It was my first day of attending school since I was sixteen years old. There I was at the University of Kentucky for my first class, summer semester, Psychology 101 at 9 a.m.
About a dozen bleary-eyed students stared at their Mountain Dew cans, milling around the locked classroom door. Everyone was mumbling to themselves or to each other, complaining of the early morning heat and the early morning hour of the class. I had been awake since 4 a.m., so I enjoyed watching the zombie student syndrome.
At that moment, I felt two searing holes in the back of my head and turned quickly to see two unblinking, bulging, milky-marbled eyes with huge, black centers, staring at me. The eyes were set in a round pasty white face that showed no emotion or awareness. It was as if the eyes were made of reflective mirrors so as to block the view into the owner’s soul. Laser pinpoints shot out of his black stare and gave me a chill. I searched for some meaning, interest or agenda in those black holes. I saw the image of him as a predator stalking me as his prey.
I wondered if this guy was even a three-dimensional person. His overall appearance was comical, like misshapen, three-tier snowman with a round, freakishly small head holding his huge eyes. Black, greasy curls framed his white skin and he was balding. Slacked shoulders melted down to his big, round torso and his belly was barely covered by a stretched-out black-and-white checkered sweater.
Turning my head away from him, I grinned at the sight of this living caricature. Still, I could feel his glare at me and my self-talk started to kick in: “He isn’t real. He’s got to be from the other side. Don’t be nervous. I wonder if he’s one of Its minions keeping track of me.”
The number of students staring at the classroom door had now doubled and there was still no teacher in sight. I decided to move away from the crowd, hoping to leave Mr. Laser Eyes behind. As I stood in front of a vending machine, trying to decide between item 3C and 6A, I noticed the greasy snowman’s reflection in the machine glass. He was standing right behind me, his glassy look now a bit more human, blinking now instead of bulging. Forgetting the food, I turned around and with the nastiest tone I could muster, I demanded, “Stop staring at me!”
Quietly and clearly he spoke, “I can help you.”
“Get away from me!” I insisted, moving back toward the classroom.
“I’m serious,” he stated firmly, following me, “I can help you fight that demon.”
I stopped breathing. How could he know? I took his assertion as an implication that he was either a connection to my personal assailant or a kindly spirit that had been sent to help me.
The psychology teacher finally arrived and I wedged myself into the crowd of students away from this guy. But he was so close behind me that I could feel and smell his breath.
“I’m on your side,” he whispered as we all moved like cattle into the classroom, “I really can help you.”
Bullshit, I thought in response. When the greasy guy took a seat directly behind me, he kept insisting, “I really can help. I have the tools, the power. I can show you, teach you, how to expel the demon from your nightly terrors.”
How did this guy know? This complete stranger knew my darkest secret.
The teacher asked the twenty or so students to introduce themselves in turn around the room and to add any personal information. Now I would know if this guy was “real” or seen only by me. When it was his turn to talk, he introduced himself as Steven and referred to a silver, 3-D pyramid pendant that he wore on a chain around his neck. He pointed out that the tip of the pendant was pointed outwards to the world and the flat base rested on the center of the chest, claiming that it gathered forces from the world and focused the power into him.
“I believe in psychology, philosophy, mythology, science and magic spelled with a ‘k’ at the end – m-a-g-i-c-k,” Steve added.
The teacher was quick to move on and Steve resumed his quietly spoken promises to me, over and over again. He made me feel very uncomfortable, and despite my demands to shut up and leave me alone, he persisted.
After class, Steve was less than one step behind me.
“You are a spiritual warrior,” he said, “I have knowledge that you need to win your battle.”
