The Little Demons Inside

by Micah Thomas

  "How much for the rosary?" It was a lovely, understated beaded thing. She wasn't religious any more than the next person, but why not?

  The woman working the counter either didn't hear her or didn't care, because she continued playing on her cellphone. Cassie gazed around and noticed almost everyone was either clutching their phones, or had their eyes fixed on them, their necks bent at that crone's posture of osteoporosis. Someday this will be looked back on as a spinal epidemic. She'd never really gotten into the phone thing, preferring her limited internet cruising on her laptop. Too many formative years in the military made situational awareness hardwired into her brain. She knew she probably could just lift the rosary, would they even notice?

  "Excuse me, ma'am? How much for the rosary?"

  "Oh," she looked up, dead eyes pretending to be shrewdly sizing up Cassie, "Twenty dollars."

  Cassie held out the cash and the woman went back to her phone. "Can I ask you a question?"

  "No returns, no refunds."

  "No, not about that. Have you seen this guy?" Cassie held the photo of Henry over the table in front of the woman's beady eyes.

  "No. I ain't seen anyone."

  Cassie sighed and took the photo back. She was leaving the table when the woman shouted at her, not even looking up, "Try Mike, he's got the big table down at the end. He gossips like an old lady, might know something."

  "Thanks," Cassie replied, but she'd already lost the woman's waning attention. Fuck, this place was sad.

  Mike's booth was the big table, covered in things Cassie didn't even want to look at. Conspiracy shit. When Aaron would get high, he'd compulsively watch the History channel; ancient aliens, Hitler. It annoyed Cassie so much, because while she didn't have a background in an academic history of the world, she knew enough to call bullshit, but you just can't argue with an idiot about what might or might not have happened. Mike was one of the few not dicking around with a phone or tablet. He was instead clearing a space of VHS tapes and DVDs and setting up a low wooden box, placing a sheet of thick paper in it, and fiddling with what looked like a large guitar pick, also made of wood.

  "Hi. Can I ask you a question?" Cassie asked, putting her best manners forward.

  "One sec. Say, do you know what this is?"

  "I'm really not sure."

  "Ok, well, I just picked this up and it's not what I usually sell, but look at the craftsmanship. It's not a Milton Bradley mass-produced piece of crap. I bet this came from somewhere like Lily Dale."

  "I'm not sure I follow. Can I ask you a question though? I'm looking for a friend of mine that might have come through here."

  Mike stopped fiddling with the device after putting a pencil nub into the pick.

  "So, what this is, is a planchette. It's used by so-called psychics and spiritualists for purposes of divination. You say you're looking for someone, and I say, let's use the planchette. Here, come on my side of the table and take a seat."

  "I don't want to take up a lot of your time. I've got a picture." Cassie was going to dig in her purse for it.

  "Let's just try. It will be fun. Maybe you'll buy it, it's great for parties, but given the quality, I'd probably wait on a collector, maybe even put it with the good stuff online."

  Cassie relented and came around to sit.

  "It's like a Ouija board?"

  “Yeah, no. It's, uh, called automatic writing. Not limited to slowly eking out letters and yes and no answers. I mean, it's just a game, but let's try."

  "What do I do?" Mike smelled like Frito-pie, its gross wrapper still on the table near the planchette. Cassie went along and let him gently place her finger tips on the wooden board.

  "You just close your eyes and ask about your friend. Open your mind to the spirits, if that helps. And you should, if it works, feel the planchette moving across the paper, spelling out answers to your questions. Cool, right?"

  She gave Mike a side eye glance, determining that he's not going to grab her or something. She hated practical jokes, but he seemed legitimately excited about playing with this. The things lonely people do, she thought.

  She closed her eyes and straightened her posture, fingers gently on the board, "Ok, spirits, if you can hear me, I'm looking for my friend, Henry, was he here?"

  She waited with a sense of non-expectation, maybe her arms twitched a little from the unnatural pose, and the planchette moved ever so slightly in a zigzag.

  A loud cellphone blared out the Austin Powers theme and vibrated on the table. Cassie opened her eyes and Mike apologized while fumbling to turn it off.

  "I'm sorry, damn. Let's try again. It's off now."

  Cassie took the pose again, "Spirits, I believe Henry is in danger. I need to find him. Was he here?"

  This time it wasn't her hand getting tired or slipping, the pencil, so lightly pressing on the textured paper, moved with the planchette, in a skitter across the page. Cassie took a deep breath. This was freaky, she thought. She felt the chills crawl up her arm, and something else. A distant ache, a little mouse singing somewhere out there feeling. Jesus, she thought.

  "Open your eyes just slightly enough to read through the glass center piece," Mike whispered to her.

  She saw a rough letter Y, or maybe just a scribble. She closed her eyes again and asked, "Is Henry still in Surprise?"

  This time a jagged letter N wrote out on the page, the planchette moving under her fingers, which she would swear to god that she hadn't moved intentionally.

  "Go ahead, ask something else," Mike said.

  Cassie was about to ask something when she felt wave of chills even stronger than before. With her eyes closed, for an instant, she swore she could almost see him. A much stronger pull on the planchette, a vigorous and certain pull to the writing utensil. It moved in a quick succession of vertical strokes, repeating over and over, quickly moving with intensity until the pencil tip snapped off. Cassie pulled her hands back quickly and looked at Mike with wide eyes.

  "Lady, you are some kinda good actress. I was actually spooked there for a minute."

  "I didn't do it."

  "Right, well, what does it mean?"

  Written in overlapping letters, were the words FIRE, FIRE, FIRE, FIRE.

  "I don't know," Cassie said, not even convinced that she didn't subconsciously take what she knew about Henry and write it, but pretty damned confident that she hadn't meant to do it, at least. Spooky, but she hadn't felt anything, had she? There was a lingering feeling, probably an illusion, something about Henry. Hell, she barely knew him, but she felt like he was smiling somewhere. The imagination, what won't it do if you let it run wile, she thought.

  "Well, I guess that didn't work. You have a photo of your friend? Maybe I've seen him," Mike said while getting back to his lunch.

  Cassie showed him the photo of Henry and this time Mike's eyes went wide.

  "Who did you say you were?" he asked in a hushed whisper.

  "I didn't. I'm just looking for my friend, Henry, he, um, went missing out here."

  "Henry. Right. I'm not saying shit to you. In fact, can you kindly get the fuck away from me? I don't trust the man, but I'll call the goddamn cops if you don't leave."

  "What's wrong? Did you meet him? Was he here before?"

  "I'm not playing around, whoever you are," he said. He looked like he had seen a ghost. Clearly, very fucking upset.

  Cassie backed away and went outside. Not sure this meant anything. The guy was a weirdo, and maybe he was just fucking with her. She guessed not though, and assumed that he actually had seen Henry, but he wasn't going to tell her crap about it.

  Don and Peter's car was parked next to hers in the parking lot. They were standing next to it, sweating in their cheap suits. Peter dabbed his bald head with hanky, and Don was looking at his phone, when Cassie walked up to them.

  "So, find any promising clues in there or just the beads?" Don asked, gesturing to the rosary around Cassie's neck.

  "I don't know, maybe. Ever hear of Burning Man?
"

  "That hipster hippie festival out in the desert?"

  "Yup. There's another event like that happening now. I think Henry might be there."

  "Oh?"

  "Do you guys need, like, a report or something?"

  "No, but despite your total lack of experience as a detective, why should we trust your gut on this? You know, this isn't exactly an excuse to take a vacation."

  "Don, does it look like I'm just playing around? Wouldn't I rather be at a 4-star hotel than spending time with the bed bugs at the Rancher?"

  Don looked at her sternly and Peter just grinned his idiot grin. "It makes sense, right? Car loads of festival goers pick up a hitchhiker, and it's an event that culminates in a big ass fire. Tell me, what part of this isn't our best bet to date? You have some other awesome lead I should be following?"

  Peter said, "Fuck it. She has a point. It's not like we wouldn't look like a couple of narcs trying to bust kids for doing acid. She'd blend in and has a much better chance of finding him if he's there."

  "Fine. We won't be far, but try to take it easy on the dope. It's been a couple days and we don't really have anything to report, and yes, we do have to report to our principals."

  Cassie gave them a half-hearted salute and got in her car. Shit, this was fun after all.

  Don and Peter got in their car and Peter asked Don, "Do you think she's actually got a chance in hell of finding Henry there?"

  "Fuck if I know, but maybe. Where else could he be? We haven't seen anything on any of the CCTV cameras we accessed at public transit stations. He didn't take that poor bastard's car when he burned him up. It's like he ghosted. Hitchhiking makes as much sense as anything else. It's not like flight was one of his abilities. Was it?"

  ***

  Del was a lot of things. A former gutter punk. A former addict. A musician. An addiction counselor. No stranger to nurturing broken wings, Henry was actually in pretty good hands. He knew when to push for more answers and when to back off, letting Henry nurse his own wounds, trusting that he'd talk more when ready. As much as Henry wanted to dip out on his benefactors, he was too weak and their home too remote for him to contemplate a desert trek. Instead, Henry was obliged to accept the food, water, and shelter offered freely, and prepared within his sight. It was a small compromise but both Bobbie and Del understood his anxiety having heard a heavily redacted bit of the story. When Del suggested that Henry accompany him on his rounds, checking in on Del's clients, Henry thought he might have an opportunity to slip away, or at least figure out the local geography a bit better. After all, what else was he going to do?

  There's a familiar, along for the ride sense to this existence. When you are a semiprofessional drifter, no good thing feels remotely permanent and you just go with the flow. Sure, if you have any sense of conscience, there's a sick guilt at using the clean towels of your host, the scented soaps and lotions in the bathroom look so goddamned shiny, artifacts of a life that you don't deserve. Henry was also keenly aware of Bobbie's watchful eye. He had no intention of taking any money from them, but still he could see her take her purse room to room as she moved around the house. Underneath it all, Henry also worried about the fires. Both past and present. He knew that he was putting these kind people in some sorta danger, dangers that he couldn't remotely explain without sounding like an insane person. For his own part, Henry wasn't sure he wasn't crazy either. Could all this be a bad trip? The fire's a coincidence or psychological residue from hypnotic sessions at Black Star? Maybe they were trying to help him. He couldn't remember his time with them with any clarity.

  Del had given him a pad of paper and a pen, asking him to put down his life's timeline as best as he could recall, just the highlights and lowlights. Henry scribbled at this while they drove to Del's charges, scattered through the desert valley, on gravel roads terminating out in near forgotten trailer parkers.

  Born ’92, Reno, NV.

  Dad gone by '94.

  Mom gone '95-98, lived with Grandma in Reno.

  Mom back '99-02, lived in Seattle.

  Mom gone, '03-07, lived in Reno.

  Seattle, '07-09 Grandma died, Mom in Seattle at the end, the runaway incident, foster home, drop out of high school.

  Seattle, '09-16, Streets, Drugs

  Seattle, '17 Chloe died. Black Star happened. Phoenix. I guess Nevada now.

  Del read over the short list before they got out of the car. "Henry, where was your mother during these 'mom gone,' periods of your life?"

  "I don't know. She's a bipolar drunk. Always trying to find the pot of gold at the end of a rainbow. Sometimes there were letters with post marks from Virginia, Detroit, but usually around Seattle."

  "Would you believe me if I told you my list looked pretty damned similar? The places might be different, but I actually had a similar map of pain. Are your folks still alive?"

  "I have no idea."

  "And Chloe? Who was she?"

  "A girl. She OD'd."

  "I'm sorry, Henry."

  A man, the skinny jeans of a cowboy, sun weathered face and equally weathered unbuttoned denim shirt came out of the nearest trailer. He gave half wave and head nod to Del.

  "We'll talk later,” Del said.

  Inside the man's trailer, the living area littered with overfilled ashtrays, old frayed quilts on the small sofa, clear signs that this was also the sleeping area, unaccustomed to having visitors.

  "You want some coffee? I have coffee."

  "Sure, Chee. I would love some of your coffee! This is Henry. He's along for the ride with me today. I figured you wouldn't mind the extra company."

  "Shit no."

  Chee extended his brown hand for a shake, and Henry was surprised by how gentle the rough fingers were. No macho desire to crush his hand, but no doubt he could.

  Del leaned back on the sofa, the three of them crowded together.

  "It's been a couple weeks. How are you doing, man?"

  "Oh, my back hurts, but I've been doing that yoga you taught me, and it helps. I'm managing."

  "Chee here is one of the last real cowboys. He was even in movies with Clint Eastwood. Isn't that right?"

  Chee laughed gently, "Yeah. That's all true, but it's been a while. You see, I got thrown from a horse, a lot of horses over the years, but I guess I've been getting old for a while now and the doctors gave me that damned poison."

  "Henry's had a bit of that, too."

  Henry stared at his hands on his knees. The open sharing made him a bit uncomfortable, but he nodded along.

  Chee said, ”They prescribe it. Here. Take this. Then when you are hooked, they won't refill you, but you gotta have it. Poison. Damned poison. You really saved my life, Del. I saw my grandson yesterday. Did you know that?"

  "That's awesome. Does he look like you?" Del asked.

  "No and I'm damned glad, he got his mother's looks. He's beautiful and I thought she'd never bring him around if I was still on Oxy." Chee teared up a little, wiped his eyes with a hanky before tucking it back in his pocket.

  They stayed just long enough for Henry to chew through the Styrofoam cup of black coffee, when Del stood up and said, "we'd best be off."

  As they drove, Del hummed a tune and seemed cheerful about the touch base. This method of sobriety was different from the Al-Anon meetings Henry had briefly tried in Seattle. Henry thought, what could his life be like if he stayed here? Chee had offered to talk to his cousin about getting Henry work, if he could handle it. Could there be a normalcy here? Riding in the back of old pick-up trucks, working with his hands. A community of surrender, of hard work and simple pleasures. It had its appeal, if he were normal. He knew he damned well couldn't carve out a life anywhere as things were. That ship sailed when he went to Black Star. Right?

  As if reading his mind, Del said, "You know, we may be pretty rural out here, but there's programs to give people a fresh start. That's what I wanted you to see. No one is beyond a second chance, no matter what that voice in your head says."
/>   They made several other stops in similarly situation little trailers and shotgun shacks. If there was a downtown area, Henry didn't see it. His escape from this place would either be on foot or he'd need a ride to a bus stop if such a thing existed. If, if, if. When if's pile up, the path forward is usually decided by some bullshit event, not a plan.

  When they got back to the house, Bobbie was home and in the kitchen. The smell of fry bread and some slow-cooking meat was intoxicating.

  "It's Indian tacos. Try it. It's good," she said and offered a piece of perfectly golden fry bread to Henry.

  It was as delicious as it looked, crisp but chewy.

  "Where are you people from, Henry?" Bobbie asked.

  "I don't know. Dad left when I was just a baby, and I spent all my time with my mom's folks."

  Bobbie didn't press the issue and they had dinner in relative silence. Henry never questioned his family origins. Surviving day to day was enough work without digging into the past. He presumed he came from a line of shitheels, shirking responsibility, dodging obligation. Generations of grimly hopeful idiots making successive generational mistakes in an unyielding cycle of abandonment. Not the best dinner conversation, he knew that much. It was hard not to feel self-pity, but who really wanted to hear about all that shit?

  Watching Bobbie and Del dote on each other made Henry want to walk out into the night and never return. Not that he envied their obvious affection. Without a trace of his usual misanthropy, Henry merely felt like an intruder in their happy home and he desperately wanted it to end. Their normalcy only highlighted his own outsider pathology.

  His dejected downcast eyes, must have made Del aware of the awkwardness, too.