Hero or Villain

Hero or Villain

1993
Another year of global oddities, including UFO abduc-tions in Australia. Most were devoid of physical evidence; however, the 1993 Narre Warren incident is one of the few compelling exceptions. Here, we are dealing with an event that appears to involve physical evidence and three groups of apparently independent witnesses who may confirm a disquieting reality. In 1994, Chicago, Illinois, according to his wife, Neil Pet-terson disappeared for two months when he drove north toward Lake Michigan. She came home one day and found him sleeping in their bed. His face was dark with a severe tan. He was Caucasian and had trouble tanning at the pool. His body was pale. When he woke, he related a bizarre story over and over. “They probed my mind inces-santly, allowing little sleep. They asked why humans were cruel to each other. I told them I didn’t know the reason.” His therapist said he probably would never be the same. UFO experts assert from victim accounts that abduc-tions involve extensive efforts by aliens - for whatever pur-pose - to understand the human psyche. For those on earth intently involved in the study of humans, all psychology journals come to the same conclusion: The hu-man psyche will probably remain a mystery.

Does madness run in my family? Climbing the attic ladder, Julian Barrin obsessed about Pro-fessor Dawson’s assessment of mankind. ‘Man is evil!’ Am I going mad? The sinister doubt had a genetic link and had become a 10-year obsession. And now Dawson had added fuel to the inferno. And a journal in a family locker surely was proof of Julian’s des-tiny. An ancestor had committed a brutal act of murder using bizarre creative methods. Another ancestor had chronicled the event, leaving the evidence in a locker for Julian to dis-cover. The locker was an unwitting time machine containing bizarre news that others would have burned or buried. The psych professor shared horrifying facts with the class about the cruelties that man is capable of. “Ted Bundy was a cult classic hero for many warped souls.” FBI files contain the best horror novels. Truth is stranger than fiction. Authors could never come up with the deep dark horror that the evil man is capable of. Never. Desire is real. Fiction is a stretch of imagination. Imagination has bounda-ries. Desire is boundless. Fiction can never stretch to the point of the evil desire a Bundy can reach. Evil reality is a playful bomb going off in Bundy’s hungry synapses. It becomes an addiction. Ergo, serial killers with an insatiable taste for someone else’s blood. The musty smell wafted down to the form on the ladder and the dusty pungent aroma of pine and attic mites kicked up his sinuses. At the top of the stairs, Julian thought about the shocking discovery he had made 10 years ago in the dusty old family locker that waited. The genetic link alluded to. Julian had choked on the words that forewarned him of his heritage. He was certain that the locker was possessed. Possession was his only hope. His fate was at the mercy of the locker. And the voices of his ancestors. Julian thought with bitter irony, If I ever men-tioned this to Professor Dawson he would use me as an exam-ple in future classes. Madness was man’s destiny if born to the wrong genes. After reading the shocking news in the old journal, Julian had joined the university Psychology 101 class to gain knowledge about the human psyche to understand and instill confidence in his own mental health. Instead of assurance, Julian was mortified of the possibility that genetics damned him to a life not so different from Bundy. Waiting for him along with the mites and musty molecules living in the stale and possessed air of the attic were shocking facts about a cousin who had died in an asylum and apparently was treated as another Ted Bundy ahead of his time. Julian had to find out if he was destined to be tortured by shock therapy in an asylum. Jekyll and Hyde personalities could be in battle in his mind without his knowledge. He suddenly felt light headed and then... “It’s okay.” It should have been reassuring but he didn’t know if it was his own delusion acting up. His own mind game. Or whispers from the ghosts in the shadows above? He thought about Einstein and how much the genius must have enjoyed his own thoughts. He soberly thought about his own mind. The mind is not a Disney World joy ride; it’s a rat’s maze. Was someone from his past trying to reach him? Or was it his imagination...was he really going...mad? He remembered the cliché: The truth shall set you free. Maybe I don’t really want to know. Maybe the truth will shackle me to a tormented future!

Grabbing overhead support, he angled his body and stepped over the framework where the steps would fold up later when he finished. He carefully monkey walked along ceil-ing struts to his destination, a corner lighted softly by the tiny front window and the air vent. As he closed in on the locker, he flicked aside Christmas tree ornaments that brushed his forehead, and he laughed out loud at himself. At the audacity of the ritual – 10 years! And his imagination...I’m not alone up here. And it’s not Santa Claus waiting. Taking a deep breath, he tried not to hurry. Special occa-sions like this were supposed to have an element of serenity. His friends could wait. The ghosts. They had waited this long. Apparently the early sun shifted... there was Shadow Play... Don’t play with me...my own mind has that luxury. Another shift...Shadow Play...The attic was alive with...life...it would seem...doppelgangers, perhaps...at that whimsical thought, Julian laughed again, a nervous laugh, then held his breath; his senses on full alert as he stepped to yet another at-tic strut, careful not to fall. After all, he didn’t want to be the butt of jokes for a bunch of ghosts. And yet another shift, a skeleton danced in the corner of his bearing in the shaft of light. Not a skeleton, tree branches. He glanced at his watch and grimaced. He wasn’t giving himself as much time as the previous years. He was giving too much credit to those inhabitants that weren’t real. Or, maybe it was because he was finally tired of the whole thing. Maybe his past and his phobias were starting to bore him. Or scare him. Patience! Did I think that? Or... Okay! I hear you! He looked at the corner in the attic and the locker that waited. He smiled in spite of the fear that began rolling down his cheeks in sweat beads. How odd. It was cold and he was sweating.

And for the first time, he had real expectations. Probably because of the accident, the strong feeling of loss – of the many losses over the years that were now taking their toll. His whole family was somehow with him this morning, some stroll-ing in this attic, some loitering in the locker...so he had a right to expectations. The mind must have its pleasure whether fan-ciful or fearful...he looked about...the locker was closer. And he actually smirked whether the ghosts liked it or not...he damn well had a right to a whimsical moment after 10 years of fear of his family and his own psyche. He made his way to the corner in the attic where a shaft of light bled through, and his dark side crouched in front of the dusty old time machine, the locker, leaving the light peeking over his shoulders.