8:15 p.m. Eastend

An hour later, the Watcher was almost enjoying himself. Like the good ol’ days, strolling the stock exchange floor after snorting a line of coke. Perhaps even better. He was in control of one-hell of a woman. Rachel Willingdon was gorgeous, with soft skin and flaxen hair that he ached to touch. Her blue-green eyes reflected light, making them difficult to read. And very sexy.

He ordered her another refill. Though she was an experienced drinker, he noted her softening hand movements and slowing speech patterns, signs she was relaxing and getting drunk. Now, if only he could consume alcohol, his life wouldn’t be half-bad. Especially for a dead guy.

That ‘dead guy’ thought ruined it. His mind flipped to the early days and training with the specter. For weeks he had reeled in pain, thinking he had gone mad. Snaps, crackles and whispers of alien energy waves teemed in his head, accompanied by psychedelic flashes.

One day, the piercing frequency of his quarry flamed white hot, startling him with its purity. After that, it throbbed in and out of his consciousness, like a tide. 

Now, it slapped him constantly.