by Aiden James
Oh, and she didn’t grow up in Connecticut. Like the woman she so hated, she was born and raised in Trenton, New Jersey. That’s how she met Vito Travini, becoming his mistress at the tender age of seventeen.
Some things Angie did share with us were true. Like the fact Thomas and Sylvan Cabrini had three sons in addition to their lone daughter, Delores. She did grow up with three brothers, which leads us to some other interesting findings. When the coroner’s office completed their autopsy of Angie’s body—and keep in mind they didn’t know her real name was Delores Cabrini yet—they discovered something very interesting. Angie’s body looked like a female, but it wasn’t.
Say, what??
Yeah that’s right. The corpse had no ovaries…just a pair of testes that never dropped down. Her vagina was superficial, a shallow path to nowhere. So, technically Angie was a dude after all. A dude in a beautiful girl’s body, that is. Such information could account for the guy and girl I sensed pursuing us, and Fiona’s pronouncement that the killer ‘struggled in determining his sexual identity’.
But this gets even better…at least in terms of interesting. Once the findings were reported to Ed’s office, who in turn contacted the authorities in New Jersey, other medical documents soon came into play. These are hospital records from shortly after Delores’s birth. It turns out she was born a hermaphrodite, and rather than run the usual battery of tests to determine the dominant gender, Thomas Cabrini insisted they make the infant into a little girl. So they removed the phallus, and voila! the kid who should’ve been a David or Don became Delores instead.
No wonder she killed her dad later on. He was probably some sick incestuous letch who wanted a plaything. That alone would be horrible enough. To go through life as a male disguised as a female? Let’s just say it gave us all a more compassionate outlook on her. Of course, it doesn’t justify her actions, the brutal murders, but it does explain a lot. That’s probably where the ‘cutting’ behavior originated from, I imagine.
Anyway, I think that clears up any doubts concerning Fiona’s accuracy. Hell, if Angie had been aware of what Fiona told me in private about the ‘red haired dude’, she’d have seen for herself that my wife’s psychic gifts are the real deal.
What’s next for us?
Well, for one thing my band has a major showcase coming up in early November. A major metal label is interested in us. Really interested. But they want to see how a tough rock n’ roll audience reacts to us. We’re booked to play at some big auditorium in New York City the weekend after Halloween. Some place called the Palladium, I believe. Chris and Ricky are handling the arrangements, along with our manager, Michael.
So that’s cool—I’m totally jazzed.
However, I’m just as excited about what’s brewing for Nash-Vegas Paranormal. All the pilot investigations for the television series were shot in September, along with the first two studio audience installments. That gets aired toward the end of this month. Fiona and Jackie are handling everything regarding the series, but it looks promising. The corporate execs are already talking possible expansion to a national program.
That’d sure be nice.
In the meantime, it’s too early to quit my day gig. Call center B.S. remains the same, especially since our busiest season is upon us. The holidays.... You know, gotta sell the newest cell phones, rate plans, and be ready to try and fix whatever’s wrong with our service. There’ll be no shortage of unhappy vermin clogging the phone lines once the holidays get here. Of course, if any of my corporate bosses ever read any of this, I might get a really big promotion myself, and quickly. To ‘customer’.
That’s everything for now. Lots of irons in the fire usually translate to more to write about later. Stay tuned.
Oh, yeah, I almost forgot.
There is one other thing, and at this point I can’t tell if it’s a big deal or not. Fiona doesn’t sense much to worry about, so I try to remind myself of that fact. But it’s real hard to do sometimes…especially late at night when I’m alone. I could be driving home from band practice, watching late night TV by myself, or lying awake in bed—even with Fiona lying peacefully at my side.
That’s when I catch a glimpse of something. Something dark and menacingly cold. Usually out of the corner of my eye, and then it flits away, like the phantoms created by a car driving by, where the headlights impose shadows inside a darkened house through a window. Everyone should know what that’s like.
If only this was that definable, with a logical explanation, I’d have never mentioned it.
But always I sense this particular ‘presence’ before I see anything to confirm it, and often the gooseflesh along my arms and neck is what alerts me…there’s danger nearby.
I hope it’s some harmless ghost, traveling through on the way to some other place. May it get there soon, and may it not be someone I know. Someone whose death is pretty much my fault.
Okay, all my fault.
It better not be Delores Cabrini’s vengeful spirit. Angie.
That’d really suck!
The End
The Ungrateful Dead
Chapter One
I’m beginning to believe in the curse of Delores Cabrini.
You might know her better as Angela Meyers. ‘Crazy Angie’ is now famous in Nashville for a string of seven murders locally and two others back in New Jersey. Her killing spree would’ve gone on indefinitely had it not been for a lucky shot from a gun that I barely grasped in one hand while she attacked me with a meat cleaver. The lone bullet that left the gun ricocheted against her ribcage and ripped through Angie’s stone-cold heart.
That event in the heat of late July marked the end of my wife’s and my personal terror, and for much of the next year life was good. Since this past summer, however, things have changed…really changed. And, I’m not merely talking about how the weather does its annual switch from unbearably hot to drearily cold. Things have gone to shit again in a New York minute, Nashville style.
“I can’t believe they’re gone!”
My wife, Fiona, buried her head into my chest and sobbed uncontrollably as she said this. Her heated grief provided the only warmth I had experienced for the past half hour. She and I stood in a churchyard in nearby Mount Juliet, just to the northeast of Nashville. Tom Gaither and Justin Pierce had traveled with us to pay our final respects to George and Melissa Peters, who were gunned down in their carport this past Tuesday night—right after meeting with our paranormal investigative group in Nashville, to discuss some anomalies we discovered in the photographs from our trip to Shiloh the previous weekend.
Yes, we’re still thriving in the ghost hunting biz. For those unaware of what we mean by that, it’s like the guys working for TAPS and who preside over the highly successful “Ghost Hunters” television show. And, just to be clear, we are not some Johnny-Come-Lately’s. We’ve been doing this for as long as the guys and gals with TAPS have done it. We’ve also got our own TV gig. More on that in a moment….
The police are still looking for George and Melissa’s killer, or killers, since there were no witnesses to the ambushed massacre. Very little evidence had been left behind, other than the hollow-point bullet fragments that had exploded inside Melissa’s chest and nearly obliterated George’s head. Multiple shots that reflected tremendous anger, and the need to overkill.
Whoever had murdered them carried a deep-seated grudge—one that ignored the fact that the holidays were upon us. This warm and well-liked couple’s ripening corpses might’ve rotted for days outside their home had it not been for their only son, Trevor, finding his parents’ horribly violated bodies waiting for him when he arrived home from Knoxville. That was Wednesday morning, at the onset of Thanksgiving break from UT.
“I can’t believe they’re gone either,” I said, trying to soothe Fiona’s profound sorrow with tenderness. I wrapped my arms around her to bring her closer. “I’m so sorry. I feel incredibly bad for them, Trevor…and for you, too.”
What else cou
ld I say? It was the truth, and although I didn’t know George and Melissa as well as Fiona did, I still hurt inside. I ached for Fiona’s pain as well as the Peters’ boy and the rest of their family who had come to pay their respects that Saturday morning, and brave the cold drizzle as the couple was laid to rest.
Not to be left out, Tom and Justin moved closer to us, with Tom’s oversized umbrella sheltering my wife and me, and Justin from the elements. We surely looked a sight, all of us attired in full black and huddling together like Hogwarts wizards just outside the circle of relatives surrounding the grief-stricken kid whose life had been utterly shattered.
My heart especially ached for Trevor, even more than for his uncles and aunts, who shared the same shock that only those who have lost loved ones to tragedy can understand.
“I would imagine that none of us will want to continue our tour now that this has happened,” said Tom, quietly, while shaking his head.
“I don’t think it’s going to be that easy, since we have a contract with the television station…. Right, Fiona?”
Justin’s matter-of-fact tone could’ve used some softening, perhaps, and it appeared that Tom might upbraid him for his apparent insensitivity. But, Fiona intercepted Tom, raising her hand before he could go on.
“Justin’s right,” she advised, pulling herself back together enough to address us all. “I’m not sure if I can make it tonight…but the New York executives that threatened to pull the plug in early October when our ratings were low, are still not convinced the show is viable…. If we cancel tonight, then Monday’s airing will be in danger of being skipped, as well. And, if that happens….”
“Then we’ll be punked like a group of crackheads tryin’ to sleep under the Ellington Parkway Bridge,” said Justin.
It drew an immediate reactive snicker from me, and almost as quickly, a whispered rebuke from Tom. But that was nothing in comparison to the disdainful look the minister shot us.
“You two need to show some respect and shut the hell up!” Tom whispered, harshly.
For those unfamiliar with our group’s ongoing saga, Tom strongly resembles Oliver Reed, the actor, although he keeps his silver hair at shoulder length, similar to mine. The wire-rimmed glasses he prefers fogged up right then, seemingly in response to his ire. It made his light grey eyes look sort of creepy behind his heavy prescription lenses. Hell, even Justin looked away, which I was tempted to also do, but thought better of it.
Tom used to be as portly as the famous actor, too, but he had spent the past few months following a strict diet and a watered down version of PX90 that helped him shed more than forty pounds. With his improved physique and renewed energy level came a more confident, and even more outspoken persona.
Justin had a new sparring partner for his playful verbal jests, and the two had become almost friends, making our paranormal investigation get-togethers more lively than before.
“Just because you look more like Wyatt Earp than Elmer Fudd these days, don’t be thinkin’ you can shoot the double-barreled shotgun in your mouth any better than before,” Justin chided him, and I felt Fiona’s trembling body stiffen as she prepared for the latest round between the two. She peered at Justin warily through her long, curly blonde locks.
I realize not all of you are familiar with my previous account, detailed in the book Deadly Night. That’s okay…we’ll have plenty of time to get acquainted during the next few weeks, as NashVegas Paranormal—our little ghost hunting group—wraps up work on a tour of the major Tennessee Civil War battlegrounds and graveyards located throughout the state. Even though the famed battles took place at different times from 1861 until the war ended in 1865, we chose to carry out our five-week expedition in conjunction with the Battle of Franklin’s one hundred and forty-eighth anniversary.
As Fiona mentioned, the local television station that had supported our investigative ventures since just over a year ago was losing patience with us, mostly due to lower than expected ratings. Despite the fact we were killing every other locally filmed program’s ratings, it was tough to sell our long-term viability to the suits in New York who own Nashville’s station and a bevy of others across the country. Their plans for eventual syndication were about to be scrapped. That is, until Fiona came up with the brilliant idea to hold our long-planned tour of the most significant Civil War burial sites in Tennessee to commemorate The Battle of Franklin celebration, one of the war’s bloodiest conflicts.
Almost immediately, the station manager lightened up on us, and our previously ignored requests for better equipment and higher funds to properly assist with our investigations were no longer disregarded. With renewed hope, we set out in earnest to make the tour happen, and the last two weekends had been very productive.
But now, the co-hosts handpicked by Fiona were dead.
“Oh, so maybe I should invest in some gold chains and begin talking in urban slang so I can dummy myself down to your level, huh?”
Ouch! They might be getting along swimmingly these days, but did Tom need to go there? Dude was straddling a delicate line with what some would consider a bigoted putdown. And, Tom’s statement was far from accurate, too. Justin just might be the smartest person in our group, other than Jackie and Fiona. Maybe Tom’s jealous of Justin’s chiseled facial features that draw many a comparison to either the Eagles’ Michael Vick or the comedian, Chris Rock. Justin carries himself very well, and is one of only four hundred African-American enthusiasts that embrace Civil War history. I’d say he knows a helluva lot more about the battles and regiments that lost thousands than Tom could ever begin to keep up with.
“Oh, I’m sorry, T-man,” said Justin, snickering slyly. “I guess I was premature in stating you had progressed from Mr. Fudd to someone in the real world. You’re more like the Foghorn Leghorn we used to know. ‘Now what, I say what’s the big idea bashin’ me in the bazooka that-a-way boy!’”
Ha! That got both of us lighter-skinned guys chuckling…loud enough to be plainly heard by everyone.
“Please, all of you…stop!” Fiona hissed, pointing to Reverend Ozie Nolan, who had been pulled away for the second time from his sermon to the small crowd of thirty gathered around the gravesite. This time, most of the others looked our way, too.
“Sorry,” I mouthed toward them, before offering a sheepish smile to my wife. My own long dark locks offered nothing to hide behind since my hair was pulled back in a ponytail that afternoon. And the boyish blue eyes that sometimes hold sway over the opposite sex were useless against Fiona’s ire. I didn’t dare engage either of my compadres further, since I had no intention of sharing the smoldering pile of horseshit they had created.
Fiona’s lovely eyes had already morphed to a darker green from her grief, but they carried a fiery gold rim around the irises as her angry gaze moved from one to another among us. Tom looked at his feet, as I would’ve advised, but Justin seemed to find it impossible to look away. No, it’s not an attraction thing, since he’s got his own girl and like me, Justin is a monogamous kind of guy. But he’s often remarked how Fiona’s eyes being able to morph into different colors depending upon her mood, environment, and even the clothes she wears has always fascinated him.
“Should I say something to Lakisha about you disrespecting the dearly departed?”
“No…no, ma’am,” said Justin, snickering again as he finally looked away. “Your eyes ain’t got nothin’ on hers when she’s got a bone to pick.”
“Then, shhhhh!” she said, muting her voice but not its forcefulness.
I hated the warmth from my own embarrassment, as it quickly spread from my face to the back of my neck. But thankfully, the sermon soon resumed and we had a reprieve, one that lasted until we had to interact with the grieving family that now resented our presence. I suddenly wished I’d heeded Fiona’s earlier advice, and had encouraged our two problem children to stay home. I especially wished it when the minister talked about George and Melissa’s giving hearts and what they meant to the community of
Mount Juliet.
Fiona soon wept again. Quietly, this time, as if she somehow blamed herself for causing the previous altercation between Justin and Tom. But the two of them were at peace once more, and they were almost like brothers. They stood closer to one another than before, and then chuckled together at a joke told by the Reverend Nolan. It reminded me of my boys, Ryan and Alex, and how the aftermath of their fights bore similar camaraderie.
Finally, the service ended, and under the ever-darkening sky as dusk approached, we were able to say one last goodbye to our friends. The family and Reverend Nolan seemed to readily forgive us for our earlier indiscretion—I’m sure largely on account of Fiona’s nonparticipation in it. My sin may only have been that I laughed in an inappropriate place and time…but it was a sin just the same. And, it wasn’t only the stern looks from the minister and mourners that accused me.
As we exited the old churchyard and the multitude of slate and marble grave markers that had steadily grown more populous over the past one hundred and fifty years, I thought I heard something. It was almost undecipherable in the frigid breeze that whistled among the bare elms and tombstones.
“Death is coming…death is coming again!” whispered the soft feminine voice. “Hopefully it comes for you soon… Cracker Jack!”
Perhaps it was my paranoia, and my mind had ‘matrixed’ a presence in the breeze that wasn’t there. Maybe I’ve been thinking too much about Delores Cabrini, or Angie, as we knew her. Maybe I was subconsciously thinking about her pet name for me….
“I heard it, too,” said Fiona, as I opened the passenger door to our Camaro for her. “It was her. She’s still around, probably gloating about all of this….”
That was the last thing spoken between us as we headed back to Nashville. Only the radio provided comfort and a distraction from what had just happened. After all, it’s hard to carry on a conversation when the woman you love is weeping.