“You’re right. Normally, I would be skeptical too. Especially with a DJ who calls herself Trinity. But I know this woman.”
I cocked an eyebrow. “You do a lot of clubbing, padre?”
“DJ Trinity’s real name is Cleo Dix. She’s been a member of my congregation since she was a little girl and sang in the choir. She truly has the voice of an angel.”
Father Jimenez beamed with pride as he spoke. He not only knew this young DJ but felt protective of her, too. I considered this latest bit of information.
“Okay, so you know her, and you can vouch for her character.”
“And there’s more, Simon.”
He pointed at the laptop again and played another video, taken at what appeared to be a homeless shelter. A group of shabbily dressed men and women lined up as volunteers did their best to feed the starving masses.
One of these volunteers was none other than DJ Trinity.
She was ladling soup into bowls for the hungry crowd and handing out shrink-wrapped sandwiches and fruit.
The camera panned away from DJ Trinity and showed the endless line of homeless people inside the soup kitchen. The crowd appeared to be growing with each passing second.
As the camera swooshed back to the volunteers toiling away behind the pots, I could see some of them swap worried looks. Suddenly, the camera zoomed in on the half-empty pot of soup and a nearly empty sandwich cooler, revealing the reason for their growing concern—the kitchen was quickly running out of food. They definitely wouldn’t be able to feed every hungry mouth that had gathered at the shelter.
Father Jimenez froze the video and looked at me.
“As you can see, Cleo Dix works as a volunteer in one of our soup kitchens. A week ago, we were short on food when a far larger crowd than expected showed up at the shelter. We hate to turn hungry people back, but I didn’t see any other way. Until another miracle happened.”
Father Jimenez pressed play again. Two of the three volunteers ran out of food, but not Cleo. She continued to fill bowl after bowl, pulling out shrink-wrapped sandwiches from her cooler like a machine. The cooler that had almost been empty a few seconds earlier.
There was a rising tide of whispers and gasps from the crowd as the young woman worked tirelessly to feed the homeless.
As the camera zeroed in on the Cleo Dix, I realized what was making the crowd react this way. Thin trickles of blood were running down her forehead, almost as if the poor girl was wearing an invisible crown of thorns.
As she continued to feed the hungry masses, the blood kept running down her beautiful yet haunting face. Her eyes seemed distant, almost like she was somewhere else while she handed out food. It was unnerving. Possession I could handle, but this was beyond my realm of expertise.
The video froze again, and Father Jimenez’s magnetic gaze bore into me.
“Cleo Dix fed three hundred people that day with supplies that should have sustained onlyfifty.”
I thought of the biblical story where Jesus had fed five thousand people with five loaves of bread and two fish. I was used to dealing with monster attacks and supernatural killers. Miracles and stigmatics were a bit out of my wheelhouse, and I felt at a loss for words.
“According to the biblical texts, Jesus performed three types of miracles: exorcisms, cures, and natural wonders,” Father Jimenez explained.
I nodded. So far, it looked like Cleo Dix was batting two out of three.
Why would God choose an LA DJ to perform such miraculous feats? In a world of great evil, why save some random club kid and feed a few homeless people? Weren’t there greater, more pressing tragedies that could benefit from some form of divine intervention?
“I don’t know what is happening here, Simon, but I was hoping you might shed some light on the matter.”
“Father Jimenez, wouldn’t this be a case for the Vatican? I don’t usually investigate miracles.”
“I know that, my friend, and I really should call up Rome and have them send one of their experts to look into the matter. And that certainly will be my next step. Perhaps you could talk to Cleo and see what you can find out before I involve the Congregation for the Causes of the Saints?”
I held Father Jimenez’s gaze. He was referring to the Vatican office tasked with approving results on miracles, martyrdom, and heroic virtues of various Servants of God. I was no expert when it came to the Vatican, but I knew how long it took for large organizations to mobilize their resources and how challenging it was to cut through all the red tape. Involving the Vatican sounded like a cumbersome process that would take days if not weeks. Father Jimenez was looking for more immediate answers.
“As you can imagine, this is taking its toll on poor Cleo. She doesn’t know what is happening to her, and it’s scaring her. Why God would choose her as his vessel, I don’t know. But I do know she needs our help and guidance.”
Father Jimenez took a deep breath and regarded me expectantly. “Will you talk to her, Simon?"
My eyes locked on the frozen image of Cleo. Thin rivulets of blood framed her tortured expression. The poor girl sure didn’t look happy to be performing miracles—if that’s what they were. To be honest, she looked terrified.
Taking in her lost and helpless expression, I made up my mind.
“Father, you can count on me.”
It might even be a nice change pace to investigate a miracle worker instead of hunting down a supernatural killer.
I would soon learn nothing could be further from the truth.
Chapter Four
Cleo felt like she was losing her mind.
In a matter of days, the miracles had turned her whole life upside down.
First, there was the incident in the soup kitchen. Cleo had tried to pretend the other volunteers were exaggerating the whole thing and turning it into a miracle in their minds. But after she saved that kid’s life in the nightclub, the full story had gone viral.
Why was she even surprised? In a world where everyone and their momma had a cell phone, any unusual event would land on the web in record time.
Practically overnight, she’d become the center of attention in her Koreatown neighborhood.
Isn’t that what you always wanted? To be famous, to be a star?
Perhaps. But not like this. Not when she didn’t even understand what was going on. Cleo loved getting attention when she performed. It didn’t matter if she was singing hymns in her church choir or belting out Karaoke tunes at some dive bar or gearing up for a sonic assault behind her mixing table.
DJ Trinity wanted the world to take notice.
Wanted people to hear her, to enjoy what she had to offer. But the world was supposed to notice the music, not the musician. Now all the attention was squarely focused on her. And she hated it.
She stepped up to the window of her one-bedroom apartment that she shared with her beau and stole a glance at the streets two stories below. To her dismay, a small crowd had gathered around the five-story Koreatown apartment building she called home. They were all displaying candles or prayer beads. Some held up pictures of Jesus Christ or crucifixes in solemn deference, their mouths moving in what had to be prayer. In a world starved for evidence of the divine, she’d become a beacon of hope.
Cleo didn’t want to be a beacon. She just wanted to make music.
Besides, how did they know who she was and where she lived? What did these people expect from her?
“Never underestimate the power of fate,” the voice whispered in her head. There was a masculine, alien quality to the words echoing through her mind. It sure as hell wasn't her inner voice chiming in. It felt as if some strange presence started listening in on her thoughts and was now adding their running commentary. She was both terrified and getting damn sick of it.
Cleo’s phone beeped, and she realized it was eight o’clock. She had to be on her way if she wanted to get to work on time. Her shift at the Cafe Minotti started in less than thirty minutes. But how to get past the small crowd which encirc
led the entrance of her apartment building?
“Don’t be afraid, child,” the mysterious voice whispered deep inside her mind. “Bask in the attention, embrace your power.”
“No, I don’t want this fucking power,” she said out loud, aware that talking to yourself was one of the first signs of going crazy. “I don’t want to be noticed. Not like this.”
Cleo refused to indulge the worshippers. These folks might think she was some divine savior, but she knew better. She was Cleo Dix, a young woman with big dreams, but surely not some messenger from God deserving of their time and attention.
I have to get out of this place, she thought, her actual inner voice bordering on the hysterical.
“Then do it. Leave. Now.” The male voice was calm, controlled. It expected to be obeyed.
Cleo gritted her teeth, zipped up her beige leather jacket, snatched her backpack, and stormed out of her studio apartment before the voice could butt in again. She avoided the elevator, which made her think of a steel coffin even on a good day, and opted for the stairs.
Her footsteps echoed as she charged down the winding staircase. The apartment building she called home housed about twelve units, and she was grateful not to run into any of her neighbors. Ever since the video went viral and the crowds of worshippers started gathering around her home, the building’s other residents looked at her differently. Encounters in the hallway or stairwell came with uncomfortable silences and awkward attempts at conversation. People struggled to process the idea that she might be a miracle worker. Some folks regarded her as some charlatan trying to con gullible people out of their hard-earned cash, while others studied her in hushed reverence, wondering if she might be the genuine article.
Cleo honestly didn’t know which of the two reactions was worse.
Her footsteps echoed in the lobby as she reached the first floor. She clutched her backpack tighter and kicked open the steel door into the front lobby. There was a back entrance, but that wasn’t an option for getting out of the building as it led into the backyard, a tiny cement enclave enclosed by tall stone walls. No one ever went back there except for the smokers in the building.
No, if she wanted to get to work, she would have to brave the crowds.
“You can do this, Cleo,” she told herself as she surged past the rows of mailboxes, the silhouettes of the crowd outside wavering in the beveled glass entrance.
Steeling herself for the challenge ahead, she sucked in a deep breath, raised the collar of her leather jacket so it covered as much of the face as possible, and pushed the door open.
A circle of flickering candles greeted her outside. She could almost feel the heat of the flames.
Talk about a surreal sight. Adding to the out-of-body feeling of the whole thing was the reverential way the crowd regarded her. Their eyes grew wider, their voices rising in prayer. Prayers directed not at God, but at Cleo herself. The crowd reminded her of the hungry line of homeless people back at the soup kitchen. Even though a different hunger consumed these folks, they appeared equally voracious.
Before the crowd could close in on her, Cleo barreled past them, breaking into a run.
Hands momentarily reached out for her, their voices growing in volume and intensity. Their haunting prayers followed her into the Uber idling near her building.
The driver shot her a curious look, but she refused to comment on the strange crowd around her building. In a voice drained of all emotion, she gave the driver the address of Cafe Minotti before a ring of worshippers could tighten around the car and stop it from leaving.
As they merged into traffic, Cleo’s thoughts shifted away from the circle of flickering candles and turned inward. Images of the dead club kid slashed through her mind, the way his glassy eyes had stared up at the ceiling, the rubbery stillness of his chest under her hands. The blood on her wrists.
She wondered if this nightmare would ever end. These folks who’d gathered around her home believed God had touched her in some manner. If that was the case, why was she so afraid? Why did she feel like some hungry, pervasive darkness was consuming her?
For God’s sake, get a grip on yourself, girl.
Easier said than done.
They arrived at the cafe within ten minutes. Mercifully, the driver had registered her agitated state and wisely decided not to bombard her with questions for which she had no real answers. Cleo added a fat tip to the fare for his discretion and hopped outside.
She rushed into the cafe and basked in the comforting, familiar scents of baked goods and caffeinated goodness. Working at the cafe could be stressful, but right now, she welcomed the distraction.
She exchanged hellos with her fellow crew workers, slipped out of her jacket, and threw on her brown apron.
As she clocked in, she somehow pulled off a great impression of her usual, beaming self. Word of her recent miracle work hadn’t reached Cafe Minotti yet, and she could almost pretend that the last few days had been nothing more than a bad dream. She was deeply grateful for this touch of normalcy.
“Everything okay?” a male voice asked her.
She turned toward Zack, the store manager. He was tall, athletic, and super tanned from surfing. He also had recently become her boyfriend, a development they had tried to keep hidden from the rest of the crew at the cafe even though she secretly suspected the rumors were flying wild at this point. She would have loved to kiss him and bury herself in his strong arms. But not now. Not here. So she merely nodded, squeezed his hand, and held his probing gaze for a beat too long.
Minutes later, all thoughts of miracles and dead bodies left her mind, too busy filling out the orders of the endless stream of caffeine junkies. The hum of grinders and blenders became a calming, soothing soundtrack, providing an escape from all her doubts and fears. After a half an hour of this, the notion that she’d become some sort of divine miracle worker felt laughable. She’d almost convinced herself the whole thing would blow over, that the nightmare was almost done.
Cleo looked up from her register, ready to take the next guest’s order, and came face to face with a middle-aged man wearing dark shades. She was still wondering why anyone would wear sunglasses on an overcast day when she noticed the man’s white cane, a telltale indicator that he was visually impaired. A beat later, the man whipped off his sunglasses, the white orbs of his sightless eyes boring into her. Before she could react, his bony fingers snatched her hand and tightened around her wrist.
“Make me see again,” the man hissed.
Cleo was still trying to tug free of his grip when she noticed the albino-skinned priest with the blazing red eyes in the far corner of the coffee shop. No one in the store appeared to be aware of the ghostly priest — no one but her.
Her stomach lurched, a physical reaction to the air of malevolence oozing from the diabolical priest.
Cleo knew the horror was far from over.
It was merely beginning.
Chapter Five
After leaving Father Jimenez, my first move was to visit Cleo Dix. I needed to look into the eyes of this supposed miracle worker and get a sense of who I was dealing with here. Father Jimenez might have believed in Cleo’s supernatural abilities, but I remained to be convinced. Something strange was happening for sure; the big question was what. To be honest, I still wondered if this was even a case for me.
Frankly, even if Cleo’s miracles turned out to be real, they didn’t appear to pose any danger to anyone. Sure, the stigmata thing was a little odd, but I had a stack of files—real supernatural dangers that needed to be stamped out—waiting for me at home. Vesper was constantly digging up news clippings or blog posts about unexplained phenomenon, putting together the pieces and analyzing where the biggest threats could be found. That was what I should focus on.
Nevertheless, my curiosity was piqued, and I was determined to get to the bottom of the matter for Father Jimenez’ sake. If Cleo Dix’s powers turned out to be real, it begged the question where they came from. I doubted deep down
that it was heaven.
It was around nine o’clock the next day when I finally pulled up to Cleo’s apartment building. Koreatown is a neighborhood in Central Los Angeles, neither the worst nor the best. Historically oriented toward Korean immigrants, nowadays half the residents are Latino. Everywhere I looked, Korean neon signs mixed with various architectural styles. Vesper called Ktown a city filled with hidden gems which was a perfect description to my mind.
Unfortunately, I was here on business and kept my focus on my GPS instead of the myriad of entertainment venues, dessert shops, coffeehouses, and restaurants. It turned out I didn’t need my GPS to inform me I’d reached Cleo Dix’s home—a sizable crowd was holding a daytime vigil in front of the four-story apartment building. Word had spread about the DJ’s miraculous deeds, which wasn’t all that surprising in our social media-obsessed world.
I took in the parade of candles and rosaries and Jesus paintings. Christianity decried the worship of false idols, but throughout history the faithful held saints and miracle workers in high regard.
Well, when they didn't burn them at the stake, that is.
I circled the block and snagged a parking spot, which was a small miracle in itself as Koreatown is well known for its lack of street parking. Five minutes later, I was sauntering up toward the small crowd. As I drew closer, I noticed the semi-curious glances of early morning commuters passing by in their cars. They would briefly look in the direction of the gathering but quickly lose interest. It took a lot to hold people’s attention in this overstimulated city.
I joined the crowd and gathered from the excited chatter around me that I’d just missed Cleo. Apparently, she’d left the building just as I was parking my car. My luck. Fortunately, Father Jimenez had also told me that Cleo worked at a nearby coffee shop, Cafe Minotti. Yelp informed me the café made some of the best cronuts on the West Coast.
I walked to the cafe, not eager to tempt my parking karma for a second time today. Besides, I welcomed the opportunity to stretch my legs since I had skipped my morning hike. Cruising through Ktown in your car, the area can become a blur. On foot, you genuinely get a sense of the city. No Yelp search will tell you that the California Market kimbap stand offers five different protein options, or that the brodiest jjamppong can be found simmering inside Koreatown Plaza’s Mandarin House.
The Paranormalist 3: Curse of the Abyss Page 3