Nearly Departed

by Max Patrick Schlienger

  Once again, the labyrinthine path to Harding’s office proved to be more difficult to navigate than Dennis had expected. When he was on his own it was bad enough, especially when he passed by the same open doors and curious expressions during his roundabout exploration. With Bobo in tow, the experience was amplified from mildly embarrassing to downright aggravating, largely because of the commentary that the bigger man was offering.

  “Here, I’m sure we passed that water fountain already,” Bobo said, pointing towards an alcove.

  “It’s a different one,” muttered Dennis in reply. He was trying to count office doors, and the randomly-numbered signs were making it difficult.

  “It had the same sticker on it,” Bobo pointed out.

  “They all have that sticker on them.”

  “With the same tear in them?”

  Dennis made a dismissive sound and waved a hand irritably. Up ahead, the hallway turned sharply to the right, and Dennis could picture the luxurious corner offices behind the uniform walls. The thought made him feel a bit queasy. He didn’t have any particular issue with heights, but something about tall buildings made him uncomfortable. Perhaps it stemmed from a general distrust in humanity, or a lack of faith in their ability to do anything right. He pushed the images of crumbling skyscrapers from his mind, and concentrated on locating his intended destination. Finally, after a few more turns and one unexpected dead end, a gold-colored plaque caught his eye.

  “Okay,” said Dennis, stopping in front of the marked door. “When we go inside, just hang out in the waiting room. I don’t want Sam to start asking too many questions about you.”

  “Why’s that, then?” Bobo asked, wrinkling his nose.

  “I just get the idea that the fewer people who are involved, the better,” replied Dennis. Without waiting for a response, he opened the door and strutted inside. The receptionist, either out of apathy or obliviousness, did not look up. At least she was behind the desk this time, Dennis thought. He glanced at the clock on the wall, and felt his eyes being dragged over to the new painting that hung nearby.

  “Well,” observed Bobo, “it doesn’t look like everyone agrees with you.”

  “What are you talking about?” Dennis asked. Bobo pointed at the canvas on the wall.

  “The fewer people involved, the better? I count seven blokes in that picture.” Dennis shook his head, trying to hide the amusement that had broken through his stoic visage. Bobo was right, though. The painting left very little to the imagination, despite the dozen or so limbs making futile efforts at modesty.

  “This is a shrink’s office, is it?” Bobo asked, grinning. “I wonder what I’m meant to get out of that.”

  “Isn’t art about personal interpretation?” said Dennis whimsically.

  “That piece might as well have subtitles.”

  The sounds of their conversation finally appeared to break through the receptionist’s carefully maintained shield of indifference, and she looked up with a grudging sigh.

  “Can I help you with something?” The image created by the pop of her gum and the nail file with which she gestured was far too stereotypical for Dennis to take seriously. He felt his barely-suppressed smirk insistently pulling at the corners of his mouth.

  “I’m here to see Sam.” He looked up at the clock again, and then examined own watch. One of them, he decided, was off by fifteen minutes, and he doubted that it was his own timepiece. “I called a few minutes ago.”

  “Uh huh,” muttered the girl. Dennis wondered if the obvious doubt in her voice was intentional, or just the byproduct of dealing with too many of Harding’s patients. “He’s in a session right now,” she stated, “but you’re welcome to wait for him.”

  “I’ll do that, thanks,” replied Dennis. He was treated to an expression of apparent surprise from the other side of the desk, made all the more severe when he responded with a bright smile. He gave the girl a polite nod, then walked with measured strides to where Bobo was seated beneath the graphic painting.

  “This is the guy what pays you to play dress-up, yeah?” Bobo asked. Dennis looked up at the desk, but the receptionist gave no sign of having heard.

  “Yeah, you could put it like that.”

  “Don’t you think he might be a bit miffed that you went behind his back with all this?”

  “I doubt it,” answered Dennis. “All of my jobs start out on my own. I just usually tell him about them sooner than this.”

  “Before the spooky buggers show up, you mean.” Bobo craned his neck to examine the painting again. “I don’t really see the point,” he confessed.

  “It’s an orgy,” Dennis explained. “I think the point is pretty obvious.”

  Bobo blinked with a look of surprise, which melted into one of amusement. “Not the painting, git, the act. The bells and whistles, you know?”

  A casual shrug prefaced Dennis’ response. “I just try to give them what they expect. Nobody wants supernatural advice from a young author when they could have it from an old guy with an accent.”

  “I understand that part,” Bobo said. “I wear a costume too, remember?”

  “Oh, right.”

  “I just don’t see why you bother at all. I mean, it’s not like he’s lacking in business, is he?” Bobo tilted his head towards the closed office door.

  “The way he explained it to me,” Dennis said, “is that there’s this untapped group of people who usually have more money than sense.”

  “Yeah, believing in ghosts?” Bobo replied sarcastically. “Who’d be dumb enough to do that?”

  “Shut up. Evy is the exception that proves the rule.”

  Bobo opened his mouth answer, but the sound of a lock turning interrupted him. Dennis watched as the door to Harding’s office swung open, and he immediately leaned back to hide behind Bobo when he recognized the person walking through it.

  “I think we’ve made some excellent progress today, Moon,” said Harding’s voice. The bespectacled man was following the overweight (and still jewelry-laden) woman from several nights back. Dennis slouched down as far as he could, hoping that Bobo’s larger form would hide him from view. The woman made enthusiastic small talk with Harding before finally being led to and practically forced out the door of the office.

  “Well, she is certainly an interesting case,” Harding sighed. He turned to face the waiting area and gave Dennis a smile. “Although, you already knew that, didn’t you?” He glanced over at Bobo for a moment and his eyes narrowed slightly, but beyond that he showed no reaction to the man’s presence. “Well, Dennis,” he continued, “if you’d like to step into my office, we can discuss this matter of pressing urgency you mentioned.” Dennis rose and followed Harding through the door to the inner sanctum, leaving Bobo to contemplate the explicit painting in the waiting room.

  “A friend of yours?” Harding asked as he closed the door.

  “Yeah, I suppose,” answered Dennis. “Look, we really need to talk about this whole private detective business. Something isn’t right.”

  “Why do you say that?” Harding asked. He passed by his usual chair and instead took a seat on the leather couch against the room’s far wall. “Has he been bothering you?”

  “Well, he…” Dennis paused. “Yes, he’s been bothering me. He showed up at the bar the other day, and then he abducted me this morning.”

  “Really? Well, that’s a touch on the excessive side.”

  “Only a touch, huh?” Dennis scoffed. “Come on, Sam, spill it. What’s going on between you and that guy?”

  “I think a better question,” Harding countered, “might be for me to ask you the same thing.”

  Dennis folded his arms and stared down at the psychiatrist. “I never had any trouble with a job before that guy showed up at your office, and now suddenly I’m looking over my shoulder so often that my neck is stiff.”

  “This is about a job, then?” asked Harding with a raised eyebrow. “I wasn’t aware that you had taken a new one.”

&n
bsp; “Yeah, well, I hadn’t gotten around to telling you about it yet,” Dennis replied. “Besides, it’s not going to pan out.”

  “Why do you say that? I did ask you to stay in close contact about your next meeting, did I not?”

  Dennis gritted his teeth. “Look, can we please discuss this business with the cop?” Harding parted his hands and bowed in a gesture of acquiescence. “Thank you.” Dennis closed his eyes for a moment and took a breath. “I’m a fairly normal guy,” he stated, looking back at Harding. “This whole paranormal consultant business was supposed to be research for my next book, and I only started with it because you talked me into it. I didn’t count on getting shot at by Shaft.”

  “He shot at you?” Harding asked, obviously surprised.

  “No, but he might graduate to that. He did take my picture. Twice!” he ended, feeling a bit flustered.

  Harding sat in silence, an unreadable expression on his face. “What does this have to do with your latest job, Dennis?”

  “Nothing!” Dennis spat. “Nothing at all! I’m working with this lady who has a haunted chair, of all things, and suddenly this Spinner character won’t leave me alone!” He walked in tight circles around the office, navigating around the desk and chairs in a meandering path that mirrored that of his thoughts. “I don’t know how he found out who I am, and I don’t know why he gives a damn about what I’m doing, but I have a sneaking suspicion that it has something to do with you!” He punctuated his last statement with an accusatory jab of his finger. Harding stared at the outstretched digit, and then leaned to look at its owner.

  “A haunted chair, you say?”

  Dennis fought the urge to kick the couch. Fortunately, his all-too-recent encounter with exploding furniture kept him from any brash actions. “Damn it, Sam,” Dennis growled, “what the hell is going on?”

  Harding removed his glasses and polished them on his sweater. “I told you already,” he responded quietly. “A patient of mine claimed that her daughter was seeing –”

  “Ghosts, I remember,” Dennis interrupted. “That’s all well and good, but what does it have to do with me? It sounds like a pretty big coincidence.”

  “Trust me when I say that I haven’t the faintest idea, Dennis,” Harding said. “It could be Mr. Spinner believes that you are somehow involved in the business with his niece.”

  “How?” demanded Dennis. “You said that it had nothing to do with me! You’re the psychiatrist, you tell me what he’s thinking!”

  “While I am a psychiatrist, Dennis,” Harding said pointedly, “I am only qualified to help the mentally unsound, not predict what they might believe.” He folded his hands in front of his face. “Even so, the idea has some merit. I don’t imagine Spinner to be the most stable of individuals, and a fantasy of that nature is possibly the sort of thing that a deranged mind might concoct.”

  “Great,” Dennis muttered. He sank into a chair and shuffled to face it towards Harding. “So what am I supposed to do?”

  “If ever you’re uncomfortable with this,” Harding began softly, leaning forward, “you’re always free to stop working for me. I certainly don’t want you to feel trapped in a situation that causes you any amount of worry.”

  “Thanks,” answered Dennis. “Really, I mean that. It doesn’t solve the problem of right now, though.”

  “Right now,” Harding repeated, “I would recommend that you avoid doing anything to call attention to yourself. Perhaps it would also be a good idea to stay in a hotel for some time, until Spinner loses interest in you.”

  Dennis’ face twisted into a show of skepticism. “How am I supposed to explain that to Alena? She might notice if I stop coming home.”

  “It’s only one idea, Dennis. I’m confident in your abilities to think of something.” Harding shifted his position on the couch, and apparently shifted gears in his head at the same time. “Incidentally, how is your friend Luke doing? I hear he wound up in some sort of trouble.”

  “Yeah,” Dennis said. “He said you were going to help him out, though.”

  “Oh, absolutely,” confirmed Harding with a nod. “As I mentioned to him, I should have the money in a couple of days. Really, I could stand to offer it to him now, but I’d prefer to wait until a few things come through.”

  “I’m sure he understands, and I know he’ll pay you back as soon as he can.”

  Harding shook his head. “Not necessary, really. If all goes well, I’ll be coming into a significant sum of money before too long.” He switched gears again, apparently ending the topic before it could be questioned further. “Now, perhaps you can tell me about this latest job of yours?”

  Dennis said nothing, struggling to find a believable way of recounting his experiences from the past few days. “Well,” he said, hoping to fill the air with some semblance of an explanation, “as I said, she has a haunted chair.”

  “A unique delusion, but not unheard of,” Harding replied, nodding.

  Dennis kept his face as expressionless as he could. “She wants to find a way of getting her sister to leave, and my advertisement gave her the idea that I could help.”

  “I was unaware that you were selling yourself as an exorcist nowadays,” Harding said with a smile. “Her sister haunts a chair, then. What do you think of the situation thus far?”

  Again, Dennis tried to think of a way to continue the conversation without coming across as outright insane. “Why do you think so many people believe in ghosts, Sam?”

  “Oh, more reasons than I could hope to name,” Harding replied with a warm laugh. “I suppose it’s comforting to think that our existence goes on after death, even if only as a shadow of our former selves.” He gestured across at his desk, pointing to where a framed picture stood. “The loss of a loved one can be a fairly devastating event, as well, and many people find themselves wishing for a way to keep their dearly departed in their lives.”

  “What about in this case?” Dennis asked.

  “Why does your client want to eliminate her sister’s ghost, you mean?” Dennis nodded. “It could be any number of things. A fantasy that has gone on too long to simply be dismissed, even as it becomes a reminder of her own mortality. A means of asserting dominance over the memory of someone perceived as a superior. Without meeting her, I’d have no way of knowing for sure.”

  Dennis wondered if the older man’s last comment had been an underhanded suggestion of sorts. If it was, he chose to ignore it. “Humor me for a minute here, Sam,” he said as casually as he could. “I mean, I’m sure you’re right about one of those things. Just…” he stopped, taking a moment to choose his next words. “Well, what if there was such a thing as ghosts? How would they exist, do you think?”

  Harding’s grandfatherly smile was touched by both amusement and slight concern. “I hope you’re not letting your act go to your head, Dennis.” He folded his arms and looked towards the ceiling for a moment. “Well, assuming that ghosts did exist, I suppose they’d need a source of energy to continue doing so.”

  “Like what?” Dennis pressed.

  “I’ve really not given it that much thought,” Harding laughed. “Perhaps the life essence of the people around them is enough to keep them sustained. Or it could be that there is some sort of ethereal energy that we, as living beings, cannot perceive or utilize.”

  “So, in order to kill a ghost, so to speak,” reasoned Dennis, “you’d have to find a way of cutting off their access to that energy.”

  “Looking for ideas to fuel your exorcism?”

  “Something like that,” Dennis replied.

  “Of course,” Harding continued, “there’s the classic assumption that a ghost remains because it has some sort of unfinished business to attend to. Perhaps the obsession in life is enough to foster a presence in death.”

  Something about that statement made sense, Dennis thought, although he couldn’t think of a reason for Evy to be obsessed with an antique chair. “I guess the best way of dismissing a ghost would be to help i
t with that unfinished business, then.”

  “A rather clichéd solution, if you ask me,” Harding replied. “However, I suppose it might be a useful avenue for you. Perhaps, after her sister is ‘dismissed,’ she might be open to the idea of talking with me.”

  “Maybe,” said Dennis skeptically.

  “Well, regardless, I’d like you to keep me in the loop with this, Dennis. You’re in a sensitive position, and I’d hate for you to cause this woman any emotional damage.” He leaned forward conspiratorially. “Also, a little applied psychology would probably work wonders for your exorcism, no?”

  The statement raised an interesting idea. “Do you think that ghosts have the same psychology as humans?” Dennis considered Evy’s nonexistent memory, and wondered if the trait could be a clue.

  “I’d say that they must,” replied Harding. “After all, they are the imaginings of human minds. If they weren’t...” He trailed off and shrugged. “Well, the point is moot, since ghosts are a physical impossibility.”

  Dennis smiled for the first time since entering the office. “I thought we were suspending disbelief,” he said.

  Harding returned Dennis’ smile with one of his own. “Just take care not to suspend your own.”

  Images of sultry specters and gasoline-fueled flames danced through Dennis’ mind. Easier said than done, he thought.