Psychic City

by Page Turner

  Every word would end up as a weapon. Bouncing to a new word didn’t fix anything; it simply delayed the inevitable.

  The spirit didn’t spit when saying “tuey,” but this was just as likely on account of the fact that the spirit presumably lacked salivary glands as anything else.

  “As I was saying before I was so unnecessarily interrupted,” the spirit continued, “you psychics are thin-slicing perception just as much as anyone else. Do you see more than normals? Sure. Different things? Sure. But you’re far from being able to see the whole picture. Which you won’t admit. There’s an arrogance about you that won’t let you ever admit that.”

  “An arrogance?” Penny said.

  The spirit nodded. “I’d wager it’s a protective arrogance. Like defensive narcissism. Where you’ve been attacked so long and you’ve spent yourself puffing your ego up so large as a result that you completely lose perspective. On your limitations. Your weaknesses.”

  “Interesting theory,” Penny said in a bored tone of voice that indicated that she actually felt the opposite way.

  The spirit sighed. It was a curious sound. It sounded strangely real, like the spirit were breathing. If Penny didn’t know any better, she would have sworn the spirit had lungs. “Look, all I’m saying is that you’d do better if you didn’t interfere with the Families or anything they’re doing. Even if it means walking away from a murder case, leaving it unsolved.”

  Penny cocked her head. And just how did the spirit know about that? The list of things this spirit shouldn’t know was getting uncomfortably long.

  The spirit smiled.

  “Are you threatening me?” Penny asked.

  “No,” the spirit said. “I’m doing you a favor. People much more important than you have regretted running afoul of the Families. Or vanished. I just thought you should know.”

  “Well, thanks for the information,” Penny replied, coldly.

  “Suit yourself,” the spirit said.

  At that moment, the kitchen light turned on spontaneously and flared to a brightness Penny didn’t know it was capable of, blinding her. The glass in the fixture promptly broke a split second later, spraying slivers down on the kitchen floor.

  When Penny’s vision finally cleared from the flash and she could once again see, the spirit was gone.

  Again, no footsteps, no sound of doors opening or closing. No indication that her visitor had left by conventional means.

  Penny grumbled and went to the closet to get a broom and dustpan.

  It occurred to Penny only after she’d finished sweeping up the shards of glass that there was no corpse in her kitchen. No body for the spirit to have come from.

  Although there was a dirty fork in the sink… and she did spy what appeared to be a business card dropped on the floor where the spirit had stood only moments before.

  “What kind of spirit leaves their contact information?” Penny wondered aloud as she bent over and picked it up.

  The card was cheaply made, looked less like something professionally printed and more like something that had been spit off a bubble jet running out of one or more colors of ink. She recognized the cardstock from the office supply store. The cheapest grade.

  Looking for a Change? The card read. Try Change Patterson!

  “Is this ghost running for local government?” Penny asked herself, giggling. “A personal injury lawyer maybe.”

  She studied the grainy image on the card, ostensibly of this Change Patterson fellow. It didn’t quite look like the spirit who had accosted her in the kitchen, although… there was a little something familiar around the eyes. But it was tough to be sure in such a low-quality image.

  She flipped over the cheap card in her hand. Printed on the other side were two words printed in a calligraphied font. Shapeshifting Services.

  Well, that explained it. You never knew who – or what – you were going to run into in the Psychic City. A literal shapeshifter seemed a little farfetched even for Psychic City, but Penny suspected whoever, or whatever, had spoken with her was at least passable with the art of disguise.

  A figurative shapeshifter? Now, that was possible.

  They’d made themselves look like a spirit, after all. Rather convincingly.

  There was a number on the card, too, accompanying this implausible offer of shapeshifting services. Penny doubted she’d ever call it, but she tucked the card into her pocket for later just in case.

  Approaches to Taxonomy

  So far, most efforts to comprehensively classify intuitives have failed. The problem lies in the numerous new discoveries being made every day. And not just of specific subtypes but entirely new realms of psychic power. It’s impossible to say whether these “new” types are powers of recent onset or ones that have existed for quite some time and are only just now being known among the general population.

  To date, hundreds of intuitives types and subtypes have been discovered, but given that many intuitives eschew mandatory government registration requirements and instead keep the fact that they possess powers a closely guarded secret, the current list is likely quite incomplete.

  This makes a taxonomist’s job particularly difficult. This volume’s author has tried their best but forges ahead knowing that this best effort will likely be quite insufficient.

  Perhaps one day it will be possible to recruit an intuitive to aid in this area of scientific discovery. To date, however, it seems that the intuitives are opposed to being fully known or censused, let alone properly catalogued.

  from Insecta Psychica: Towards an Intuitive Taxonomy by Cloche Macomber

  “I don’t like labels,” Viv said between bites of dinner.

  “That’s beside the point,” Penny replied. “This isn’t about you. Which labels you’re comfortable with and which you aren’t. This is about what just happened. What the hell we’d even call the thing that was in this very room.”

  “Well, why does it matter whether your guest was a spirit or an intuitive or…?” Viv’s voice trailed off.

  “Right, or an ‘or.’ You don’t get it, Viv. The existence of ‘or’ is scary as hell. Beings with powers we haven’t heard of. There might be psychics that make psychics like us look like normals. Super-psychics. You don’t know. No one does.”

  “Geez, Penny,” Karen said. “You just said the P word and the N word. We’re intuitives.”

  “Oh shut up, Karen. No one actually says ‘intuitives’ offline,” Penny snapped. “And all that N word, P word crap is a cop-out. You’re not brave enough to say the actual word so you hint at it and make the other person say it mentally in their head. Like a damn coward. Just say the offensive words. Don’t make other people say it for you.”

  Both Viv and Karen were suddenly quite concerned. This was very unlike Penny. She always held it together. Neither of them could remember the last time she was cranky at all, let alone this cranky.

  It was Viv who spoke first. “Are you okay, Penny?”

  “No, I am not okay. Honestly,” Penny said. “I don’t know how either one of you can eat.” Her own plate sat untouched.

  “Well, it’d be rude not to after you went to all the trouble of making dinner,” Karen said softly, conjuring up her warmest smile. “Thank you by the way.”

  That gratitude chipped away a small piece of Penny’s icy demeanor. “You’re welcome,” Penny replied, but it was an automatic reply, something she said without thinking, and she still felt mostly cold.

  “You said that thing knew all about you?” Viv said. “Including stuff it shouldn’t know?”

  Penny nodded.

  “Like what?”

  “My full name. Both of them. It knew my other name… and the fact that I don’t… have any parents,” Penny said. She took a second to compose herself again. She didn’t like to talk about her parents, or the lack of them, at all. That was part o
f why that part of the conversation with “Change” had been so unsettling. Penny never talked about the fact that she was an orphan. It wasn’t exactly public knowledge beyond the few people she’d talked to about it and a handful of forms where it had to be filled in. Pretty much no one else knew but the foster families she’d lived with when she was a ward of the state.

  And lord knew she didn’t talk to anyone from her time in foster care anymore.

  Penny had snipped those past connections clean like a stray thread the very first moment that she could. And built herself a new future from the ground up. A shiny custom-built future where she was in control of her own destiny. Not at the mercy of others. Not being forced to shuffle from place to place hauling all of her possessions behind her in a garbage bag.

  Any connection to her past messed that up, ruined her chance at a fresh start, so they all had to go.

  Her new name was chosen, too, at that time, the time of self-resurrection. She christened this new self Penny Dreadful – the last name chosen strictly as an homage to her love of puns. Her new first name, “Penny,” had long been a nickname of hers, inspired by a teacher who had greeted her by saying “a bad penny always turns up.”

  The nickname had been meant as an insult, but Penny rather liked it. Maybe she was cursed by her condition, her destiny to see things that made others think she was crazy. Maybe she was a bad penny, but you couldn’t get rid of her. No matter what you did, she always turned up, and that was something.

  So when other children had taunted her by calling her “Bad Penny” and then eventually “Penny,” she’d welcomed it. Wore it like a badge of honor.

  “What?” Viv said. “Your other name? You won’t even tell me that name.”

  Penny nodded solemnly.

  “Or me,” Karen added.

  “And that thing knew all about the fact that we’re looking into the Families as part of a murder case. It didn’t really get more specific than that, but still… how would it know that?” Penny said. “It’s not like we’ve talked with anyone else about our caseload.”

  Viv frowned. “How indeed.”

  Karen shot a suspicious glance at Viv. Viv had been talking to her mother about all their cases just an hour prior. With her sister Love and whatever servants were working comfortably within earshot. Surely, Viv would say something. Surely Viv would alert Penny to this possibility.

  But Viv didn’t. She kept quiet.

  Karen bit her lip in frustration, wrestling with conflict. She could volunteer the information, that Viv had been yakking to her mother about work, but then Viv would know Karen had been hiding in the hallway listening the entire time. And Karen wasn’t eager for a lecture from Viv for invading her privacy.

  “The spirit, or whatever it was, actually threatened me,” Penny said.

  “Threatened you?” Viv said.

  “Said more important people than us have disappeared going down this path,” Penny said.

  “Uh oh,” Viv said. She had a good idea what was coming next.

  “So it’s settled,” Penny said. “We’re expediting this investigation. We’re going to dive deeper into the Families. Do what you have to, Viv. Call Martin as soon as possible. Get him to call in a couple of favors. Send my regards. We’re going to interview Bronson Eck first thing in the morning no matter what. Even if we have to break into the prison ourselves.”

  Threatening Penny had backfired. The last thing you ever wanted to do was to tell Penny she couldn’t do something. It was guaranteed to make her want to do it even more.

  Viv smiled. “You got it.”

  “Now,” Penny said forcefully.

  “Geez, Penny, can’t I finish my dinner first?” Viv complained.

  “No,” Penny said.

  Sighing, Viv picked up her phone and called Martin.

  Reactance

  This theory states that individuals have certain freedoms with regard to their behavior. If these behavioral freedoms are reduced or threatened with reduction, the individual will be motivationally aroused to regain them. This is psychological reactance.

  -Jack W. Brehm

  Citation: Brehm, J. W. (1966). A theory of psychological reactance. Oxford, England: Academic Press.

  Tarnation Hall Transcript

  All kidding aside, is there any force greater than reactance? Any power more impressive than rebellion? Than defiance?

  If you want to see truly superhuman feats, you shouldn’t ask someone to accomplish them.

  No amount of cajoling or pleading, no size of threat or bribe can possibly compare to what you can get out of the person that you tell, “It can’t be done.”

  “Do not do it.”

  “Whatever you do, don’t –”

  Ah, dear friends, even as I tell you this now, even as we all agree that this is speculative, hypothetical, not for “realsies,” I can see you leaning forward in those chairs, awaiting my challenge. Ready to hear whatever it is that I will say you can’t do.

  You are so eager for your opportunity to prove me wrong.

  And with that, I would like to tell you that whatever you do, don’t take a deep breath and relax.

  [crowd laughter]

  Mallow, Tarnation Hall Demotivational Lecture Series

  The sun hadn’t even fully risen yet when they arrived back at the prison. Only high enough for the light to chuck daggers into Viv’s skull.

  The last thing I need right now is a migraine, Viv thought to herself, feeling like solar pincushion. She suspected that dealing with Bronson Eck would be headache enough. No need for the genuine article to show up as well.

  Plus, there had been far too many times in the past when a traditional migraine had bloomed into a vision. And typically, these visions weren’t work related or terribly helpful in any other way. Instead, they were like bad trips. Less like flashes of the future (or a present happening somewhere distantly) and more like what would happen if you painted a portrait of reality and left it unattended in a place where a cat could walk across it.

  Logic was invariably off in these migraine-induced visions. They swam in an uncanny valley. Mundane scenes but with always something askew. The pawprints in this reality were people’s body parts in unsettling configurations. The sky the wrong color.

  It was as though her mind were repeatedly answering the prompt “What does anxiety look like?”

  No, not today. Not happening. There was simply too much to do to mess around with pawprints.

  So Viv covered her eyes and whipped her sunglasses onto her face as quickly as she could as they walked into the prison.

  Martin was already there, flanked by three rather tall piles of paperwork. He spun around quickly. “Ah, perfect timing. I just finished the intake forms.”

  “In record time, really,” the guard manning the front door commented.

  Viv didn’t ask how long that time was but had a feeling from the bags under Martin’s eyes that his tenure filling out forms was considerably longer than their previous intake process. Made sense. Very important prisoner and all. More hoops to jump through.

  Martin pointed to the bottom of the piece of paper before him. “I need you all to sign this one, and we’re good to go,” he said.

  Karen quickly signed, as did Penny. Viv hesitated.

  “What?” Martin said.

  “My mother told me never to sign anything without reading it,” Viv said.

  Martin frowned. “You really want to read all that?” he said, gesturing around him at what appeared to be at least two or three novels’ worth of reading material.

  Viv frowned. “Well no, but…”

  Martin sighed sharply. A sigh loud enough to drown out whatever she was going to say next. The breath equivalent of “la la la la, can’t hear you.” Except less juvenile and more disappointed.

  Viv felt stuck. To the
others, it was such a minor sticking point. A mere bureaucratic formality. But Viv knew how easy it was for manipulation – for outright evil – to hide among the mundane. The everyday.

  Viv thought about it every time she went to cash her tiny paycheck, shrunken down to miniscule amounts due to extra law and order taxes imposed on her simply because she was a psychic citizen. Money she wouldn’t have had to pay if she were a normal.

  No matter how hard she pushed herself, no matter how many hours she, Penny, and Karen worked, it seemed impossible to get much more than poverty wages.

  Her job for PsyOps sometimes felt like indentured servitude. A normal in the same position would be taking home far more money. It hardly seemed fair.

  And Viv was willing to bet that these inequalities weren’t the cause of overt changes but instead came about because someone somewhere along the line had stopped paying attention and allowed it to happen.

  Clutter could be dangerous that way. And so could distraction. They provided camouflage for evil deeds, which easily got lost in them.

  Penny spoke then, pulling a suitably distracted Viv from her thoughts. “I bet your mom was talking about prenups when she said that, Viv,” Penny said. “Not getting access to a prisoner for a murder investigation.”

  Viv nodded. “You’re probably right.” She signed and quickly looked away from the contract. Best not to dwell on it.

  “Good morning ladies,” Bronson Eck greeted them warmly.

  Viv shuddered. Ladies. One of her least favorite words. It was the verbal equivalent of sanitary napkins. Utilitarian perhaps. But uncomfortable and artificial and never quite able to contain everything it was supposed to. And irrevocably linked with fifth grade health class. The week where the boys and girls were split up and a misleadingly titled film “The Miracle of Birth” dramatized the horrors of childbirth.

  “Good morning, Mr. Eck,” Penny said.