The world slowly came into focus. Blurred objects took on familiar form as Marcus rose up on hands and knees. A sharp biting sensation traveled along the length of his spine taking brief detours down the curves of his ribcage.
With great effort he sat up against the painful protest of his body. His head throbbed in rhythm with his pulse. The world seemed to sway under him and a black void surrounding the edges of his vision threatened to rob him of consciousness.
Speaking set his head on fire in agony. The smallest noise reverberated in his skull. Even the blades of the ceiling fan seemed to creak with the volume of a passing train. He felt as if he had woke with a hangover.
He slipped his cell phone out of his pocket tapping the screen to life. He had been out for nearly four hours. He wanted to call someone, but who would believe his story? He didn’t believe it himself, and he experienced the attack.
Was that really the ghosts of his father? The bitterness and violence certainly matched the man he knew in life. Whatever it was wanted him to return home which left him wondering if returning home was a wise decision after all.
He checked the time again. It was almost 10 p.m.
The pain in his body began to subside. His vision had cleared. Slowly he raised to his feet taking cautious deliberate steps towards the nightstand next to his bed. He sifted through the top drawer until he found his bottle of Motrin.
He dosed out a couple of pills and choked them down. Easing himself into bed he allowed his thoughts to wander on what exactly happened and what it all meant. His eyelids grew heavy as he reflected, and his mind gave way to a fitful and nightmarish slumber.