Call Me Dreamer

by Ryan Maitland

  Rather than take the hint that I don’t want his finger in my face, Mr. Astard grabbed my arm, pinching it tightly!

  “Ow! Ow! Ow!” I whined, struggling to get out of his grip. Hell and blast! This was going to leave a nasty bruise!

  When I looked into Mr. Astard’s eyes, I saw a murderous intent in them!

  I started fearing for my life! This man was not going to stop!

  “Let her go!” Anne demanded, rushing to my aid. “Now!” she yelled. “Before I call the police!” she added, since her first two warnings didn’t seem to have any effect!

  “Hell and Blast!” I screamed at the man, my fury overriding my sense. “Mr. Boday was huge! Do you really think I could haul him to the cemetery and kill him! I’m not physically capable of doing that even if I wanted to!”

  “Well, nobody else had a motive!” he snarled at me, still not letting go. “He was loved by everyone!”

  “Even Harriett?” I snapped before I could think better of it.

  “How do you know that name?” he demanded, his voice equal parts fear and a predatory maliciousness.

  “It was in the news!” I lied, figuring the death of the man’s wife had to have been in the news.

  “She’s got the devil in her!” one of the boys accused. This was enough to bring back a flood of memories I thought I had buried long ago. Memories of canings and spankings and endless humiliations filled my head, their shouts drowning out all reason.

  I confess I don’t remember what happened immediately after that. I remember that I found myself backing into the wall, hyperventilating, and feeling tears running down my cheeks. When I realized that the wall was in my way and that I couldn’t push through the wall, the way ghosts can, I made a beeline for the back of the store and the back exit where I could find my bike and just… actually my plans didn’t extend past getting away from the pain and misery of buried memories.

  “Jane!” Anne called. “Jane, wait!” she repeated when I didn’t respond.

  “I should go,” I croaked, fighting a flood of tears. “I didn’t mean to cause trouble…”

  “Jane,” Anne admonished, taking a few steps closer. I stepped out of her reach when I heard she had come too close. “Jane,” she whispered in a soothing voice. “You’re not causing trouble. That asshole out front is!”

  It’s not often that Anne swears, especially within earshot of customers, so when she does, it gives you an idea of just how angry she was!

  “He’s doing it because of me…” I whispered, still facing away from her. “His friend confronted me on the street one day. He gave off a bad vibe and I was weird about it and fled from him. He, then, told his friend about it and now he’s dead and the man out front thinks I did it…”

  “Which makes him the jerk, not you!” Anne insisted.

  “He won’t go away while I’m here,” I retorted. “If I stay, he’ll harass customers or come after me…”

  “You think he’ll hurt you?” Anne asked, now fully concerned.

  “I think he’ll kill me if he gets a chance…” I whimpered. “I saw it in his eyes. He won’t stop.”

  “Then I’ll call the police,” Anne insisted. “The way he grabbed you is assault! They can get him on that!”

  It was then that I realized I was rubbing my arm where he had grabbed me and I wondered, idly, whether the bruise had formed yet.

  “You know how I wanted tomorrow and Halloween off?” I asked Anne in what must have seemed like an abrupt change of topic. “Do you think I could start my time off now instead?”

  “Of course you can…” Anne answered quietly.

  “Thank you,” I nodded before beating a hasty retreat.

  The weather had turned from overcast to a light drizzle, which made my ride home absolutely miserable.

  But at least the rain hid my tears…

  Chapter 11

  A New Mission

  On my way home, I had decided that I needed to do something about the situation. I had avoided offering any kind of help in catching the killer because I figured it wasn’t my problem. Besides, I preferred finding missing or kidnapped people since I got the payoff of seeing them reunited with people that loved them, letting me live out a childhood fantasy. This case? I didn’t see the payoff other than putting a bad person away, after the fact.

  But things were different now…

  Now, thanks to this killer who just happened to have killed someone I had met who, coincidentally, later implicated me and who just happened to have a jerk of a friend that didn’t know when to let something go when there was evidence that contradicted their beliefs, I was forced to decide whether I should wait it out while they continued to harass me or whether I should take action and get this creep off the streets and finally vindicate myself.

  I don’t like bullies. Never have, never will. I was bullied all my life and I would not be cowed by this one.

  I entered my house with a feeling of determination as I shucked off my coat and grabbed the phone before I could change my mind. I was about to call the number Earl had given me, and go through the whole rigmarole of getting him to call me back when the damned phone rang in my hand! The caller ID showed it was coming from a blocked number.

  “Hello?” I answered, somewhat freaked out.

  “It’s Earl. Call me,” came the businesslike voice of my CIA contact right before he disconnected.

  Now, I know this probably seems strange to call someone only to tell them to call you right before hanging up, but this was actually code. Earl wanted me to call him in such a way that it couldn’t be traced by anyone. It’s a method that only I was capable of.

  I set the phone down, grabbed a flashlight, and headed to the basement. The basement was cool and slightly damp all year round, with just the faintest aroma of mold and must. Flicking on the lights, I could see several spiders taking up residences in their webs along the ceiling and I saw one or two centipedes patrolling on the floor, looking for any beetle foolish enough to enter their domain.

  My little pest-controllers…

  As far as basements go, I’m sure mine would rank among the creepiest. It’s filled with wooden shelves that I think were originally used to store wine and other pantry stables. Now all the shelves were empty, save for the spiders. There was a large sealed bucket of something, sealer or grout I think, left there by some renovators that I never got around to moving. I could also see handprints in the dust on the floor, walls, and ceiling. The hands were small, so I figured they were from Peter and Wendy playing down here. Drawn in the dust were several games of tic-tac-toe, which seemed definitive proof of the kids playing down here.

  I walked to a corner in the far wall, where the light had difficulty reaching, and turned on the flashlight, scanning for the false vent I needed. The vent was something Earl had suggested as a way to disguise the safe hidden behind it. The vent was dark metallic grillwork with a black backing. I opened it by pulling out and up as it moved on spring-assisted hinges. Behind it was a small metal safe. I keyed in the combination, hit the open key, and turned the lock. Inside the safe were two shelves that held seemingly random bric-a-brac from a small gold bracelet, a five-year sobriety coin, and a gold ring. Each is valuable in its own way, but to me they were a means of contacting those who knew about what I could do.

  I grabbed the gold ring with the blue stone and the words ‘semper fi’ engraved on the outside and relocked the safe, hiding it once more behind the false vent.

  I went back upstairs to the dining room, sitting in my usual chair. I held the ring loosely in my fingertips, testing the connection with my mind before grabbing it firmly and plunging into the mind of Earl, my liaison.

  “Ring, ring,” I spoke into his head just loud enough to be heard.

  Earl was sitting in an empty office room that he liked to use whenever he wanted me to contact him this way. On the desk was a phone and a blank notepad along with a computer monitor that seemed to be turned off at the moment. Any bit of sensitive info
rmation was carefully tucked away, lest I see something I shouldn’t.

  “Jane, good, I’m glad you called,” he answered, staring at the black monitor like he was having a video chat.

  “I was actually just about to call you,” I replied, though not out loud like he was. With practice, I had gotten the hang of having a purely mental conversation, without having to say anything out loud. I figured this was better than the possibility of any bug (or random person) overhearing my side of the conversation. Earl, though, still needed to talk out loud to show what he wanted me to hear, rather than just his random thoughts.

  “Oh? Why?” he asked, feeling nervous.

  “A man was killed in town,” I answered as calmly as I could. “I met him once, but now that he’s dead, his friend is harassing me. I thought it would blow over, but he’s only getting worse…”

  “What are you asking?” Earl asked, sounding even more concerned.

  “I’m asking you to help me find the killer,” I replied, feeling resolute that I would do whatever it took to get whatever help he could offer.

  I could feel Earl smile as he sighed with relief.

  “Well, I’m glad I won’t have to convince you!” he chuckled.

  “Convince me of what?” I asked, feeling confused. I was trying hard not to pry into his thoughts, but if he was going to be this vague, I couldn’t make any promises!

  “I was going to ask you for help in finding this killer!” he sobered, the mirth disappearing as quickly as it had come. “Your victim is the fifth one since last year, and there’s been one more since him…”

  I suppressed a small gasp, not wanting Earl to hear the shock and horror I felt at this news.

  “They’ve dubbed him ‘the cryptic killer’,” Earl added unhelpfully. “It seems he likes to burn numbers into the body of his victims and dump them in cemeteries.”

  “So why come to me?” I asked, starting to regret this.

  “One of our more reliable drunkies told us you should help,” he sighed, picturing a lean, bearded, man that looked homeless.

  “Drunkies?” I asked, not knowing that particular term. The people on Project Aesop have come up with a unique slang language when describing psychics and their abilities. I figured this was slang for one such ‘gift’.

  “Sensitives that get glimpses of the future,” Earl confirmed. “We call them drunkies because they tend to use alcohol as a coping mechanism for the nightmares they get.”

  I should probably explain something about psychics here…

  There are two broad types of psychic abilities. You’ve got sensitives and you’ve got broadcasters. Sensitives are those that can sense things outside the normal range. Spookies, those that can see or hear ghosts, and mentals, those that can read minds, are both sensitives, as are empaths, those that can sense the emotions of others. Broadcasters are those that can project something to another. One of my… acquaintances is a cultist, meaning that people inherently trust anything he says to them because he’s broadcasting some kind of signal that overrides the little voice in our heads that warn us of suspicious people. He’s also a consummate con-man…

  They used to believe that psychics were either a sensitive or a broadcaster… or somewhere along that range. That is, one that is a strong sensitive, would be a weak broadcaster, and vice-versa.

  That is… until I came along… You see, I’m a strong sensitive, in that I can see and hear ghosts and accurately read someone’s mind, but I’m also a strong broadcaster in that I can project my voice directly into the head of another with perfect fidelity.

  Yeah, even among the freaks, I’m a freak…

  “Okay,” I sigh, filing this away under things to think about later. “So why do they think I can help?” I finally ask.

  “We’re not sure,” Earl answered, feeling a little weary. “We were hoping you might be able to help with that.”

  “Help how?” I asked, bracing myself for an answer I was sure I wouldn’t like.

  “By poking around in his head,” he answered bluntly.

  “You want me to go into the head of another drunk?” I asked, a little bitter. My first experience of drunkenness by proxy was enough to last me a long time.

  “Look,” Earl declared, his voice getting stern. “The drunky tends to be a bit incoherent and hard to understand. We figured that if we got someone that could actually speak clearly into his head, we might learn more about what he’s seeing and so stave off potential disasters.”

  “All right!” I grouse. “Fine! I’ll do it, if it’ll help get this damned killer and clear my name!”

  “Good,” Earl sighed, satisfied. “Can you get the next few days off?”

  “Already done,” I advised him.

  “Excellent!” he beamed. “I’ll bring Jeremiah and Monet and we’ll be there in the morning to prepare you.”

  “Jeremiah?” I asked, not recognizing the name. I recognized the name of the other man Earl mentioned, and dreaded his visit. Monet Baggs is the cultist I talked about before. He’s got kind of a crush on me as I am the only woman that has ever turned him down. I guess I have some kind of immunity to his ability, either because I have tough mental shields or because I’m also a strong broadcaster. Nobody is really sure which…

  “The drunky,” he answered matter-of-factly.

  “Okay,” I sighed, feeling worn out from this long conversation using my ability. “Wait, why are you bringing Monet?” I asked, a little heatedly.

  “He’ll prepare you,” Earl shrugged.

  “Prepare me for what?” I demanded.

  “Prepare you for the FBI,” he answered, gearing up for another explanation. “He’s good at makeup and disguise, since he uses it so often as one of our agents. We can’t risk him or you being seen without a disguise as it might lead to others finding out who you really are, which would put everyone in danger.”

  “If you insist…” I muttered a little angrily.

  “I do,” he answered sternly.

  “Okay, I’ll see you in the morning, then,” I tell him right before disengaging from his mind.

  I found myself back at my dining room table with Peter and Wendy staring at me from the doorway. They looked worried.

  “I’m okay, kids,” I try to assure them, but since this is immediately followed by three consecutive yawns, I don’t think they believe me.

  “Food,” I mutter, feeling exhausted. “I just need some food…”

  Using my ability like that, what with the back-and-forth, is really tiring. It helps that the ring was such a good focus, but even so, projecting my voice into Earl’s head loud enough for his consciousness to hear me is enough for me to need a nap to recover from it.

  I put the ring in a pocket so Peter and Wendy aren’t tempted to hide it somewhere I’ll never be able to find it, and head to the kitchen to reheat some leftovers and make a large pot of coffee, figuring I was too tired to prepare anything without accidentally burning down the house. I stand anxiously by the coffeemaker waiting for it to brew enough for the first cup, and almost doze off with my head in my arms on the counter!

  After I practically inhale the first cup, I set to work putting the ring back in the safe, pour another cup, then eat a hasty dinner before preparing a bag with several days’ worth of clothes. I also make sure to pack a few bags of jerky and Mr. Fluffybutt, of course.

  Mr. Fluffybutt is a stuffed rabbit that looks like it used to be the childhood toy of Victor Frankenstein. He was made ages ago, before bears were deemed the stuffed animal of choice. He has been re-stitched numerous times, as his mismatching arms and eyes will attest. He’s also lost his big floppy ears, his cotton tail, and most of the fur on his body. To most people, he’s a hideous toy that they fear would give their children nightmares, but to me, he’s the most precious object I’ve got. After careful research, I have determined that he’s been passed down parent-to-child and older sibling to younger sibling for at least five generations. This little stuffed animal is so infused
with feelings of love and safety that I could feel the buzzing in my senses from under a pile of other items in a large box!

  I love him so… If I was going after a killer, there’s no way I was going to leave Mr. Fluffybutt behind!

  With all that done, I head upstairs and fall into bed. I’m so exhausted that I’m pretty sure I was asleep before my head hit the pillow…

  Chapter 12

  Jeremiah

  I must have needed the sleep more than I thought, because the next thing I remember clearly is Wendy shouting at me that somebody was pulling up into the driveway.

  “Um, what?” I mumble, likely incoherently.

  “Someone is coming up the drive!” Wendy repeated, looking frustrated. I think she might have been shouting for a while.

  “Where’s Peter?” I ask as I get unsteadily to my feet. I’m in the master bedroom and my clothes are wrinkled and I’m certain my hair is a mess. The clock shows the time as nine o’clock and I realize I have slept for over twelve hours! This realization is enough to jolt me awake enough to search my memory and explain why Wendy is shouting at me.

  Something about Earl, crypts, and booze…

  “Hurry up!” Wendy shouts, regaining my attention. I turn to her and see she has a worried look on her face. I stare at her for a long moment as I realize that this whole shouting bit and giving commands is out of character for this, otherwise, shy girl. This must be serious…

  “Okay,” I mumble to the girl as I make a quick side-trip to the bathroom to take care of some biological necessities before heading down the stairs to the front entrance to meet my guests.

  Even walking the little distance to the front door is enough to help wake me up so I’m mostly coherent by the time I see Earl get out of the car.

  Earl is a little taller than I am, has a lopsided goatee, and is always wearing a suit of some kind, no matter the weather. He opens the passenger-side door and pulls out a tall man that is almost skeletal in frame. His hair looks like it hasn’t ever heard of a comb and the beard would be the envy of any grizzly bear. In short, he looked more like a homeless man than an agent for the CIA.