Ethan Phillips Journal 1

I remember the first time I saw that stupid castle. It was decaying, with parts already fallen in upon itself, and I thought, This is where dumb people in horror movies go to die.

The letter asked me to be there at dusk, so, there I was, sitting in my rented car out front, with my high beams laser-locked on the front doors. I had tried one of the doors earlier, but it was locked, so I just had to wait. Did I mention it was raining? No? Well, it was. I had my heater on blast trying to warm myself and dry my clothes, but it was no use. It was as though cold had sunk into my bones, freezing even the marrow. I was miserable.

Then the front door opened by itself, so, like the great idiot I was, I ran into the castle, hoping for some blockage of the rain. When I crossed the threshold, the door closed behind me and a voice beckoned me. "Use the trap door, if you please, Mr. Phillips."

Now, I had seen enough horror movies to know that this wasn't going to end well, but I was already committed, so I figured I better at least meet this mysterious man that lived at Astonberry Castle.

Down I went, deep into the depths of hell itself.

The Value of Sharon

Who am I, Sharon thought. She wasn't sure of what to do or where to go. The last two years of her life had been spent with one outlook: go to school and get a degree and husband. That was the only thing she went to school for, really. She remembered her first day after graduation from high school. She was all set to go to the same small school her parents went to. It was the same place where they met, and, or so she was told, where she was conceived. Some people might have found that to be a good reason to stay away from the school, but those buildings were long gone. The school didn't even have married housing any more.

Throughout the summer, she couldn't wait to get to college and find that one person who would love her. She wanted to be just like her mom, staying at home and raising kids and cleaning house. There was no other life she wanted. That meant that she really only had one goal: find a husband.

Freshman year overwhelmed her. There were so many people and organizations to be a part of that she couldn't think straight. She joined a sorority in the spring semester, giving her a group of friends to hang out with and an easy way to meet guys. Since it was a Christian sorority, she thought it would be even easier to meet a great guy, but freshman year came and went and all she had to show for it was a mediocre G.P.A.

Sophomore year had brighter hopes, or so Sharon thought. Shortly into the school year she met a guy. She liked him, and he liked her. He was training to be a minister, which Sharon thought was perfect. Soon they began dating, and Sharon thought, This is it! I finally found him! She let herself be swept away in her emotions, allowing them to control her. She never once thought about reality.

What she liked most about Edgar was that he called her beautiful every day. Self-image was one thing Sharon had always struggled with in her youth. She was taller than most girls and had really long arms and legs. She thought of herself as a freak. She had a plain face and dull brown eyes. There was nothing about her that screamed for attention, and yet, here was a guy who was attracted to her.

The next few months flew by, until one day they were sitting out in his car after a date and he finally said the words she had been longing to hear: I love you. Sharon smiled and nearly squealed in delight and said it back to him. Then he kissed her, and all felt right for Sharon.

Weeks passed, and the kisses became longer and more frequent. One night they drove to a big city for a super nice dinner. It was out of the ordinary, so Sharon's mind began to race with all the possibility of the night. She imagined him getting to one knee and proposing. She even began to wonder what the ring looked like and how big it was.

She hadn't forgotten that it was Valentine's Day, but they never talked about this kind of trip in the past. Even though it was only an hour to the city from school, it still felt like a big trip, one worthy of a proposal. So they went. They ate at a fancy restaurant and he acted like a complete gentleman, but no proposal. While they ate, the chatter in the restaurant began to grow louder and louder. Sharon and Edgar looked around trying to see what was going on, and saw through a window that it was snowing!

The snow itself wasn't unusual, it was still winter, after all, but Sharon wasn't prepared for the blizzard that had cropped up. By the time they were done eating, there was four inches of snow on the ground and the temperature was in the upper teens. Edgar looked at Sharon and asked what she thought they should do, but she didn't know. Part of her wanted to go back, but the snow was falling harder and harder and there was no chance they would make it, so she reluctantly agreed to staying at a hotel in the city.

Sharon let him talk her into sharing a room, but when they got up there, instead of two queens, there was one king-sized bed. Sharon was nervous about it all, suddenly, but they had already paid and the snow had only gotten heavier with more accumulation on the ground. They determined that they would sleep in their clothes, so as to not be tempted further, but as they kissed goodnight, it went from an innocent kiss into a lustful feast. They didn't stop at kissing, and Sharon wasn't sure if she wanted to stop anything, so they continued.

Morning came and they found themselves nestled against one another, without any clothing, but, much to Sharon's surprise, she wasn't embarrassed. We love one another, she thought. There isn't anything wrong with this. After a little while longer in bed, they arose and dressed. Looking outside they saw that it was still snowing and the storm had dumped nearly a foot of snow. Edgar turned on the news which said that all roads, even the main highways, were still too dangerous for travel, so they spent another night together.

Days after they had returned home from the city, Edgar met Sharon and they went for a walk. Edgar told her, even though he enjoyed those two nights, he couldn't continue to be in a relationship that tempted him as much as theirs did. This destroyed Sharon, and she didn't want to let him go, but after he broke up with her, he walked away and never talked to her again.

Sharon spent the rest of the semester in a comatose state. It wasn't that Edgar broke up with her, but it was that she trusted him so much and he used her then tossed her away. She had found out later that he did something like that to a girl every semester. This was the straw that broke her. She fell for the trick, for the dirtbag's words. She turned her back on everything, including God. How could a future minister do this to someone? Is that who God is?

That summer she went home. She spent the first few weeks avoiding church and questions. Her G.P.A. had slipped to a 2.0 since she failed her last semester. She felt dirty and ashamed because of that cretins trick.

Weeks into the summer, however, a high school friend called her and asked her to come to dinner. She went and met her and they talked. After dinner, they went back to her house and everything spilled out. Sharon wept over her relationship with Edgar, expressed her anger with God, and the shame she felt for herself.

Elissa held her as she cried, empathizing with her, and encouraging her. She explained that God didn't do that to her; it was a man who only wanted his passions fulfilled. Elissa expressed God's love and forgiveness towards her, and, by the end of the night, Sharon felt less ashamed. She struggled through it for most of the summer, but one night at church, Sharon felt God speaking in a radical new way. The pastor was talking about loving and leaving self and it was as if God said, "Sharon, where do you find your value? Where do you find your reason to live? Who are you?"

It was a challenge. One that bewildered and scared Sharon. Who am I? she thought again. She took a breath and answered herself. I am a child of God, the Creator and Sustainer of all. He alone gives me value because He alone has value. My reason to live is to give glory to God. That's who I am.

Emboldened by this new discovery Sharon set out, back to college, back to the place that caused the harm. She finished school and accomplished two of the three goals she set out at the beginning of her freshman year. She went to school and got a degree, but she didn't mind falling short of the third. She had traveled from dependency on a guy to give her meaning to knowing that she needed nothing from man. She traveled from independence from God to realizing that He alone gives value to the valueless.

____________________________________________________________________

If Sharon were real, this would be her message: girls, look not to guys for value, but to God. Allow him to be the Lover in your life because He is so much greater than any man could ever be. Guys, don't ever allow a woman to find her value in you. Allow her to be her own self and seek her own things. Also, guys, don't settle for the idea of "If I don't have a wife/girlfriend, then I am a loser." Again, find your value in Christ and Christ alone.

Her Eyes

I came back to myself about halfway through her story. The last thing I remember hearing was, "You will never guess what happened to me today!" Then she poured into her story. I caught the words "sushi", "chopsticks", and "wasabi", but that was it. My eyes had drifted from her lips to her nose to her eyes. The excitement that was in her eyes mesmerized me and I lost myself in my own thoughts.

Now, I know all you girls out there are thinking, "How typical of a guy to not pay attention when a girl is telling a story." But, honestly, I couldn't help this one. All you guys know what I'm saying.

Anyway, there we were, sitting in the booth at the Dairy Queen enjoying our Blizzards and talking about our day, when my eyes met hers. I'm telling you, I was gone, long gone; like a baseball hit by a juiced up Mark McGwire. For whatever reason, the excitement made her eyes all the more appealing and I couldn't look away, which is saying something. I mean, Cassie has an awesome body. She was a four sport athlete in high school, and played basketball in college, and she has kept in shape, but that's all I'm going to say about that. Her hair is a dingy, natural blonde that falls to the middle of her shoulders. It was up today, though, adding to her sporty look. Her lips are small and had a soft touch of red like she had put on lipstick, and then took it off to just give them some color. She has high cheek bones and a small nose, giving her a very attractive face.

Oh, but her eyes are her most appealing physical feature to me. They are a bright green that seems to trap light in them. Her smile is always directly connected to her eyes. Even as she was talking I couldn't help but notice how her eyes smiled. I let myself drown in those pools, and found my mind was taking me on a trip through the years. I imagined 6 months from now, the date of our wedding. I imagined the birth of our first child, however long away that was going to be. I imagined major spiritual and emotional crises that we faced together. In other words, I imagined our life together.

When I came back and heard her words again, she was saying something about experiencing Christ's love in a new way. It truly was something I wanted to hear about, but I had missed the beginning. "Sorry, sweetie," I said. "I missed the first part." Cassie looked back at me with a puzzled expression. "You were looking in my eyes the whole time," she said.

"I know," I said sheepishly. "As cliche or nerdy or however this may sound, that's why I missed it." She smiled and her eyes glowed. Her cheeks turned red as she blushed. Obviously, she liked cliche and cheesy.

Black (Part 5)

Davis looked up at Francesca from the couch. She had changed her hair from black to auburn, but her eyes were the same. He smiled at seeing her face again, but his smile fell quickly when he realized he was supposed to kill her. "Francesca," Davis said quickly, "You have to leave. Tonight. Someone has hired me to kill you." Francesca's eyes opened wide asking an unspoken question; searching for answers. "Yes, Francesca, I am an assassin. That's what--"

"I know what you are, Jackson!" Francesca yelled. "What I don't know, is why you disappeared for two years, why you don't remember marrying me, and why you don't remember bringing me back from Panama!"

"I don't know!" Davis was as concerned with this information as Francesca was. "I don't know why I don't remember, but I can only guess that it's because the people I work for needed my...talents. All this time, I've thought you were dead." Davis rose from the couch and put his arms around her waist and pulled her close. She fell into his arms and began to cry. Davis held her tightly and sighed heavily. His eyes were shut tightly allowing emotion to wash through him. Tears formed at the corners of his eyes and began to run down his face. He opened his eyes and looked around at the room as he could see it. His vision was blurred by the tears, but he fought them back as best as he could. To his right was the hall they had walked through earlier and to his right was a playpen with the small boy inside. My son! Davis thought.

He pulled away from Francesca and looked at her with excitement and curiosity. "Is this-is he our son?" Francesca turned to face the playpen and smiled.

"Yes," she said. She reached down and picked him up and handed the boy to Davis. "His name his Joseph." Davis took the boy in his arms and held him close. Davis held him for a long time, cooing and saying the name Joseph over and over. Joseph smiled and laughed as his father held him for the first time.

After a few hours of talking about the last five years, Davis' phone rang abruptly. The shrill ring pierced the relative quite of the house. "Hello?" Davis said as he flipped the phone open.

"Hello, Jackson. Is it nice to be home?"

Shock and an unfamiliar emotion Davis knew to be fear fluttered through him. "Just who is this?" Davis asked unsteadily. "How do you know that name?"

"Isn't that your name, Jackson?" The man on the other end answered. "Now that you are home, I figured I would use your real name. Perhaps, you should have kept your memories when you left. If you had, you might have been able to avoid this day, but, you decided to make it easier on yourself and forget your family so you wouldn't be tempted to return and have this day happen. It was an inevitability. I will win, Jackson. You once tortured someone very close to me, so now it is your turn."

"What do you want?!" Davis bellowed into the phone. Francesca's eyes grew wide in fear and picked her son up instinctively and held him to her chest.

"Patience," the voice responded coldly. "Does Francesca know what you did to her first husband?" Davis just sat there, wordless. "I'm going to say that's a no. It's a shame, really. If she did, it would be easier on you, but now you must tell her."

"Why? What point will it make? What purpose will that serve?!"

"It will let her know who you really are. What darkness really lives inside of you. You have 15 minutes, or I tell her."

"How? I'll answer every phone call. You'll never speak to her."

"And the game has started. I hope you'll be more cooperative in the future Jackson. It really will be easier." The line went dead and Davis turned to Francesca.

"Francesca, we need to talk..."

The Storm

Gray clouds choke out the sun.
The day becomes a haze.
A scowl paints over my face;
I drift into a daze,
Imagining the warmth
Of the clear summer days.

I turn my face sky-ward
As the first rain drops fell.
A gentle wind blew in,
Twirling leaves in circles.
The northern wind grew cold
As it blew more fiercely.

The gray deepened to black,
And the rain fell in sheets.
I looked for some shelter,
But there was none to see.
My heart pounded quickly
While my clothes soaked in rain.

Lightning split through the sky,
Illuminating light,
Showing my dire distress.
The ground 'round about me
Turned towards the blackened sky
In a natural bowl.

Thunder bellowed loudly;
Shaking me to the core.
My nerves snapped. Eyes widened.
I jumped for the bowl's lip,
But it was out of reach.
My hope turned to despair.

The bowl filled too quickly;
I could not stay a float.
The wind cut through my body,
Chilling me, killing me.
I cried out in my fear,
"God, please save my life! Please!"

Lightning tore through the sky;
Thunder shook the very ground.
The rain showed no slowing;
My prayer went unanswered.
"You are stronger than this!
You can stop this storm, God.

"Nature listens to You;
It follows Your commands.
I ask for You to help!"
Lightning flashed; thunder roared;
The wind died; the rain slowed.
The deep black turned to gray.

A hand reached out to me;
It pulled me from my trap.
I stood on higher ground
While the rain stopped fully.
The sun broke through the clouds,
Warmth flooded my cold skin.

The gray melted away,
Revealing a bright blue.
"Breathe deep," a small voice said.
I filled my lungs with air
Several times by nose.
The air smelt clean and clear.

The storm which had brought fear,
Brought cleansing along too.
This is the way God works.
We see one thing in fear,
But He does another.
For He is above us.

Black (Part 4)

Davis pulled into the drive-way of the home of his former lover. He had to convince her that she wasn't safe and that someone wanted him to kill her. Davis never cared before who hired him, but with this new revelation about the identity of his target, he found himself needing to know.

Davis exited his vehicle and walked to the front door. He looked inside the window and saw a woman curled up on the couch. A light lit up the end of the couch with her head, but nothing else was on. The light, combined with the fading sun, illuminated a playpen in the middle of the room. A small boy, about two, sat in it and was playing with several toys. Davis, for the first time that he could remember, knocked on a door. He took a deep breath as the woman rose from the couch, wiped her eyes, and walked to the door. She opened the door, and her eyes grew wide in surprise, then dark with anger. The red tint around them from her tears grew darker as the tears began to fall again. She began cursing in Spanish at Davis, but he just stood patiently while she got it out of her system. She changed from Spanish to English and said, "Just who do you think you are, Jack Greyson! You disappear for two years, with no word, then just show back up one day and don't even say anything to me! What is going on!?"

Davis waited to see if she would say anything else. When she just glared at him in silence, he spoke. "Hello, Francesca," he said calmly. He was about to speak again, but her confused look made him change course. "What is wrong? Isn't that your name?"

"Not for a few years, now. Not since you brought me up from Panama five years ago." Now it was Davis' turn to be surprised. His look must have betrayed his thoughts because she asked, "Do you not remember that? Do you not remember the three years we lived together in this house? Do you not remember the day when you came home and I told you that I was pregnant? Do you not remember leaving two weeks later and never coming back until now?"

Davis' eyes went wide. He didn't remember any of that. He remembered the mission into Panama five years ago, and he remembers coming back alone. He could remember every mission he had in the time since then, but he remembered nothing of this life with Francesca. "No," Davis finally said. "I don't remember any of it. I don't even remember using the name Jackson. The name I know is Davis. That is my name. Davis Simmons." Davis' emotions began to get the best of him. Something that hadn't happened to him since the day he left the man to die in Panama. He went in and sat on the sofa in a daze. He couldn't get his head clear.

"You don't believe me, do you?" Francesca asked. "Come. I will show you." Francesca led Davis to a small office at the base of the stairs. Inside was something that made Davis' skin crawl. Covering the walls were neat sketches like the anomaly on his apartment wall. His eyes scanned the pictures hastily, pausing only long enough to notice vague details. Soon, though, he found one that he had seen before. It was exactly like the one on his wall. Where his was neat, this one was messier, in Davis' own drawing style. The weird thing was, it was the exact same sketch, dated 2008. Davis paid more attention to it this time. Davis examined the sketch, found the title where he would normally put it, which read Escape. The picture was of a man who was stuck behind a wall of bars and was struggling to break free. Davis staggered out of the room. He and Jackson were the same person. That was a certainty. The evidence was overwhelming, and he knew it to be true in the pit of his stomach. The question, now, was why couldn't he remember the three years he had spent with Francesca?

Black (Part 3)

Davis went home immediately after leaving the Greyson house. His head spun with the implications of the picture and the wife's reaction. For some reason, she seemed familiar. It seemed like Davis was supposed to know the woman, but that was impossible. He did not make it a point to fall in love or even interact with women. An experience many years ago taught him that. He was on an assignment from, he found out later, a drug cartel in Panama. They wanted him to take out a rival drug lord after his wife was dead and buried. Davis flew to Panama on a private jet hired just for him. When he landed, he immediately went to a bar to secretly gather intel on the target. As he was sipping on a glass of rum, a pretty young woman with dark black hair began to talk with him.

Their conversation covered the polite at first, but then the lady began to get invasive. "What are you doing here, Mr. American?" Her accented English was almost as captivating as her eyes. Almost. In the many recollections of that night, Davis found himself surprised at how well he kept to a single cover story. "I'm a writer for a news group. I've been put on assignment to see how the drug war is affecting the people."

She laughed quietly, but full of life. "How do you do this in a bar, Senor? The people are not all in here. Only those who participate or do not care about these things." Her laughter died abruptly as the words she said caught up with her mind.

"And which are you, Senorita? Participant? Or do you not care what happens to the people?" Her eyes burned with resentment at the question. Davis quickly back-stepped over his offensive question. "Forgive me, senorita. I am a reporter, after all, and sometimes I cannot stop the questions from leaping off of my tongue." This placated the exquisite woman enough. The fire lowered to a low smoldering.

"Senor," she said her accent thickening, "I do care, and, I try not to participate. Part of our life, however, is having to do things we do not wish to do." Davis continued the conversation, but as the alcohol began to take its effect, his thoughts became more primal.

He found himself the next morning in a run down hotel room in Panama City with the beautiful woman face down on the bed. The sheet was pulled back slightly, revealing her bare back. Davis shook her slightly. "Senorita," he whispered quietly. A low raspy voice answered him instead.

"She will not answer you, Senor. It's hard to talk when you have not been breathing for several hours." Davis' head snapped up and scanned the small room for the man. In the far corner of the room, Davis saw a man standing. The man was much smaller than Davis, but had a ruthless look about him. "Lucky for you, though, my boss wants you to know who she was before you are killed."

Davis let the surprise of the situation take control. He needed to look as if he had never been in this situation before. "K-killed?" Davis stammered. "Wh-why should I be killed? I'm no one! I mean, I just came down on assignment by my news company."

"Is this why you landed in a private jet? Or why you had a gun under your pillow?" The man confidently stepped forward and pulled Davis' pistol from his belt. "No, senor. I do not believe you are a reporter. Neither does my boss. Now, do you want to know the identity of the woman in your bed?"

Davis swallowed down the surprise. He felt no fear. No panic. His only feeling was cold callousness. A careful situation assessment played through his head. He knew he was faster than the man; and stronger. A cold unfeeling smile spread across his lips. "Please, Senor," Davis said. "Enlighten me. What wrong did I do that so offends your boss?"

"First," the other man said as he walked closer to Davis with the gun extended, "you have slept with his wife. He does not look too kindly on that. This was his favorite wife, but he does not know how to keep them on a tight leash. He has had several killed before for their disobedience." The man chuckled as though he was living the memories of these women's deaths. "Second, and most grievously, you have been sent to kill him. This, he cannot have. He enjoys being alive. Therefore, Mr. Assassin, it is you that must die." The man reached to chamber a round when Davis moved. Davis allowed the adrenaline to flow through him as he knocked the gun aside with his left hand and punched with his right. Davis' fist connected with the man's temple and he collapsed in a heap on the floor.

Davis had never let his anger get the better of him before, but this time he couldn't control himself. The beautiful woman, the wife of his target, a target herself, had been murdered. He had no right to feel for her, but he did. He cared so deeply that it surprised him. He took the unconscious man into the jungle. He stripped the man down to his underwear then tied him to a tree. He, then, slapped the man across the face to waken him. As the man came to, Davis grabbed his face. "Tell me what your boss will be doing today, and I'll make your death painless." The man laughed and spit in Davis' face. Davis pulled out his knife and made a long, swift cut across the man's chest. The man grimaced in pain, but did not cry out. "How long, do you think, before the scavengers get the scent of blood and come to eat?" Davis sliced once across the man's right leg. A slow, but steady stream of blood flowed from the chest and leg. "I really can't imagine the sheer torture being eaten alive must be." The man's eyes started to betray his demeanor. He was trying to be tough, like it didn't scare him, but each cut made his eyes give more and more away. Davis twirled the knife in his hand, then cut the man's left leg similarly to the right. The man, this time, cried out in pain.

"STOP! Please!" Tears filled the man's eyes. Davis took pleasure in the fact that he made this man cry. It brought an intense satisfaction to his mind. That's for the senorita, he said to himself. She didn't have the chance to cry and beg for her life.

"Where will I be able to find him today?" Davis asked again. The man closed his eyes tightly. He exhaled shakily and said, "I am the man you seek. I always see to my wives' and their lovers' punishment personally." Davis felt his anger rise again. He slashed his knife quickly four more times. The man's arms and stomach each had a new cut on them. The fourth knife stroke found the man's cheek. Blood seeped from each wound and Davis could hear the animals starting to gather. There would be no mercy for this man. Davis pulled out his gun and chambered a round. He raised it at the man's head, giving the look of keeping his promise. "What was her name?" He pressed the cold steel against his forehead. "Francesca," the man whispered. "Her name was Francesca." Davis lowered his gun and drug his knife across the man's chest and stomach vertically from the base of the throat to the band of his underwear. Fresh blood flowed from this deeper cut and the man howled in pain. Davis cleaned his knife, holstered his gun and walked to the jeep. The last sounds he heard were the man calling out curses and obscenities to Davis for not fulfilling his promise, followed by a wild roar and ear shattering scream as the animals found the source of the fresh blood.

Once Davis returned to his home in America, he found an e-mail waiting for him. His employer was not happy at his tactics. It was not done the way it was asked for. For this, Davis received only a quarter of the payout. The last line of the e-mail was, "Next time, follow the rules."

Since that event, Davis had stayed away from all female companionship. Everyday, his heart ached for the dazzling beauty Francesca, but he would never have her and he would never compromise his life like that again. Still, he couldn't shake the idea that he knew this Mrs. Greyson. He brought the mental picture he had of her back to his focus. He studied her face, trying to locate something, but couldn't. Her hair was blond and her eyes were green. Davis turned his attention to his latest drawing. He started to see himself as the man struggling up the mountain and the sun was laughing at him. He would never accomplish his dream, nor would he figure out this new mystery. He glanced at his watch. The assignment was to be completed in eight hours. He sat down hard on his bed. He would figure this out before tonight. He had to figure it out. He had no room in his life for coincidence. Davis rose as soon as he sat down, grabbed his coat once more, and headed back out to the house. He would figure this out.

He thought back over the details of the case under the boat. He played the scene back through his head, all the way through where the woman came into the house. After years of being in this business, he had almost perfected the art of perfect recall. He could remember everything. Every sight, every sound, every smell. He got to the end where the wife called out her husband's name. Davis froze. A sensation all too unfamiliar to him flowed through his veins: shock. No, it couldn't be! He saw her dead body! There was no way it could be Francesca! The hair and the eyes were all wrong, but her voice. Davis clung to the memory of Francesca's voice as much as her eyes and hair, and there was no mistaking. This woman had Francesca's voice. The same accent, the same tone while confused. It was the same tone that she used when they met all those years ago in Panama. What are you doing here, Mr. American? Davis pulled off the road as this realization crashed over him. There was no way he could kill her. He couldn't kill Francesca...