I never go out in public looking like a slob—that's just a rule. Hell, I don't even sit around my house looking unkempt—you never know who may suddenly show up unexpected at your door...
like a 'beautiful and gifted' clairvoyant, for example.
Just saying...
Well, Isabel Langford is far beyond the superlatives Bill Sines used to describe her—she's absolutely gorgeous and is now staring at my dishevelled appearance, bemused by my embarrassment.
And, of course, I don't what to say.
I want to kill Bill Sines for putting me in this position—what the hell was he thinking?
Oh, just go over and drop by Mark's house—he's an old slipper kind of guy. He won't mind at all.
Well, let me tell you—anytime someone says to me, Please escuse my appearance, I do an inner eye roll. I mean, really—you have a day off and you elect to look like a slob?
Oh, by all means, look comfortable but don't let yourself completely go. Consider your neighbours, or if you have pets, be kind to animals. They don't take a day off
"I'm sorry," she whispers, in that cultured Thirties way of speaking that Hollywood once admired, " I shouldn't have shown up unannounced but was concerned by what Bill Sines told me about your experiences."
Her shy approach melted my heart.
"You must be Isabel, please come into the den and ignore the mess in the kitchen—I'm a sloppy cook."
"It smells delicious," she smiled.
"Please sit down and make yourself comfortable," I suggest. "Can I offer you a coffee?"
"Coffee sounds heavenly. I prefer mine black."
I pour two mugs as I call back to her, "I hope Bill didn't overly burden you with my problems."
"No, Mr. Thornton—Bill didn't really go into any detail at all. I prefer it that way. I don't want others' impressions to colour my readings."
I was puzzled. "But you told me you were concerned by what Bill told you about me."
"I read people by what they don't tell me. I picked up on Bill's concern and from that, I sensed a darkness about you. Being here and talking with you confirms my original perceptions. You are in grave danger."
"Do you mean physical danger?" I asked, alarmed.
She nodded as she took a sip of her coffee, "The danger that surrounds you is both physical and spiritual. You are one of the most oppressed men I have ever met."
"You're talking about spiritual oppression, aren't you? Are you a sensing demonic presence?"
Again, she nodded and stared at me solemnly. "I sense a great deal of rage directed at you. It seems the result of a past tumultuous relationship with a woman who is steeped in the dark arts and conflicted about her feelings for you."
I sat down heavily in the sofa chair opposite hers. I actually felt intimidated by this slight girl with her ethereal beauty and formidable power.
Whenever she turned her gaze on me I felt I was being scanned by an x-ray.
"You have problematic relationships with women, Mr Thornton—this causes you much anxiety but seem powerless to resolve them."
"Why do you think that is?" I asked her.
"Someone with malevolent intent wishes to control you. The more you resist, the angrier she becomes—that's when it gets dangerous."
I felt hopeless and weak. I leaned back in the chair and closed my eyes, overcome by desperation.
What could a slight and fragile girl possibly do when confronted by such forces?
Obviously nothing.
