Insanity

by A. R. Braun

  The witches descended upon him in an orgy he couldn’t refuse, wouldn’t want to refuse, as intoxicated as he was. Euphoria took him, and he reached lust’s highest pinnacle, being their obelisk, their refuge.

  ***

  The triumvirate that had come to his windows walked him home. The redhead introduced herself as Karen, and the blonde introduced herself as Christy. He shook his head, which swam from the alcohol, though his loins thrummed with relief. They helped him up the walk, and he unlocked the door, then they led him to the couch, where he plopped down and sank into it.

  Karen and Christy sat on each side of him as Ophelia bent down and held his legs.

  “I can’t believe I did that,” Vinnie said. “Whoa, just what the doctor ordered.”

  “I don’t need a doctor, just green witchcraft,” Ophelia answered.

  The ladies snickered.

  Ophelia smiled and her eyes seemed to turn silver. “You’re the man I’ve been looking for—the perfect phallic symbol.”

  “But Ophelia, I’m Catholic. What am I gonna tell Father Murphy? What am I gonna say on judgment day?”

  Ophelia frowned. “The Catholics, along with the Presbyterians, were the ones behind the Inquisition, falsely accusing Wiccans of serving a devil they made up to scare people away from white magic—which is natural, not supernatural—as well as harmony with nature and peace on earth: an end to the patriarchs’ wars. Not all the women they burned were witches. Check the records for yourself.”

  “That don’t change how I’ll worry about burnin’ in hell every time I go to bed. What if I have a heart attack in my sleep?”

  Ophelia cocked her head. “The life you sleepwalked through before we opened your eyes was hell.”

  Can’t argue with that.

  “Let’s get you to bed,” Ophelia added, grabbing his hands and lifting him up.

  Swaggering a bit, Vinnie put one arm around Karen and the other around Christy as they led him to the bedroom. Ophelia unbuttoned his shirt. Vinnie’s fire down below erupted as the women disrobed and joined him for a tantalizing foursome. Utopia ensued as limbs twisted and intertwined in sizzling passion and slicking sweat. After an hour of mayhem, he fell asleep in their arms, finally content, not feeling a void in his heart or in his libido anymore.

  ***

  Four years later, Vinnie had become high priest of the coven, serving his high priestess as she directed the rituals. Ophelia, Karen, and Christy lived with him in his brownstone, accompanied by his two children. Vinnie had become manager of the deli, and it was a good thing, too, with his new fiscal responsibilities. Yet they’d left him drained physically and mentally as well as monetarily. A void in his soul had also taken root.

  “Daddy!” Tony and Willow, his son and daughter, cried as they ran to him—a wan, raven-haired boy and a wisp of a girl with wild charcoal tresses. Fetid red sauce streaked on their faces intermingled with his cologne as they covered his cheeks in squishy kisses. It was a wonder their mother would let them use hot sauce, the way she forced vegetables on everyone, a green hell.

  “Oh, oh,” he stammered as he drew a deep breath, “my . . . blessed children.”

  Or would that be cursed?

  Karen joined Vinnie on the black leather couch, putting an arm around him after turning off the Mets game and putting in a DVD about the Inquisition.

  “Hey! I was watching—”

  “My Vinnie!” Ophelia walked over to him, her pregnant belly protruding under her black dress as she put her hands on her hips. “We need more money for the temple, darling, and for my store. I’m behind on the rent again. The landlord’s going to throw me out if I don’t pay.”

  He’d handfasted with her, taking the marriage vows at The House of Isis, the goddess temple they’d built with his money.

  “More dough?” Horror pulsed through his mind like Lovecraftian tentacles. “I’ve drained my savings as it is.”

  Ophelia pointed her finger at him. “Obey the charge of the goddess. You’ll have to give up the hot dogs and pretzels for lunch. And no more cannoli. Eat your roughage, like a kitchen witch. I’ll pack your lunch.”

  Shaking, his arms almost lost their grip on the children. “Oh, no, I don’t—”

  Christy massaged his shoulders from behind, pulling his chin up to plant a kiss on his quivering lips. She handed him a bottle of spring water. “You’ll give up soda, too, won’t you, high priest?”

  Vinnie hesitated to answer.

  Ophelia scowled. “Do you dare disagree with the goddess, my love?”

  Vinnie sighed. “Ophie, look at what you’ve made me—a husband and father, a pagan priest, and now you wanna make me a vegetarian, with no strength, hobbling to work, barely able to stand so I can make it through my shift. Jesus!”

  Ophelia pulled the children from his lap and took their place with her bulky, heavy frame. “It’s for your own good. Do you want to have a heart attack or go back to being lonely?”

  Shaking his head, Vinnie was resigned to his destiny.

  Soon, I’ll leave the life I hate to enter the creepy underworld I studied about—Summerland—with Cerberus, the barking three-headed dog, and the pissed-off Charon, ferrying me across the River Styx, after my horrid fate on Mother Earth.

  Dying inside, he rose for another day of slavery, without so much as the hope of suicide.

  The Sacrifice in the Trunk

  Eddie hated Paul's guts.

  The latter was crazy as a box of raccoons. But what could Eddie do? He worked the afternoon and night shift at Pinnacle Siding and Window Company, and Paul was his immediate supervisor, plus his ride to work. If Eddie had a problem with him, the owner, Mr. Putrid, would ride his ass. Yes, that really was his name, the greedy, mean-spirited bastard. The Better Business Bureau had never heard of this cat.

  Eddie had to pretend to get along with Paul or get fired.

  Still, the sack of shit could be funny sometimes, and they liked the same kind of music, so Eddie didn't have to pretend too hard. What cracked him up was when they acted like Beavis and Butt-Head.

  I should've been a comedian.

  The drab surroundings of the workplace depressed him. Boring samples of vinyl and steel siding, Thermopane windows, and roof shingles littered the walls. The grey carpeting bore stains from years of spilling food and drinks. A.M. music, barely audible, whispered from the speakers of the radio near the coffee pot.

  “Earth to Eddie,” Paul said, bringing him out of his musings. “Are you spacin’ out or jonesin’?”

  “I'm awake,” Eddie answered. “Didn't get much sleep last night.”

  “Me, either.” Paul pinned him with his eyes. “You know I consider you a friend, right?” He stuffed a donut into his fat cheeks.

  Eddie shrugged. “I guess.”

  “Donuts, man?”

  “Ugh. Pastries—the worst thing you can eat. You know how many crunches and trunk stretches I’d have to do to burn the calories from a couple of donuts?”

  “Trunk stretches. Been there, done that.” Paul chuckled and stuffed another donut into his mouth. “Mmm, good, man. You oughta try ‘em.”

  “Oh, all right, but just one.” Eddie set a donut on a napkin and said grace.

  Paul snorted. “You don't have to pray over a stinkin’ donut, man. This ain't a meal, you Bible thumper.”

  “Whatever.” Eddie bit into the delicious treat. Of course donuts were delectable. That’s why most people got fat.

  Paul looked around to make sure no one else lurked in the break room. “Keep this hush, hush, ‘cause I know where you live, but I kidnapped and raped a virgin last night.” He laughed. “Sacrificed her on my altar, like Slayer.”

  “Y-you what?”

  “Had to shut her up. She kept screaming. She's in the trunk of my sedan.” He snickered. “Stretch that.”

  “Slayer’s a band that sings about horror; they’re not satanic. Besides, most Satanists don’t really kill anyone.” He held Paul’s gaze. “You are joking, right
?"

  “Yeah, yeah, I'm just kidding.” Paul frowned. “Don't tell anyone, though. I know you holy rollers like to blow things out of proportion.” He regarded Eddie intently. “I'll bring a rifle to work and shoot everybody in here.” Paul shoved the box of donuts over. “Put some weight on, pipsqueak. I've got to get back to work.”

  Speechless, Eddie stared at him as he walked out of the room.

  ***

  Eddie unlocked the door of his apartment and stumbled through it.

  I should call the police. Or should I take the matter into my own hands?

  Yet Paul had said he was joking. If Eddie called the law, his crazy co-worker would turn the workplace into an adult Columbine.

  I need to quit that job.

  Eddie fell into, more than sat on, his couch. He looked around at the crude paintings he'd finished that hung on nails on the wall. He'd only taken Art 101 at college as far as electives, so he wasn't ready for a show at a gallery, but the pieces brought atmosphere to the place. An old computer and a new printer dominated the table next to his home entertainment center, Eddie's sinkhole. The DVR sat under the Blu-ray player, which was under the widescreen TV. Blu-ray discs and his stereo system shared the shelves. The walls of the apartment were a dull white, the enclosure of a tomb.

  Eddie got up and kneeled at the couch. “Father God, please guide me on what to do about what Paul said, and comfort my shattered nerves. You are ever-wise and know all things. Amen.”

  He got up and threw a TV dinner into the microwave.

  Another evening with the idiot box.

  ***

  Whispers in the night, right by his head, as he lay on the couch; they woke Eddie up. Hot terror seized him as if someone had given him an electric shock.

  That's the devil.

  Eddie cried out, “Father God, please make it go away and comfort me with your Holy Spirit. I know from the teachings at Sunday school that it isn't a ghost, but a demon. Amen.”

  And God did make it go away.

  But curiously, strangely, INSANELY, Eddie missed the voice. He thought he must be losing his mind, but believed it was a ghost. And the whispers sounded feminine.

  They overwork me, always demanding more. It's never enough. I can't even have breakfast in the office. Got to eat it before work. Mr. Putrid yells at me to get on the phone and make more calls. My boss hates me, said he doesn't want to pay me, and I've got no girlfriend, no life. What the fuck kind of existence is this?

  Eddie threw off the covers and grabbed a pad and pen. He'd just watched a television show about automatic writing. “Spirit, I was wrong to have God throw you out. I know . . .

  (a ghost is in the room with me now)

  . . . you want to tell me you've been murdered, and you want me to find out where you've been buried so you'll be set free and can enter God's heaven.”

  (the very God I just used to get rid of you)

  Eddie groaned with terror.

  “So tell me what you need to with automatic writing.”

  I'm such a coward. This is nuts, has to be a hoax. Those psychics are crooks. This is a sin!

  Yet the pen moved.

  ***

  When finished, Paul read this message again so he could absorb it, written in a notebook:

  It's cold, oh so cold! I didn't know a person could freeze like this! I'm just a little girl. What did I do to deserve this reverse hell? You've got to find me. He killed my body. How could a good person like you allow this? I'm in purgatory. He murdered me, and so much drained out of me that everything became black like the blackboard at school. You've got to do something. Set it right so my soul can rest.

  PLEASE.

  ***

  Eddie's wrist ached from writing; he didn't want to do it again. A professional wrestler might as well have hefted him off the couch by his wrist and tossed him around the room.

  “Around the room, around the room,” he sang like a mindless schoolboy. He hoped to distract his thoughts from the dead person hanging out with him.

  What if she's a poltergeist? They can kill you.

  “Need to rest, need to rest,” he sang.

  Eddie's printer chugged and whined even though it wasn't plugged in. His computer, broken for a month, fired up anyway, and a sudden gust shoved his windows open. He shivered from the arctic blast.

  Crying out, Eddie thought he'd go crazy.

  The pen again moved.

  ***

  Eddie didn't want to read the pad. He'd caught glimpses of what she was saying, but sporadically looked away. His mind, a spinning cyclone, nagged at him as if to say it's there, you wrote it, now read it.

  Eddie fought the impulse, but couldn't resist perusing this grim message:

  Quit singing! You don't need to rest, I need to rest. You've got your whole life ahead of you, and I'm dead. Listen to me! I need you to solve my murder, let me have peace. You, I've chosen you, because you're the only tenant here that's not abusing his child or beating his wife.

  I lived two doors down from you, the one you never noticed.

  ***

  “My eyes are open,” he whimpered, ashamed of his feminine side. What was he, a pansy? But he couldn't help be frightened. Why hadn't he stuck to his guns when he'd had God throw the specter out? Was he crazy, stupid, or what?

  The windows flew open again and the wind kicked up, knocking a knickknack his mother had given him onto the carpet where it made a dull thump.

  “Yes, I'll help,” Eddie cried. “Don't hurt me. Tell me where to find you.”

  For the final time that night, the pen moved.

  ***

  This time, the pad read:

  AT WORK AT WORK AT WORK AT WORK AT WORK AT WORK AT WORK AT WORK AT WORK AT WORK AT WORK AT WORK AT WORK AT WORK AT WORK AT WORK AT WORK AT WORK AT WORK AT WORK.

  Eddie tried to stop writing, but this continued until his wrist was too sore to go on.

  ***

  Eddie swallowed two of the diazepams his mother had given him; God, it was awful, how his nerves had been getting the best of him. He wished his parents hadn’t raised him in church. Now he was too brainwashed to get religion out of his system.

  The panic because of the ghost, oh, how it pained his mind, burning it up like white-hot fire.

  This is the little girl that fat bastard was talking about.

  And she was my neighbor!

  ***

  Time for work, the alarm clock said in its special way. It would’ve put a drill sergeant to shame. Eddie pounded it with his fist, and the device shattered on the floor, useless.

  Yes, you fucking die.

  But Eddie had a job to do, so he zombie-walked into the shower and lathered up. He hurried and jumped out before he could be comforted by the warm water.

  And breakfast? No, the owner didn't allow that. He grabbed eight eggs, cracked them into a glass, and guzzled them down like Rocky Balboa. At least he was making an effort to stay in shape. Now if he could get himself to exercise, he'd be set.

  Paul honked, waiting in that ugly green sedan.

  Eddie forced his feet to move.

  ***

  Riding shotgun in Paul's sedan shocked Eddie fully awake. Last evening's events might have been a breakdown in an insane asylum. Which is where he'd probably go if this shit didn't stop.

  “Hey, Beavis,” Paul joked as he concentrated on the road, giving him quick glances.

  This was where Eddie was supposed to give in and play Butt-Head's straight man. But how could he be lighthearted with this murderer and rapist of children?

  Paul laughed like Butt-Head. “Hey, Beavis.”

  Eddie had a plan, and for Paul to be oblivious of it, Eddie had to act like nothing had changed. He cleared his throat. He knew how actors in auditions felt. “Uh, yeah, yeah, hmm-hmm-hee!”

  “Uhhhh, chiliburger, huh?”

  Eddie forced a laugh.

  Paul asked, “What did you do last night, man?”

  I hung out with the spirit of the girl you des
troyed.

  “Nothing Butt-Head, hmm-hmm-hee, just watched Secret Window on Cinemax.”

  Paul chuckled as they pulled into the parking lot of Pinnacle Siding and Window Company. “Ch-yeah, you've got Skinemax. Did you see a boob?”

  “Oh, yeah,” Eddie answered in Beavis's voice. “Cool. It comes in handy, Butt-Head. Boooinnnggggg!”

  Paul rolled with laughter.

  ***

  At work on his call list, Eddie quivered as he thought of how the ghost had communicated with him. He wished he hadn't done the automatic writing. If he'd taken the easy way out and let God get rid of her, then gone back to sleep, he wouldn't be in the mental hell he was in now.

  Maybe there was hope for him yet.

  Mr. Putrid barged in. At such a small home improvement company, the owner was more involved than at a regular business. He looked him over and caught him lost in thought. “Eddie, make some calls! What do I pay you for?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Hey, buddy, let me bum a cigarette on smoke break.”

  Eddie turned to face him. Mr. Putrid was a muscular man with glasses, dressed in a sweater and slacks. “I thought you quit.”

  The owner smiled. “I've got a proposition for you.”

  Eddie nodded, then turned around. “Sure.”

  With that, the owner left.

  ***

  Mr. Putrid had offered to give him a raise if he could find a way to get more leads. Thankful, Eddie promised he would and had been given this grim task:

  “Talk to Paul. He's my moneymaker, and you need to learn his secrets.”

  And that's where Eddie sat, listening to the murderer's idiocy.

  “A telemarketer is a professional liar.” Paul chuckled. “If they're hicks in the sticks—like a lot of people in small towns in Illinois—give em a ‘digger-do’ once in a while. It really works on these fuckers, man.”

  Eddie again forced a chuckle. “Thanks.”

  Paul looked at his watch. “Mmm, it's lunchtime.” He handed Eddie a wad of money. “Go get us something.”

  Eddie often borrowed Paul's sedan to grab his supervisor's lunch.