Never Fear - The Tarot: Do You Really Want To Know?

by Heather Graham

  Dex stood. He saw Mary look up at him with a what-the-fuck look.

  “What are you doing?” she asked him.

  Dex simply raised a single finger and pressed it across his lips.

  “Shhh.”

  Dex walked to the front of the shelter and ascended the stairs to where the staff stood glimmering next to the flames. He knelt and retrieved the two skeleton keys from the pocket of the robe. Dex clutched the staff and looked over the crowd of kneeling, shuddering heathens.

  He took the keys and separated them from the ring.

  “These keys were once my keys. My keys that opened the gates of Heaven. Now they are the keys to your Hell!”

  One at a time he slid them into the two keyholes in the staff and gave each a quarter turn, locking them into place. Dex raised the staff high into the air and continued to speak.

  “I was there for the massacre of Matthew. I was there for the obliteration of Sodom and Gomorrah. I was there for the torment of Job. I was there for the massacre of the Innocents. I was there for the ten plagues of Egypt. I was there for the flood of Noah. I was there for God’s judgment against Jerusalem. I was there for the crucifixion of Christ. And I will be there for the Lake of Fire, when Hell comes to Earth. I will be there long after you have perished.

  “FOR I AM ABADDON. I am destruction. I am Lord of the Pit. King of Locusts. I am the Destroyer!”

  Fire rose and covered Dex. It swirled around him, engulfing him in his entirety. His human flesh melted away leaving only Abaddon.

  The fire died down around Abaddon’s hooved feet. His scepter now blackened, glowed a fiery orange in places. He stood some nine or so feet tall now. A set of giant bat-like wings sprang out from his back. Claws replaced fingers. Red, veiny skin replaced pale flesh. The only thing that remained from where Dex’s body once stood was charred stone.

  Abaddon leapt from the great stone stairs. His wings flapped, cushioning his landing. Abaddon kicked those close enough to kick. Their puny human carcasses crushed like balsa wood. He raised his fiery scepter above his head and swung it. It crashed into five, six, seven at a time, their bodies breaking and instantly set ablaze.

  “Your kind will never survive. You are far too trusting. Look at me when I kill you. You trusted me when I looked like your beloved Father Marcus.” Abaddon smashed a wriggling carcass next to him with his great hoof.

  “Mary. My dear fool, Mary.” Abaddon clomped over to her. “You trusted me too. Just as your filthy whore of a mother did. You believed that your frail shit of a brother, weak little Dex, would save you.

  “Let me say this… Much like your mother, and all the humans that have had the displeasure of crossing my path, you were wrong.”

  Abaddon raised his great staff above Mary and paused briefly, “Goodbye, Mary. Say hello to your mother for me!”

  The staff swung down, chased by a flaming comet. It smashed into Mary, making her head explode. A fine, red mist sprayed across the already grim room. Abaddon swung time and time again, his staff colliding with those in its path. The carnage was nothing short of complete destruction.

  Abaddon wrecked on until the entire shelter was completely ablaze, while outside, hurricane Andrew did the same, smashing and crushing all of southern Florida.

  *

  What was left, Key Largo, Florida—Wednesday, August 26, 1992

  Two days after…

  From above, rescue workers dug into the pile of rubble that was once Saint Augustine’s Church. Rescue dogs barked at the smell of a human body trapped below. A male voice called for the workers.

  “Help me. I’m trapped down here,” the voice shouted.

  “We are coming, son, hold on,” the fireman shouted back.

  They broke through to the entrance of the shelter several minutes later. There, on the steps, lay the body of the trapped teen. He coughed as the debris rained down on his battered body. The fireman reached in and pulled the boy out.

  “What’s your name, son?” he asked.

  “Dex,” he replied.

  Dex sat up after they pulled him out. He clung to a broken scepter in one hand and a pair of skeleton keys in the other. He scanned his surroundings and found only four firemen and a search-and-rescue dog for as far as he could see.

  He stood, gripping the scepter tightly ,and plunged its jagged end into the neck of the closest fireman. Blood sprayed from the man’s neck as he collapsed to the wet ground. Fast as lightning, Dex did the same to the other three firemen. They were all dead in less than a minute.

  Dex looked at the dog. They locked eyes for a moment. The dog whimpered and sat, submitting to him. Dex walked over and knelt next to it. He ran his bloody fingers through the German shepherd’s soft fur. The dog began to pant happily.

  Dex grabbed its head and twisted with all his might. The dog’s head separated from its body. Blood sprayed through the air and the dog’s body collapsed.

  *

  What was left, Key Largo, Florida—Wednesday, August 26, 1992

  A news helicopter flew over what was left of Key Largo. The pilot communicated with the cameraman in the back via headset. Both scoured the wreckage.

  “Hey, Carl. Look over there. What is that?” the pilot asked.

  “Looks like a dog. Maybe a German shepherd,” Carl said.

  “Shall we set down and save it?” the pilot asked.

  “Hell yeah. That would make great news.”

  The pilot began to lower the chopper. The shepherd stopped and sat, looking up at the helicopter as it landed.

  “Go get him, Carl. I’ll film.”

  The pilot grabbed the camera, switched it on and placed it atop his shoulder. His eye pressed tightly to the viewfinder; he zoomed in on the pup. Steadying himself, the camera lens whirred, focusing.

  The coarse fur whipped to and fro, like tall grass in a summer breeze. The dog locked eyes with the pilot through the camera lens. It crouched, eyes changing from blue to blood red. A smile spread across its face.

  “Carl, stop!”

  7

  THE lovers

  lori avocato

  Upright: Love, union, relationships, values alignment, choices

  Reversed: Disharmony, imbalance, misalignment of values

  A Pauline Sokol series novella

  Pauline Sokol stared at her sleazy boss, Fabio Scarpello, and said, “A mental institution, Fabio. Not a lunatic hospital. That term went out with lobotomies and massive jolts of electric shock.”

  He took a long draw on his unlit cigar (because the fabulous office manager, Adele Gerard, who kept him, no, put him in his place, would not let him puff smoke into the air at Scarpello and Tonelli Insurance Company). Although she smoked cigarettes when he was out of the office. Adele was a pip. A gorgeous woman with the body of a Victoria’s Secret model, and she always wore polka-dotted something. And gloves. Usually black to match her hair. “Whatever. Lunatic, mental house, you call it what you want but that’s where you’re headed.”

  I gulped. Not again. I’d been sent to a mental institution a few years ago; no, I was kidnapped and taken to one where I investigated medical insurance fraud. Now what? More fraud “Over the Cuckoo’s Nest?” “I can’t be locked up there again, Fabio. Use someone else.” This time I shuddered at the thought.

  He shoved a folder toward me. Another reused one from a previous case. The info was blackened out and written below: Lunatic Hospital. Pauline. Somewhere in New England.

  “Somewhere in New England? What the hell does that mean?”

  “Ask Adele. She’s got your envelope of goodies.” With that, he took a long drag and inhaled nothing but the stinking smell of a half-used cigar. “You have to be there tomorrow, so pack fast.” Help me Saint Theresa.

  My favorite saint, me being Catholic. I relied on her numerous times and something told me I was going to need her again. I looked up to Heaven, trying to ignore the stains on the office ceiling, and mumbled, “Give me strength, St. T.”

  *

 
The drive took nearly an hour. If I were in Connecticut, I would be in another state in that amount of time. Instead, I followed the directions to Batesville, which Adele gave me for my GPS. It landed me in the middle of the woods in the furthest (as far as I could tell) southwest section, which was near the shore. Long Island Sound. How bad could it be? I’d read somewhere that being near the ocean caused our bodies to secrete extra serotonin from negative ions that we inhaled in certain environments. Think mountains, waterfalls, and beaches. Some biochemical reaction increased levels of serotonin. The mood chemical, which helped to alleviate depression, relieved stress and boosted energy, was something I could use right about now. Who wouldn’t benefit from more serotonin? I caught a glimpse of the water off to the left, slowed, opened my window and inhaled deeply.

  I felt better already.

  Then, I remembered Fabio had sent me here as a nurse, and not a patient this time. A nurse. I had burned out of that profession long ago, but he kept getting me back into it by default. I was the only medical insurance fraud investigator with real medical knowledge—and no real investigative skills. But, I told myself, I had been learning. And I had helped solve many cases and earned the insurance companies gazillions of dollars back and criminals behind bars.

  But not alone.

  I rounded the curve to see a long driveway, weeds poking through the broken cement, several large red brick structures with white trim, looking very much like an old factory from the early 1900s, and off to both sides white clapboard houses and some weathered cedar shake ones, whose grayish shakes were blowing in the wind. Dilapidated with a capital “D.”

  I inhaled even deeper because the site before me decreased my serotonin level to about zero.

  Then I shivered. It had to be eighty today with oodles of ocean humidity, yet, I shivered. Hm. There weren’t any cars in the front circular drive, and I didn’t want to go find a place to park and have to carry my luggage for miles. So I pulled up there and left my luggage on the curb. Thanks again to Fabio, I was staying in the staff quarters. Lovely. I’d suggested I get a room at a nearby Marriott or Red Roof, or looking at the campus surrounding me. Any place but here. After parking, I decided to go check in before I committed to any lodging.

  Committed.

  Oops. Not politically correct for a mental institution. Before I left, one of my darling roomies, Goldie, the dearest transvestite in the world and married to our other roomie, Miles, a RN like me, I had learned this place was very old. The second oldest in the country. A place in Hartford was the first. He also said they used to be called “lunatic” hospitals, and I said that was horrible. Mental health was like any other health problems and should be treated as such, I had argued. Goldie had agreed with me, but that didn’t change history or his many horror stories. So, I pulled over, turned off my car, grabbed my purse and stepped out.

  ‘Geez,” I said out loud, after another chill chased up from my toes to my head. I felt as if I had something wrong with my brain and no amount of negative ions was going to cheer me up. As I walked around the side of the car, I looked up to the second floor of the adjoining brick building, and although there were no lights on in any windows of that floor, a figure stood where I could see. Not sure if male or female, but I waved anyway.

  No response.

  Good thing I’d brushed up on my psychiatry with my books from nursing school before coming here. I’d also downloaded some articles to be current. I hoped I wasn’t going to have to do much hands-on nursing care, and, since I was working alone, I hoped the case wasn’t too difficult either.

  The figure opened the window for a few seconds… then was gone!

  Oh, geez. It seemed as if it had flown out of the window. I scanned the ground below to see if it had jumped, but I really never saw anyone fall out the window. I needed a beer. Coors. Usually light, but right now, I actually needed the real thing—damn the calories. Goldie’s stories were playing havoc with my imagination.

  Until I got to the front door. Gulp. The gigantic worn wooden structure looked as if I was stopping by for that beer with Stephen King. Along both sides of the door were cracked cement flower pots, huge ones, with ivy hanging over all sides. Dead ivy. Soon I expected to hear shrieks coming from the floor above, until I thought, cut it out. Act professional. You are fine. Everyone knows you are here even, (sigh) Jagger. It is a hospital, for crying out loud.

  Ah, Jagger. The thought of the gorgeous hunk/investigator calmed my nerves but riled up my hormones. Still, I would be safe knowing I wasn’t that far away, and I could text in seconds. I found myself yanking my cell phone out of my purse and texting him a “Hey, I’m here.”

  Red letters filled my screen. Message not sent. Great. No good cell service near the water. Why couldn’t they stick cell towers out on floating barges? Before I could continue my thought, the door swung open with a thud when it hit the wall, which had lost chips of paint already, and now a few more.

  A very good looking man in a tailored navy suit and red tie walked out. “Ma’am.”

  I looked behind me. “Oh, me. Hello.”

  He continued on and didn’t offer help, although he looked rather confused at seeing me. Maybe gawking near the door had something to do with that. The door remained open to the dingy lobby with no one around so I turned and called, “Excuse me!”

  He stopped, but didn’t turn. “Go to the desk and ring the bell, Ms. Sokol.”

  If I thought those earlier chills were chilly, these right now were freezing. I watched him continue on. Okay. Okay. He knows who I am because clearly they don’t get a lot of drop-ins here. Yes, that’s it. Of course he knew they’d be getting a new temporary nurse today. He must be a doctor.

  As I made it across the large lobby toward the unattended reception desk, my mouth dried. Probably from fear as the place had this haunted look about it. A large, worn, red Oriental rug covered more worn wooden planks throughout the room, which had a mezzanine-like area three quarters of the way around behind a railing that looked a bit rickety. I shook my head. My mind was zooming to the worst-case scenario since I arrived at Amity by the Sea Hospital. Amity? What a misnomer. Besides, there was no way I could tell the railings were rickety from merely looking at them, despite the fact that the floors squeaked. Oh, how cliché. I hoped no one noticed I’d left the front door open—for easy escape if need be.

  At the desk, I leaned over and called out, “Hello,” then searched the cluttered mess for a bell or something to notify someone I was here. “Hello.”

  “Helllllloooooo!”

  I swung around to see a woman, dressed in a white robe, coming down the gigantic wooden staircase and grabbing onto the carved lion’s head at the end. Her hair looked like mine one time when I had to hurry off to work and the stylist couldn’t finish my perm.

  “Janet, go back to your room.”

  I swung back around the other way to find a young man sitting at the desk, handling papers as if he’d been working there for hours.

  Maybe lunatic hospital was the correct term?

  Shame on you, Pauline, I thought, then said to the young man, “Hello. My name is Pauline Sokol.

  The nurse you were expecting.”

  He looked at me as if to say, “No, I wasn’t,” but instead said, “Kirk,” while he shuffled more papers around. “Kirk. Kirk. Kirk, I tell you.”

  After a few more minutes of waiting and hearing some odd sounds, like calls from a distance, I decided not to mention them because Kirk paid no attention. I knew patients in a psych hospital could get noisy, have behaviors and some needed close watching to prevent self-harm or harm to others, so staff probably learned to tune them out so they could do their jobs. Suddenly, I felt a tap on my shoulder, but, again, Kirk paid no attention.

  I swung around, saying, “Yes?”

  No one was there.

  But just as I was about to question Kirk, that snappy dressed doctor hurried through the door I’d left open and up the stairs. Even though they didn’t squeak this
time, I thought he seemed a bit odd, not even telling Kirk he was back.

  “Here.”

  I turned back to see Kirk handing me a folder and a very old, large key. “Room 113. Second floor.”

  I smiled. “You mean first floor.”

  “No.” He got up and turned his back to me as if to say “get lost.”

  “Kirk, was that nicely dressed man a doctor?” I stuck the key in my purse and the folder under my arm.

  Without turning around, he said, “Don’t know what you are talking about. Get out of here! Go!”

  Just then another gentleman came from the back room to the desk and stood shaking his head. “Kirk. Kirk. How many times have you been told to stay away from the front desk?”

  “None,” he mumbled.

  “Baloney. Go to treatment room 120 on the first floor. Nurse Waring is waiting for you.”

  Kirk never turned back to face me but eased himself to the side and walked toward the stairs backward until he caught my gaze, swung around and hurried up the stairs, which creaked and squeaked like an un-oiled Tin Man!

  “Ma’am.”

  I looked back around, feeling a bit unnerved.

  “Sorry, he’s a good lad, but so wants to be useful around here. I am John Valeri, the receptionist. And you are?”

  I wanted to scream, “Outta here!” but said, “Pauline Sokol. A nurse. Your nurse. Well, not your nurse unless you, too, are a patient.” I started to chuckle but John looked rather serious. So what was new? “I am the nurse. Well, the temporary nurse. I’m not planning to be here too long.”

  “Who is?” John looked at me then the folder under my arm. “Looks as if you already have your info.”

  “Oh, this. Well, Kirk gave it to me, so I wasn’t sure—”

  “Kirk knows his stuff.” With that he turned and started shuffling papers on the desk behind him.