Which was how we ended up at a table near my client and his pretty office colleague, watching them like hawks while trying to appear like we weren’t looking at them at all. But I started getting frustrated. He wasn’t doing what I had told him to. He wasn’t even reaching for her hand. We had gone over and over this! I had to do something.
I was plotting my move when the waitress came over. “What can I get you?” she asked. “Your number,” said Gino. She rolled her eyes and walked away quickly after taking our order. I kicked Gino under the table. “That’s why you’re alone,” I hissed through my teeth. “You act like a Neanderthal!”
My client got up to use the restroom, and I immediately followed him. This was my chance to shake some sense into him. I trailed him right into the men’s room and waited for him to come out of the stall.
I told him to get it together and then straightened his shirt. But the doll wouldn’t fit back into his pocket because his irritable bowel syndrome had made him bloated and his pants were too tight. I told him to just stick it down his pants and go back to the table. His date was waiting for him.
I left first and sat down with Gino. So I had a great view when my client came out of the restroom with his zipper down and the voodoo doll halfway out of his pants. Heck, the whole restaurant had a great view. People’s jaws dropped. Our waitress tried not to laugh.
But his date didn’t see anything funny about it. My client tried to explain why he had a doll with her picture on it protruding from his crotch, but really, what can you say at that point? As the maître d’ escorted him out, I shook my head in confusion. My vision of him in this restaurant had been so clear. I didn’t understand it.
But then the waitress walked out with him, consoling him. She obviously thought he was adorable. That gave me something to think about. And later I found out that in all the doll-in-the-pants chaos, Gino had taken the opportunity to slip the pretty office colleague his phone number. Some may call him a weasel, but I call him slick. The last I heard, they were dating and having a fantastic time.
And my client? He and the waitress got engaged a year after that night. That restaurant had been calling me. All of us were supposed to be there at that particular time, all for love.
SIX
Finding out who was invading my body and soul was one thing. Figuring out how to keep ahold of myself was completely different. And this was where I was in uncharted territory.
Ever since I was a child, the dead have come to me. They have showed me their last hours, or the years of abuse, or the people responsible for their deaths. They have told me, in their individual ways, that they are not ready to go. One prankster named Tod would hang around just to make me laugh. He’d worked as a clown before he died of a heart attack in his fifties. He would stop by, eat from the fridge, tell me knock-knock jokes. Finally, I took him with me on one of my trips to New Orleans. I thought Bourbon Street would be a great place for him. I was right. He stayed, and now I see him when I go back to visit the city, mingling in his clown costume alongside the palm readers and dancers in Jackson Square.
Another of my visitors stayed with me for eight years. He appeared a few days after 9/11 and just took up residence. He would shave and get ready for the day and then go down to my office and get to work. I knew it was a residual haunting and that he wasn’t ready to face his own death in the Twin Towers. He just kept working, every day like the last. Until one day, a woman—whole and alive—came to see me. She had finally broken from the grief of losing her husband in the terrorist attacks and was close to killing herself. She came to me to find reasons not to. And I, without realizing it at first, had one for her. My friend, who watched many of my work sessions, stared at her in shock. For the first time, he asked me if he had died in the first tower. He knelt before his wife and told her that she was not ready to join him. She did not hear him with her ears, but she did hear him with her heart. He had been working all that time, even in death, to give his family a better life.
But these hauntings and others always left room for me when they visited. They always respected me as a person and gave me my own space. Until Patricia. She really was trying to take over. And it was now to the point where it was really pissing me off. I’ve always been empathetic toward the dead—obviously—and before this, that had always been an easy and natural way for me to act. I had started my “relationship” with Patricia that way, wanting to help her and solve whatever her problem was. But she wasn’t like the others, and she wasn’t letting me be my own person. She wasn’t helping me figure out what she wanted—she didn’t even seem all that interested in my help. She just seemed to want me for my body, literally. She would come at any time, day or night, and I could not stop her. I was losing my ability to control myself.
I knew what was happening, and that made it all the more difficult. She was forcing me aside, taking over. I kept fighting. I liked being me—even with all my baggage. I liked myself, and I wanted to stay. But she kept shoving me away, diminishing my own characteristics and asserting her own chaotic, schizophrenic mind. I thought I might soon go crazy, too. I am completely aware of the signs of possession, and the psychic attacks were becoming too much. Soon, I would be unable to fight back.
I now knew better than to answer a knock on the door, but she found other ways to pull me back to the mental hospital, to the place she had experienced such terror and abandonment. I kept catching glimpses, and then one night, I was suddenly back there again, looking through a small window in a steel door. I saw doctors and nurses passing by outside, not even looking my way. I started yelling that my name was Jackie—insisting that I was still myself. No one listened.
As I paused for breath, I heard the shuffling of many feet and turned around to find ten people behind me. They were all wearing blue-and-white hospital gowns and whispering to themselves. They moved toward me and started pulling and pawing at my hair and scratching at my arms. As I fought them off, I realized I was wearing the same kind of hospital gown. I shoved them away and turned back to the tiny window, screaming for help. I pounded on the steel door, and with every bang, the overhead lights flickered.
I wiped my tears away and saw unfamiliar blue-and-black makeup come off on my hands. I stared at my hands. I didn’t see my tattoos. Who was I? I yelled until I was hoarse, and then a sharp spark stopped me. The overhead lights began to sway in different directions. I looked from them back through the little window. The corridor was empty.
I should not have turned around, because now I had to turn back. I slowly spun around and found myself in an empty classroom. The desks were lined up in neat rows, and the ABCs stretched across a dusty blackboard. I heard someone coming behind me and turned back to the little window, which was still there in the steel door. I swallowed hard and thought to myself, Okay, I’m getting out. Or waking up. Whatever comes first. Just let me go!
I glanced back at the classroom, which remained empty, and then back to the window. And there he was. The dark figure, with his shy smile and his black, sinister eyes, just inches from me. I jerked back in terror and stumbled into a row of desks, knocking them over. I tensed and stared at the steel door, waiting for it to blow open.
There was a laugh behind me. Again, I had to turn. The tall man in black was writing rapidly on the blackboard, although this time, he had on a white T-shirt. I stayed very still, hoping I would just wake up. He continued writing and then underlined something at the bottom of the board and moved to the side. I saw the words appear slowly.
I am the Zodiac and you are the Fifth Element.
I closed my eyes, praying for escape, but the only thing I got was his breath on my face as he moved right in front of me. He started talking about the Bible, and I tried to block him out with my own words. “This isn’t real. This isn’t real. My name is Jackie. My name is Jackie.” My eyes stayed shut.
“Did you hear me?” a voice roared in my ears. “Were you listening to me?”
I opened my eyes. I sat in my bedroom, slumped on the floor beside my bed. My ears still rang from his shouting. I had heard, loud and clear.
* * *
Most folks hear the word possession and run. They think one could only be possessed by an evil spirit or entity. Not so. Sometimes it is wearing the skin of another, not necessarily one who was evil. But it buries your own self just the same.
Imagine going into a vintage clothing store and picking up a hat. The color is worn and faded, the fabric is thin, the pattern doesn’t quite blend like it used to. It is well worn, and well loved. Try it on. It fits perfectly. Does it bring its past with it?
If an artist had owned it, one might feel the creativity and passion. If it had been owned by a man of the cloth, one might feel closer to God, protected and blessed. But if it had belonged to the victim of a gruesome crime, what would be hidden in its fabric? A lifetime cut short, a horrible end? No one would ever want such a sensation snug against the head. Such hard luck and torment might follow you. Or what if the residue of the perpetrator remained in the hat, like a worm in the material, until you place it on your head, and it slowly slips into your ear, all warm and comfortable? It begins so slowly. You look around. There’s no one in sight, but you are so sure you heard a voice. So don’t touch that hat! Just in case your skeptical nature is proven wrong. What would become of you?
I’ll tell you if you’re willing to listen.
* * *
I left the house, quietly, just before dawn. The city was still asleep, and the peacefulness of the streets calmed me as I walked. I wandered, letting my feet take me where they wanted, until they stopped in front of Our Lady of Angels Catholic Church, a few blocks from my house. I stood there, looking at the entrance to the huge brick front of the Catholic church. I did not want to go in. Maybe it was because I felt like I did not belong. Or maybe it was the fear of agitating the demon I was sure resided within me. Just like my mother.
The door clicked and swung open as I stared at it from the sidewalk. The devil’s voice came from within. “Jackie, why bother? It’s not like you don’t know me. It’s just a house. That’s all it is. I, too, can walk right in. I’m not the sucker that jumped on the cross. I told him. I warned him. Did he listen?
“Walk away, Jackie. Come to me. Look, don’t take it so personal. Long before the existence of this world as you know it, we sort of had this meeting. It went like this—if you take Park Place, I get the Boardwalk. Oh, yeah . . . That boardwalk . . . Do you remember the ocean waves?” He was taunting me with my mother’s death at the Surf Hotel. He had met me in the water outside. It had been such a long time ago. I would not take his bait.
I looked away from the door and toward the massive stone angel in front of the church. It began to rain. I took my hood off and let the water hit my face as I stood in peace. I felt centered, and I felt that I could do this. I have always believed in God, and I pray often. I pushed open the heavy iron gate and started up the steps. A sharp stabbing pain went through my back, forcing me to grab the railing as my knees buckled.
“God isn’t home today! But I’m always ready to extend my hand. Go on, Jackie. They’ll only deem you nuts. Schizophrenic. And then no one will have use for you. What will you say?” the devil asked mockingly. “‘The devil made me do it’? It’s the insane asylum for you, Jackie, my own private playground. And then we can be the best of friends. Who knows? Maybe your mom will come out and play . . .”
The steps went on forever. I hung on to the railing with both hands as a pain that felt like a thousand bee stings went across my back. My feet stuck in foul-smelling mud and felt heavy as I struggled to lift them.
“Oh, Jackie, I know how to hurt you! It begins with an M. Come on, guess. Bzz! Your time is up. The word is mother. Mother. Mother. She didn’t love you, Jackie.”
I reached the top of the stairs and straightened my tortured back. A huge wall of fire blocked the door. I still felt the peace of the angel statue. I could do this. I smirked back at the voice and then walked through the fire. It was nothing, just an illusion, gone in an instant. I stood in the church. Light shone through the stained glass and fell on a large crucifix. It was beautiful and godly, and it did not stop him.
“I’m a man with many talents . . . I go by different names. That you already know. I have workers—soldiers of destruction that don’t even realize I exist. A simple gesture from me or a flicker of a thought put into their simple minds. That’s all it takes and the job is done—and I go on . . . Now, let’s cut to the chase. One of my best and, yes, favorite soldiers is missing something. Oh, I was so proud of him. Bringing New York City to its knees, causing my favorite elements—mayhem and chaos.”
He switched from boasting about his minion to targeting his quarry.
“She has been hiding, waiting. Getting the prized medium’s attention!” He was pleased with that. Pleased that he saw a way into me. “The girl with the gift carries a high price . . . like a bounty. What a trophy you would be. The magic you can spin excites me.”
His voice continued to echo through the church. “What do you say we have a meeting of minds . . . You’ll get your sanity back, and my masked man stays happy—my soul eater. A fascinating young man, striking. He carried the Bible all day, stalked the streets by night.”
He asked if I liked astrology. I braced myself as the ceiling of the church peeled away and stars appeared with lines connecting the signs of the zodiac.
I stumbled to the front of the church, where a golden chalice sat upon a marble altar, and I prayed for God to please be with me. The altar melted away, and in its place stood a table, set for tea. A little girl was serving a cookie to a large man in a mask. As she placed the cookie on his plate, she knocked over the chalice. Blood spilled down the white tablecloth and dripped loudly onto the floor. The masked man pulled her onto his lap.
“How does it feel to have something that doesn’t belong to you?”
I screamed so loudly my lungs hurt. “Let her go! Let me go!”
His taunts continued over my screams. “No one will believe you,” he yelled as I turned to flee. “They’ll think you’re insane. A schizophrenic.” It was my deepest fear—the torment of a fractured mind, the affliction of schizophrenia. I ran.
A gentle tug stopped me. An old man had grasped the sleeve of my sweatshirt and now chided me for running in church. As I turned to tell him that I meant no disrespect, I saw that the tea party was gone. Only the quiet altar and the gleaming chalice remained. I felt like my mind was fracturing right then and there.
The man said he was the church’s caretaker and guided me to a pew. He sat next to me, but I stared straight ahead. I didn’t know what to say anymore. No one would believe me. Somehow, I had known this day would come.
“I think I’m losing my mind,” I whispered to this caretaker. “I’m seeing things and hearing things. They appear, then disappear. I’m becoming something else . . . someone else.”
His eyes were so kind. I went on talking, trying to explain it to him and to myself. I had always lived on that fine line that most people didn’t know even existed. I could look through a two-way mirror, an ordinary girl born with an extraordinary gift that at any moment could turn into a curse. If I was able to see demons, then they were able to see me. The living dead . . . I lived among them; they communicated with me on every level.
“Do you believe that the devil has an army of living beings—human? Do you believe the dead have a message and that they would go to any length to be heard? Do you believe that these demons can take shape into any form or can pass through from person to person?” I asked. “Well, do you?”
He finally nodded yes, as though we had something in common.
“Through the ages, I have seen structures torn down to a complete wasteland,” he said. “Starvation, the sun burning down, spreading fire, destroying everything in its path. Disease, devastation,
and poverty. Human beings, cattle—together to be wiped out. The war of the worlds.”
He shook his head sadly. “It’s disgraceful, just disgraceful.” His head stilled. “But I have also seen the power and the mighty. The rise of man. Pandora’s box was lifted, shifted, and slammed down. The earth moved once again; the meek stood up in the name of bravery and fought back. So my answer is yes. I do believe!”
He sat back in the pew, staring up at the crucifix as if it were speaking to him—or through him. I stood up and left quietly so I would not disturb his silent moment with God. I stopped at the large doors and looked back to whisper my thanks. As I pushed the doors open, he called to me in his gentle voice.
“Jackie, just one thing. Always stay in the middle of the road.” He winked and smiled at me.
“Who are you?” I asked.
“Just a messenger,” he said. “You won’t know your strength until you face your weakness.”
I walked outside as his words repeated in my head. My weakness, my fear. The schizophrenic soul. I was going to have to go in to find my way out.
SEVEN
I stood outside the church, where everything looked normal and sane. But I now knew I was going to have to go somewhere that was neither. Patricia had been pulling me toward her nightmare, and I was done resisting. I hailed a cab and told the driver to take me to the Bellevue psych hospital.
“Did you say you want to go to the old Bellevue ward?” Before I could answer, he ripped into me. “Look, I had a hard night. Punks skipping fares, girls dropping their drawers having sex in the back. Fights, hair weaves being pulled out. It’s out of control, and if I don’t pick them up, it’s called discriminating. It’s called bullshit to me. So what is it, lady? Don’t think you’re going to jump while I’m on the clock. God as my witness, I’ll beat the devil right out of you. You got that?”
The Haunting of the Gemini Page 6