The church emptied after Mass, but I stayed seated, asking God for guidance. The priest passed by me and asked if I was okay.
“Yes, Father, but could you bless me? Please.”
He looked me in the eye. “I already did. You and that holy water bottle of yours.”
“Father, I’m weak,” I said.
He stood in the aisle of that great cathedral and looked at me as though he knew what I was going to do. Then he smiled. “No, you’re not. Go, and God will not let you down.”
He moved on down the aisle as images of my mother’s failed exorcism crowded into my head. “He has before,” I said as I got up and stood in the aisle as well. “No disrespect, Father, but I need help.”
He turned back toward me and said, “I know God will not let you down. I am not an exorcist.”
“How did you know? Father, please tell me!” I said.
“I know a lot,” he said. “You aren’t alone. You are blessed.”
He walked off, and I took my blessing gratefully and fled. I had seen the devil in God’s house before, and I didn’t want to chance it again now.
I kept the bottle on my home altar until I left to go see Eddie. It sat alongside my father’s and my granddaddy’s medicine bags, pictures of my ancestors, a burning candle, the hair of the wolf, food offerings, and a handful of graveyard dirt for the dead—earth to earth.
* * *
Experts seem to believe that serial killers leave marks on their victims’ bodies or leave items, like letters, nearby as their calling cards. Psychologists in this field will tell you that it is a cry to get caught, that the killers want to lead the police right to their doors. But in my dealings with these people, I can tell you this: they do not want to get caught. That’s the last thing they want. They do what they do to defile the body further. They mark their territory and leave the task force something to chase but not enough to find them. They enjoy the torment. They enjoy giving you enough to ask a question but not enough to ever find the answer. Psychologists can only assume what makes the bomb tick. But until you become the bomb, you will never know.
I sought the answers and found out who Eddie really was. He knew that now and waited for me. We are all born of flesh, but something more settled into Eddie a long time ago. His mind and body guarded the demon with care, feeding it and keeping it safe from exposure. What nestled within was far more deadly than any man-made weapon. The things we chalk up to hysteria are the same things that build momentum for evil. People do not wish to believe, but awareness is actually the first, best weapon. And I was very, very aware of Eddie.
It would not be my first time standing before the devil, of course. I have rejected his enticements, but never will I deny his existence. This was a test of my endurance and belief. I knew—have known for years—that I am marked. My face is on one of those old “Most Wanted” posters. I am wanted, not for committing crimes but for how I have solved them. The criminals know I’m out here. They know I am watching them as they watch me, seeing how far I get.
* * *
The four-hour drive to the Great Meadow Correctional Facility was exhausting. It was interstate the first part of the way but not a very heavily traveled one. Except for some tractor-trailers speeding by, we were alone on the road. I had asked my friend Maria Dinaso to come with me. She has worked closely with Joanne and me for many years. Not many people can handle the crime scenes or the paranormal activity, but she can. She’s a strong woman, well trained by me and knowledgeable of otherworldly activity. I knew I couldn’t make this drive by myself, and her steady presence was a comfort as we got closer and closer to Great Meadow. I didn’t want Will or Joanne to come with me because I thought it would put them in spiritual danger to be so physically near Eddie. They were closer to me than Maria and so would make better targets for Eddie’s manipulations.
Throughout the years, my mind has become so piercing that I’ve had to give up driving; every passing car is a distraction, because I hear the thoughts of everyone inside. It’s become too overwhelming to try to tune that out and focus on the road at the same time, so I don’t get behind the wheel anymore.
For instance, as we sped along, I saw a car on the side of the highway, an old maroon Chevy. As we drew closer, I fixated on it. I could see a young man wearing a brown ski hat inside the car, trying to fight his way out. He pounded on the windows and looked right at me, his face tearstained and panic stricken. I heard him shout, “Help me!” And then the Chevy burst into flames.
Maria hadn’t seen anything. Neither had the big-rig driver who passed at the same time. But the young man’s face of ash filled my whole field of vision. I felt it was another of Eddie’s victims, reaching out to me in a vision prompted by my increasing proximity to him. Witnessing and not being able to help is unbelievably painful. Seeing the brutality of what Eddie had done was horrendous. I slumped in the passenger seat, and the miles crawled by.
We left the interstate and started down the two-lane highway that would lead us to the prison. I roused myself as I saw another young man, about twenty-five years old and holding a small cardboard sign, come into view on the side of the road. “Don’t stop—don’t pick up that hitchhiker,” I told Maria. She looked at me and back at the winding road. “What hitchhiker?” she asked.
I studied him as we drove closer. I could now see that he was obviously dead. He had visible gunshot wounds to the head, which was dangling almost off his neck. His skin was blue and covered with old bloodstains. He wore torn jeans and a faded blue T-shirt. He had no shoes, and his feet were filthy. A small, tattered, dark-blue knapsack sat on the ground next to him. I asked Maria to slow down so I could take in everything he wanted to show me. I saw something on his foot that I initially thought was a note of some kind. But as we slowed to a crawl, the paper moved and I could read it: a tag stamped “NYC Morgue,” along with the name “John Doe, 1993.” I knew he had been homeless. His cardboard sign, in red writing, said “TURN BACK!”
Maria looked at me and asked if we should turn around, even though she couldn’t see the man or his sign. I told her no. We had come too far—literally and figuratively. I needed to be on Eddie’s ground, to look him in the eye.
The wind picked up, bending the trees and shoving the car all over the road. Maria hung on to the steering wheel and kept us in our lane. A big rig approached from the other direction. I stared at it and knew that the driver would become distracted. I kept looking as we sped toward each other. Suddenly, the driver reached down for something, taking his eyes off the road. I yelled for Maria to hit the gas. Our car shot forward just before the tractor-trailer crossed into our lane. We both looked at each other with the same holy-shit expression. Once she recovered her breath, Maria asked what I was thinking.
“Eddie is toying with us,” I said.
“Yeah,” she replied. “I have to agree. If he wanted us dead, he would have made sure of it.”
* * *
We were about a half hour away when Maria needed a break. I didn’t want to stop, but she had a point. She would be waiting in the car the entire time I was in the prison with no way to use a bathroom. So we pulled over at a run-down gas station. She went around the back to the restrooms while I stayed in the car, worrying about everyone at home. I hoped they were okay. Bad things seem to ricochet and come back at you from unexpected directions. Usually where it hurts the most. I checked my phone—no calls or texts. I hoped that meant no bad news.
I impatiently tossed my phone in the back and laid on the horn. What the hell was taking Maria so long? I was getting more and more antsy as we got nearer. I felt very alone already, and sitting by myself in a car in front of a dilapidated gas station was not helping. I was reaching for the horn again when Maria rounded the corner of the building, waving a piece of paper.
“Come on. What the hell are you doing?” I said. “We have a timeline.”
She was talking away, but I coul
dn’t make out what she was saying as she climbed into the car. She tossed the paper at me as she buckled up. It was a piece of construction paper with what looked like a child’s drawing on it. A little girl held the hand of a woman who looked like me, complete with my shock of black hair. And the girl wore a yellow coat.
“What is this, Maria?” I managed to choke out.
“You tell me,” she said.
She had heard a girl come into the bathroom while she was in the stall. It was a little creepy, Maria continued. The bathroom had no windows, was badly lit, and felt a little like a dungeon. When she came out to wash her hands, the girl was standing in the corner. Maria said she asked the girl if she was okay. The girl walked over and said, “Give this to her.”
“Her who?” Maria asked.
“Who I am now,” she said the girl replied, before handing Maria the drawing and running off.
“Not through the door,” Maria told me as we sat in the car, “but through the wall.” She turned to look at me. “Okay, now I’m losing my mind. Tell me I’m losing my mind, and I’ll feel better.”
I couldn’t tell her that. Before I could come up with something else to say, she shook her head and rubbed her face, trying to shake it off. “Forget it,” she said. “Who am I to think anything is strange?”
I silently folded the drawing and hid a smile. It was confirmation. Jane was still by my side. Maria asked again if I was sure I hadn’t seen a girl in a yellow raincoat. I shook my head. I had never told her about the child I had been in a former life, and I did not have the strength to go into it right then.
We continued on and finally reached the prison. The parking lot was almost empty. The prison itself looked like a fort, with a thirty-foot wall surrounding it. There was little vegetation around, like even the soil itself was tainted in this place. And there to greet me were the dead. It was a line of souls, ghostly figures who had once lived and loved, who now seemed to be waiting for their chance to confront the people who took their last breaths. They showed the scars from their wounds and from their autopsies. Some had faces so torn apart I could not make them out. They stood in a line right up to the prison walls. I knew they wanted their own revenge, not against me but against those inside the prison, but I did fear them. Maybe they were waiting for me to lead them inside.
It is said that God comes in strange ways. But the devil does, too. He brings certain people together, and it is not mistake or coincidence. In the end, you have only your faith to carry you forward. And you can go forward, but you can’t reach the castle until you defeat the monsters of the forest first.
I got out of the car with the drawing in my bag and walked through the gate. I did not look back.
TWENTY-TWO
I stopped in the bathroom before I reached the guard station and pulled my water bottle out of my bag. The prison wives and girlfriends crowded in the bathroom with me. They took turns using a small mirror to doll themselves up. Everyone was chattering excitedly, and no one noticed me douse my head with my murky-looking liquid. Never underestimate your opponent. I said a prayer for my safe return as the holy water dripped down off my hair. It was time.
* * *
At the guard station, I gave the officer Eddie’s name and ID number and handed over my own ID. It was like going through security at the airport. Belt off, clothing inspected, searched head-to-toe. The guard went through my bag and pulled out a box of crayons. An entire box of just the color red.
“Hey, you can’t take this in,” he said. “And how did you find a box of all red crayons? Is this a joke?”
I’d had no idea it was in there, and I had no idea where it had come from. I couldn’t tell him that, though. I cleared my throat. “No, sir. It must have been my kid. The things they do. I will definitely have a talk with her when I get home. Silly little girls . . .” I rambled on for a minute, playing dumb. It was better than telling him the truth. He eyed me carefully and told me I could have them back after my visit. I smiled. Of course.
He was a hard-ass, but I didn’t blame him. These correctional officers put their lives at risk every day as they dealt with the most deadly criminals around. One slipup can cost many lives. This hit home as he slid a paper toward me to sign that stated that if an incident should unfortunately occur, authority figures would not be held responsible for my life or safety. Basically, you’re on your own. Well, I was certainly familiar with that. I signed it and went inside.
* * *
I passed through several checkpoints on my way to Eddie. It was like going on a road trip, where you tour faraway lands and show your papers at dusty outposts. With each one, I felt like I was farther and farther from American soil. By the time I got to the visiting room, I was definitely in a foreign land.
Other people filled the room, family members and friends of the incarcerated. As I watched them eagerly await their loved ones, I couldn’t help but think about what the loved ones of all the victims were doing at that moment. All those families and friends of all those murder victims, all over the world. They didn’t get visiting hours. They didn’t get Christmas cards in the mail. They just got to go through life in a state of half existence. They just got to rattle around in a garden that once bloomed but was now choked with weeds. The loved ones of murder victims deserved more than that.
I was ushered to a seat at a small school-type desk, just like the one I’d seen so many times in Eddie’s bedroom. Just like the one he sat and plotted at, as a child and as a man. And his terrible visions had come true.
A large gate banged open and the inmates filled the room, heading for their visitors. They all walked and dressed the same, but their one real element in common was internal. They had all found God. Their thoughts were so clear. “The burden is now in God’s hands. See, I’m all better now that I’m locked up.” Too bad they hadn’t figured this out before they made the choices that brought them here. Still, it was ironic. The one thing most people on the outside had lost, they had found.
And then there was the last person to enter. Two armed guards came through the gate. One stopped and held it open, and then there Eddie stood, just as I have seen him so many times. In my home. In my dreams. In my bedroom. In my mirror. Beside me. Within me. And then, like the double exposure of a photo, there appeared to my eyes the tall man in black, right over Eddie, his twin.
The tall man in black dissolved, and again, it was just Eddie. He mouthed something silently, but I heard it from twenty feet away as though he were whispering in my ear.
“We are together again.”
The visiting room turned quiet as a tomb. The guards stood still as mannequins. The chatter of others died away. Everyone began to fade. Eddie had that ability. As my eyes went slowly around the room, I saw him doing the same thing. He held his hands out, free from restraints, and smiled. Time began again, and the guards started to move forward. Both kept hands on their guns as they walked alongside him. He was the only prisoner who got such an escort, all the way to the little desk where I sat. We were kept away from the rest of the inmates and visitors, toward the back of the room. No one was sure of what Eddie would do.
As he approached, I noticed a huge clump of dust blow out from the corner and stop right at my foot. Eddie chuckled as he pulled out his tiny chair and then spoke before I could say a word.
“Isn’t this cozy, Jackie? I like how you noticed the insignificant ball of dust. To them it all means nothing. Only you looked. Only you followed it with your eyes.” He turned in his chair, taking in the entire room, where people were slowly returning to movement and talk. He turned back. “Let’s talk about that ball of dust, Jackie.”
I sat and watched him as he spoke. How could he get up every day knowing what he had done? But that slipped from my thoughts quickly, because I knew what drove him, the dark soul underneath that needed to be fed.
“It was a test, and you passed. The others passed, but not the same way. The
y weren’t supposed to notice. Just like the thousands of people that don’t see or believe. You see. You noticed something that everyone else takes for granted. It means nothing; it had no meaning. No money, no future or past. But yet, it has substance and takes up space, so just because they didn’t see it roll around the room, does it mean it doesn’t exist?”
I knew what he was talking about. The things, the people, the actions that slip by other people. I looked into his eyes and saw the deep black pools, sharp and cunning, showing me the demon that dwelled in him. And that now sat across from me in the flesh.
He asked me how it had felt to witness the killings, the screams, the fires, the torture. How I couldn’t do a damn thing about it. How I must live with it. How did it feel to be a victim? He grabbed my hand. “I’m sorry, Jackie, I couldn’t wear black for you, the clothes you’re used to seeing me in. They don’t allow it in[side] these walls I creep in and out of.” He closed his eyes and began quoting bastardized Bible verses. “And the Lord was my weak lamb; I shall fear not a fucking thing. Oh, how the flock is weak!” He smiled and caressed my hand. I took his hand off mine and put mine under the desk.
“Enough, Eddie. I’m not scared of you. I’m here now. What do you want from me?” I wanted him to back off, and I wanted to give myself time to figure out what he was up to.
He sat back and said, “I want to show you something pretty extraordinary.”
We stared at each other and then I felt something cutting into the palm of my right hand, fast and hard. I pulled my hands out from under the desk. There, plain as day, a series of letters was carved into my right hand, all with jagged edges that were starting to bleed.
My name is Patricia and you killed me!
I quickly squeezed it into a fist and covered it with my left hand. I didn’t want the guards or superintendent to see and think I had smuggled in something. I had been terrified for weeks that Patricia would inhabit my body when I finally saw Eddie. But she wanted to face him. She was back because she wanted to show him that she was no longer scared. She had stopped running.
The Haunting of the Gemini Page 21