Under the Cheaters Table

by Etta Faire

  “Leave or die,” Mr. Peters repeated. “It always says the same message. The face you see is always your own.” He looked nervously around. “We should go before it gets angry.”

  Justin’s face dropped, but he didn’t say anything as he studied the patterns in the wall in front of us. I could tell he saw the images too.

  One of the pieces of covered furniture moved violently across the room, noisily skidding along the wooden floor like it was on roller blades. I jumped out of the way just in time for it to narrowly miss me, sending it crashing hard into the back wall instead.

  “It’s okay. I know you’re angry. I’m here to help. Show yourself and let’s talk,” I said to the angry ghost, like I was a ghost therapist all of the sudden.

  Something wrapped itself around my throat as soon as I got the words out. I struggled to breathe. The light went dimmer or maybe that was me losing consciousness. Everything went black.

  When my vision came back again, I was outside the door of the basement, wind blowing up my dress as Justin held me in his arms. “You okay?” he asked. “You passed out all of the sudden.”

  “I did?” I felt my neck and took a deep breath. I was fine. I could breathe. I broke free of Justin’s grasp and assessed my injuries. “I’m okay,” I replied, moving my neck to make sure.

  “Thank you so much for agreeing to help me,” my old boss said, making me realize I’d also agreed to do it on the house.

  He dabbed at his hairline again. “That was more violent than I’ve ever seen it. It usually only sends old papers flying around or chucks a throw pillow or two,” he said, locking the basement door. My legs felt weak and wobbly as I made my way back up the basement steps, but I didn’t mention it to anyone. I felt Justin watching me as I walked, so I tried to make sure I was walking as normally as possible.

  Mr. Peters was still talking. “It’s getting worse. It no longer just keeps to the basement. It attacks my staff. I can’t keep anyone. And tonight, I’m pretty sure it was the reason for the power outage.”

  Once at the top of the stairs, I took one deep breath after another, hardly noticing the cold air now; it felt good along my face and hair. My neck still ached a little but the most painful part was knowing I’d agreed to help get rid of that thing — whatever that was — for free. Rosalie was going to kill me, if that thing didn’t kill me first.

  I could tell it didn’t want me there.

  I needed to be honest about what I could do for free. “This is going to take a lot of studying,” I said, massaging my shoulder as I talked. “And honestly, I’m not sure if I can even help you. I’ll ask my boss at the Purple Pony…”

  Mr. Peters’ eyes grew large. “You work at the Purple Pony?”

  I nodded.

  “I didn’t know that.” He looked down, his shoes suddenly the most interesting part of the night again. “I know it’s a big job. I can pay you.” Mr. Peters’ hand shook as he dabbed at his baldness. “I’m not sure how. I’m losing money left and right.”

  “Maybe we can work out a deal. Give me your number. I’ll ask my boss, Rosalie, about a discount.”

  His face got whiter. “See what you can do,” he said. “But when I called her this morning, I could tell. That woman still hates me.”

  That explained the Corn Nuts.

  “Why on earth would Rosalie hate you. She doesn’t hate anyone.” I lied. She hated most people.

  “You should really ask her,” he replied.

  Chapter 6

  For the Birds

  Mrs. Nebitt prided herself on being an expert researcher. And usually I had a lot of confidence in that. But the next day, all the librarian could do was scrunch her face up at the research computer in front of her. Her thin, white curls bobbed gently along with the doubtful shaking of her head.

  “One article,” she finally announced, scooting her chair back and scurrying over to the metal cabinets that held the microfilm.

  “That’s it?” I asked.

  Even though I was starting to get used to the lack of articles written about key pieces of history in Potter Grove, it was still upsetting that a murder would only get one write-up.

  The Gazette was the local newspaper, and the people who ran it were questionable, now and in the past. They were also Jackson’s relatives.

  She set up the microfilm, twisting and turning the knob, focusing in on the one article we apparently had about Feldman Winehouse’s murder.

  I looked up at the screen. A very small, blurry photo of Feldman looked back.

  “Joint” Discovered When Owner Found Dead

  Feldman Theodore Winehouse, 41 years old from Potter Grove, was found dead with his throat cut Sunday night in the basement of the pharmacy he owned on Ninth and Main. Locals say the basement was the location of a popular “speakeasy,” an establishment set up to hide illegal activity such as alcohol consumption and gambling.

  My palms grew sweaty as I read. Having my throat cut did not at all sound like something I wanted to live through in a channeling. Not that any of the deaths with the ghosts of Landover had been a treat: near-drowned then struck by a boat. Shot in the heart. Drugged. I lived (and died) moment by moment in a channeling, feeling every punch, blow, and now apparently, slice. I read on.

  Police have no leads. An anonymous caller reported the crime to the local police station.

  “By the time we found out about it,” Sheriff Mulch said. “That basement had been wiped clean of any fingerprints or evidence.”

  Anyone with information is encouraged to call…

  A side article asked, Does Prohibition Actually Prohibit Anything? And another one: Is Lawlessness headed to Potter Grove?

  I read them both. They didn’t say much. The police hadn’t even known who had been there that weekend. I went back over to the research computer and looked up Terry Winehouse, Feldman’s brother and the person he said may have done him in. Terry had known the guest list at the speakeasy that weekend and what had happened. Why hadn’t he told police? That seemed very suspicious, especially since he was Feldman’s brother, and he had probably inherited everything.

  Two weddings and a funeral came up when I searched for him. He died in 1965 at the age of 77, survived by his second wife, Judy, and his nine unnamed kids and grandkids. I wondered if one of those kids was Shelby’s dad.

  I printed every article out then left for work.

  But on my way to the Purple Pony, I stopped at the Spoony River just to see if Shelby had started back like she was supposed to. I didn’t see her Cadillac, but Mrs. Carmichael was leaning against her bright blue Volkswagen, smoking a cigarette. I pulled up alongside her.

  “Shelby working today?” I asked.

  Mrs. Carmichael shook her head. “She called out again, if you can believe it. And I tell ya, I’m really startin’ to worry about that girl. I have to take her shift again today or Lenny says he’s gonna fire her.” She took a long inhale of her cigarette and blew the smoke straight over her head. “If you ask me, he’s not firing anyone and he knows it. I’m not the only one ‘round here who wouldn’t go back to Spoony’s if he…”

  Loud bird squawking interrupted her speech, and I instinctively ducked, even though I was in my car. A man’s voice, yelling and cussing, followed. We both turned in the direction of old George’s barbershop, which was right next door to the diner. But I already knew what was causing the commotion.

  The birds were back.

  And they sounded angry, screeching and crying in low, almost human tone. Old George ran from the side of his shop with about ten black birds of varying sizes swooping around his head, pecking at his ears and his skull.

  “Stop it,” he kept saying like the birds could speak English.

  “What in tarnation?” Mrs. Carmichael yelled, stomping her cigarette out and running over to help, coughing and flailing her arms the whole way. “I’m a comin’, George.”

  I got out and ran over too, even though every logical bone in my body said to roll the window
back up and maybe just call for help from faraway.

  Grabbing a stick as I ran, I easily passed Mrs. Carmichael who was still coughing across the parking lot to the barbershop.

  Old George had backed himself against his front door, unable to open it because his hands were too busy protecting his head.

  I was surprised to see only a couple of the birds had that telltale, mutant, crusty beak. And they weren’t the ones attacking. They seemed to be the ones directing, which was also strange. But every time they squawked, the smaller crows swooped down from just above George’s head, one after the other. Blood dripped down his cheek and into the folds of his neck.

  I raised my stick and swung, smacking the door right above his head.

  “Oh Lord. Carly Mae, you’re gonna kill him,” Mrs. Carmichael sputtered at the same time George was yelling something that sounded like “I told you. Tomorrow is fine.”

  I shot her a look as she took off her apron and swung it at the birds like she was a professional bullfighter all of the sudden while I tried beating the air around George without getting close to him at all now.

  “Yes, okay,” he said, to the birds. “As soon as I close.”

  And just like that, the two larger birds with the cold, dead eyes and crusted beaks flew off into the clouds. The others quickly followed. And Old George slumped against the door, trying to get his breath.

  I threw down my stick. “What in the hell was that all about?”

  “Are you okay?” Mrs. Carmichael yelled, cupping old George’s chin. She yanked his head this way and that, inspecting the blood. After spitting on the apron still dangling from her hand, she wiped the bloody peck marks from his thin cheek. “We should call Caleb.”

  “Or Justin.” I reached in my back pocket and pulled out my phone.

  “Are you crazy?” George shook his head. “Don’t call anyone. Those birds are back. I knew it. I was pretty young the first time they came ‘round, but my parents talked nonstop about the doomsday they caused. People stopped coming to the lake.”

  “So, you’re saying you don’t want to report this?”

  “That’s exactly what I’m saying. I’ll be fine.” His voice was unusually curt. “We got a diner to think about and the Purple Pony and the barbershop. Ain’t none of us can afford the doomsday days again.”

  I put my phone back and adjusted my pony tail. “I thought I heard you talking to the birds. What were you saying, anyway?”

  Old George ran a hand along his forehead, then inspected his fingers over, probably to see if he was still bleeding. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  Mrs. Carmichael spit on her apron again, and he waved her off. “Last thing I need is spit,” he said. “Or pity. So both of y’all, just stop it, and go on with your business. You hear?”

  He pulled himself upright and opened the door to the barbershop, slamming it behind him.

  “What do you think is going on with old George?”

  Mrs. Carmichael pulled a pack of cigarettes from her pocket and lit one. She checked her watch and walked off toward the Spoony River’s neon sign. “Break’s ending soon” was all the usually chatty woman said.

  Something told me the doomsday days were coming, no matter if we talked about them or not. Things were changing in Potter Grove.

  And whatever was happening at the barbershop tomorrow after closing, the meeting he just set up with the attacking birds then pretended he had no idea about, I was going to make sure I was there for it too.

  Chapter 7

  Unicorns

  I really wanted Feldman’s story not to check out. But everywhere I turned — the library, the restaurant, I even called Mrs. Winehouse to make sure her father-in-law had a murdered brother named Feldman (a strange conversation, to say the least) — everything seemed like my ghost guest was actually telling the truth.

  “I think I’m going to channel with Feldman soon,” I told Rosalie when we were clipping and twisting wires for her new gemstone ring collection at the checkout counter when I got to work.

  I didn’t mention anything about the bird attack. Old George had been right. Most business owners in Landover County would rather have their eye sockets hollowed out by birds than talk about something that might lose them tourist dollars.

  She motioned with her pliers. “I’ve been reading up on demons,” she said like that was a normal response to anything in life.

  Her face seemed different today. Her cheeks were rosier and I’d never noticed how long her lashes were before. “We should figure out what kind of entity you’re dealing with before you do any sort of channeling. There’s a recipe in some of the books that you can use to determine the type of energy you’re dealing with.”

  “There is a recipe for everything,” I said, still not entirely believing her. “But how soon can we throw that together?”

  She shrugged, tugging mindlessly on one of her dreadlocks, which looked different too. Her hair was pulled back with a cloth headband that matched her pale blue dress.

  “Are you wearing makeup,” I asked.

  “Trying out a new look.”

  “Well, you look good.”

  “And normally I don’t?” She took a smaller inhale than normal; her face scrunched up as she did.

  “Wait a second. Are you wearing Spanx?”

  She ignored my comments and hobbled into the back room, her shapewear adding an odd kind of swing to her walk. She returned with one of her paranormal encyclopedias, a dark green book this time with a gold embossed title, The Dark Recipes: A Grimoire. She swept the rings aside with the back of her arm then plopped the book on the counter in front of me. After opening it to the bookmark, she inhaled oddly again and pointed.

  I looked down at the page:

  The most certain way to determine the type of entity you are dealing with is by using a formula called a sapientia (recipe to follow). Spray the area of suspected energy generously until a green hue presents. Allow mist to dissipate for two minutes, then spray again. The color(s) you see during the second misting determines the entity or entities in the atmosphere and should aid you in their removal, if necessary. Use with adequate lighting whenever possible.

  Green: Neutral. There are no detected entities

  Purple: An apparition of very low energy level

  Blue: A benevolent/harmless apparition of high energy level and strength

  Yellow: A benevolent/harmless apparition from nonhuman origins; a supernatural being such as a shapeshifter, griffon, omni, vampire, etc.

  Orange: An angry apparition of tremendous strength transitioning to a poltergeist, curse, or demon

  Red: Poltergeist

  Black: Curse

  White: Demon

  A mixture of any of these colors is an indication more than one entity is present.

  I looked at her and snapped my fingers. “We should mix up a batch of this and test it in the basement at Chez Louie.”

  I told her about Mr. Peters and the thing in the speakeasy, but she already knew and cut me off mid-sentence. “Nope. We are not helping that jerk.”

  “What is going on with you two? He told me you hated him.”

  “I do.”

  “You don’t hate anyone… well, except for Paula Henkel and the sheriff, but you don’t hate anyone that normal people don’t hate along with you.”

  “This is my business, Carly. I brought this recipe out to help you with Feldman Winehouse. I’m not special ordering these ingredients for a jerk.”

  I pulled out my phone and took a photo of the recipe and the definition of the various mist colors. “Maybe Mr. Peters will do a seance there at the restaurant, or an exorcism,” I said like I knew what that entailed beyond horror movies. “And we can make some money off of it.” I told her about the weird 3d images in the bricks that flat out told me to die, and how the furniture shot out at me. “And, I used to work with Mr. Peters at the Thriftway. He’s not that bad. Plus, his wife just died. The restaurant is all he has left. We can
help him out, can’t we?”

  She turned away. “Not even for double the price. If anyone deserves a demon in his basement, it’s Louis Peters.”

  The Corn Nuts. The hair and makeup. The Spanx. The hatred. It all came to me at once. “You two used to date, huh?”

  “Do you want to try this recipe on Feldman Winehouse or not?”

  “Stop avoiding my question.” I looked at the glittery front entrance of the store. “Is Mr. Peters the unicorn man?”

  She slammed the book closed then stormed away to the back with it.

  A long time ago, Rosalie told me she painted that purple and yellow glitter unicorn just after she and her long-time boyfriend broke up after college. To her, it symbolized new beginnings, strength, and the courage to move on when things didn’t work out the way you thought they should in life, so you could find a different path.

  Apparently, it also symbolized a little bitterness and hatred.

  I scrolled through my phone. “I’m calling Mr. Peters right now. You look so cute I think he should come by and talk about that demon he has growing in his basement…” I tried to make that sound sexual. I’m not sure it worked.

  “Don’t do it,” she said. “I’m not helping him.”

  “Come on. Why else would you suddenly be wearing Spanx? Let’s be honest with one another.”

  Half an hour later, Mr. Peters came through the door of the Purple Pony. He looked very nice in his dress pants and white button down shirt (his manager’s uniform, but it still looked good). He swung a bag of takeout, making the smell of garlic take over the store. My mouth watered even though I’d already eaten the wilted salad I brought myself for break.

  “Maybe, he can pay us in garlic shrimp,” I whispered to Rosalie, elbowing her as he pulled styrofoam containers out of the bag and set them on the table in the back.

  He looked at Rosalie and smiled. “You look great,” he said. His bald head was sweaty again.