by JG Faherty
Or just plain trying to rip you off.
Madam Ileana Prioleau had turned out to be nothing like he expected. Despite her ethnic name, he’d assumed she’d be American. Probably middle-aged and over-stated, like the psychics you saw on television. Instead, he’d been met at the door by a wizened old woman whose shriveled, wrinkled skin and snow-white hair made determining her age impossible. He figured she had to be in her late seventies or eighties, but if she’d said she was ninety—or even a hundred—he wouldn’t have been surprised.
Her accent and name marked her as Northern European. Poland, Hungary, Romania, possibly the Czech Republic. When she spoke, it made Art think of a secondary character in a Hammer vampire movie from the sixties. The only thing American about her was her clothing, a simple long-sleeved gray blouse and a matching skirt, both of which looked as old and wrinkled as their owner. Sensible black tennis shoes covered her feet.
After ushering him into a tidy house decorated in a country farm style, Madam Prioleau listened to Art’s story without commenting. When he’d finished, she’d asked a few questions about Catherine: her age, her temperament, the way she’d died.
What he wanted to do with her ghost.
“I don’t care,” he’d told her. “Send it to heaven or hell or purgatory or wherever ghosts are supposed to go. Destroy it. Lock it in a box and drop it in a lake for all I care. Just make sure it never bothers me or my family again.”
That’s when she’d said it would be difficult. And although Art understood that he’d come to her, was counting on her to be an expert in her field, he also had no intentions of letting some old lady rip him off or charge him extra just because he didn’t know shit about the supernatural. He was desperate, but not a sucker.
At least he hoped not.
“I can do,” she finally said, after much staring into the air and rubbing her whiskery chin. She paused again, and he waited for the reveal. With any luck, he’d be able to talk her down to a reasonable price.
“Will cost, though.”
Here it comes.
“I do for a hundred dollars.”
“A hundred…wait. What?” Art frowned. “That’s all?”
The crone smiled, revealing teeth so yellow she appeared to be wearing wooden dentures. “You want pay more? Fine. Two hundred.”
“Deal.” Art took out his wallet before his mouth got him in more trouble. “When can you start?”
Madam Prioleau pointed at the clock, which read a little after four. “Magic works best in the dark. You will help me get what I need and drive me to this place. Then we do.”
“And you’re sure this will work?”
Another wooden smile.
“Madam Prioleau guarantee. Tomorrow, no ghost.”
Art nodded. “Let’s get started.”
* * * * *
Madam Prioleau’s storage room, unlike her physical appearance or the rest of her house, matched Art’s expectations exactly.
Seemingly endless racks of cheap metal shelving, the kind you purchased by the box in Home Depot or Wal-Mart, crammed the long, narrow space from floor to ceiling. Each shelf held dozens of jars and bags and boxes, many of them so old the labels were yellowed and crumbling or had fallen off completely. In the dim light of two dirt-encrusted bulbs hanging from the ceiling, Art found it impossible to read any of the remaining hand-written tags.
The odors in the room, a suffocating blend of spices, incense, dust, mildew and things he couldn’t identify, combined to form an almost solid presence, an invisible pillow that felt like it was expanding inside his lungs and preventing them from extracting enough oxygen. He had to fight for each breath, wheezing as he held a wicker basket for Madam Prioleau, who moved from shelf to shelf with complete surety, plucking plastic bags and tiny jars from their resting places and dropping them into the basket. Every movement sent new clouds of microscopic particles into the air, adding to the already intolerable atmosphere.
Each time the spiritualist stopped to retrieve an ingredient for her spell, she muttered the item under her breath, as if mentally checking it off her list. Most of the time, Art couldn’t catch her words, losing them to her accent and lack of volume. Of the ones he caught, very few sounded familiar.
Ferret claw. Hand of Glory. Lumbricus terrestris. Amanita phalloides. Bufo marinus. Pig’s blood. Despite his worries over eliminating the evil from his house, he found himself wondering where the hell a person acquired this kind of stuff? Was there a spellcaster’s shop on the internet? And how much trouble would he be in if he got pulled over with it in his possession? He decided he was better off not knowing. Even so, he made a mental note to take the back roads home.
By the time she finished, the contents of the basket threatened to overflow the sides and Art placed a hand on top of the pile to keep everything from shifting as they walked to his car.
During the fifteen minute drive home, Madam Prioleau stared straight ahead, her eyes closed, whispering phrases to herself in some foreign language. Art assumed she was rehearsing her spell, but for all he knew, she could be reciting poetry or composing a letter to a friend.
When they were still a block away from the house, she opened her eyes and let out a small gasp.
“We are very close, yes?”
“Yeah, it’s just around the corner.”
“I feel her darkness. Your wife’s spirit is greatly troubled. Very angry, this one.”
“Tell me something I don’t know.” Art turned the corner and guided the car to the driveway. He was relieved to see Missy’s car wasn’t there; he’d been half-afraid she’d drive back to attend the exorcism of the house. He’d told her no, he’d rather she be safe in case anything went wrong. But Missy had a stubborn streak. Not as bad as Catherine’s, but bad enough that he wouldn’t have been surprised to find her waiting for them to arrive.
Art reached in to pull the basket from the back floor but Madam Prioleau stopped him with a leathery hand.
“You wait. I make things safe.” She reached into the basket and withdrew an old one-liter soda bottle filled with a greasy-looking brown liquid.
Moving at a slow but steady pace, Madam Prioleau circled the house, pausing every few feet to take a mouthful of the bottle’s contents and then spit it out. After motioning for Art to open the door, she moved through every room in the house, spraying more of the liquid as she went. Trailing behind her, Art caught definite whiffs of alcohol.
“Okay, good now. You get basket.” Madam Prioleau wiped her lips on her sleeve.
“What is that?” Art asked, pointing at the bottle. She held it up.
“Rum and chicken fat. It will prevent your wife from disturbing the spell. But not last long. Hurry. Bring basket to me.”
Art did as he was told, grimacing at the thought of how rum and chicken fat must taste. When he returned with the basket, Madam Prioleau told him to place it on the table, light every candle he owned, and then turn off the lights.
With the house darkened, Madam Prioleau was a silhouette in the dining room, her hands moving in rapid fashion as she poured fluids and powders into a large wooden bowl she’d brought with her. Bigger pieces of things went in too, and she stopped every now and then to crush one of them with a stone mortar. While she mixed, she mumbled more indecipherable words.
Just when it seemed like she might go on combining ingredients forever, Madam Prioleau held up the bowl and began speaking in a louder voice. Seated on the couch, Art felt something move the room, an unseen energy that crept over him with icy feet and left the hairs on his arms standing straight up. The atmosphere grew heavier, the air gaining mass until it seemed as thick as a humid day in Florida, only without the moisture. Madam Prioleau dipped her fingers into the bowl and flicked liquid left and right while she shuffled from the dining room to the kitchen, still reciting her spell.
A vile stench assaulted Art, a
smell so rancid he had to pull his shirt over his face, and even then the pungent funk snaked its way into his nose and throat. The reek grew stronger with each handful of potion Madam Prioleau threw into the air, until he thought he might vomit.
Something crashed down the hall. Art tried to stand, but he found himself pinned down by the weight of the atmosphere.
Beneath the TV, DVD cases rattled and shook on their shelves. One of them slid free and shot across the room, burying itself in the sofa cushion next to Art. Two more flew past, spinning and whining and missing his head by inches. He tried again to get off the couch, gripping the sofa’s edge and pushing as hard as he could with his arms and legs. Once more his muscles proved no match for the supernatural force filling the room, but he did manage to slide off the cushion and fall to the floor. A second later, three DVDs embedded themselves right where he’d been sitting.
“Begone!” Madam Prioleau’s shout came from somewhere deep in the house, followed by a series of words in her native tongue. In response, the rest of the DVDs took off from their resting places. The sounds of glass and plastic shattering told him there’d be a helluva mess to clean.
If he survived.
In the kitchen, the refrigerator door opened and slammed closed over and over, creating a racket so loud it drowned out Madam Prioleau’s chanting. Cabinet doors and drawers released their contents, adding to the din. A large carving knife thudded into the floor next to Art’s hand, a full inch of the blade disappearing into the wood. Unable to do more than tilt his head back and forth, Art’s fear and anger found release in his voice.
“Begone, you crazy bitch!” he cried. He had no idea if adding his voice to the spell would make a difference; he only knew it made him feel better. “Get the fuck out of my house, Catherine! Leave us the fuck alone!”
The coffee table by his head levitated up and he immediately regretted his words. He tried to move his arms over his head, but they were only halfway there when the table came crashing down.
It landed across his back, and the only thing that saved him from a broken spine was the legs striking the floor first and absorbing most of the impact. Still, when the heavy wood and glass snapped in half, it felt like a truck hitting him from behind. The air exploded from his lungs, leaving him wheezing and seeing spots as he fought to draw a breath.
Every light bulb burst at once, filling the house with miniature detonations. A violent wind swept through the room, blowing out the candles and tumbling lamps from the end tables.
Then the manifestations stopped and the oppressive weight on Art’s body disappeared. Air rushed back into his chest and he let it fill him, sucking in the life-giving oxygen in great, heaving gasps. When his vision returned to normal and the world stopped spinning around him, he pushed himself to his feet and called out for Madam Prioleau.
“In here,” she responded, her voice sounding as weak as he felt. He staggered through the debris on the floor and found her in Connor’s bedroom, sprawled across his mattress, which lay half off the bed.
“Is it…is it over?” Art leaned against the doorframe, afraid of what her answer might be. If this was only the beginning of the spell…
Madam Prioleau looked up and gave him a feeble smile.
“Can you not feel the difference?” She raised a hand and motioned it in a clumsy circle. “The evil is gone from this place.”
Art righted Connor’s desk chair from where it had fallen and lowered himself onto it with a sigh. The house did feel different, cleaner somehow, but he had no idea if it was because Catherine’s presence was truly gone or because there was nothing supernatural happening at the moment.
“She’ll stay gone?” he asked.
Madam Prioleau stood up with more energy than a woman her age should have, especially after what she’d just been through.
“Not to be worrying. I send spirit away, it stay away. No ghost, no more. Now, take me home. Wheel of Fortune starts in half hour.”
Art looked around at the disaster area that was his house and couldn’t help but laugh. She’d driven out a ghost, destroyed thousands of dollars in furniture and belongings, and all the diminutive psychic cared about was her game show.
So who am I to keep her from it?
He pulled his keys from his pocket.
I’ve got my house back and my family is safe.
It’s time to start living.
* * * * *
Art waited three days before bringing Missy and Connor home, just to make sure Catherine wasn’t coming back.
It took a cleaning service two of those days to remove all the broken glass and scrub away the soda and food smeared across the kitchen floor. In the meantime, Art spent every waking moment putting furniture back into place, patching and painting the holes in the walls and replacing all the things Catherine had destroyed. New dishes sat in the cupboards, the refrigerator was fully stocked and all the lights had bulbs.
And in all that time, there’d not been the slightest hint of anything supernatural happening.
“Art, you did a fantastic job!” Missy turned and hugged him. Connor paid no attention to the new paint or furniture and ran straight for his room, where he turned on his Xbox. Art shook his head. As long as there’s video games and a TV, the kid probably doesn’t care where we live.
“Thank you, my dear,” Art said, affecting a thick southern drawl. “And in honor of our new freedom, tonight we shall dine on…pizza.” He held up his phone.
Missy laughed. “No time to cook anything, huh?” She hugged him again, and added a long, tender kiss. Then she leaned back and regarded him with a serious expression.
“What?” he asked.
“Is it really over? Is she gone for good?”
He nodded. “That’s what Madam Prioleau says, and I believe her. I’ve been sleeping here for three nights and nothing’s happened. No weird noises, no lights exploding, no television going on by itself. Ding dong, the witch is finally dead.”
He sat on the couch and pulled Missy down next to him, but she avoided his embrace and frowned at him.
“Don’t talk like that. She was your wife.”
“And your sister,” he said. “But we both know what she turned into. And I for one am glad that thing is gone forever.”
“Maybe she had a good reason.” Missy chewed on her lower lip, a habit she’d developed not long after Catherine started haunting them.
“What?” It was Art’s turn to frown. “What are you talking about?”
She shook her head. “Nothing. Ignore me. I’m just feeling a little guilty, that’s all. In a way, it’s like losing Catherine all over again, only this time it’s our fault. We sent her away.”
“And good fucking riddance.” Art took Missy’s hands in his. “Stop feeling guilty. We moved past that a long time ago, because there was no one to blame but Catherine for what she did. And it’s the same now. We didn’t turn her into a psycho ghost anymore than we forced her off that cliff or put her paranoid delusions in her head. There was something wrong inside her, and it got worse after she died. End of story.”
“End of story.” She attempted a smile. “I like that. Close the book and start a new one.”
“That’s the spirit!” He pulled her hands up and kissed them. “I’ve got an idea. Instead of takeout, let’s celebrate. We’ll put on our best sneakers and head to Carmello’s. Connor can still get pizza and you can I can enjoy some real food and a glass of wine.”
“You sure know how to treat a girl!” She gave him a big kiss and stood up. “I’ll go change. You pry Connor from his video game.”
For the first time in weeks, Art watched Missy walk down the hall and his thoughts were on sex instead of her safety.
From now on, we live a normal life.
He couldn’t imagine anything better.
* * * * *
One week after
ridding the house of Catherine’s ghost, Art found himself home alone again, although this time for purely mundane reasons. Connor was spending his Saturday night at a friend’s house and Missy had the nine p.m. to five a.m. shift the next four days. She’d gone in a couple of hours early to catch up on paperwork. Or so she said. Art had a funny feeling in his stomach that she needed to use a computer where he couldn’t see her, which could only mean one thing.
She was checking out wedding dresses. Or rings. Something to do with weddings, anyhow. She’d been dropping hints for a few days, things like “Once we’re married we can…” and “I hear Hawaii is a great place to honeymoon.”
Subtle hints.
And the fact that hearing them didn’t cause his stomach to convulse made him smile, because it meant he was ready too. That Catherine hadn’t ruined him on marriage.
As much as he knew Missy wanted him to bring the subject up—or propose—he felt he owed Connor the courtesy of talking about it first. Not that he expected any problems from the boy. It was just a guy thing.
He’d intended to do it that night, until Kelli Reutermann called to ask if Connor could spend the night with her twins, Randy and Roger. Art didn’t hesitate in saying yes, despite looking forward to a “guy’s night.” After what they’d been through the past few months, Connor deserved some fun.
So after dropping his son off at the Reutermann’s and picking up take out Chinese for himself, he ended up watching an old movie and heading to bed early.
Only he couldn’t fall asleep.
He’d been having sleeping problems ever since they moved back into the house, jumping at the slightest sounds despite knowing in his head that they had no reason to worry anymore. He’d tried combating the insomnia with bad television: Ancient Aliens, Seinfeld reruns, late night talk shows. Nothing worked. He’d drift off, only to start awake when the air conditioner kicked on or ice cubes clattered in the freezer.
After a few nights like that, he’d been practically a walking zombie, his eyes threatening to close anytime he wasn’t actively doing something, like arresting a suspect or cooking dinner. Not a big deal if you were watching TV or reading a magazine in the break room; another thing entirely if you were at your desk preparing a report or behind the wheel of a squad car watching for speeders.