* * *
I remembered waking up in my own childhood bed, on my own eighth birthday, screaming that I had been killed. My parents rushed in, and my dad, the great medicine man, started chanting for my wolf spirit guide to come and protect me. My mom just wiped my face with a cold, wet cloth. Then she pulled back the covers, and I saw the shock on her face. She quickly started to wash my feet, which were covered in blood.
My parents never asked how I got blood on me. They already knew what I was capable of—that leaving this world and interacting with the dead was as natural for me as going outside to play. But this incident I pushed as far away as I possibly could, deep into my mind. I convinced myself that it was not my memory. We all remember things we never did or saw, things from a previous life. The only difference was that my slate had not wiped clean when I returned for this life. Did the same blood my mother washed away that day still run through me?
* * *
Eddie began to call me from prison on a regular basis. Sometimes I would take notes, and sometimes I would record our conversations. When I did that, though, I always told him I was doing it (which I do whenever I record someone, no matter who it is), and he would suddenly get shy and start mumbling his words. His real torrents of talk came when posterity wasn’t listening.
He would mutter and he would ramble, and sometimes, he would even answer my questions. One day, I asked him if he knew why his victim had come back. He became very quiet, but the silence over the phone line was thick, like a heavy snow falling. After a moment, a very sure voice that did not sound like him started to speak.
“Because she wants to live again. She wants to be with you. She wants your skin. But now we have a big problem, Jackie. This leaves me in the middle of you both. I’m down a soul . . . I hope you understand my situation. You have this ongoing fight to save the souls—dead or alive . . . We are all soldiers, just on different sides.” He paused slightly. “I don’t like her picking up the phone when I call you. I don’t speak to my kill. I hunt. I haunt.”
He turned his attention from Patricia to me. “I live in your dreams now. I walk with you; I eat with you; I snuggle in bed with you. Because I can. I can tell you this, Jackie. If Patricia possesses you, it’s done—lights out.”
If that possession (which I had been fighting against for months) did succeed, then one of two things could happen, he said. I would die again in that park on a steamy summer night. Or—and this was the big, directly-on-target fear of mine, and that bastard knew it—I would end up in an asylum. I had always worried about that, considering that some people think it’s crazy to talk to the dead. But if I became the dead? If I was fully possessed? I’d get locked away for sure, and that terrified me.
“I can see the flashing lights as the juice gets turned up on that electrical shock therapy machine,” he taunted. “Don’t think they still don’t zap. Then you get to shuffle around all medicated up. Not a pretty picture . . . Just think, I can visit you every day, and no one will believe you. Sure, you’ll run around telling anyone that will listen. That’s when the real fun begins. Zap, zap, zap.” His words shot through my head like bolts of pain. “I was thinking, if she can come back and live in you, take over your mind and body—well, so can I. So can I.”
But he knew that I would continue to fight. And that pissed him off.
“Pure evil will always know you, Jackie, because you not only know it exists, but you keep trying to save yourself. They know you can see them. You’re a fucking roadblock. You’re not a priest. Most of them fear the devil, but are not trained. Give me a break! They devote their life to God and can’t stand up to his brother!”
He kept at it, his voice the same steady, certain tone.
“I told you what I never told anyone, not even those priests that came to see me. Something powerful ran through my blood, gave me knowledge, showed me how to become the most feared. I felt the transformation. I knew just what spells to perform. I had the book.”
I knew what he was talking about. It was the Solomon Book of Spells, an ancient volume of the black arts that he had used. One of the spells he cast was a blinding spell, which let him walk throughout the city without anyone seeing his real face. He could walk into a room and not be noticed. That would explain why the descriptions his victims gave the police were of a black man, I thought.
“The door opened and I became the NYC real nightmare. I did my job so well . . . You have the truth. So many of us ‘most evil’ have found that book. I don’t even know where it came from. Everything was falling into place. I was given a name—the Zodiac. Runs chills through you. Yeah, it does. Copycat, my ass. Why not—recycling a name? He was never caught, no face to the work. So why not show up in New York City? We are everywhere.”
“Where’s that book, Eddie?” I asked.
“Oh, Jackie, it disappears for the next in line.”
“Eddie, I think you hid it right before you got caught. That was the plan the devil had. To use you. Then hide the book of spells, let someone else find it and pick up where you left off,” I said. “But, Eddie, if I find it first . . .”
“He will never let you find that! You dare test the devil at his own game? You’ll wind up just like your mother.”
The devil made sure he accomplished many of his deeds, Eddie said. But then, I asked, why did he want Patricia back? He already killed her. Wasn’t that enough?
“You interfered! Giving shelter to the dead, showing them the way home.” His voice rose in anger. “Now he brought me back. You are not authorized to fight me! How dare you, Jackie, go against God. God lets the devil have his way, so people are forced to believe in him! Get on your knees, Jackie.”
He was yelling now. I knew he was pushing my every button, trying to get me to come to his side. Finding the weak cracks is the sly work of Lucifer. I bowed my head, even though he couldn’t see me, and a prayer went through my brain. For I am weak, Lord. Stand by me, the power and the goodness. I ask only for strength.
Eddie went quiet, as though I had spoken the words, which I had not. “Are you done, Jackie?”
I was not done, not by a long shot, and someday, he would know it.
* * *
I repeated that prayer all the time now. Patricia, although not a demon, was definitely making my life a living hell. As we entered our second year together, I would forget birthdays and anniversaries. I couldn’t remember how to use modern electronics that hadn’t been around when she was alive—my big television remote, my computer. I maxed out credit cards and kept not paying the mortgage. I shut off the power because Patricia thought it would be fun to just use candles. I went to my safe-deposit box at the bank, and next to the expensive jewelry I had collected during my world travels, I found plastic rings out of a toy vending machine and other silly trinkets. So much for that being a secure place to put things.
I did things I would never, ever do—that went against everything I believed. I jumped turnstiles. I shoplifted. I drank alcohol. I went to dangerous neighborhoods and hung out with dangerous people. Joanne was so worried about my erratic behavior that she put all of my medical records and my name and address in my cell phone, so if something happened to me, it would be easier for the authorities to figure out who I was. Sometimes I had to pull up the address myself to find my way home.
I began to think about ending my torment. I could take us both home and say “Fuck you” to the devil at the same time. I could kill myself, and he would no longer be able to try to enlist me into his army. But I knew where suicide victims went. It is not the hell ruled by the devil but a hell of their own construction—a hell of sorrow, of confusion, of not forgiving oneself. It is a waiting room of loneliness. It is populated not by bad people but by unhappy souls waiting to be rescued by their loved ones. I had visited this place many times, releasing souls, at the request of their loved ones, and showing them a way out. And often, I’m able to answer that lingering question
for those left alive. Why?
I knew I should not take that path. But it was starting to look very, very tempting.
* * *
I awoke to the sound of rain hitting hard against my bedroom windows. The chimes on the patio clattered in the wind, picking up the rhythm of the fall chill. I listened to the sounds, knowing I had to go out. Next to me, Will was sound asleep and unaware. It was fairly early in the evening—probably 10:00 p.m.—but totally dark. I turned on no lights as I dressed. I laced up my black boots, feeling an inexplicable surrender as I did so, and threw on my black jacket—not a raincoat, a purposeful choice because I had started to like the damp feeling of the rain soaking down deep into my bones. I felt the wetness but was numb to the cold.
I came into the dark living room, sat in an armchair with my hat in my hands, and waited for my instructions. They would come from a man who sat in solitary confinement. It had taken me a long time to realize that the dark spirit that grew and lived within him was able to lift up and travel beyond the prison walls. It could move from person to person and take on his features and characteristics without the host ever knowing that a hitchhiker was aboard. Or to me, at least, he could come alone.
I sat and listened to the late night traffic, tires splashing through the puddles in the street outside. And then stillness took its place, followed by a low hum in my ears. The wood floor creaked beneath me, and the air moved behind me. I knew he was there, like a blind person with a cane knows there is something in his path before he reaches it. Tap, tap, tap. There it is.
I turned around slowly, squeezing my hat as though it was my only security. The dark shadow stood in the corner against the kitchen counter. The form began to solidify as it reached across the counter and took the lid off my candy dish, fully stocked because it was almost Halloween. The tall man in black scooped up a handful of candy corn.
“You know how to treat a guest,” he said. “Getting my favorite candy—you know, Jackie, I have a sweet tooth. Not many can satisfy it.”
He smirked at me and rolled the candy corn around in his mouth as he stared at me with his dark eyes. It felt like he was seeing deep into my soul and taking a twisted pleasure in it.
My iPod, which stood in its speaker-charger on the counter behind him, started to play. It flipped through songs like an old radio tuner—static in between different bits of music and talking. It stopped on a news bulletin . . . the New York Zodiac strikes again . . . and then switched to a sixties music station . . . When I look out my window, many sights to see. And when I look in my window, so many different people to be . . .
He began to dance seductively and motioned me over. I stood up and went closer, until I was only a foot away from him. . . That it’s strange, so strange, you’ve got to pick up every stitch . . . Must be the season of the witch . . . As he danced, he pulled a combat knife out from under his black jacket—the same jacket I wore. He slid it over his body as though he were making love to it and then grabbed me and pulled me toward him. His face reflected in the blade before he ran it over my cheeks.
“How does it feel?” he whispered. “How does it feel, Jackie, to wear my shoes? To watch me? To follow my moves?” He looked down at my boots and back up at my face. “What shall I do with you, Jackie?”
He grabbed the back of my head and moved it closer to his. “Take this,” he said as he forced a candy corn from his mouth to mine. I tried to turn my face away but couldn’t. Our bodies were pressed together as one. I could feel the candy moving around in my mouth, wiggling around as if it had tentacles. His arms wrapped around me and pain pierced my middle. All I could think was that he had stabbed me and I was going to die in my own kitchen. And no one would know the truth.
He let go of me and tossed more candy into his mouth. I looked down and touched my stomach. My hand came away covered in blood. And then the phone rang. I ran for it, expecting him to stop me, but all he did was slide over next to me as I looked at the caller ID.
Great Meadow Correctional Facility.
Two places at once. I pressed 3 to accept the call.
The Eddie standing next to me chortled. “Speak up. I love eavesdropping.”
I spoke into the phone. “Eddie, you’re standing right next to me!”
The Eddie in prison answered back. “I called to tell you, your job is to let the world know it lives. It gets stronger and moves faster with denial.”
The “it” Eddie in prison was referring to, the devil man in black standing next to me, mocked his twin. “Blah, blah, blah—he’s such a baby. Acting like a bitch. It was him who created me. Him who has committed the mortal sins, the one that slapped God.”
He pulled the phone out of my hand and hung it up, then grabbed my face and squeezed.
“Jackie, how does it feel to lose your mind? To be the victim? To be schizophrenic? Homeless?”
He squeezed harder, then ordered me to look at my stomach. The stab wound and the blood were gone.
“Don’t think I’m done with you yet. I owe you ninety-nine more,” he snarled. “How does it feel to die while you look in my eyes? How does it feel when you prowl the dark, dank streets like the beast that grows inside of you? It is you who confronted me, Jackie. You mock the devil and defy Jesus by having such a gift.”
He pushed me away from him, and I hit the kitchen counter. I stood for a moment, breathing heavily. The knife was in my hand now. My fingers tightened around its handle as the blade spoke to me. Turn around and get him now! I held the knife high above me, spun around and leaped forward for the kill. My first kill. I was dressed head to toe in black. My boots fit perfectly.
But it wasn’t the man in black. Instead, Will yelled out in surprise and grabbed my arm. He shook the knife out of my hand, and it clattered to the floor. I was no match for someone his size, thank God. I looked into his eyes, full of hurt and questions, and threw myself into his arms as I burst into sobs.
He cradled me as he kicked the knife away from us. I told him I was becoming something sinister. Me and the man in black. “He was in our kitchen, dancing, eating candy. He stabbed me, but it’s gone. Look!”
I showed Will my smooth, unwounded stomach. The poor man stared at me.
“Jackie, I saw you leaning up against the kitchen counter, talking in two voices—a man and yours—and that song blasting. ‘Season of the Witch.’ You holding that knife. Where did you get such a knife?”
He was here, I swore. He was here. And he was there, at the prison. He could be anywhere. Or anyone.
* * *
Eddie wrote me regularly from prison. Simple notebook paper, like schoolchildren use. Covered with horror and bloodlust.
Hi Jackie
Finally! Yes we must all wait our turn
I have forever. Look at us as a door you on one
Side me on the other, you push and I pull! Ha ha
You broke the code! I’m proud of you Jackie
But can you catch me. Should we set a
clock? Will you be the little hand or big?
Will you find my twin or will he find a
new home to kill and rush back to me. fill
my belly.
Will it be you? Close your hands
around the knife.
You will feel many things—you will die
And become—you will be more. You
Will be the Gemini. [sign]
You will feel me breath [sic] me
I walk with you. I sleep next to you
I smell your sweet flesh
You will become my kill—100+ times you
Will bleed—or you can give her back—
Who will I be? The man sitting next to you on
The train? The bus drivers
the baker
the butcher
the undertaker
As usual, he signed it “Eddie” and included the Gemin
i symbol. He had been writing to me for several months now, and he would often include words in the margins. In this letter, he’d included a holiday send-off, even though it was only July: “look at [sign] me as your Santa Claus and its your black Christmas and you have been very naughty”
THIRTEEN
I woke up in the middle of the night, like I’d been doing for months. Everything was quiet and still. I slipped out of bed and went over to my bedroom window. The stars outside seemed brighter and more prominent than usual. I put my finger on the glass and traced the paths between the stars. The glass was cold as my fingertips squeaked along, connecting the dots.
I heard rustling and turned to peek through the cracks in the dressing screen that hid the window from the rest of the room. Will tossed and turned in bed. I looked back at the glass and saw what I had drawn. The sign of the Gemini. The stars beyond my window blinked out, and the sky turned completely black, as if a raven—the sign of death—was covering everything with its outstretched wings. I closed my eyes and grabbed the window frame for a moment, then slowly crept back into bed. While others slept, he came forth, in many different forms. Would I have to see them all?
* * *
The doorbell rang. It was the mailman, my regular guy. “Morning, Jackie. You got a large package from a prison. You’ll need to sign.” I stood there with the door only half open and avoided his gaze. “Are you okay?” he asked. “You look a little thin, a little pale.” I wanted nothing more than to shut the door in his face.
“Go away,” I whispered. He did not hear me.
He chatted for a minute about his latest home-improvement project and then finally managed to make eye contact. “Jackie, take the pen.”
The Haunting of the Gemini Page 12