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    The Eyes of Asgarthus
    The Eyes of Asgarthus
    The Eyes of Asgarthus
    Ebook255 pages4 hours

    The Eyes of Asgarthus

    By J.S. Frankel

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    Asgarthus (Az) Anderson, Portland teen, is slowly going blind and there is nothing he or medical science can do to stop it. While he tries to deal with his impending loss of sight, he finds out that he has developed another ability—that of a form of psychometry. In Az's case, he can see people and events in objects that have been touched by strangers, but only the most recent happenings. His ability amazes and frightens him, and at first, he doesn't know how to deal with it. His girlfriend, Lynn Wong, is also frightened, but she stands by him as he tries to work through his newfound condition. Things change when the local police as well as the FBI find out about his abilities, and soon, Az is working as a profiler of sorts for them, hunting down criminals. However, another case surfaces, one that baffles Az as well as everyone else. A killer is loose. The authorities have dubbed him the Silent Killer, as he creeps and kills silently and leaves no traces. For some reason, Az can't get a fix on him, and he doesn't know why. The killer, though, knows more about Az than is thought possible, and now, Az and Lynn must do everything in their power to avoid becoming his next victims.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublishereXtasy Books Inc
    Release dateAug 30, 2021
    ISBN9781487433239
    The Eyes of Asgarthus
    Author

    J.S. Frankel

    J.S. Frankel was born in Toronto, Canada, a good number of years ago and managed to scrape through the University of Toronto with a BA in English Literature. In 1988 he moved to Japan and started teaching ESL to anyone who would listen to him. In 1997, he married the charming Akiko Koike and their union produced two sons, Kai and Ray. J.S. Frankel makes his home in Osaka where he teaches English by day and writes by night until the wee hours of the morning.

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      The Eyes of Asgarthus - J.S. Frankel

      Dedication

      To my wife, Akiko, and my children, Kai and Ray, thank you for making my life worth living. As well, I’d like to thank all those who’ve supported me on this journey. Eva Pasco, Joanne Van Leerdam, Sara Linnertz, Emily Akimoto, Trisha Kelly, Jennefer Rogers, Gigi Sedlmayer, and so many more. Most of all, thanks to my sister, Nancy D. Frankel, who’s never given up on me.

      Chapter One: Happenings

      Portland High School, three-thirty PM, the last day of school. June first. Present day.

      From what I could make out, the student body swirled around me, but I remained steadfast, a rock in the middle of rippling waves of humanity. Wait, that was a cliché, and the thought of it made me laugh internally. Cheesy line or not, that was how my life had to be—continuity in the form of chaos. There could be no other way.

      Oh, God, that was a cliché, too. Fine, go with it. Life was a series of clichés. If a person was a writer, they’d twist the clichés around to suit their purpose. As a non-writer, I had to twist my own life around in order to suit me.

      Snatches of conversation from the student body came my way, talk about summer vacation, where they’d go, and what they’d do—the usual stuff. Say goodbye to junior year and say hello to senior year in September. In between, they had parties to go to, swim dates, shopping and malling with their friends... they had it easy. I didn’t. Not that I couldn’t walk or anything. Being ambulatory was the easy part.

      Seeing was not. My eyes had been rapidly and inexorably giving out for the past three months due to something similar to Stargardt’s Disease—that was the medical term the experts found to describe my condition, even though they didn’t really know what it was or how to treat it. Stargardt’s was the best they could come up with.

      It sounded like science-fiction, and when the doctor pronounced the name, it made me wonder if I was really from this planet. Perhaps I’d been an interstellar orphan and had landed here by accident, raised by a kindly couple, and would become...

      Oh, wait, forget that scenario. The sad fact was that I’d been born here, and the sadder fact was that due to this disease, I’d eventually lose most of my sight, if not all of it. And while the name—Stargardt’s—sounded sort of cool, the end result was anything but.

      In simple terms, Stargardt’s meant that there was a disorder of the retina, the part of the eyes that sensed light and sent signals to the brain to process images.

      There’s a chance you won’t become completely blind, the specialist said. His name was Ridpathe, an obese doctor who sweated with every breath as though he’d been forced to hike through the Sahara Desert at high noon.

      I can’t make any promises. But you will be legally blind. Your vision might end up as twenty-two-hundred. Maybe worse.

      How much worse could twenty-two-hundred get? Rhetorical—it couldn’t. Doctor Ridpathe told me another name for my condition—Stargardt Macular Dystrophy. That’s the closest I can come to figuring out what’s wrong with you, he’d said.

      Screw the terminology he used or how simplistic he made it sound. No matter how he worded it, my condition would never improve. The world was growing blurrier and darker, and there was nothing modern science could do to stop it.

      For now, use a magnifying glass and enlarge the font on your computer, the expert said. If that fails, better learn braille. That’s the only way to do it.

      Harsh, that was beyond harsh, and my mother gasped before breaking down in tears. In spite of my shock at having my eyesight’s death sentence read out, reason crept in. Ridpathe wasn’t being mean. He simply couldn’t get involved emotionally. All he could do was lay out the facts. After that, Mother Nature would take care of the rest.

      Me—I was too numb to respond, so when my mother recovered, she asked, How long?

      Ridpathe consulted the computer and then turned to us. There’s really no way to know, Mrs. Anderson. This is a progressive disease. I’ll schedule another examination next month.

      And, with that, the consultation was over. He might as well have condemned me to death. Not being able to see sucked. Before this happened, I’d been perfectly normal. Before—a six-letter word meaning normal, which was another six-letter word.

      Crap. All the things I’d gotten used to as a sighted person, all the things I’d taken for granted, such as seeing colors, faces, and objects, all those things slowly receded into darkness.

      At least you can remember what colors are and the geometry of objects, another blind kid I’d met once told me. He’d been blind from birth, so he had to go on touch alone as well as verbal descriptions.

      Some consolation that was—not. I’d been a pretty decent archer before this happened. That was gone. Movies were gone, too. I had to rely on the soundtrack, as well as my memory of the images I’d seen before all of this happened.

      Running wasn’t easy, either, as my depth perception and balance were off at first. I had to make adjustments. That meant walking, feeling my way around with my white cane, and remembering how many steps it would take to the bus stop, the classroom, and so forth.

      Double crap. My life had been reduced to the sum of counting numbers. Now, it would take me thirty-seven steps to go out the main doors. I had a white cane but hated using it, so I slipped my left hand inside the strap and focused on my locker.

      It stared at me, and I stared back. While that sounded weird, the tingle on my fingertips told me that someone had been here, and while I was trying to figure out who it was without making direct contact—direct contact triggered everything—I also wondered where my life was going and why I was still at school in the first place.

      Oh, wait, I wouldn’t be eighteen for another eight months, and until I turned that magical number, the law said to stay home, stay in school, and put up with harassment. Nothing in the playbook told me I had to put up with finger-talking to inanimate objects. That was what I called it.

      Right about the time that my eyesight started to go, that ability came around. Monday—it happened on a Monday, at school. When I touched an object, it spoke to me. Not words, no, but a feeling, something that originated at the point of contact and spread throughout my entire body.

      Electricity danced on my fingertips, and with that pas de deux, an image came with it. It was the image of whoever had touched the object last.

      The first time it happened, I’d gone to the men’s room. After finishing up, I washed my hands and used the paper towels there. When my hand hit the counter, my fingers came into contact with something plastic.

      A shock hit me like I’d stuck my finger in a light socket, and an image flashed in front of my mind’s eye. It was John Madron, a guy in my homeroom class—he’d been there last, and he’d forgotten his glasses. When I handed them over in homeroom, he looked astounded. How’d you know, man? he’d asked. I mean, you can’t see, right?

      He didn’t mean that as a diss. He was simply being honest. Oh, uh, lucky guess, I said, still trying to make sense of it all.

      As time went on, though, my ability to see who’d been where last increased, but it bothered me, like I was prying into their lives. If it bothered me, it bothered everyone else even more. Once, it almost got me beaten up. Me and my big mouth.

      You’re full of it, Joanne Velora, a girl in my homeroom, said. A fiery redhead, she’d always been kind of stuck up, and that day was no exception. It’s some kind of game you’re running, isn’t it? Well, I’m not amused, so stop it!

      Oh, she really didn’t get it. Truthfully, at that point in time, I didn’t fully understand it either. I’m almost blind, Joanne. Not stupid. What kind of game do you think it is? I’m not asking for money. I’m just saying I can do it.

      Sure, it sounded like BS. Second sight or special insight was in the realm of fantasy, not reality. However, when I’d told others that so-and-so had handled this book before and they knew that I hadn’t been there to see it, somehow, they believed me. Now, they gathered around Joanne and me just to see what would happen.

      You know, I always thought you were kind of weird, she answered. But now, I think you’re some kind of freak. Prove it.

      Prove it. Give me a textbook.

      Right away, I heard her rustling around in her knapsack, and she said that she’d pulled out a textbook. Go ahead and touch it, she said defiantly. Tell me.

      Everyone laughed, and the usual comments of, Bullshit, and, It’s a set-up, flew around the classroom. The room then fell quiet as Joanne handed over the book.

      Once I touched it, same as before, a shock ran through me, and an image of a tall, skinny guy with brown hair coalesced in my mind. After I described him to her, Joanne gasped. That’s... that’s Mike Gunton.

      Mike Gunton was not her boyfriend. I knew Mike. He was okay, but Joanne’s boyfriend was a guy named Phil Nicholson. Phil happened to be in the room at the time, and he went ballistic. Joanne tried to tell him that I’d been lying, but then Mike happened by, harsh words flew back and forth, there was a fight, and after everyone broke it up, Phil turned on me.

      You little punk, he snarled. You set this up with Gunton or what? How long has he been seeing my girlfriend? C’mon, tell me, how long?

      He grabbed the front of my shirt for emphasis. What he wasn’t expecting was a headbutt. Blaming me and then jumping me called for a response, hence the headbutt. The blow sent him reeling, and a few students caught him and held him back. I don’t know, Phil. Take that up with your girlfriend, if she’s still your girlfriend.

      Some kids laughed, but he didn’t. Man, I’m gonna end you, was the nicest thing he’d said.

      At that point, the only reason I didn’t get my face kicked in was because I couldn’t see more than a foot or so in front of me. In a fight, I’d get my ass kicked, and a few of the other students told Phil that if anything happened to me, they’d do worse to him.

      Nice, but the support soon disappeared. Instead, everyone called me a freak for the next two weeks. After that, whenever I appeared in the hallway or in the classroom, people gave me a wide berth...

      Hey, Az, what are you up to this summer? C’mon, Anderson, talk to me!

      I snapped back to reality, and why bother turning around? I knew who it was, my only friend and homeroom buddy, Lynn Wong, calling my name from across the hallway. Everyone else heard the question, a few laughed, but most ignored it—and me. With a first name like Asgarthus, it wasn’t easy being ignored, but they gave it their best shot.

      For the umpteenth time, I semi-cursed out my late father. I’d never really known him. He’d died when I was around four, and all that remained of him was a wedding picture on the faux fireplace shelf. Tall, skinny, with a beaklike nose, sallow skin, and cadaverous features topped off by dark hair and gray eyes, my father resembled a slightly heavier version of Ichabod Crane.

      Fortunately, I took after my mother. On the short side of five-six, she had a round face, a pleasant smile, and she also had gray eyes and dark hair.

      My looks were a little better, a bit more masculine, and I was taller than she was—about six feet, with a lean body—but not a day went by when I didn’t hear my nickname of Ass or Aspie or anything the student body could dream up.

      Who would name a kid Asgarthus, anyhow? From what my mother told me, my father had retained a fondness for Norse characters and superhero movies, and my name had sprung from those two sources.

      And while getting made fun of due to my name sucked, it was my sudden ability to discern patterns of movement within objects that concerned me the most. That and losing my eyesight.

      Help the handicapped? Not likely. At school, Don’t you friggin’ touch me! was the refrain. My teachers were sympathetic, but sympathy could only go so far. Tape the classes and learn braille, they said.

      Yeah, I’d heard that before. In any case, I wasn’t totally blind, not yet, but doing anything that required visual skills and spatial recognition was beyond me. I got a pass and ended up in the library. Reading conventional books was out, but they had audiobooks, so that helped. Still, I spent most of my time wondering why me.

      Why me?

      That was something those superheroes always asked themselves anytime they acquired their powers. They’d hurt no one, and they’d stolen from no one. In fact, they were no one. Very few of them were class leaders or special in any way before the Great Change happened.

      So, again, it came around to the why-did-this-happen-to-me question, and I didn’t have an answer. It baffled and frightened me. I was already one of those eternal outsiders at every school I’d been to. That was mainly due to my name, so talking to anyone about it was out.

      As for the school’s guidance counselors, they had more pressing concerns. I was the last on their list to talk to—if I’d ever been on the list, to begin with.

      It had been a mistake telling my mother, anyway—the mistake of the century. My mother, well-meaning but never fully understanding, promptly got alarmed and took me to see a child psychologist.

      Doctor Cooper was a nice guy. But after the preliminary questions, once the good doctor asked me what my problem was, I finally admitted, I see things in other objects.

      Doctor Cooper’s eyebrows arched. A man in his mid-forties with thinning black hair, a saturnine face, and washed-out brown eyes, he gave me a look that meant he doubted my sanity. I’m not exactly following you. Are you trying to tell me that you can see events?

      Now, I felt like the criminal and not the victim. Only this case had no criminals—yet. My answer came out haltingly. Well, no, not see events. I mean, yeah, sort of. It’s, uh, it’s like I sense things... I can see the patterns. I see the images of the people who made them and what they did. Their pasts—I see their pasts in the material.

      Confession over, I waited for the inevitable laugh or snort of derision. To his credit, he treated the matter seriously and didn’t talk down to me. But he did say that maybe my imagination was working overtime.

      Az, what you’re talking about is psychometry. It’s an unproven theory that says a person can discover facts about another person by the objects they touched or objects associated with them.

      Oh, so my condition had a name. Nice to know. I’d never considered it. So, it’s bogus, then, you think?

      I’m going to say that you’re compensating for your failing eyesight, he answered in a kindly manner. I know it’s a shock for you, but—

      I’ll prove it!

      That came out a little too loudly, but Doctor Cooper humored me. He took a book from his desk and handed it over. Okay, tell me who handled this last.

      Rough cover... it was a paperback, and as soon as I touched it, the electrical charge hit. An image began to coalesce in my mind, something... something about a dark-haired girl. Round face. Scar over her left eye... and another scar, a deep one, on her right wrist. Angry... she’d been angry about something, upset, and...

      Holy shit! The exclamation came out of me unbidden, wrenched by a force I couldn’t understand.

      What?

      She was holding a bottle of pills while she looked at this book.

      Doctor Cooper immediately grabbed the book from me and pulled a smartphone from his pocket. Session’s over, Asgarthus, he said as he gently but firmly pushed me out of his office. I have to make a call.

      I left, not quite understanding what was going on. Naturally, my mother didn’t believe me. Since I couldn’t tell anyone else, I kept it inside. But the rumors swirled around me, and no one ever came close enough for me to touch them. I didn’t want to, but all the same, this hadn’t been my fault. I’d only wanted a normal life, and...

      Hey, Az, you’re being shy, you know?

      Lynn’s voice pulled me back to reality again. Short and sweet-looking, with long, silky black hair and a skinny body that made her look like she was eleven instead of my age, she’d been my only friend, my confidant, since we’d met in junior high. Back then, it wasn’t love at first sight. No, it was more like I liked her at first sight, and she felt the same for me.

      She lived two blocks away, and she’d always catch up to me in the morning as I walked to school. After a while, we met up, either at my house or her place, and we went to school together. Once school was over, we’d walk home together.

      As time went by, we walked closer, then our hands joined, and although neither of us said anything at the time, I knew that we had something special going.

      We were friends from the start, friends to the end, handholding notwithstanding. That seemed to be the best plan—for now. But at that moment, it seemed as though she had a different plan in mind.

      Not being shy, I mumbled, still looking at the metal on my locker. It seemed to shift, its molecules doing a ceaseless dance, and the pattern then revealed itself to me. Scott Allison. He’d been here. He must have slipped something inside the slit in the metal. I felt around, my fingers searching for... yes... got it.

      A piece of paper. As my fingers touched it, another pattern came through. Scott had written this with a shaky hand. Shaky... for a reason. Something hit me... a feeling, something like...

      Aspie, thought you’d be here.

      Oh, marvelous, Scott had decided to show up, his six-one, two-hundred and fifty pounds of fat and muscle shoving its way past everyone. A big kid for his age, he possessed an uncommon natural strength and put it to good use, mainly in athletics.

      Scott was the school’s resident Olympic weightlifting champion, and he’d recently competed in the statewide junior weightlifting competition, a steppingstone to the junior nationals. He didn’t win. He placed third, but still, that was a pretty good achievement, considering he’d only been training a couple of years.

      Call me Az, I said, tired of hearing the same old crap day after day.

      Scott wasn’t a bully, not really, more like an insensitive prick. To his credit, he was an equal opportunity abuser in that he played no favorites and got everyone. Well, read the message, he said, tapping the paper.

      I squinted at it but couldn’t make it out, so Scott grabbed it from me and read, Summertime’s here, never fear, find a girlfriend, or you’re so queer.

      Clever rhyme, and Scott let out a braying laugh. Big whoop. Getting called gay was also part of his pattern. But to be fair, everyone said that. I wasn’t queer, but it figured that a few of the kids here were, and there was no reason they had to put up with it.

      Brilliant, Scotto, I said when his laughter died down. You should work for a greeting card company.

      He smirked. Yeah, I thought you’d say that.

      Lynn wasn’t amused and got in his

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