by J. R. Rain
“And you told him to quit his radio show and work as a cabana boy in Florida, a man who says he needs to stay out of the sun because he burns easily?”
Bernie shrugged again and finished the rest of her mangorita. “What can I say, Allie?” She had her nickname for me, too. “Spirit works in mysterious ways.” She waved until she caught the server’s attention. “I’m only the messenger.”
“You are something,” I said into my own drink. Luckily, she didn’t hear me.
“So, what’s new with you, Allie Cat?” she asked after placing another drink order with our server, this time requesting that the bartender be a little more generous with the booze.
When the server was gone, I said, “I’m working with a client.”
“A client? What kind of client?”
“I met him through the Hotline—”
“We don’t meet with clients through the Hotline, Al. You know that. It’s against the rules.” She stressed the word and laughed and hiccupped, and now I laughed, too. One thing was certain: Bernie didn’t hold her liquor well.
“I know,” I said, still laughing, “but he needed help. More help than I could give him over the phone.”
“You could get in trouble for that. I’m being serious. It’s frowned upon, taking clients away from the Hotline.”
“I’m not taking any money.”
“Still, they would rather he spend his money on the phone, with experienced psychics. No offense, Al.”
“None taken,” I said, and stifled a smile.
Bernie truly thought that I wasn’t in her league. I was fairly new to the Psychic Hotline game, and she had been doing it for a number of years now.
“Be that as it may,” I said, “he wanted to meet me to see if I could help him further.”
“You should have asked me to come along, Al. You’re new to all of this, you could have, you know, made things worse.”
“Luckily,” I said, “I don’t think I did.”
“Luckily,” she said, shaking her head in a sort of big-sisterly way. “You newbies think you have all the answers. You should listen to us old-timers.”
“You’re younger than me,” I said.
She waved that off and accepted her new drink from the waitress. “You know what I mean. So, what did this guy need—wait, I know.”
“You do?” I asked.
“Of course. Geez, Al...who do you think you’re talking to? It’s me, Bernice Jepson, Psychic to the Stars.”
“Only one star, Bernie,” I said, “and it was the neighbor on Desperate Housewives.”
“But he lived on Wisteria Lane. Wisteria Lane, Allie Cat. The most famous lane, like, ever.”
“He didn’t live on it, he was an actor. And he was only on the show for two episodes—”
“But good enough to have been brought back for that second episode.” She shook her head sadly at me. “Anyway, let’s get back to your client.”
“Please.”
“He needed help looking for something,” said Bernie.
“Very good,” I said. Bernie was always pretty good at getting close to the very big picture, but that’s where any psychic skills she had trailed off into fantasy.
She nodded, pleased, and drank a lot from her mangorita. “He lost his car keys.”
“No.”
“His garage door opener?”
“How the heck would he lose a garage door opener?”
“I don’t know. But am I right?”
“No.”
“His cat?”
“No.”
“Dog?”
I thought about that. In fact, he had indeed lost his dog. “Kind of.”
“How do you kind of lose your dog?”
“It’s complicated,” I said.
Bernie drank more of her drink and as she did so, I saw something very, very unusual descend upon her. It was a bright ball of light that seemed to fall out of the ceiling, only to disappear down inside her shirt.
What the hell?
Bernie shivered a little and set down her drink. Although she had been glassy-eyed with alcohol, her eyes now looked clear and lucid. She reached out across the table and took my forearm. Her own were ice-cold to the touch. “Then let me uncomplicate things, child,” said Bernie in a voice that seemed raspier than her own, and older, too. “You find the dog and you find your answers.”
Bernice held my gaze, looking deeper into me than she’d ever had before. Then she released my hand, sat back and shivered.
The ball of light reappeared, hovered briefly, and then faded away.
Bernie immediately reached for her drink.
“Did he lose his car keys?” she asked again.
“You already asked that,” I said, still shaken.
“I did?”
“Yes.”
“Weird, yeah, I do remember asking that a few minutes ago. Sheesh, this mangorita is hitting me hard.”
“That’s probably it,” I said, and chewed on my lip—a bad habit—and thought about the missing dog, the murdered girl and my goofy friend being briefly possessed.
My life was weird.
Chapter Nine
I was sitting in my Spirit Chair, as I called it.
It was a big, comfy recliner with padded arms, padded headrest, and well, padded everything. I read here. I meditated here. I tuned into the spirit world here. This was my spot, my place, my escape from the world. No one sat here but me. My phone was turned off. Hell, even my bedroom door was locked symbolically, even though I was the only one who lived in my apartment.
Next to the chair were my favorite spiritual books piled on a small table. Behind the table was a short bookcase filled with even more books. Also on the table was a CD player for meditation CDs, a dowsing amulet tucked away in a black velvet pouch, and a pen and pad of paper for random notes to myself. Yes, I love my dowsing amulet...my direct link into the spirit world.
Then again, I could just be crazy as a bat. If anyone asked my mom, she would vote for crazy. My mom was quite religious and thought anything that “tuned in” to the spirit world was a device intended to confuse us, and allowed the Devil’s minions access to our thoughts and world.
I thought my mom was cute, and appreciated her concern.
But I had other ideas.
Now, I wasn’t meditating or dowsing or reading. I was sitting here in my overstuffed chair with the watercolor painting of Sparky spread over my lap, my legs crossed beneath me, wearing my biggest, fluffiest socks.
So far, I wasn’t getting anything. Not even a tingling. I hated it when that happened. Nothing.
Wherever little Penny was, she wasn’t with me now. And how to access her, or the energy within this painting or who the devil killed her, was still beyond me.
Maybe Bernie was right. Maybe I was doing more harm than good. And hadn’t Bernie also said, “Find the dog, and you will find your answers.”
Except, of course, I was fairly certain that wasn’t Bernie speaking.
I sighed, set the painting aside, and reached for the book on Wicca...
Chapter Ten
Three hours later, I closed the book.
Okay, that was an experience. That was also fairly life-changing, although I still wasn’t sure what to make of what I had just read.
Pagans and spells and rituals and sex—sweet mama, all the sex!
Wicca was an Earth-based religion...and one that did not seek out converts. You found your way to Wicca, one way or another.
I thought of the book appearing in the hallway, and snorted. It may not seek out converts, but it sure as hell had a funny way of finding me.
I drummed my fingers on the hardback book.
Seriously, what had I just read?
And was it something I was willing to look deeper into?
I had been raised Catholic. Witches were considered evil, Satan’s spawn. I never believed they were, of course, although I was certainly aware that some of us could tap into darker energies...that, in fact,
dark energies had tapped into some of us.
I shuddered again at my own recent experience with demonic possession. And to think that my good friend, Samantha Moon, lived with such a possession daily.
Jesus.
It was getting on midnight. The witching hour? I nearly laughed. Did I want a glass of wine? I thought so.
I got up from the Spirit Chair, stretched, and headed into the kitchen, carrying the book with me. As I poured myself a healthy finger or three of wine, my mind was on witches and festivals and Mother Earth, and wondering what the hell was happening to me.
My mind sure as hell wasn’t on ghosts.
Except that’s what I’m pretty sure just appeared before me, right there in my kitchen.
Chapter Eleven
I dropped the wine.
The glass promptly shattered, splashing wine everywhere, and sending glittering shards of glass everywhere. Alcohol abuse, as my friends in college would say. Anyway, I was pretty sure a shard had lodged into my toe, and I wasn’t sure if the red liquid pooling around my bare feet was blood or wine. Probably a little of both.
I continued looking at my feet...yes, there was a sparkly shard right there, lodged into my little toe. Poor piggie, I thought, and nearly laughed. I wondered if Samantha Moon would find my bloody toe appealing.
I laughed, because I was sure I was going nuts.
Still, I looked down, unable to look up, to confront what might still be in my kitchen. Correction, what I was certain was still in my kitchen.
Whoever it was, or whatever it was, I could feel it. No, not an it. The same woman from Peter Laurie’s house. The same woman who had appeared behind him. She was here, in my kitchen, standing over me. I could feel her compassion, her warmth, her love, her curiosity. Mostly, though, I could feel her determination. Her resolve. For what, I did not know.
I was going to have to eventually look up. I was going to have to eventually confront what, exactly, was in my kitchen. Damn, now the pain in my toe was setting in, too.
I had to do something. I couldn’t ignore the blood or the pain...or the ghost.
So, I raised my head slowly, very slowly, afraid to look, afraid of seeing what I knew was still standing there, watching me.
Correction, not standing.
Hovering...as in a few inches off the ground.
As in, I wasn’t even entirely sure she had feet.
As in, I was sure I was about to faint, and it certainly wasn’t because of the loss of blood. It wasn’t that much blood, after all.
It was because I was looking at my very first ghost.
* * *
As I braced myself on the kitchen counter, as I forced myself not to stagger and ultimately fall across the floor covered in broken glass, the woman in front of me spoke.
Yes, spoke.
Real words, in real time, for anyone within earshot to hear. “Breathe, dear. You’ve seen worse.”
She was right, of course. I had seen worse. I had felt worse, too. I had seen and lived through what many would consider a nightmare—and just recently, too. That I was still in one piece and not possessed by a demon was more a credit to my friend Samantha Moon keeping her cool than anything I had done. Hell, I had made things worse. But, again, that was another story for another time.
“Deep breaths, dear. Slowly.”
“Am I...am I dreaming?”
“No, dear.”
She was an old woman, perhaps very old. Like in her nineties and beyond. Yet, she had surprisingly wonderful posture, shoulder back, chin up, back straight, hands folded in front of her...at least, I think they were. Her hands were faded and hazy. Even crazier, she looked familiar. I’d seen her recently, and not just in Peter’s house.
“I don’t feel very well.”
“I don’t imagine you do, and I see that you cut yourself. It’s a little worse than you think. You need to take care of that, dear.”
“How do you—never mind,” I said, backing out of the kitchen slowly, bracing myself on the counter. Luckily, the glass smash and spill zone was further into the kitchen, toward the spirit now watching me closely. The spirit that I could see through.
With the path behind me relatively free of broken glass, I picked my way slowly, leaving a small trail of blood in my wake. The spirit, mercifully, did not follow. Instead, she watched me closely. At least, I thought she was watching me closely. Truth was, I was doing my best to avoid any kind of eye contact with her.
And when I was off the linoleum and on the carpet, I hopped up on one foot so as not to track blood through it...or, at least, that was the plan.
The reality was far less graceful.
I fainted right there on the carpet.
Chapter Twelve
I awoke in the same spot.
As I lay there blinking, face pressed against the white fibers, briefly wondering where the hell I was, and who I was with and how much I had drunk.
Until I remembered the ghost.
I gasped, but didn’t move or even open my eyes. I just lay there, accessing the situation.
I was fairly certain I was alone.
Of course you’re alone, an inner voice told me. Perhaps the last remnants of my logical ego. And ghosts don’t exist.
I nearly laughed at that as I sat up. I’d hit my head pretty hard, carpet or not. How long I was out, I didn’t know. A few minutes at least, maybe longer. Gingerly touching my head, I noted that I didn’t feel the same electrical, staticy feeling I’d felt when the spirit had manifested.
Definitely too weird for someone sober.
Yes, I still wanted that drink.
First, I hobbled into the bathroom. My toe had quit bleeding on its own, but it needed some doctoring. I did the best I could with my foot up on the sink, cleaning it first with hot water, then applying alcohol and peroxide. The attention to the wound had started the blood moving again, but not by much. Soon, my little piggie was bandaged and ready to face the world.
Ghosts and all.
I limped back into the kitchen and spent the next fifteen minutes sweeping and hunting down glass fragments like the Inglourious Basterds hunted down Nazis. Or not. When I had done my best sweeping and eyeballing the shards, I next used a small kitchen vacuum that I kept in a front closet. Now sweating a little, I finally had that glass of wine.
As I poured, I said, “Whoever you are, can you please wait until I’m sitting before scaring the unholy shit out of me?”
I waited for a response, didn’t get one—which relieved the hell out of me—and made my way into the living room. Once there, I set the glass down on a coaster on the glass coffee table, like a good girl, and, as I reached for the remote with every intention of wasting my night away in front of the TV, watching everything from nerds to half men to country singing contests, I saw something very strange lying by the remote.
It was the Wicca instructional book for beginners. A book that I’d left in my bedroom, by the Spirit Chair.
“Holy hell,” I said.
I glanced around my small apartment, hoping like crazy that I wasn’t about to see a floating old lady who, I was now fairly certain, was Peter’s departed mother.
I drank more wine.
A lot more wine.
Almost all of it.
The book. It was sitting on the arm of my couch, as if I’d just set it there minutes earlier. I hadn’t, of course. I’d been out cold on the carpet minutes earlier, and prior to that, I had last seen the book in my bedroom.
Even more curious, I could see that there was something in the book, something I hadn’t put there myself.
“Curiouser and curiouser,” I said.
I tentatively picked up the book. That something strange and miraculous was happening to me right now, I had no doubt. I could feel it. My skin was tingling. The hair on my head and arms bristled. It was as if the room was suddenly filled with a low dose of electricity. Although I was still new to the psychic world, I knew that something bigger than me was happening, happening right
now, and that I needed to be strong and power through and, most importantly...
“No more fainting,” I whispered to myself.
I opened the worn book carefully, turning to the page with the bookmark. The bookmark consisted of an old receipt of mine. Really, really old. I looked again, blinking. Three years old, in fact. From a car wash in North Hollywood. NoHo, as we called it here. I continued blinking, staring at it. The receipt must have been in an old pair of jeans. Or dropped and forgotten at the back of my closet. Or in an old drawer or even in my car. All I knew was that I sure as hell hadn’t seen it in years, and, quite, frankly, I barely remembered going to the car wash.
I was about to wad it up and toss it aside when a flash of memory occurred to me. Yes, I did, in fact, recall going to the car wash. This was back before I had met Victor, the man—or creature—who would first introduce me to the world of vampires.
Three years ago, I had been a personal trainer and somewhat aimless. Yes, I’d always known that I had some psychic skills, and a part of me had always wanted to explore that. But mostly, those thoughts had been in the background, flaring only briefly when I’d get a psychic hit, only to recede again quickly.
But one day, all that had changed, hadn’t it?
I nodded to myself. It had.
And it had changed at the car wash.
As I looked at the receipt and thought about that day, I gasped and said aloud, “You’ve gotta be kidding me.”
* * *
I didn’t remember much about the car wash, but I did remember the old woman watching me.
I had been sitting in the waiting area, probably reading a book or a magazine or on my phone texting. I’d just gotten into texting back then, and that had been the death of me. I both loved and loathed texting, as technology was both loved and reviled by me. It put a degree of separation between me and other people, and yet in some ways, like the Psychic Network, it was a tool to bring me close to people with whom I would not otherwise ever connect.
Anyway, I now remembered, more than anything about that day, the overwhelming feeling that someone had been watching me. The feeling was very familiar to what I was feeling now, here in my apartment. A slow, steady, ripple of electrical current. Almost a buzzing in my ears. Almost. A sense that eyes were on me, moving over me, penetrating me, looking so deeply that nothing was hidden. Nothing.