Psychic

by F. P. Dorchak

  He was looking directly at her!

  Lizzie gasped.

  Backed up a step.

  Both her hands involuntarily flew to her face, cupping her open mouth.

  He actually met her eyes!

  He actually seemed to recognize her — there, now, this very instant…

  Look out!, Lizzie mentally screamed, coming forward a step or two, hands now thrown down before her, “Oh, please God, no, not again — LOOK OUT!”

  Joe smiled, warmly.

  Of course, it was too late.

  History had already made its decision, and Joe… Joe was already dead. Jeff Skopchek was already dead, having been divorced and racked with guilt for all he’d done, had taken his own life.

  Yet, somehow, here it was — all of it — in living color, before her, and Dead Joe had managed to come back and thoughtfully replay the entire incident just for her. Just so she could see how it’d all gone down. Dead Joe was finally able to connect with Live Lizzie. And as Dead Joe made eye contact with his wife, he smiled, and it was a smile that melted away Lizzie’s heart and caused her to lose control of her legs.

  She collapsed against her car.

  He was dead, but he’d made her forget he was dead.

  A smile that had reached across the grave.

  Her screams, as deep and terrible as they were, had again gotten caught in her throat. Her voice cracked.

  Speechless.

  Emotionally hamstrung.

  Lizzie pulled herself along the car. They had finally connected — connected — and she didn’t want to look away. It was just the two of them now, for all time, looking out across Time and Space, as defined by this surreal parking lot, from a construction site long since gone — happy and alive and vibrant, preparing for their vacation…

  “I love you,” she whispered, her face hot and wet and swollen, I love you so much…

  Joe’s smile widened. He opened his mouth (in Lizzie’s mind) to return the same words.

  It was then that the evil, black, one-ton I-beam came sailing through the air and whacked off Joe’s noggin.

  Just like that.

  Popped off as clean as if a blade’d been used.

  No warning, no fanfare, and in an explosive, fine spray of crimson. Lucky for Lizzie she not only saw it in real time, but simultaneously saw it in exquisite, slow-motion detail, as the girder first connected with Joe’s bright yellow hard hat that had been there to protect his head. She saw how the hard hat had actually popped off his head, the brim of it initially connecting with the girder. Dead Joe still had had that smile on his face, and his mouth had still been in the process of returning the “I love you, too, honey,” but was only at the “I” part, when Dead Joe realized something weird be afoot. Something… touched his head.

  Hmmm, what could it be? the look on Dead Joe’s face had queried.

  And as Dead Joe turned his head, the smile departed his face, his hard hat popped off his head—

  He almost started to laugh as he used to do a lot with the guys, thinking, okay, what are the guys up to now?, when — among other things — realization struck, and the sudden, stark reality (and cold steel) hit him that this thing was way heavy and felt like a friggin nuclear battering ram…

  Lizzie read his thoughts… they had still been on his mind… their vacation — and the possibility of a child?… but as the tears streamed down her face, she knew he couldn’t possibly have thought all this, done all this. Everything was happening — had happened — far too fast. It had been quick, out of nowhere. Unexpected. Her imagination had simply filled in the gaps with pure conjecture — trying to lengthen things out in her own adulterated and emotional attempt to stave off already occurred events; that maybe, if she did this enough — hard enough — she would, one day, wake up to find Joe still by her side…

  But, meanwhile, Dead Joe’s yellow hard hat had, indeed, popped clean off his head, and — lucky for it — shot off and out of the way of the black I-beam battering ram, which now, also, summarily popped off Joe’s flesh-and-bone head.

  As much as Lizzie wanted to watch as much of her dead husband as there was of him, when his head had separated from the rest of him — the very same body she had caressed, held, kissed, and made love to — she closed her eyes and looked away, collapsing over the hood of her car, sobbing. She heard the hollow clunking of that damned hard hat as it bounced off unknown objects when it hit the ground, continuing to bounce about like a hollow bucket. Then she heard (why — why-oh-why hadn’t her filling-in-the-blanks stopped here?) the sickening, amplified thud of what sounded like fifteen pounds of so much meat hitting the ground and rolling to a stop… followed by the collapse of another two-hundred pounds of dead meat also thumping the ground…

  Then, to add insult to injury, Lizzie saw something no one had ever told her about, no newspaper nor police report had ever mentioned: as that damned one-ton battering ram swung lazily back and forth above her now-decapitated husband — the cable snapped — and down it plummeted, the evil black girder, on top of Joe’s body. There was a puff of dust and gravel, a concussioning jerk to Joe’s muscular frame, and a deep, ground-pounding thud. When the dust cleared, Lucky Lizzie got to see her husband’s body crazily sprawled out under the black, pitch-black, oh-so-black I-beam that lay atop him like a mother hen atop a nest egg. Joe was now a cartoon caricature from a Road Runner skit, to which Lizzie half-expected to hear that cursed “beep-beep”… his arms and legs spread out under the girder in a comical, distorted, “X.”

  Lizzie fainted.

  Chapter Seventeen

  1

  Travis again became acutely aware of his surroundings, as he returned to the vault.

  He stopped and looked behind him, confused. Looked before him.

  Something was out of place.

  What had just happened? Hadn’t he just been at lunch?

  Had he been so preoccupied in thought that he’d lost track of that much time?

  And what time was it?

  He looked at his watch.

  Stopped.

  He shook out his wrist a couple of times, but it still didn’t restart. Time for a new one. Again.

  Wasn’t he supposed to be having one of those “Freaky-Shit” days? Why, yes, yes he was — then this all fit in perfectly.

  Travis continued on to his office. Hoped that whatever he might have done while “out” wasn’t so embarrassing he couldn’t laugh it off.

  The hairs on the back of his neck suddenly shot straight up.

  A lone individual approached from the far end of the corridor.

  Black.

  Shit.

  Blanking his mind and trying to appear as casual as possible, Travis nodded in acknowledgement (which was not reciprocated by Black) as they passed each other. Not a word was exchanged.

  Black didn’t do small talk.

  Travis just needed to get past as quickly as possible.

  Unscathed.

  2

  As Travis passed by him, Black paused and turned. He eyed Travis for a long moment.

  Then continued on his way.

  3

  Mel waited patiently on the line, as he listened to the phone at the other end ring. His heart raced. He was excited — not only at the prospect of again talking with Lizzie, and that she’d become his source of the familiar — but also that he was going to be talking with a girl.

  A real female.

  He had no idea what she looked like, but loved the sound of her voice, the way her mind worked, and how she was so concerned about him.

  Interested in him.

  He hadn’t had much experience in the girlfriend department… even wondered if he’d had one, since that memory also came up blank. But he also really didn’t want to appear as being so needy. He just wanted to talk. To her. Anyone. And he really loved the sound of her voice…

  When the ringing stopped he held his breath, and he had to consciously exhale when the expectant dead air after the ring (that seemed to last
forever!) filled in with a voice — her voice.

  “Hello?”

  “Lizzie? Hi, it’s me, Mel—”

  “Oh, hi, Mel! How are you! I was just thinking about you! Hey, hold on, would you? Just a second…”

  She’d just been thinking of him?

  Mel sat back in the recliner and hit the mute button on the TV. Wow, someone he didn’t know — outside this house and his weird little existence — had just been thinking about him.

  Who was he that someone should be thinking of him?

  Mel sat in the downstairs living room before the glare of the TV, on which was the X-Files episode, “The Field Where I Died.” It was an episode involving Civil War past lives between Mulder and another character. It was presently cutting to a commercial, another weird one with no voice over, showing children skipping, laughing, and playing in a field. Mel leaned forward, almost forgetting he was on the phone. The commercial was eerie, but curiously playful.

  One word filled the screen.

  Play

  “Mel?”

  “Yes — I’m here!” he said, leaning back into the recliner.

  The commercial ended.

  “How’ve you been? I was just waiting on a caller, but they apparently hung up. Anyway, I put myself on break. I hope things are okay, since you are calling…”

  “I guess they are. I’ve been having more weird feelings and all, but—”

  “Weird feelings? How do you mean?”

  “It’s kinda hard to explain… but it’s like, well, something’s wrong — or gonna happen — but I can’t put my finger on it. Or maybe that I’m not all there? You know, added to my normal, everyday Who-am-I-and-why-am-I-all-alone issues? And occasionally I see, well, these other images of me and some dark men. I’m awake when I’m asleep, or asleep when I’m awake…

  “Does any of that make any sense?”

  “Sure. I lost both my parents and my husband.”

  “Oh, right — sorry.”

  “Look, I know it’s tough. You’re probably having more going on inside your head than you care to admit — or can even sort out right now — but that’s okay. It’s only natural.” Lizzie cleared her throat. “It’s tough, but…”

  Lizzie broke off.

  “You okay?”

  Lizzie inhaled deeply.

  “Lizzie… I’m, um… sorry if I—”

  “Oh, it’s not you,” she said, sniffling. “I had a rather weird experience of my own this afternoon.”

  “Would you like to talk about it?”

  “It’s not fair, since you called to talk with me, and I’m supposed to be giving you support and advice.”

  “I don’t mind.”

  Another long, drawn-out inhale. Sniffling filled Mel’s ear.

  “Well… to make a long story short… I had a vision about the accident that took my husband’s life.”

  “How’d it happen, if you don’t mind my asking?”

  “For some stupid reason, I drove by — well, actually pulled into — the parking lot… the very place where he’d died. It was a field when I knew it, but it’s now an apartment complex and shopping center, and, well, I just saw everything unfold. Everything. It was the first time this’d ever happened to me — at least on this scale. It scared the crap out of me, and I got so emotional. I guess I’m still a little shaken up. So, it’s not you, Mel, don’t worry about that.”

  “Okay.”

  Mel listened as Lizzie continued to sniffle and quietly sob for another moment or two.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “I think I’m better, now. Thanks for letting me, um, get that out.”

  “You sure you’re okay?”

  “Yes. Thank you.”

  “I have a question, then.”

  “Okay.”

  “How come you’re all affected like this… and I’m not?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “My parents. It’s really bugging me. I don’t know if I mentioned anything about it before, but I’ve found that… that…”

  “Go on… just say it…”

  “That I don’t seem to feel anything toward them. Not one thing. Isn’t that strange? Isn’t that… evil?”

  “First off, my dear, sweet young man, don’t ever compare yourself to anyone else about how you’re ‘supposed’ to feel. Everyone handles grief differently, death… differently. Your situation just happened, right? It’s recent?”

  Mel chuckled. “As far as I know.”

  “Well, there you go. You’re more than likely still in shock. I lost my parents a few years back, and my husband just over a year ago. I’ve already gone through what you’re just beginning to experience. Not that it’s anything to look forward to, but I’m sure you’ll probably get to the crying-and-mourning stage sooner than you’ll care to experience…

  “But another thing,” she said, continuing, “and maybe I won’t quite explain this just right, since I’m not a psychologist, or anything, but I think — me anyway — I think that losing parents is different from losing husbands, wives, or girlfriends. It’s not something I can adequately put into words, but though we love them all, it’s a different kind of love and emotional attachment. Of course we’ll mourn them when they do go, especially if it’s under tragic circumstances like yours, but there’s a different kind of closeness. One that also, I think, speaks to their having already been around for all our lives, and consciously or unconsciously, we expect them to go first, in whatever way they do go. Whether or not we admit it — we, their children — in a manner of speaking, know they’ve already lived their lives. We never want them to go, of course, but it’s just the reality of it. We, and our spouses and mates, haven’t really lived our lives in that respect. We’re younger. I don’t know… I guess it could all be thrown out the window, if you were really close to your folks, but that’s kinda how I’ve been looking at it.

  “Were you?”

  “What?” Mel said.

  “Close to your parents?”

  Mel paused. “I guess we were, but I’m just not sure. Man, you must think I’m really bad, but I hardly seem to remember anything about them—”

  “Again, Mel, please don’t torture yourself over this. You’re grief stricken. You need time to work through this. You’ve been through a lot. Maybe this is how you react to traumatic events. Like I said, I’m sure you’ll come out of it all right… and remember — when the time’s right. Don’t force anything. Right now, your mind, your emotions — your psyche — are all confused.

  “How are you holding up otherwise?”

  “Like the rest of this,” Mel said, “as fine as can be expected, I guess, all things considered. I’m just feeling like I’m in a rut, is all, and needed to hear your voice. Thanks for talking to me, Lizzie. I’m sorry about your experience this afternoon, though, with your husband, and all.”

  “Well, there’s actually a little more to it then I let on. A few days ago there was this guy — from the government, he claimed — who came nosing around. He actually followed me home from a restaurant. He said he was looking for someone and asked if I could help. But the more I thought about it, and tuned in, the more nothing felt right about it — he didn’t feel right — so I turned him down—”

  “Way to go!”

  “I wish it were that simple. There was something bad about him I kept picking up on — and he did come back. I had to tell him no to his face, and it felt weird telling him that. He seemed… nonchalant enough… about it all, but I somehow feel that that isn’t the end of it. He’s very obsessed with tracking down this person, whomever it is, but never, or wouldn’t, go into details. He was really quite creepy.”

  “How do you feel now? Are you able to pick up on anything?”

  “I do pick up on a lot of — for lack of a better term, which I always hate to use — evil. It’s interesting you used that word, earlier. I didn’t trust him when we first met, and I still don’t. He’s looking for someone and isn’t easily put off. I’m sure he’s lied to me,
though I’m pretty sure he is from the government. Just not the FBI. I really don’t think that was the last of him — and it does have me a bit apprehensive.”

  “I’ll protect ya!” Mel announced, proudly. He was kind of embarrassed after having said it, but he suddenly had a cause — something else to do — to attach himself to, rather than just mope around the house confused, getting all hung up in his head, and being glued to a television set.

  “Oh, Mel, that’s so sweet of you, but—”

  “What’s he look like?”

  “Well… he’s quite tall, well over six feet, large hands… dark, salt-and-pepper hair, heavy on the salt, and dark, penetrating eyes—”

  “‘Salt and pepper’?”

  “Black hair going white… kind of speckled looking.”

  “And what’s his name?”

  “Black. Victor Black. Anyway, he always wears black, at least when I see him. His personality is quite intense. He bores right into you — even me. He’s very scary. In his sixties or so, I’d say. But capable — very capable — of violence… and creepy. I really don’t think there’s much either of us could do, should he come for us, I mean, I doubt that’s likely, but, thanks for your offer.”

  “You know,” Mel continued, suddenly wishing he’d kept his mouth shut, “but I think I might know this guy—”

  “Oh, don’t tell me that, Mel, that isn’t even remotely funny.”

  “Believe me, he scares me just from your description, but there’s something about him that makes me think I really might have met him—”

  “I did not need to hear that. Where? When?”

  “Sorry, you know my memory. I seem to have blocked out much of my life, lately, but I do get the impression, once you started describing him, that we’ve met. And, now that I’m talking about it, he feels tied to those dark-men images I told you about. About being awake while asleep.”

  “Well, if that’s true — stay clear of him. Be very wary. And above all, do not go anywhere with him. I picked up on some very bad vibes from the guy. He’s not good news.”