The day began like any other for Larry Summerson, a sixty year old fisherman. He was born in New Orleans and lived there during the first years of his life until the day his parents died on a car accident and he had to cross the ocean to be put under the care of his uncle who lived in a small town in northern France.

He had always been a fisherman. Ever since the day his father took him on a fishing trip when he was five years old he knew that the ocean would be a part of him for as long as he lived. And, although his uncle encouraged him to finish his studies, he went no further than High School. There was a reason for this. For Larry Summerson, fishing had always been more than just a job – it was a way of life – one that would follow him to the end of his existence. It was not the kind of excuse one could be his life on, but for him it was as good.

There were other things that would also be with him for as long as his journey would last. One of those things, the most relevant to his spirit, was an utter feeling of loneliness provoked by the violent death of his wife two days before their 25th wedding anniversary. They had had one kid, a troublemaker with a good heart that was also killed on the same accident that took his wife.

The two of them were heading home on a stormy November night. The road was wet and slippery but she managed to keep the car steady. Unfortunately, some drunk driver was not so careful and the cars crashed against each other. The only comfort Larry had from this, if such a word can be used on a situation like this, was knowing that they had a quick and painless death. It was the second time Larry lost his family; coincidentally speaking, on a same type of accident. That didn’t make things easier. On the contrary.

And, speaking of coincidences today was precisely the day of the 20th anniversary of the death of his wife and kid. It was a day that he insisted on making different from all the others. Everyday Larry would get up early in the dawn and go to the ocean on his small fishing boat. Today, and all the days like this one, he would begin by having a generous breakfast and then walking to the beach; there spending the following hours watching the waves and listening to their sound as they came and went. It was his and his wife favorite song. Better than any tune ever composed by humans or any other intelligent life form.

He arrived at the beach at approximately seven am. According to his plans, today would be no different from all the other anniversaries he’d spent there. However, as soon as he sat on the sand he saw something near the water that quickly got his attention. It was – he instantly knew this – something that would change his life forever.

Larry Summerson had witnessed strange events before; it was part of the gift he had been blessed with. Sometimes, most times as a matter of fact, he believed the correct word was ‘cursed’. And this was one of those times. His ability to see beyond the realms of time, beyond of what is real, warned him, as soon as he laid eyes on those artifacts partially buried, that those were not ordinary artifacts. They were impregnated with evil. Evil with a capital ‘E’.

The wisest thing to do was to run away and forget all about it. The sane, and cautious, part of him yelled at him to do so. The other half, the curious and irreverent one, the same one that he had passed on to his late son, made him get up and walk to where the artifacts were buried.

He knelt down and touched them. He felt it again; the urge to run; but still, the urge to dig was stronger. He used his hands to do so and in a matter of seconds he was holding two scrolls on his hands. Some of them were badly damaged, but most of it was still readable. It appeared to be centuries old. Larry tried to force himself to rip the papers apart and leave, but the curious part of him was stronger and he found himself reading the words written in archaic lettering. He read them out loud.

 “The Centre shall rise... the Chosen will be found... a boy named Jarod.”

The words hit him like a gunshot on the head. It sounded like a prophecy for a very distant future. But that was not what had caught his attention. It was that word – Centre. That’s how the company where his parents worked was called.

He always knew there was something evil about that place. He felt it, even at the age of five, and, were it not for the nurturing of his mother, he’d spend the nights dreaming about dreadful horrors that, fortunately for him, his young mind was still unable of converting into real images. Today, almost sixty years later, what he felt as he read those words, was far more evil than all he ever felt back then. He knew by heart that this was no coincidence. The words on the scrolls clearly referred to the place where his parents used to work.

Still, he also sensed something good. He felt it. Like a tiny spark shining in the darkness, growing and growing, waiting for the right time to show up.

For a while he just stood there, thinking about what to do. After a few long moments, he came to a decision. He would gather his things and return home. There he would decide what to do next. Although he felt more like burying the scrolls as deep as he could and then leaving, he knew that it was his obligation to guard them. And so, he put them on his inside pocket and began to follow his own footsteps back home, just as the first drops of a heavy rainstorm fell on his head. He looked up, saw the dark clouds, and hurried his steps.