

Davida found the crushed piece of paper, picked it up, got back into her car and drove off. She called Peter and burst out as soon as he picked, You won’t believe what just happened. I got attacked by a snake.

What? Were you bitten?

No, but I barely got outta its way.

That’s strange; a snake? What color was it? drilled Peter.

Black with a very big neck, she replied. And when silence came back at her from the other end of the line, Davida continued, Peter, are you there?

Yeah, I’m here. He answered shortly, sounding somehow dejected.

And why the sudden silence?

Did you go see a shrink like I asked you to?

Yeah, but why are you asking that now? Didn’t you hear what I said?

I heard you alright, but what you’re describing is a cobra and we don’t have those running around New York City except for the zoo.

Maybe it got outta there . . .

Davida! Davida! Give it a rest. Because if you don’t put a cap on it now, people will start talking . . . you know, saying all sorts of things... she could hear him sighing. Where are you now?

On my way to the office.

Go home, I’ll meet you there.

It’s okay, don’t bother . . .

He hung up before she could say anything else. She pulled her head back and frowned at the phone.

Arriving at her office, Davida was still on edge from her encounter with the cobra. She thanked her lucky stars she didn’t get a ticket, not forgetting a few surveillance cameras may have picked up on her violations. And since it was all about coming to tell Susan what had happened, Davida was utterly disappointed Susan had left without waiting for her.

Instead, she ran into Ian Williams, with whom she avoided eye contact and went straight into her office. Giant glass windowpanes stretching the length of the wall gave Davida a generous view of the broad corridor where she saw every single employee plowing the floor in either direction. And just for the benefit of Ian Williams, who made it a habit of pushing open her blinds every time he entered her office, she’d grown accustomed to leaving it wide apart. Now, Davida wasn’t surprised when she saw him coming in after her. She was not prepared to say anything in her defense, like why she had left without an official notice. First time too she found herself in such a tight spot and wished so much Susan was there to offer her support. Her friend was an expert in such matters, she thought to herself; even had the entire office praying for her during her two weeks sick leave while she sun bathed in Florida.

Got a minute? inquired Ian walking through the opened door.

I guess so, Davida said suffering a slight trace of anxiety.

I understand you had to see your doctor. He dropped on a chair in front of her desk. Is anything the matter?

Davida stared blankly.

Or was it a normal routine checkup? Without waiting for a response he said, I’m on my way to a meeting at the NYCDOH. The Cantonese will be coming in- make sure you complete their paperwork. With that said, he was climbing back to his feet, Well, then I’m outta here.

He was not quite out of sight when she got up and hurried after him, catching up at the lift, Ian.

He stopped and turned, yeah?

Its 5:o’clock and I just remembered I have rehearsals.

You need to complete it, even if it means you stay overnight.

It was the first time he’d spoken to her that way. Their relationship had been one of mutual respect and professionalism at its best. Before she could speak again, the lift opened and he got in. Davida didn’t wait for it to shut in her face, and started back down the hall. She could hear the lift closing behind her.

But Ian didn’t leave the building right away. He went one level down and took the stairs up to the eighth floor again. Reaching the door to the stairwell, he opened it, peered down the corridor—abandoned. Practically tiptoeing, he snuck close enough to Davida’s window, stole a peek before retracing his steps to the seventh floor where he took the lift down and exited the building.

Skimming through briefings and seemingly engrossed in the particular sheet in her hand, Davida stretched her arm to the floor where her bag sat next to her. Without even looking, she fished for her bottle of mineral water. Her fingers fiddle innocently down there for a bit . . . A four-foot ringhal with keeled scales and light rings circling its neck was partly coiled around the bottle of water, throwing out its tongue