Collecting Rayne
Page 4
He sees me realize what this is all about. “Dad, I…”
“Next ones on you, boy.” He walks out of the kitchen.
We just have to be more careful about the evidence next hunt.
The end.
the other place
Sian has taken over her late mother's psychic reading shop. With no experience, she’s surprised when a vision of hers comes true.
She's uncovering the fate of her clients, as well as the truth about herself along the way. With Lazlo's guidance, she doesn't have to do it alone.
preface
I had a dream once; I was running through a field of grass and wild flowers, spinning and loving every minute. The vivid colors took my breath. A cut scene, like how one sequence fades into another. Red, wet and warm—I was completely covered in blood. At first, I was nervous it was my own, but once I realized it wasn’t a smile crept across my face.
I looked around and the flowers had transformed into bodies—a field of fresh dead bodies. Oozing, dripping and spirting geysers of blood. I had a warm feeling of home but it also excited me as nothing ever had.
I woke, covered in a slick dampness that I traced to between my legs. My young pussy was soaked. And that had told me all I needed to know about who I was.
Chapter
1
Oh my god, like, could my mother have been literally anything else in this world? Lame ass psychic reading shop slash old crusty bookstore is all she leaves me in the world.
“Eew,” I mutter aloud when the container of some bull shit essential oil leaks out onto my hand and contaminates me.
She was the most out-there person, unable to give me anything normal in life, including my name. I’m named after Sean Penn, and if it weren’t bad enough having a boy’s name, she spelled it Sian. Teachers trying to pronounce it on the first day of school reminded me at least once a year just how different she really was. So annoying.
She had told me once, after overhearing me complain about it, that the alternative was Brenda. So, great, I’m either the most obscure name or the most basic bitch. I might have died at birth if I had been forced into the role of a Brenda. So, here I am, Sian, the new owner of a tarot shop with no idea how to really read cards or what to do to make people come in here, and the people skills of a rabid monkey in a cage. I can’t imagine this won’t be profitable. Eye roll.
My mother and I never really got each other, but there were a lot of years when I was a child that I’d sit and watch her read people. She loved tarot and she loved talking to people. She loved lifting their spirits when they were sad and looking for hope, she had a gift for giving them promises of love and an ever after.
I can’t be bothered with the fake and hopeful. I live my life in the reality that it is, I have no patients for people who want all the fairytales—the ones before the happily-ever-after’s were traded for the endings instead of the horror that used to finalize them. I am not a romantic. And I can’t fathom running this place and it being anything sustainable for me if that’s the clientele in my future.
I move around the shop, touching and holding things, trying to remember if I’ve learned their purpose and the reason for them.
For the most part, I feel capable of being able to bumble my way through some readings with the one off’ers. The people who haven’t paid a fortune to the tellers for years already-the ones my mother actually prided herself on collecting.
Nope, probably not going to be able to dupe them. But that desperate lady, making me her last resort, or the drunk frat boys looking to joke around, even the desperate man who just lost his job and finds me for reassurances. Maybe those are my new clientele.
The next few hours are spent rearranging the shop into something more functional for me. Which mostly means I’ve hidden away all the things I have no use for or can’t answer questions about if someone were looking to inquire about such things. It’s not as barren as I thought it might be, I do actually have a basic handle on this stuff. The old books would likely sell themselves; the oils and trinkets are for anyone really. And me, at the table with a crystal ball my mother called an orbuculum, and a deck of tarot cards, should finish the authenticity of this place just fine.
It doesn’t look too different from how mom left it, but it will be a whole different thing entirely while I’m here in charge of it. Hopefully, I can keep afloat so I won’t lose what I have already made of myself on this earth so far before undertaking this thing.
Had I not lost my boyfriend recently, and my mother just before that, I may not have even attempted this, but when all the resources in your life dry up, you must pick up that lemon and squeeze, I guess?
Unlike my mother, my boyfriend did not die. Unfortunately. He’s just another one for ex pile- one more notch on my loser belt. Elle can have him, she’s better at handling garbage than I am anyway. I’m sure they’re going to make great fucking children together.
So, until something happens in my life to perk up my financial status, I must tell the fortunes of the unfortunate.
Chapter
2
Day one of this little ‘adventure’, some asshole may call it, went as slow as anyone could have anticipated. Surprisingly, a couple of teen girls came in and looked for just a minute while I stood cross armed, ready to answer whatever questions they had- assuming it was going to be some witchcraft shit to get a boy to like them. Alas, they never spoke, not even to each other.
The silence is a bit too much so I turn the music up and let it be heard through the speakers, if only for my own entertainment.
The smells are something that always reminded me of my mom. I could smell, before I’d hear her come home at night. Independently, all of them are distinct, but together they make kind of an aura of smell, something so faint and undefinable that you can’t really pinpoint what it is you’re smelling. It’s not too bad actually. That’s not saying that I’m becoming ok with this whole thing. I’m not. It just doesn’t give me a headache like I thought it might.
I close the shop after getting everything tidy for the morning and head home. It’s late and I’m beat. There’s very little that makes me more tired than doing nothing all day. I hope it’s not going to be like this for long.
My mother hadn’t needed to advertise for quite a long time, she was just known for her gifts. I may have to though, to get some fresh eyes on the town’s new ‘psychic girl’. I don’t need much, just enough for bills and such. The building is on the lot my mother actually paid for, so I don’t even have to save for that, just the utilities and annual property taxes are subtracted. My one-bedroom apartment doesn’t take much to keep out of eviction, either, so here’s hoping for at least that much monthly.
Day two has been much better, I actually have a tarot reading scheduled for 2 pm, so hopefully I can muddle my way thorough that and get some cash. Maybe I’ll recommend some shit for him to buy as well- although, that might be a bit aggressive for my second day.
My appointment shows up ten minutes early. On top of being punctual, he is young, mid 20’s, tall and sheepish looking. He shoots his hand right out to me. “You must be Sian,” he says with a grin on his face.
“I am, nice to meet you.” I’m a little taken aback by the familiarity. He seems to notice and quickly goes on to say he’s been in here a few times to talk with my mother.
I’m instantly thinking of a way to cancel this reading now, but before I can, he adds, “She was a little too serious for me, I was hoping to get the perspective of a younger person, actually. I thought it couldn’t hurt anything to come in and chat for a minute. See if maybe any of your mom’s gifts rubbed off on you.”
I try my best to relax and play it cool, reaching inside to gather all the little things my mother would do and then applying them to my persona for authenticity. I lead him to the table, still not sure enough of my voice to speak without nerves. I pull out the chair meant for him and make my way to mine while he gets comfortable in the creaky wooden seat.
“Ok, Brandon, nice to meet you. I’m going to ask you some pretty basic questions, you’ll answer them, and then I’ll see what I see.” I pull the clear ball toward me and begin to shuffle the large deck.
“Ok, sounds good.” He folds his hands on the table and waits patiently for me to begin.
I try to flush the nerves from my voice as I begin.
Laying the cards on the table as I’d observed my mother do all my life, I watch as he becomes interested in certain ones and make mental notes to expound upon them. After all, this is basically about reading someone’s unasked questions. That’s what makes it a psychic reading and not a therapy session. If you merely answer their questions, they can’t get those shivers that tell them you know something secret about them.
“Ok, Brandon, I have a sense that you’re having some troubles with love.”
“You could say that. But, quite frankly, couldn’t we all?” he chuffs.
“I suppose, but it looks like it’s on your mind right now, want to ask anything specific?”
“Not yet. What else you got?”
His tone isn’t skeptical or doubting, it sounds like he just wants to know what I can do. Honestly, I don’t even know what I can do, so let’s see.
“I suppose you were also wondering about your life in general. And it looks like it’s going quite well from what I can see, nothing too dramatic at all,” I guess.
His eyebrow lifts subtly from surprise. “That’s all you’re getting, huh? Nothing about winning the lottery? Kids? Marriage?... Death?”
A flicker of something in the ball, so quick I don’t quite know what I saw. But my mind turns it into blood, a sharp, fiery, red, and vivid scene--Brandon standing in front of a neon sign with half his face slithering down his shoulder, leaving a trail of blood behind, his expression is neutral- even if it is from only one hemisphere.
I shake my head, trying to rid that and get back on track.
“What? Did you see something?” his eyes light up, “you saw something!”
Laughing, so nervously even I can hear it, I say, “No, nothing.” I try to giggle and pretend this was all something silly, but the look on his face tells me he is curious.
“Just a flash, nothing I can really say,” hopefully he doesn’t see my nervousness or confusion.
“Was it about the lottery?” his eager boyish charm makes me laugh.
“No, not that I could see.”
“Shit, probably about how I’m gonna die then.”
Just the mention of his death has me seeing it again, this time so clearly, I can actually hear the sickening sounds being made when the sticky blood separates.
A shiver runs down my spine. I don’t know how to recover from this so I just begin awkwardly collecting the cards and trying to make an excuse about a headache.
He looks as if he wants to contradict me, or even make me stay, but he doesn’t, he just watches me. I can see the curiosity in his eyes, the little crinkles on the sides when he squints his doubt. I try to focus on getting him out of here, but he’s not standing or making any progress whatsoever.
“Um, so, I won’t charge you for this. Sorry. I have a condition,” I have no condition. “It comes on quick, so you should just go.”
He finally puts his hands on the table, tentatively, still not wanting to really go, nor believing that this doesn’t have anything to do with him. When he finally stands, I try not to look at him making his way to the door.
I turn around only when I hear the door’s chime.
He’s still inside the shop.
Tricky bastard.
“I’d like to make another appointment with you, like after your condition is gone, or whatever.”
“Ok, sounds good.” I round the corner and press myself against the wall, standing there a full two minutes after I hear the door chime again. I peak around the corner to make sure he’s actually gone this time. The shop is empty. Taking a deep breath to calm myself, I’m finally feeling a little more normal again.
That was fucking weird.
The cash on the table is more than enough to cover the reading, and also too much for what I’ve actually done for him. I tuck it in my pocket, however, and finish arranging everything.
Picking up the glass ball, I look at it and turn it over in my hands suspiciously. I’ve never seen anything in this before, just a misshapen version of my face or the lights around the room glowing back. Never. Ever. Anything like this before.
I look closer into it, trying to summon Brandon’s slippery face looking at me, but nothing comes, so I set it back down.
I take a load off on the couch reserved for clients, set up like a waiting area, and rest my head on the back, closing my eyes for only a moment, but waking hours later when the sun has fallen and the room has gone dark.
Shit.
I rush out, locking the door behind me and practically run home. This has all been too much.
Chapter
3
I unlock the front door to my apartment with shaking hands. I can’t understand what I saw, nor the level of tiredness that overwhelmed me afterward. I’m so full of adrenaline now though. Energy is just flowing through me.
Pacing my small living room with enough vigor to wear out the carpet, I can’t stop feeling what I saw in the ball. I’m wondering what it means. Will that be the way he dies?
My mother always said there was something in our family line that made us capable of seeing, or reading, things that most weren’t. But she would also contradict that just as frequently. Could it be merely my sick mind warping something that was a figment of it to begin with?
That seems more likely to me. Mix equal parts, nerves and excitement, add in expectation, and just a dash of vivid imagination, you’ve got yourself ‘crystal ball visions’.
I have nothing concrete that would direct me either way or even give me more options to go off of. No one to even ask such a question. So, my mind reels.
It was pretty badass, don’t get me wrong. I’m the queen of blood and guts and that was a horror show. So, I’m not upset about that, but I am big on the why of things and can’t get passed the reason for it.
Maybe a walk would do me some good.
Maybe a bottle of something would take the edge off.
I grab my jacket and practically bounce down the stairs and out the security door, headed for the corner liquor store that I know will be open this late.
As I approach, the glowing florescent bulbs remind me of the scene from earlier. I pause a moment to see if it could actually be the same spot it happened. Maybe I pulled the whole thing together in my mind from memories of being here before. But as I try and place all the colors and the position he’d have been standing, I know it can’t be this place.
Before I can stop myself, I head in the same direction from which I’d come, and walk to the next one. Three miles later I’m in from of O’Neil’s. It’s closed now and the lights are off, I try to remember what it would look like if they were on and I can’t even recall the color the bulbs would be.
Damn it.
That sucks, because now I have nothing to drink. And a long ass walk home, all for nothing. I meander back, not really regretting my wild goose chase, and somehow, I’m finding relief that it can’t be a memory of mine. So, when I kick my door shut behind me, I rest a little easier knowing that I probably pulled that out of my ass and that poor nice Brandon will be fine.
Luckily, I have a swig of freezer vodka to put my mind at ease. I throw the empty bottle into the recycling bin and head for the living room, knowing that the hours I slept at the shop this afternoon would keep sleep away.
I pull my bra through my sleeve and kick my pants off, trying to relax, flicking through the channels, exhausting all my options before inevitably settl
ing on a Netflix binge.
My thumb stops suddenly, hovering over the channel up button, a photo of Brandon the size of my screen is smiling at me.
What.
The.
Fuck.
…“reports say that Brandon Freeman was murdered earlier today outside this corner store, witnesses are quoted saying, ‘a madman, wielding a machete, came out of nowhere and simply hacked him with it.’”
The reporter’s face falls and she takes a deep breath before continuing. My attention remains wholly engulfed by this.
“”it was like, that’s all he wanted. Like, he just came here to kill him,”” the teenage witness recounts.
The reporter continues, “It appears that the man walked up to Brandon with the intent to kill him and simply walked away after doing so, even passing other people on the way to his car.” Looking down at a notecard she has in her hand, “A blue four door sedan, police have a bolo out for this car and the maniac driving it. We urge anyone who may come across this man, or a vehicle fitting this description to leave and call the police. Stay clear and stay vigilant folks.”
The screen cuts to more footage of the scene, none of it Brandon obviously, but plenty of the storefront that happens to be exactly the image from the ball. And I’ve never been there. And he is dead. Like, for real dead. It wasn’t clear on exactly where he was ‘hacked’, (the witness so gracefully described) but I know in my gut, it was right on the top of the head.
I don’t really understand why the smile on my face is spread so wide it’s making my cheeks hurt, so I chalk it up to morbid fascination and leave my fucked-up head out of it.
Who am I kidding though? This is fucking crazy.
***
“Hey, aunt Farrah.”