Chapter Twenty-One

Seth

Nelson was still awake when Seth arrived at his home. The newspaper editor was sitting in his office, squinting at the computer monitor, muttering something under his breath. Seth stared at the man for several minutes. It still unnerved him that he could be so close to someone without them having a clue he was even there. He had to show Nelson he was there, but wasn't sure how to do that.

Blowing the lightbulb in the street lamp hadn't been a conscious act. He'd been angry and upset, and it had just happened. He needed to create a more deliberate effect, one through which Seth could deliver an unequivocal message to Nelson that he was there, he was watching, and he wanted—no, he expected—Nelson to deliver the memory card to the cops. He couldn’t do that by making a lightbulb explode. He had to find a way to talk to Nelson. The computer. That was the answer. But did he have the strength to possess something like that? To talk through it?

Poltergeist. That's what the answer was. Seth had to become a poltergeist—a thing so consumed with anger, he could affect the physical. It scared him. He rarely let himself become angry. Upset, yes, but angry? He was afraid of losing control. Terrified of lashing out and hurting someone. He’d seen it too many times, both in care and on the streets: anger led to violence, violence led to actions you could never take back. That was a regret he didn’t want to have to live with, let alone take with him to eternity.

But he had to try.

He focused on Nelson, on the way the man had betrayed him, while his cold, lifeless body rotted in an abandoned warehouse. He thought about the way he died, his fear and the way he'd desperately tried to cling to life. He thought about how huge a waste his life had been. How he’d been a coward and a failure. All those thoughts bombarded him, churning within him, tearing him apart, and he let them.

Dante flashed into his mind, but instead of latching onto how safe and whole he felt in the angel's arms, he thought about how unworthy he was of the man's affection and love. Dante could do so much better than him. Nothing he had done in his life should have led to his being with someone so stunning. All he'd ever done was run away and hide. Dante being sent to watch over him must have been some huge fucking mistake, a cosmic joke that left Dante's real charge alone and vulnerable. He was pitiful, pathetic, a loser who had deserved to die.

Despair and anger gripped him, turning into a rage he could no longer quell, even if he wanted to. He shifted his gaze to the computer, not to destroy it as he had done the streetlight, but to use it. Whether he did it intentionally or not, he wasn't sure, but he felt his form become even more wispy, felt himself pour into the machine.

He felt jumbled and torn apart, which added fear to his anger and despair. He could see Nelson, staring at the monitor, at him. He heard himself screaming, but the words were garbled and warped, like a badly distorted phone line. But he kept yelling at Nelson, even when his message no longer made sense to himself. The words no longer mattered; the reason for being there no longer mattered. He hated Nelson, yearned to hurt and punish Nelson. He wanted to make him shit his pants with fear. He hated him. Despised him. He had a family. He had everything to live for, but he was still working for a vile and brutal murderer.

Seth could tell Nelson was afraid; his eyes were comically wide, and his pupils had shrunk to pinpricks. His mouth hung open; his face drained of all color. His white knuckles and fingertips jammed against the keyboard, not even attempting to type. He was shaking. Seth had never felt a bigger thrill. He was doing this; bringing terror down upon Nelson and it felt good. Seth reveled in power he’d never had in life. He was no longer a victim. He was in control. He was the one inflicting the pain and fear, not having it forced upon him. The thrill pinging around his distorted, disjointed form made him hungry for more; made him desperate for more.

Nelson stood, still shaking, and backed away, knocking his chair to the floor. He pulled the power cord out of the monitor, but from the way he cursed, Seth knew he was still visible. Nelson couldn’t get rid of him so easily. Good. The man didn’t deserve any respite from the pain Seth was going to inflict upon him. Nelson shook his head over and over and then ran, slamming the door behind him.

Unable to follow, Seth’s rage no longer had a focus. He was drowning in the anger that he had instilled in himself. Knowing that made him fall deeper into despair, which sent him further into the clutches of his rage. It was a never-ending cycle, all positive emotion being sucked out of him to be replaced by nothing but suffocating darkness.

Why should he let his anger go? What difference would it make to anyone? Without it, he was useless, pathetic and weak. But with it, he had a way of changing things. He could seek out the Doctor and make the man so petrified he pissed himself. Or maybe he could terrorize the evil man so much that he had a heart attack. It would be poetic justice. It was what he deserved—a slow, painful death, gasping for every breath.

He was nothing but anger. Could think of nothing beyond revenge. His spirit ripped free of the computer and fled into the night. Without purpose or coherent thought, it fled back to the only anchor it had, the empty echoing hellhole where Seth died.