Harry Danes wandered around the apartment as he spoke. And as he spoke, DeStiy's eyes burned with rage, looking even blacker against his now blood red face. The explanation was ludicrous: but somehow logical. Ridiculous, but yet... somehow believable.
Danes spoke of the numbers
2 3 5 1 3 8 9 2 3 3
and how they'd burned into his mind since the ouija had identified them. Always there, visible, whatever was happening to himself or others. Always burned red into his mind, always pulsing in his thoughts when his eyes were closed, just beneath his vision when they weren't.