I looked over at him. “Is that why you do it? The test, I mean?”
“Yes,” Grayson said. “I can’t tell you if what you’re seeing is real or not. Only you can decide that. The real question is, do you want to be scared out of your wits every time you see something, or do you want to learn to control your reaction?”
I frowned. “Are those my only two options?”
Grayson grinned. “I’m afraid so. What do you say? You ready to let me run an EEG on you?”
“I dunno.”
Grayson shot me a boyish grin. “It comes with free tacos from El Molino.”
I blew out a breath. “And a chocolate shake?”
“You drive a hard bargain, Drex. But okay. Deal.”
GRAYSON CRUNCHED A tortilla chip. Shards scattered over the same greasy table in the same greasy booth we’d sat at last time we were in El Molino.
Grayson wiped up the crumbs. “Just think, Drex. You could be sitting on a mountaintop that yogis work their entire lives to climb.”
“What are you talking about?” I dawdled with the corn chip in my hand, unable to commit to a bite.
“Yogis practice all kinds of strange things for decades, trying to stimulate their pineal glands. But you might’ve done it with one shot.”
I crinkled my nose. “Why would they want to stimulate their pineal glands?”
“For enlightenment. For bliss. Take the Khechari Mudra.”
“The ketchup what?” I dredged the tortilla chip in the little bowl of salsa. An image of my skull being cut open turned my stomach.
“The Khechari Mudra,” Grayson said. “It’s a special technique master yogis use. They train their tongues to be flexible enough to access their nasal passages from inside their throats.”
My stomach turned some more. “Are you saying they pick their noses from the inside with their tongues?” I glanced at my salsa-covered chip and cringed. “Gross!”
“No. The pineal gland is located—”
“Listen, Grayson,” I said, cutting him off. “I’m trying to eat here. Could we stop with all this for right now?”
Grayson shrugged. “Sure. You’re not into bliss. I get it.”
“I didn’t say that. It’s just ... well, it’s a bit too much to ask for, isn’t it? I mean, what is bliss anyway?”
“Yogis describe the feeling of bliss as being like the climax point of orgasm.”
I nearly choked on my iced tea. “Excuse me?”
Grayson laughed. “For people stuck in lower consciousness, when it comes to bliss, the best they can hope for is the fleeting sensation of orgasm. That’s why sex is such a big deal to people trapped in mundane states of existence. They can only get a tiny, transitory glimpse of the never-ending cosmic bliss attained by some yogis.”
“A mundane existence doesn’t sound so bad to me,” I said. “Sorry, but I don’t think I could stand being in a never-ending state of orgasm.”
Grayson stifled a grin and locked eyes with me. “Me either. But once in a while wouldn’t be so bad now, would it?”
I shifted my eyes down to the bowl of salsa. “No. I suppose it wouldn’t.”
Chapter Forty-Four
“I HOPE YOU ENJOY THIS particular selection from my whine cellar,” Grayson quipped in an attempt to lessen my nervousness. He waggled his eyebrows and said, “I call this one Nightmare on Overwh’Elm Street. Get it?”
I made a sour face and laid back on my bed. I blew out a breath and chewed my lip as Grayson fiddled with the controls on some weird-looking monitoring machine he’d dragged out of his RV.
The sticky electrodes pasted all over my skull itched and tugged at my scalp. I shook my head softly, chiding myself for being such a gullible doofus.
What the hell have I gotten myself into? Grayson’s either a quack or a genius, and I’m either a guinea pig or a fool. Will I be able to figure out which before it’s too late?
“Relax and breathe,” Grayson said.
He’d taken off his fedora and rolled up his sleeves—neither of which did anything to enhance his credibility with me. He looked like a bald politician running for county pallbearer.
“I’ve established your resting alpha wave pattern, see?” Grayson pointed at a graph on the machine.
I gave him a tentative nod. Whatever, you weirdo.
“Now I’m going to show you some pictures.” He set his open laptop on a TV tray at the side of my bed. “Watch the blue screen.”
I did as instructed. I smiled at the first image that popped onto the display. It was a basket of basset hound puppies in a field of daisies. The second image popped up and I nearly swallowed my tongue.
It was a pile of mangled zombie corpses.
“What the hell, Grayson!” I yelled. “No wonder you keep this crap in a padlocked cabinet!”
“Hmmm,” Grayson said, keeping his eyes on the machine. He pointed to the graph displayed on the monitor. “See how your activity changed here?”
“What? Whose wouldn’t? Where’d you get pictures like that, anyway?”
“Lie back, breathe. A picture can’t harm you, and neither can a ghost.”
I sneered. “How do you know?”
“Well, theoretically, ectoplasmic anomalies—”
I rolled my eyes. “Never mind. I know what this really is. It’s desensitization training.”
Grayson’s eyebrow shot up. “Yes, in a way, you’re right. A person can get used to anything after a while. Even bombs dropping in warzones. But when it comes to other-worldly and other-dimensional beings, it requires a conscious effort to remain centered, even for seasoned professionals.”
I locked eyes with him. “Can you? You know, control your own reactions?”
“Now, yes. But I couldn’t at first.”
I studied Grayson. He seemed sincere. “Really?”
“Really,” he said. “There’s some truly scary, as yet unexplainable crap out there, Drex. To do my job, I’ve got to rise above the fear.”
He turned a knob on the machine. “I want you to look at each image and breathe. You control how you feel about each one. Remember, they have no power other than what you give them.”
I breathed in deeply. The needle on the machine jumped up, indicating my alpha waves had increased. “Hey, I’m doing it,” I said, surprised.
“Yes, you are.” Grayson’s smile took a subtle slant toward the sadistic. A new image popped on the screen. A greenish, pus-bloated face screamed at me from the black, rotten hole that used to be its mouth. Maggots tumbled out.
My alpha waves crashed. “Holy crap!”
“Breathe,” Grayson coaxed. “You’re in control. Find your safe space. Your grounding center.”
“My grounding center?”
“Your favorite teddy bear. A pet bunny. Whatever makes you feel safe and at peace.”
I grimaced. “It sure isn’t pus face.”
“Practice, Drex. It works. And if you’re seeing what I think you might be seeing, you’re going to need this as your first line of defense.”
“What?” I nearly choked. “What do you think I’m seeing?”
“What you most fear, Drex. The guy who shot you. An escaped convict from Starke. A woman needing brain surgery.”
Something clicked inside my mind. “Geez! You’re right. I fear all of those things. The images ... they seemed so real.”
Grayson nodded. “Maybe they were, maybe they weren’t.”
I chewed my lip. “So what’s this ‘first line of defense’ you mentioned?”
“Breathing.”
“Breathing? Really? Uh ... hello. I’ve been doing that all my life.”
“And doing it wrong, I might add,” Grayson said. “Use your breath to calm and center yourself, like I showed you. Now, I’m going to leave you here to complete the program on your own.”
Grayson turned and walked toward my bedroom door.
“Wait!” I called out. “What’s the second line of defense? In case they get past the first?”
Grayson laughed. “These are just images. They can’t harm you. They’ll come up and disappear automatically. When the program’s done, it’ll shut off. Your challenge is to find your calm center before each new image emerges.”
I frowned. “Where are you going?”
Grayson cocked his head at me. “You said I could borrow your car.”
“Yes, but—”
“You didn’t say I needed to tell you where I was going. I promise I’ll take good care of it. And I’ll be back before dawn. Tell you what—I’ll even fill the tank.”
“But,” I started to get up.
“Don’t move. If you pull out an electrode, you’ll have to start over.”
I fell back onto the bed. “Ugh. How many times have you done this yourself?”
“More times than I can remember.”
“By yourself?”
“Yes.” Grayson grabbed his fedora off the bureau. “But don’t worry. You’re not alone. Your Grandma Selma’s standing by your bedside. She says, ‘Hi,’ by the way.”
I turned to look. No one was there.
I looked back. Grayson was gone.
Sneaky bastard.
Chapter Forty-Five
WHETHER IT WAS THE power of suggestion or Grandma Selma really was by my side, I thought I smelled White Shoulders, her signature perfume. Unsettled, I stuck with my task, and tried out different “happy places” until I found one that seemed to work somewhat consistently, no matter what vile images Grayson’s horrible training program threw at me.
After exhausting its repertoire of bloated corpses, devilish beings, and alien autopsies, the program ended. The screen on Grayson’s computer went blue, and a yellow smiley face emoji popped up. Under it flashed the words, “Have a Nice Day!” The computer beeped and shut itself off.
I sat up and checked the clock. It was 8:36 p.m. Grayson had left me alone with his computer, and he wouldn’t be back for hours.
Perfect time to brush up on my computer skills ....
I hit the power button. The laptop’s screen blinked back to life. A flashing message on the display read, “Are you sure you want to do this?”
Startled, I jerked my hand away from the screen. My face grew hot. I cautiously reached over and whacked the power button. The computer shut down again. I closed it, carried it over to the bureau, and set it down.
“No,” I said aloud, in case the computer was somehow recording me. “I’m not sure I want to do this. I’m not sure at all.”
AFTER SCRUBBING THE electrode paste from my stubbly scalp, I took a shower, pulled on some sweatpants and a T-shirt, and brushed my teeth. After all those gory test images, I was too wired to sleep. I couldn’t even concentrate enough to follow the plot of Matlock.
I switched off the TV and slumped onto the couch.
I missed my Grandma Selma. She’d been the only person I could count on to give me a woman’s perspective in the messed-up man’s world we lived in. She’d passed away two years before my father. I’d lost my mother way before that—first to bourbon, then to parts unknown with Mr. Applewhite. With no one else springing to mind for a friendly chat, I called Beth-Ann.
“I still don’t know if Grayson is a genius or a psycho,” I said when she picked up.
“Don’t tell me you went out on another date with him,” she said, not missing a beat.
“No. And it wasn’t a date. He hooked me up to electrodes.”
“Ooooh. Kinky. What else did he do?”
“Argh! It wasn’t like that. He was measuring my alpha waves. He’s into all this yoga and kundalini crap.”
“It’s not crap, Bobbie.”
“You’re into it, too? Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Around here, people already think I’m weird enough.”
I blew out a breath. “Beth-Ann, I need to know if this guy’s for real, or if he’s some kind of nut job. Have you got any helpful hints on how to do that?”
“Isn’t there anything in your detective handbook?”
“It doesn’t cover Mothman kooks.”
“Then do a Google search on Grayson. Check out his Facebook profile.”
“I don’t want to be a busybody, Beth-Ann. This town’s got enough of them already.”
“Oh. So that’s why you wanted to become a private investigator. So you could stay out of other peoples’ business. Now I get it.”
“Ugh. You’re right. But there’s so much more to being a P.I. than I thought.”
“Like what?”
“Like this. I mean, how can you tell the good guys from the bad guys?”
“Uh ... you never saw that problem coming?”
My gut sunk four inches. “I’m an idiot.”
“No, you’re not, Bobbie. You’re just naïve when it comes to men. Give me his full name and everything you’ve got on him, and I’ll do the search. That way, you can keep your hands clean.”
“Thanks, Beth-Ann. You’re a lifesaver.”
Beth-Ann laughed. “I hope you don’t mean that literally.”
Geez. So do I.
Chapter Forty-Six
I WAS COZIED UP ON the couch with a vodka cocktail. Okay, it was a glass of vodka. But it was a small glass.
It was nearly midnight, and Grayson still hadn’t returned. I’d switched on the TV half an hour ago. A beautiful woman in a cocktail dress and diamond earrings was busy convincing me to buy a contraption that could clean my drapes and give me a facial.
But not at the same time.
I was reaching for my cellphone to order the blasted thing when the landline for Robert’s Mechanics rang. It was exactly midnight. I picked up the receiver, thinking it might be Grayson with a flat tire or something.
“Hello?”
“Beep beep beep.”
The hair on the back of my neck stood up.
“Who are you?” I demanded. I was pretty sure the faltering squeak in my voice did nothing to persuade these robots that I meant business.
“Beep beep beep.”
“What do you want?” I hissed, barely able to squeeze the words from my tight lungs.
A mechanical voice buzzed over the line. “Bring a large pepperoni pizza to 387 Obsidian Road. Pronto.”
Air whooshed back into my lungs.
“Earl, you’re fired,” I screeched.
I heard him howl with laughter as I clicked off the phone. I flopped back onto the couch, totally pissed. Then a thought made my back straighten.
Crap! I forgot to check on Vanderhoff today!
I couldn’t now. It was too late. Besides, Grayson had my car. I’d have to wait until morning. I sighed and turned my attention back to the TV. Just my luck. I’d missed the limited-time offer to order one VaccuFacial and get a second one free.
I scowled and clicked the “off” button on the TV remote.
After draining my vodka glass, I hauled myself off the couch and padded down the hall to my bedroom. Pulling back the curtains, I stared out at the thin slice of silvery moon, wondering where Grayson was. I didn’t want to be a nag by calling him. He was a grown man, after all.
As I pulled down the bedcovers, I shivered.
Crap.
I’d left Grandma’s afghan in Grayson’s apartment. I couldn’t go get it now. Not without invading his privacy. I climbed into bed and lay down. A beam of moonlight shone in my eye. I’d forgotten to close the curtains.
Double crap.
I hauled myself out of bed, grabbed a handful of curtain, and totally freaked.
Inches from the windowpane, two glowing, red orbs hovered at eye level with me. I closed my eyes, shook my head, and took a deep, calming breath.
It’s just my imagination.
I opened my eyes.
The glowing red orbs were still there.
But now they weren’t orbs.
They were eyes.
Burning, ember-like eyes—set deep inside the skull of a hideous, insect-like face!
As a blood-curdling scream ripped from m
y lungs, I caught a glimpse of something on its back. It was a cape.
No.
It was Grandma Selma’s afghan.
Icy spiders crawled up my back.
That horrible thing’s been inside my house!
My knees gave out.
I crumpled to the floor.
The safe little world I once knew went bye-bye.
Chapter Forty-Seven
I WAS IN A TUG OF WAR with Mothman over Grandma Selma’s afghan. Through my bedroom window, I slapped his ugly insect face with a flyswatter and grabbed the corner of the blanket. I gave it a huge tug, but bug-man held on with his spindly, lobster-claw hands.
He wasn’t letting go.
Well, neither was I.
I dug my heels into the shag carpet and tugged for all I was worth. But a sudden, swift yank by Mothman pulled me out the second-story window.
I was dangling in midair!
As I hung onto the tail-end of Grandma Selma’s blanket for dear life, Mothman buzzed above the pathetically small metropolis of Point Paradise, trying to shake me loose.
I saw the roof over my parent’s garage ... the flashing light at the intersection of nowhere and oblivion ... the sagging awning of the Stop & Shoppe. As we flew over Cherry Manor, I spotted old lady Vanderhoff’s house. I took my chance and let go of Grandma’s afghan. I tumbled, butt-first, into old lady Vanderhoff’s swimming pool.
She heard my cannonball splash and came running out of the house. Vanderhoff was naked except for a pair of red, lace panties and that green avocado mask. My poor eyes didn’t know where to look.
“You’re going to electrocute yourself!” she yelled, and handed me a mirror. My bald head was covered in electrodes.
She shook her avocado-smeared head at me. “Drex! What’s wrong with you?”
Wait a minute. This has to be a dream. Mrs. Vanderhoff always called me Bobbie. Never Drex.
Freaky Florida Mystery Adventures Box Set Page 17