The monastery ruins proved easy to find, and the first glimpse left Durst ready to declare it an unsung treasure of Clemsworth. The deep carved trail ahead of him led across a sun-soaked field and then into woods before expanding and fading into a shaded land of short grass where birds sang by the dozen.

Though harsh when crossing the field, the wind here was a pleasant breeze as it came filtered through trees and bush, a touch cold, but also keeping the sun from becoming too hot. And beyond the trees sat an overgrown patch of stubby shattered walls, broken buttresses, and ash trees. None of the stone remains stood higher than ten feet, though the site was dozens wide.

Light filtered through the leaves and left the ruins a patchwork of small shadows blending with blocks of broken masonry, beaten into a swirl by the breeze that rushed above with a crush of leaves. Calmness swept over him as he approached—this had been a good decision.

But once he entered the ruins proper the tranquility of the scene vanished. Among the tree trunks something unwanted stood prominent, spoiling the symmetry of serpentine shadows. Sitting on a toppled buttress near where an altar would've stood in another life, everything surrounding bent with the wind whereas he sat rigid.

Alan the janitor was disheveled too—and at first Durst took him to be crying. Had his hands pressed against his eyes—mouth moving in some silent murmur. His leather jacket was missing—the sunglasses too—leaving only a sleeveless shirt and scraped arms beneath a lopsided beard.

Godric took a step back—wondering if he could leave the unpleasant fellow without being seen and get to thinking someplace else—but the bald head shot up at the movement. Had a cut running from his chin and into a cheek.

The eyes remained locked for a moment, but then Alan looked away—embarrassed and grimacing—though there were no tears on his face. Godric sighed, and though he could've left easily and faced no repercussions, he instead said, "Are you doing okay?"

The lad obviously wasn't, but if he lied and said he was? Durst would leave.

"This..." said Alan—shaking his head. "This place. I thought it would help. Places like this are supposed to fucking help people like me," then he whispered, "Fuck."

"Help with what?" asked Durst, already regretting not just leaving the second he saw someone else was about. Should've let the creep be.

"Fuck!" screamed Alan.

Was he dangerous? The thought hit Godric alongside the scream—was he having some kind of mental health episode? Looked like he'd been wandering too, maybe got into a fight. Best keep his distance. And there'd been no car where he parked by the trail—how'd he even get to be here?

"Are you lost..." began Godric.

"Fuck!" Alan screamed again and got to his feet in motion more akin to a leaping kick. Began to pace alongside his toppled buttress. Stopped—kicked it—hoarsely cursed again, "Fuck!"

"I..." began Durst. But was cut off by Alan stopping and turning to face him—face red and angry.

"Are you fucking real! I can't see your fucking eyes man..."

"Alan, what's going on?" said Durst. The first thing thought was that he must be in shadow but no, the sun was uncomfortably close to being in his eyes—it glowed above his gaze and warmed his face.

"They only black over when I look at'cha," moaned the janitor.

This silenced Godric, before murmuring "I should make a call..."

"No!" Alan screamed. "I have to get them back... I 'ave to pull a trick on them... I'll get their fucking thing man... It was supposed to be in the hole. Under the fire—the blue one. That's what they said. I heard them. Asked around. People told me the fire was here—the hole too." He waved a hand towards the distance as he said it, and went on, "That'd make it go away. I had to—had to! But that fucking bitch Lithgow stole it. Saw her and that fire crotch carting it away... Lithgow was fucking smiling... Laughing at me... Knew she fucked me over... Was happy about it even."

"Take a minute..." said Godric. "Breath and sit back down. Try to calm down."

"No!" spat Alan. "That bastard Thwaite... Took my insight man. He's Satanic... Do you know what Satanic's about? Sub-stratospheric man! Like inside the earth—beneath the sky! Hell—don't you get it? And he took my ability to look inside things—yes, he has that power, you see?—took my insight. I look at a window now and it just blacks over. Like someone put up pitch-black-out-night curtains... But I know they didn't. I broke one. Their curtains were already pulled aside so I ran away... Tried to look at my phone and the screen did the same thing! Blacked over. I thought it was broken at first but some guy told me it looked fine to him and when I saw his eyes they were blacked over too... I thought it was Thwaite again somehow... A demon sent by him. TV does the same. Maybe making it all happen. Because he did it to me! Stole my hair. My sunglasses. Cursed me—I realized it right then—Thwaite mother fucking cursed me!"

Godric began feeling about his pocket for his own cell-phone. It was maybe time to call the police.

Alan kept raving all the while, "I yelled at him—the guy—told him to fuck off—and his face grimaced like he was scared but his eyes stayed black—like yours Godric." He paused as though a revelation hit him. "Are you really Godric? I hit the guy and ran—I split. But he was only acting the part—not really human I think."

"How long has this been happening?" asked Godric, trying to be neutral—maybe he could convince him to go to the hospital.

"Since I escaped the fucking Pollack and Mr. Moustache's car! After I creepy-crawled up on that house I told you 'bout."

"I see," though Godric didn't really.

"But are you fucking real?" his arms shot straight at his sides and he took a step forward and stopped again, trying to peer. Godric unlocked the phone—ready to dial—and Alan's eyes went wide.

"What the fuck are you doing on that phone!"

"You need help," Godric put the phone in his pocket—the danger was immediate and if he dialed it'd be thirty minutes until help came and he couldn't guess how Alan might react. Godric's leg had begun to twitch a little—he was becoming nervous—fight or flight kicking on.

"Listen to me Godric," said Alan. "I've been like this a while now, and I think I've figured it out—all on my own!" he paused and giggled then before taking another step closer, "Maybe it's punishment. All the porn I watch," he tried to laugh, and said "It wasn't all wholesome... Or legal. All the windows I peep through too. Divine judgement for my perversion. That's one theory—but I came here to pray and didn't get better so I think it's fucking bunk—all that. All of it. Couldn't save me from Thwaite."

"You've got to calm down," said Durst. He'd been avoiding making eye contact—watching Alan's hands and feet instead—but for a moment he glanced up and saw fevered anger simmering in bloodshot eyes.

"No," Alan said it with force. His fists so clenched the veins on his arms began to bulge. "The other things I thought of—once I was done rubbing my eyes—is that Thwaite did it. That either he made something wrong with me..." There was an outrage in his eyes as he said it, and he slapped his chest before moaning, "Something wrong with me! Me! Nothing wrong with me..." he muttered it, as though unconvinced before the anger returned, "The worlds wrong! God's wrong—dead! That's when it hit me... Thwaite made me see things different—but better—he didn't take my insight... He gave it by taking it!"

He began to smile serenely at Godric, and continued his mad tirade, "I can now see that I can't. The insight is that I've been living all wrong by just looking at things—looking into them and trying to get insight—only watching cute little girlies take their clothes off from the bushes..." a hoarse laugh followed, "Fucking curtains man! Watching folks rutt like hogs on the internet... Watching people I don't like—watching them succeed or fuck up, like Steve. Watching! Watching! Watching! It's time to stop and be part of the grand swing of all things like man was always meant you mother fucker aren't going to stop me!" he roared and launched at Godric—fist first.

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1425 words.

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