Perfect Trust: A Rowan Gant Investigation

by M. R. Sellars

  As I sputter, the message I had earlier sent to my arm finds its way down a detour of nerves, and the handful of keys slings upward in a flaccid arc, glancing harmlessly against my attacker.

  Still, he yelps with surprise and rocks back away from me.

  Hard points press against my flesh once again, and I hear the crackling hum. The last thing I feel is my back arch as electricity courses through me, and the lights dim quickly to black.

  * * * * *

  I really should have tried a different tactic to break the connection the moment Debbie Schaeffer pushed me. But in all honesty, I was far too shocked to even think, much less act.

  Throughout the investigations I’d been involved in over the past two years, I had channeled some terribly horrific things. In doing so, I had been guided—sometimes even led around by the nose to an extent—by the spirits of those I was trying to help. I had pretty much come to expect this kind of treatment from the other side.

  However, this was the first time I could recall ever having been outright pushed around, for lack of a better description, by a vengeful ghost. It was a wholly new experience for me and something I wasn’t enjoying in the least. But then, I knew better than to do this without someone to back me up, so I had no one to blame but myself. And trust me, I was already pointing all four fingers and a thumb right where they belonged.

  As I had told Heather Burke before this all began, I wasn’t entirely certain that I wanted to see what she had to show me. But that no longer mattered because I wasn’t seeing it; I was living it. What was worse, I knew that the piece of her life I’d shared thus far was only a prologue to the real horror show.

  The only saving grace was the fact that on the physical plane, Heather was sitting right in front of me. Alive, uninjured, and for the most part, well—very well, in fact, for someone who had been through what she had. This meant that at least I wasn’t running the risk of following her into death.

  Of course, until now, she couldn’t actually remember any of the events that had transpired in any detail. So the question was: Just how well was she going to be after this was all over?

  Or perhaps the real question should be: Just how well were we going to be after this was all over?

  * * * * *

  I awake.

  I don’t know where I am.

  My head hurts and so does my side.

  I’m too afraid to move.

  I try to move.

  I can’t.

  It’s like I’m just too tired to do anything.

  I feel as though I am sitting.

  But where?

  My hair feels funny.

  Like I’m wearing a stocking cap or something.

  My scalp is hot and it itches, but I’m too tired to scratch it. I try to ignore it.

  Where am I?

  I try to remember.

  Someone was chasing me, yeah.

  Did he catch me? Did I get away?

  I’m supposed to be afraid now, right? I think I am. I’m just so tired that I don’t care.

  I take the plunge and slowly open my eyes.

  I think I’m staring at my lap.

  The light is subdued, dimmed, and almost ethereal.

  It’s just a bit on the cold side.

  I blink slowly, and my eyes begin to adjust, then my lap comes into focus.

  Hmmmph, interesting. I don’t remember owning a red garter belt and red stockings.

  The fog in my brain parts a bit more.

  Well no wonder I’m cold, I’m half naked!

  A rough hand comes out of nowhere and cups my chin. I would scream but I’m just too tired. Still, terror rips through me as my head is tilted back.

  Tired or not, now I am definitely afraid.

  I manage to whimper.

  I smell B.O. and cigarettes.

  Smoke rolls cloudlike in front of my face and I gag on it.

  I hear a familiar voice; rough but filled with a bizarre reverence, “Almost perfect…”

  My head is tilted even farther back. My hair feels so very odd. My scalp feels tight and constricted, but the hair against my shoulders feels fluffy and teased.

  Bizarre.

  I must be tripping on something…It’s almost like when I did acid in college…but…not exactly the same.

  At least I enjoyed myself then.

  That’s it, he must have drugged me.

  I stare upward, afraid.

  All I can make out is a shadow.

  The voice comes again, “Almost her…”

  I see a hand come toward my face. I try to shut my eyes, afraid that I am about to be struck. I feel his fingers on my eyelid, and he pries my left eye open and holds it wide. I still cannot see him. I watch in horror as his other hand comes directly at my eyeball.

  I whimper and try to struggle, but he holds tight.

  My eye waters against the foreign object that has been inserted, and now he does the same to my right eye. My vision is so completely blurred now that I cannot even make out complete shapes. Only shadow and light.

  I whimper again and feel a hot tear roll down my cheek.

  “Stop crying!” the voice demands, the former reverent tone disappearing. “Why do all of you have to cry?!”

  All of you?

  I wonder about that.

  I must not be the only one here.

  Are they just as afraid as me?

  The hand grabs my face once again, and it feels as though it is crushing my jaw. He shakes my head, pressing his fingers and thumb hard into my cheeks.

  “Stop crying, dammit! You aren’t HER! You don’t have the right to cry! Stop it!”

  I whimper and feel more tears begin to flow. I can’t stop. I’m so afraid.

  He releases his grip, and I see the shadow seem to turn. Then it suddenly spins back to me, and I feel his palm slap me hard across my face.

  My head is wrenched to the side, and the hot sting on my cheek spreads outward. I just cry harder.

  “Now look what you’ve done,” he screams. “Now I have to fix your makeup!”

  The shadow moves away but returns quickly. Something hard stabs into my side, and my teeth chatter as I stiffen and vibrate with the electric shock.

  The last thing I hear is the voice screaming, “YOU AREN’T HER!”

  * * * * *

  I was swimming toward the surface again, laboring to break free of the current that had swept me so deeply into Heather Burke’s recent past. The darkness around me was thinning; changing in hue from black, to indigo, to blue, then charcoal grey. I felt myself break through, and the colors of the room bloomed around me.

  I felt a wave of relief that was followed by a tsunami of confusion. I knew that I should be staring directly into the eyes of a petite blonde who was positioned across from me.

  Instead, I was staring directly into the eyes of a long-haired man who was sporting a greying goatee and a blank expression. The problem was, I wasn’t looking into a mirror.

  I wondered if Heather Burke was now occupying the body sitting across from me, looking at herself and wondering what was happening. Or were both our psyches crammed tightly into her body, and mine was now nothing more than an empty shell?

  Neither of those options was particularly comforting at the moment.

  “So what happens now?” Detective McLaughlin queried Ben in a low voice.

  I could tell she was whispering, but to me, her words rang out clear and strong through the void. I called out to the two of them to help me, but my plea fell on deaf ears.

  If I could hear them so clearly, why couldn’t they hear me?

  I tried calling again, louder this time, but realized quickly that even I could not hear my own voice. I had no choice but to simply listen.

  “Guess it all depends.” I could sense the shrug in my friend’s voice when he answered her.

  “On what?”

  “On what he sees.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I dunno. I’ve watched ‘im do this m
aybe half a dozen times. Either he sits there starin’ for a minute then just snaps out of it, or he starts floppin’ around and screamin’ like a banshee.”

  “Why would he do that?”

  “‘Cause of what he sees, I guess.”

  “I don’t understand,” she sounded puzzled, “I thought he was going to hypnotize her.”

  “He did,” Ben grunted. “Look at ‘er.”

  “But shouldn’t they be talking or something?”

  “That’s not ‘zactly how he does it.”

  “How exactly does he do it then?”

  “I dunno. Hocus-pocus Twilight Zone shit, ya’know. He’s the Witch, not me.”

  “So what’s he see that would make him start screaming?”

  “Fuck, I dunno. I don’t really wanna either. Do you?”

  I didn’t hear Charlee’s answer, but I knew my own, and right now it was “No.”

  * * * * *

  I’m drifting in a semi-conscious haze.

  I remember flashing lights.

  Bright. Blinding.

  Over and over.

  Darkness.

  Flash!

  Darkness.

  Flash!

  And the sound of shuffling.

  I remember being moved.

  At least I think I do.

  I’m no longer cold, but I’m terribly uncomfortable.

  I feel as though I’m still seated, but my hip is aching, and I can feel my own knuckles pressing hard against my cheek. My arm tingles as if it has gone to sleep.

  My back is starting to hurt.

  My hair still feels incredibly bizarre.

  I start to move but then I remember.

  I’m afraid to open my eyes.

  I know he is close… I can hear him.

  I can smell him.

  I gag on the stench

  I open one eye and find that the blur is no longer as bad as it had been earlier. Still, I can feel something in my eyes and they are sore. Itching.

  I’m in different clothing now.

  It looks like it might be a party dress. All I know is that it is shiny and red and frilly, and there is a lot of it gathered around me. My right leg is draped over the arm of the chair. My left leg feels like it is being stretched and pulled out of its socket in the opposite direction. From the way that my feet feel, I guess that they are crammed into a pair of high heels that are about a half-size too small.

  My side begins to cramp up and I whimper.

  He doesn’t hear me.

  He is making far too much noise.

  I can hear him panting.

  I feel him close.

  A shadow moves in front of me, and in the dim light I can see that he is nude from the waist down.

  His hand is pistoning back and forth at his crotch, and I can hear him mutter, “So close… Almost perfect…”

  A lit cigarette smokes in his free hand as the other pumps faster between his legs. I concentrate on the glowing coal, not wanting to witness his self-stimulation. I watch him raise the cigarette to take a puff and notice that it is positioned between his middle fingers.

  Curious.

  I’ve never seen anyone hold a cigarette like that before.

  I try to follow his hand, but my head feels heavy, and I cannot move.

  He moves closer, standing between my legs.

  I want to scream.

  He starts grunting as something warm and wet splatters on me. I’m afraid I know what it is, and I feel sick.

  The scream escapes as a gurgle.

  My brain overloads on the fear and disgust.

  I close my eyes and pray.

  He keeps panting and muttering, “Oh sweet Jesus, she’s so close… She’s almost HER.”

  * * * * *

  “Did you see that?” Charlee McLaughlin’s voice echoes past me in a distorted roar.

  “See what?” Ben’s voice rumbles behind.

  “They flinched.”

  “Yeah, so?”

  “No, I mean like both at the same time.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Well does that mean something?”

  “You’re askin’ the wrong guy, Chuck.”

  “It’s been almost five solid minutes.” Her voice continued to echo out of phase. “Should we try to wake them up or something?”

  In my mind I was screaming, “YES!”

  Of course, they couldn’t hear me. Hell, I couldn’t even hear me.

  “First time I ever saw ‘im do this,” Ben explained, “he said, whatever ya’ do don’t touch me, or you’ll break the trance. Or somethin’ like that, anyway. Just let it go. As long as he’s not screamin’ and they’re both still breathin’, he’s prob’ly fine.”

  “No I’m not!” I screamed at them again, but to no avail. Not that I expected them to hear. But I did hope.

  One thought kept going through my mind where my friend’s explanation was concerned: “Dammit, Ben! As I remember, you didn’t listen to me then—so why are you suddenly deciding to do as I asked now?”

  * * * * *

  The sense of absolute violation transcends even the pain.

  I know he’s been inside me, I can feel it.

  I’m still so weak, so tired that I cannot move.

  I just lay there in the cold and cry.

  Hot tears stream from the corners of my eyes, rolling across my face and finally dripping into my ears.

  I’m on my back.

  It’s dark and there’s something covering me.

  I can feel cold vinyl against my skin.

  The stench of stale cigarette smoke fills my nostrils.

  I’m still with him.

  How long has it been?

  I’ve lost all track of time.

  I feel motion.

  We are moving.

  I can hear the roughness of the mistuned car engine.

  The vibration rattles me.

  My arm slides across my chest, making tiny jumps in time with the vibrations, until finally it falls, glances from the edge of the seat, and lands in the floorboard—or more accurately, into the trash covering the floorboard.

  I can hear him in the front seat.

  He’s humming.

  He’s humming a happy, satisfied tune. He’s humming “Merry Christmas, Baby.”

  The sorry son-of-a-bitch…

  I feel the vehicle turn—left I think.

  I wonder if I can remember the turns. Isn’t that what they do in spy movies? Count the seconds traveling straight, then the turns? Make a map in their heads?

  Who am I trying to fool here? I can’t even think straight.

  I wonder where he is taking me?

  My stomach wrenches itself into a knot as fear grips me.

  He’s probably taking me somewhere, so he can kill me and dispose of my body!

  I feel the car turn again, begin to accelerate, then the forlorn squeal of thin brakes reaches my ears.

  The car lurches to a sudden halt, rocking hard on worn shocks. I bounce against the seatback like a rag doll then roll forward. My body slides from the edge of the seat and crumples into the floorboard, face down.

  I groan.

  “Don’t worry,” I hear him say. “You’re almost home.”

  Fear slices through me again. I wonder what he means by home? The bottom of a ditch? The river? A shallow grave somewhere?

  My mind races, but it isn’t winning.

  I struggle to open my eyes and find my face buried in a pile of trash. As we pass beneath a streetlight, I see that my pillow consists of fast food bags, empty cigarette cartons, and things best left unidentified.

  We travel in darkness then pass beneath another streetlamp. My roaming eye catches a glimpse of an envelope.

  Darkness falls.

  Again, for a fleeting instant, the glow of a streetlamp.

  Mister something.

  Darkness.

  I count out the thrum of the tires in my head, keeping my eye focused on the spot where the envelope lay.

  Thr
ee, two, one.

  The light floods the interior for a split second.

  An address… 75…

  Darkness, three, two, one…

  34…

  Darkness, three, two, one…

  Or was that the stamp?

  Darkness, three, two, one…

  75 again…

  Darkness, three, two, one…

  34 again. Was it the stamp again? I don’t know…

  Two, one…

  Mister something again.

  Concentrate!

  Darkness, three, two, one…

  75…34 something…

  I can feel the car slowing…

  Darkness, three, two, one…

  The car quickly arcs into a turn and then bounces over a curb just as the streetlamp’s glow fills the cabin.

  The envelope shifts.

  I shift.

  I catch a final glimpse as a fast food bag falls in front of it.

  Mister and Ash something…

  Mister Ash?

  Mister Ash what?

  The darkness remains and I can feel that the car is moving very slowly now.

  We stop.

  His voice reaches my ears again. “It’s okay, honey. You’re home now.”

  CHAPTER 23

  A sudden sense of calmness enveloped me, followed immediately by a screaming pain akin to that of a midnight leg cramp—only this leg cramp encompassed my entire body. I could feel myself double forward, then without warning I was propelled backward with explosive force.

  And then the cramp-like pain melted away, leaving behind the sickening, dull ache that usually accompanies a bad hangover. In the span of a heartbeat, I felt myself slowly sinking into a murky darkness that was deepening with each passing second.

  For some unknown reason, I had been summarily expelled from Heather Burke’s nightmare. Or it had reached its end. Or maybe I had been extracted with careful, calculated precision that just happened to be violently painful as well?

  I wasn’t sure which was the real answer, but whichever was the case, I was grateful for the relief.

  The psychic hangover was dissipating, and as I continued to sink, I began to feel warm and comfortable. Had it not been for the sharp noise that suddenly stabbed its way through my eardrums, I think I could have simply gone to sleep.