Psychic

by F. P. Dorchak

  Lizzie looked at him.

  “You’re helping me now, whether or not you realize it.” The Man With No Name picked up his glass and took another sip. “Mmm — sure you don’t want any? This stuff really is good!”

  “I’m fine…,” Lizzie said, “or like to think I am.”

  “Black is in charge of an ultra-covert government organization of remote viewers. Remote viewers are government spies who employ psychic abilities toward the world of espionage. But Black’s twisting their purpose to suit his own ends. I found out about it, and now he’s hunting me down.”

  “Oh, great!” she said, throwing her hands into the air. “He’s probably watching us this very minute! Knows I know you!”

  “He’s not around, now, that I can guarantee. Doesn’t even know I’m here. You’re safe. At least for the moment.”

  “Right. This coming from a guy I don’t know, talking about another I don’t know, who’s already been secretly stalking me — yeah, kind of like you, now that I think about it.”

  The Man With No Name smirked.

  Lizzie returned to the front of her couch and sat, shoulders slumped.

  “Good God, I don’t want any of this. All I ever wanted was a happy life. Didn’t care what I did, as long as I had a husband and family — children — to raise and hopefully have them help the world along to a better place. Now I’m sucked into some secret sewer of espionage, all against my will. All this free will I believe in? Where’s all that gone?”

  The Man With No Name said, “Sometimes you realize a little better than most how good you are with it, free will, but other times, like now, feeling beaten down by the world, you lose sight of things.”

  “Look, I’m pretty wiped and would really like to get back to my nap before work tonight. Could we continue this another time?”

  “Of course,” the smiling man said. He stood up and brought his half-filled glass to the kitchen counter, placing it in the sink. “I’ll find you when you’re ready.”

  Lizzie only half-listened to the man, as she lay back down and lifted her legs back onto the couch. She was suddenly quite drowsy. The Man With No Name returned to the living room, picked up an afghan draped over the back of the couch, unfolded it, and draped it over Lizzie.

  “Could you… lock the door on your way out?” Lizzie mumbled, already drifting off.

  The Man With No Name smiled and nodded, and in a whisper, added, “Be strong, Lizzie.” He touched her shoulder, then quietly left the trailer, locking the door behind him.

  Chapter Nine

  1

  Mel Roberts stared outside into the beautiful, sunlit morning. Children continued to play up and down his block, while neighbors were out walking dogs, watering lawns, and washing cars. But it was mostly the kids running back and forth across the sidewalk that interested him.

  Did they all still have their parents?

  Mel left the window and returned his attention to his living room… looked to his coffee table; to the pile of mail that that slaphappy mail man had urged him, begged him — actually pleaded — for him to take.

  “Well, I might as well see what was so danged important,” he said, and reached for the pile.

  Among the mail was a magazine subscription for a science fiction or paranormal magazine, and your typical “Have You Seen Us?” missing persons mass-mailing, with a child’s and a woman’s face on it.

  Mel took a closer look at the card.

  The woman’s face struck Mel as deep and passionate, most engaging. He stared at the woman’s beautiful-yet-troubled face; looked into her darkly intense, halftone ink-and-paper eyes until he felt embarrassed and self-conscious and had to put it down. There were also bills and your standard junk mail. And then he came upon a plain white envelope with no return address, addressed to him. He tore it open and began reading — but was instantly disappointed. It was only a mass-marketing letter. He looked at it closer and saw that his name had been misspelled in the greeting. “Mell.” He looked back to the envelope, and saw that his name had been misspelled the same way there, too, though he hadn’t noticed that when he first picked it up. He returned to the letter. It was some stupid thing about “What would you do to live in Hawai’i and live the Good Life?” It talked about living your life’s dream and making a million bucks (in one year, no less!)… about buying that car and house of your dreams… about not worrying about how much things cost anymore, because… you no longer needed to!

  But, then… an odd thing happened… as he continued on to the second page (and why couldn’t he stop reading this tripe?)…

  The lines on the paper began to blur.

  He blinked and wiped his eyes… looked away to a far-off corner of the living room, to his hands — where everything looked fine — but every time he looked back to the letter, the lines blurred.

  His mind felt cheated.

  He was about to throw away the letter, but something urged him to continue reading… just a little more. What he found was that he was no longer reading the kitschy marketing come-on. He was now reading what seemed to be another letter… embedded within the first.

  He found if he continued to focus on the “weirdness” of the letter, all he saw were blurry lines, fuzzy words, and his head hurt. A myriad of images barraged his mind… images he couldn’t hold on to and that made him slightly dizzy. Images of him doing things… with unsmiling people in subterranean chambers… that made no sense… but once he allowed himself to go with the whole experience, like those “Can you see me?” digital posters (how’d he know about them and why was that even a question?)… he found an entirely different letter… and this one had his name correctly spelled:

  Mel:

  I’ll get right to it, because I don’t know how much time we have before we’re discovered. You’re being hunted. In fact, if you’re reading this letter, chances are you’ve already been found and are currently under surveillance. This letter might even have led them to you, and for that, I do apologize, but it was a necessary and calculated risk. Things are not as they seem, and you have at your disposal resources you don’t even yet realize. Be open to them, and keep an open mind about all you see, for there are worlds between the very spaces of these letters that are more real than the letters themselves. And beware of dark hues. The world is more than you see and not at all what you think. I will contact you again.

  Now…

  What would you pay for such an opportunity? Is Hawai’i for you? A Rolls Royce?

  Mel blinked.

  He was no longer reading a hidden communiqué, but was back to the come-on letter. He again blinked and shook his head, trying to get back into the hidden letter — but it was gone. He shook the papers, held them up to the light, even tried to peel the individual sheets apart, but it was no longer there.

  People were tracking him?

  “Hunted” was the word used. Good gravy, why would anyone hunt him? What had he done? He was… he was only—

  How old was he?

  A shiver ran through him.

  “Oh, come on,” he said aloud, “I have to know how friggin old I am! I’m alive, aren’t I? I exist! I have to know my age!”

  Mel sprinted upstairs to the bathroom and stood before the mirror. Stared at himself. There he was, big as day. Staring back. He touched the mirror, then his face. Nope, no illusion, he was actually staring back at himself, a person who really stood before a mirror and was actually casting a reflection. So, if this was the case, he actually existed and had to be some age.

  Why couldn’t he pull it out? Why couldn’t he tell himself how old he was?

  Mel sat on the edge of the tub, head in his hands, mulling over the events of the past few—

  Hours?

  Was that even right? Just how long had he been here? Really? And what was an “hour”?

  What was going on with him?

  Was he crazy? Going crazy?

  First, he awakens to find himself alone, no parents — had even forgotten about the loss
of them — then he begins seeing things and gets mail from some crazy-ass mail man, only to read a letter that wasn’t even there.

  What the hell was going on?

  Regroup… take it easy — breathe deeply — what had that letter that-hadn’t-been-there told him? That he was being hunted? Under surveillance? Might have already been found?

  By whom?

  It also said something about things not being as they seem, that the spaces between letters were more real than the letters themselves… that he would be contacted again. There was the kicker.

  Who had written that letter, and who had been trying to contact him — let alone hunt him down?

  2

  Mel stood out on the front stoop of the house. He didn’t know if it was the letter-that-hadn’t-been-there or what, but he found it extremely difficult to do anything — sit down, stand up, yell, read a book, go back to bed… or run away from this house and all its weirdness, as far and fast as he could. He stared past the playing children to the ditch behind them. Listened to its rushing water.

  He could throw himself into all that water coursing through the culvert.

  Mel flinched as cars sped past.

  But those kids… playing out front… he found he felt at ease around them. They giggled and waved as they darted back and forth over the sidewalk. He didn’t feel at home inside his house, but did with those kids. As he thought about this, one stopped directly in front of him. It was a little African-American girl. A tow-haired boy almost ran over her, and also stopped, giggling wildly. Then a red-headed, freckle-faced Mädchen joined them. They all stood before him, smiling. More children filed into the group, one or two, groups of three or more. Before he knew it, there was a small army gathered before him, out in the street and on his lawn.

  “Good morning, Mel,” they all greeted cheerfully, playfully, “It’s about time you woke up!”

  Mel Roberts bolted upright on his couch.

  The television droned on into a late-night, darkened room. As Mel’s senses cleared and returned to their more familiar settings, a commercial played on TV about a psychic hotline.

  “1-900-PsiKick. Call us now,” the large, curiously accented African-Americanish lady implored. “We can make a difference in your life.”

  Mel shot off the couch and immediately rushed upstairs into the family room, flicked on the light switch, and looked for the pile of mail.

  Nothing. There was no pile.

  He rushed to the closed drapes, yanking them open.

  It was dark outside. Dark.

  What the hell?

  Mel returned to the kitchen and found the empty Vernors can. It was still wet, almost cold. Can held in hand, he opened the refrigerator. There he found the same items he last remembered: milk, fruit, lunch meat, eggs, and more. All of it. He closed the door. Stared at it. This was also where he’d supposedly put that picture from Mr. FBI. In the dream. Of course, there was nothing there.

  He was going crazy, plain and simple.

  He’d lost his parents and was now losing his mind. A dream. It had all been a dream.

  Mel went back down to the basement couch and sat before the flickering television. He still held onto the empty soda can.

  “Do you have loved ones you’re concerned about? Is there a message you feel you’re trying to receive?” the psychic ad intoned. “Give us a call! We can reach those who have passed. We can put your mind at ease. Our psychics are real and can give you that peace of mind you desperately crave. Are there unanswered questions to which you need answers? Call us… now…”

  Mel stared at her.

  Call us.

  Call us now.

  Mel pensively sloshed about the soda can.

  Call us, Mel, we’re waiting.

  I don’t know how much time we have…

  You’re being watched, hunted, there’s no time to lose!

  He did feel caged… not all there. He knew he was supposed to have parents, but, at the same time

  (unanswered questions)

  didn’t feel he had any.

  But the pictures… the memories…

  Mel set the can down on the end table and leaned forward, hands to his face.

  C’mon, Mel, what are you waiting for! Call us!

  Mel looked back to the screen.

  The card. Back in the kitchen. On the table. The gray card with raised black lettering. Mel left the room and retrieved it, looking to it as he returned downstairs to the TV.

  Madame Nostradameus

  1-900-PSI-KICK

  Mel looked to the number on the screen.

  He picked up the phone.

  3

  Former President John F. Kennedy dreamed of the incident with the man in the garden, dreamed of how they’d talked about conspiracies, dreams, and grand schemes. Of the good in the world. Then he dreamed of how they talked about some of this stuff, and though he could see they were talking — in the dream — he couldn’t hear the words, couldn’t make out what was said. Recalled — again, in the dream — that it was actually like that when he remembered talking to this man all those many years ago. How he felt “beside” himself… outside his body… and while they’d been talking, there also seemed to be things he was saying between all the words… in-between the words and letters… but he couldn’t quite focus on them. It was like a part of him was removed from the conversation, but, no, not entirely…

  That’s how intense that experience had been.

  Kennedy remembered telling him about his own grand plan for world peace, about how he hoped to use the children of the world to help save adults from themselves. Children (he hoped) would be the saviors of the human race — if only they were properly guided. The mysterious man nodded, telling Kennedy that was actually a stellar idea, then questioned that wasn’t Kennedy once a child himself? Weren’t all adults once children? Where had all that childlike exuberance and spirit gone, and why hadn’t they been able to save the world? Change it? Kennedy responded by saying that, at least from his point of view, he was trying to change the world. That he felt it was his destiny to do so. The problem with most people, Kennedy explained, was that they weren’t properly guided. Kept getting diverted by life’s daily issues. He, himself, had certainly felt that tug and pull, but had always kept his goal in mind — and being part of an incredibly wealthy and powerful family hadn’t hurt. The mysterious man nodded and smiled. Well, then, I guess, boy, do we have a job for you!

  Kennedy remembered, in this dream, that he had some questions fully in mind to ask — but never did. Questions such as: who are you to task me? Who are you and how had you gotten in here?

  But, the questions had never been asked.

  There was just this overwhelming feeling coming from this guy that he was here to help, and that — somehow — they’d met before.

  Known each other?

  For such a young man, he was quite full of wisdom. Wisdom beyond his years. Kennedy liked him, found himself drawn to him, and hoped he’d see him again — but never did. Not once in all those nearly thirty-two years since, and had all but forgot about him… until now.

  And this dream.

  4

  Black stood behind the soundproofed and tinted window at the Virginia compound, watching and listening to the remote viewer on the other side during her tasking, who drew stick figures and skeleton buildings as she talked. He’d stood in on several sessions today, but not one of them had given him what he needed. The bastard had again tampered with him. Again — somehow — had intercepted his plans. Damn him!

  But he was getting close.

  He could feel him — even now — hovering about. Feeling him out. Watching. Probing. He had to stop him. Things were getting out of hand. He was close, he felt it in his bones. This guy’s days were numbered, and he’d picked the wrong guy to fuck with…

  Victor Black closed the door to his sparse, Charlottesville apartment. Kennedy had been messing with his blood pressure for over twenty years, but recent events had rou
sed his pressure like never before, and it was exhausting him. And to think he used to work for the guy. But over the years, something had happened. Since when did a president get a conscience? The job itself precluded presidents from having to worry about such things — they had advisors.

  Victor entered the bathroom, eyeing everything as he walked through the barren apartment. Nothing looked or felt amiss. Out of place. Everything was as he’d left it. He switched on the bathroom light and stared into the aging, tanned visage that reflected back to him from the mirror. Wished his tan had come from a Caribbean cruise. He suddenly felt far older than his sixty-six years, and what years he wore were hard-earned. Looked to the unusually dark freckles that sparsely populated his forehead along his hairline. Flexed his forearms, twisted his neck, then worked his shoulder and back muscles. Everything was cramped and hurt, and he felt constantly nauseated. He examined his mouth, which he slowly opened and stretched, and saw the ever-so-slight bluish-black discoloration at its corners… that came and went… but were once again there. He could do what he did, yet he couldn’t shake this damned disease. Something just wasn’t right about that.

  Black looked to his watch, grimaced, then reached into the medicine cabinet. Removing a prescription bottle of prednisone, he dumped out a prescription, then popped it into his mouth. Putting that bottle back, he removed another, one marked fludrocortisone, dumped out a tablet, and again quickly swallowed it. Closing the cabinet, he entered his small, ill-equipped kitchen (again noticing that nothing was out of place), and opened the refrigerator. Inside were rows of Gatorade. Nothing else. He grabbed one, chugging down several gulps of the lime-colored fluid before returning the bottle to its place inside the fridge. Facing forward, just so.

  Black went to the kitchen table and sat, burying his face in his hands.

  Not only did he curse Kennedy and his fucking family, but he cursed this damned disease. Kennedy should be the one with it, not him.

  He looked around the empty kitchen, through the empty doorway into the empty apartment that mirrored an empty life. He didn’t have a life… he peeked in on others’ lives… interfered in others’ lives. Messed with them. People were nothing but pawns. Life… was a game of chess.