by Jason Arnopp
It’s disconcerting that Dr J. Santoro looks like the smarmy one from Die Hard. The corporate weasel with the big white teeth, thick side-parted hair, and beard. The guy who ends up chewing a bullet. From the moment I lay eyes on Santoro, I pledge to myself that if he says anything like ‘Jack, Booby: I’m your white knight’, I will leave without further comment.
Dr Santoro does offer reassuring and orthodox elements you want from a psychiatrist. The sterile white-walled room, with few distractions except a box of tissues, some plastic cups, a water cooler and a bowl of wrapped peppermints. His voice is a Zen master’s. His suit and spectacles complete the picture. My chair doesn’t recline and is uncomfortable, with broad, flat wooden armrests. But I never liked the look of those horizontal shrink chairs that make you think ‘dentist’.
You know what’s less reassuring and orthodox about Dr Santoro’s office? The pit bull.
Sharon is a big grey pit bull terrier, with a splash of white on her chest and paws. She pants constantly, rolling out her tenderised meat carpet tongue. A cage sits in one corner of the room, in case a client dislikes dogs. This whole office, a small rented space in a nondescript Burbank building, reeks of Sharon.
Just as human bodies are ninety per cent water, so psychiatrists are ninety per cent ears. Santoro lets me talk for as long as I want. Which would normally suit me, but I’m mainly here for his input. It’s only fair to see what psychiatry, as a branch of science, reckons about how I came to believe I’d seen Maria Corvi that night in Hong Kong.
I also tell Santoro how, ever since Hong Kong, my brain has decided to lay a recurring dream on me.
I find it fascinating how the supernatural infiltrates your head, even when you reject such concepts. Just as cold germs go about their work, regardless of whether you believe in them.
Every night, I drive alone on some remote two-lane highway. The dash clock always reads 3.33 a.m., which mirrors the time in the real world. There is no moon.
This highway could be anywhere. Or at least, anywhere that ever plays host to thick mist which hangs as far as headlights can see. At times, this mist makes the tarmac and the grass verges appear white as snow.
Every night, I see the silhouette of a person up ahead. They’re standing in a hitch-hiker’s pose with one arm up.
Roaring closer, I see that this person is a smiling Maria Corvi. She’s a phantom much like the ‘ghost’ in the video, her transparency inconstant, in flux. She wears her blue smock as seen in Italy and Hong Kong.
Her eyes, fixed on me, are bright yellow and piercing.
Her hitch-hiker arm swings, loose as a scarecrow’s in the wind, to point off along the road ahead.
Each time she mouths the word ‘Enjoy’, she whispers it directly into my ear. Her breath curls against my eardrum.
In my rear-view mirror, Corvi shrinks steadily back into obscurity, still pointing, jaw working. The mist enshrouds her until it’s all I can see.
Dead girls in the rear-view mirror may appear more real than they are.
And when I focus back on the road ahead: shit! There’s Maria again. Standing in the middle of the lane, no more than two white lines away from my front bumper.
Bug-eyed and terrible, bleached white by the headlamps. Seeming to relish the prospect of fatal impact.
Every night, this makes me jump.
Every night, I wake before I hit her. Then I laugh it off and go back to sleep.
As is so often the way with shrinks, Dr Santoro seems most interested in what he perceives to be the root of the story. As I tell him what happened on Halloween, his forehead cracks with thought. ‘You say you became convinced Maria Corvi was purely an actress. By the end of the exorcism, I mean. How convinced were you, exactly? A hundred per cent?’
I nod, to hurry him along and to see where he takes this. Sharon backs up and presses her anus against my bare left leg, just above the ankle.
Santoro consults the notepad on his lap. ‘You say Maria regurgitated pieces of metal, including nails.’
I nod him along some more, wincing at the feel of Sharon’s anus and rearranging my legs.
‘And she went off in an ambulance at the end,’ he adds.
‘Well,’ I say, ‘that was the end of the narrative presented to me. I didn’t actually see the ambulance leave.’
Dr Santoro uses interlocked fingers to create a small church in front of his chin. Two forefingers erect a steeple, which taps his nose as he mulls. I wonder if he’s doing this on purpose, to help me reimagine the scene. ‘So you believe the paramedics were also bit players in that scenario.’
I shift in my seat, feeling judged. I suffered more than enough thinly veiled ridicule in rehab, and now that feeling’s back. All this for two hundred and fifty bucks.
‘I hadn’t thought about that,’ I say. ‘Is it important?’
The flesh church and steeple remain as he mulls some more.
‘It could be that some part of you – perhaps a part you’re unaware of, deep in the well of the mind – believed either that Maria Corvi was demonically possessed . . .’ Here, he sees my face and blows the flesh church apart, turning it into one insistent forefinger. ‘Or that she was mentally ill and being exploited by the Church.’
I humour him by considering these ideas. ‘The latter, at a push,’ I finally say. ‘That was my belief at one point during the exorcism. But actually possessed? No way, José.’ Dr Santoro blinks a couple of times, and I fleetingly wonder if his J initial stands for José.
He keeps asking questions, but I eventually get the truth out of him: he thinks I’m guilty over Maria Corvi. He thinks some uncharacteristically kind part of my brain feels guilty for not checking up on her well-being. For all I know, he points out, she could have died of blood poisoning in hospital. He thinks I’m aware of this possibility, even if I don’t outwardly feel it. After all, he notes, in my recurring dream she does appear as a ghost.
Dr Santoro thinks that my guilt, perhaps coupled with the lingering after-effects of hallucinogenic drugs, caused my brain to project an all-singing, all-dancing Maria Corvi into my Hong Kong suite.
It’s a theory, I’ll give him that.
‘So,’ I say, assembling my own flesh church in mockery of his, ‘you believe the human brain is capable of creating a three-dimensional person, right in front of you.’
Ha. Yeah. Let’s see how he likes it.
Sharon peers up at me with the eyes of a disapproving old crone.
Dr Santoro just smiles. Not a thin smile hiding gritted teeth, but a properly laid-back Californian white-toother. ‘I’ve been in psychiatry for over two decades. I’ve learned that it’s rash to underestimate the capabilities of the human brain.’ The wall clock ticks softly for a while, at seven cents per second, before he adds, ‘You mentioned you were asleep before the incident. Sleep is when the brain processes everything. It’s when we delve deepest into that well.’
‘If Maria was a guilt projection,’ I say, ‘then why did she say, “Enjoy”, rather than something sarcastic like “Oh, thanks for checking up on me, dickhead”?’
Sharon emits a low whine. Santoro gestures for the dog to trot his way on her stubby legs. ‘I guess you could interpret what she said as sarcastic. “Enjoy your glamorous journalist’s life, while I’m dying in this hospital bed.” You know, that kind of thing.’
I want to tell Santoro how vivid Maria Corvi seemed. Her movement. Her voice. Blue threads dangling loose from the hem of her smock. I even suffered smelling her breath. Having said that, every time I picture her, standing there with that nightmare face, the detail does fade. Even just five days later, she’s fuzzing around the edges.
They say you don’t directly remember things you see. Instead, you remember a memory of a memory of a memory of a . . .
The mind plays Chinese whispers with itself.
I keep talking, trying to find holes in Santoro’s theory. To tear it apart. Two minutes before the end of our session, though, he lunges in for the kill.
‘So what would you say is a viable alternative?’ he says, stroking the back of Sharon’s head, just above the collar. ‘If not a real person, or a guilt-based hallucination, then what did you see? A ghost?’
And then Dr Santoro gives me the kind of rational, pitying look I’ve laid on true believers for years.
The Chrysler 200’s dashboard radiates that sun-baked plastic reek.
Parked out in Santoro’s car lot, I google ‘Maria Corvi hospital’. If I hadn’t walked away from that church believing it all to be The Truman Show, I would have done this a lot sooner. The way Santoro sees it, of course, I harbour guilt whether I believe it’s justified or not.
I expect to find, if anything at all, a record of Corvi having been admitted, treated and discharged on Halloween. The Italian daily newspaper La Repubblica’s website soon whips the rug out from under me.
Maria Corvi went missing from the ISMETF Hospital on 31 October, just two hours after I last saw her. Two people were found dead in a broom cupboard on her ward.
A male nurse called Pio Accardo had his throat slit. Maddelena Corvi had been stabbed thirteen times. Traces of rust were found in the wounds on both bodies.
Countless radio songs melt into one as I stare at a palm tree.
Seeing Maria Corvi referred to in a newspaper – and seemingly as a murderer – makes her seem so much more . . . real. Surely the Catholic Church wouldn’t stoop to faking deaths – or sacrificing real people? Okay, even I know that last idea’s crazy. (Eleanor: Happy? Good. Still wouldn’t put it past the bastards.)
I obviously know who poor Maddelena was, but another Google search summons Pio Accardo, a real twenty-three-year-old with online footprints. A selfie with other staff members here; a blog post entitled ‘The Best & Worst Things About Hospital Work’ there. In one happy photo, he clutches a rolled-up university graduation certificate and wears a laurel leaf crown that I can’t now help but think of as a wreath.
The Repubblica article is dated 2 November, and I can find no follow-ups. Other sites carry much the same details, but some run a quote from your friend and mine, Father Primo Di Stefano. ‘I did my very best to rid the poor girl of the spirits within. It is with deep regret that I concede my efforts were not enough. Please treat Maria Corvi with extreme caution as the demon inside her is clearly now in full control. I shall pray for her mother and Mr Accardo to find safe passage to heaven.’
So, then. Murder. And the Grim Reaper ain’t done yet.
Just hours after I learn of Maria’s Halloween rampage, my phone rings in one of the downstairs aisles of Amoeba Music. Surely the world’s biggest record store, this place is the size of a football pitch. Just wall-to-wall physical media.
I’m studying the cover of Slayer’s 1986 album Reign In Blood, to which I gravitated during my teenage thrash metal phase. It always worked well for anger, although to Chastain’s mate Fang it probably sounds like a chill-out album. The artwork depicts a goat-headed Lucifer being paraded through hell on his acolytes’ shoulders. It’s such a clichéd portrait of the Devil that it makes me chuckle now.
The middle-aged man on the phone has a strong Italian accent. I’ve never heard his voice before, and there’s background commotion, office buzz.
‘Who am I speaking to, please?’ he asks.
At first I think he’s a cold-caller. ‘Don’t you know? You just called me. Jack Sparks. Who’s this?’
‘I’m Inspector Cavalcante, with the police here in Rome. May I ask your relationship to Antonino Bonelli?’
‘I don’t know that name. Why are you calling?’
‘I am afraid Mr Bonelli was found dead yesterday. He apparently did some translation work with you on . . . let me see here . . . October the thirty-first?’
Christ.
‘Tony?’ I say, pushing Reign In Blood back down among the other records. ‘I knew him as Tony. Yes, I met him for the first time that day.’
The inspector casually explains that he’s calling because Tony had spoken about me ‘a great deal’ to his wife before he disappeared five days ago. Interrogation paranoia makes me explain, a little too hurriedly, how I haven’t returned to Italy since leaving on Halloween night.
Tony left a suicide note at home, in which he wrote, ‘Hell is having no control. She controls me now, so I must do the right thing.’ And get this: the note carried a charming postscript: ‘It’s all Jack Sparks’ fault.’
Even worse: Tony’s wife had contacted the police on 5 November to allege that he was sexually abusing their young son. My fault, really? That’s a new one.
As Cavalcante tells me how the investigation is only just beginning, how they ‘just want to establish the basic facts’, I lay eyes on someone at the other end of this long aisle. Someone who looks very much like Tony.
He just stands there, looking at me, wearing the same leather jacket Tony wore in Italy. It glistens. Somehow looks wet, as does his hair.
It’s stupid, I know, but I walk towards him anyway.
Connections, connections, so seductive.
‘How did he die?’ I ask.
A pause. Then, ‘Mr Bonelli was found in a river outside the city. Can you think of any reason why he would say it was your fault?’
‘None at all,’ I say, squinting at this Tony lookalike, drawing closer.
‘Did you have any more contact with Mr Bonelli after that day at the church?’
‘None whatsoever.’
I bump into a pink-dreadlocked skater girl glued to her phone. When I duck past, ignoring her insults, the Tony lookalike is no longer there. The spot where he stood is marked by a puddle of greenish-brown water on the floor.
I fend off more of Cavalcante’s questions, while staring at the puddle.
‘Hey,’ I say, just before he hangs up. ‘Do you know anything about the Maria Corvi case? Has she been found?’
‘I cannot discuss other cases, I’m sorry.’
I try explaining that I’m a journalist, but that doesn’t help at all. I consider telling him about the link between Tony and Maria, then stop myself. Because, after all, what exactly is that link, apart from them having met for a couple of hours?
‘Why do you ask?’ Cavalcante adds.
‘Oh, I just saw it in the news,’ I say, then hang up as a cute Amoeba employee with a vintage bob arrives to deal with the puddle. She squeezes that gloopy shit-green mess from mop to bucket, mouthing, ‘What the fuck . . .’
My thoughts exactly. The fallout from the Italian job no longer amuses or fascinates me. Those people have actually started to mess with my head, both in dreams and the real world. For a moment there, I actually thought I saw a dead man in a record shop. And if I can make that mistake, anyone can.
This is how people lose themselves. How they wind up setting fire to themselves, so that the police trying to bust into their compound will never learn the cult’s secret rites. Or worse, how they wind up handing their life savings to Sherilyn Chastain.
I decide to forget the Maria Corvi clan. Let’s get real: this stuff would be great for a true-life murder book – maybe one I’ll write myself some day – but there’s nothing supernatural going on. It’s a dead end.
Maria Corvi is a teen psycho who should have been placed in the care of someone like Dr Santoro a long time ago. Tony Bonelli is . . . was . . . a disturbed paedophile who ended up doing the right thing.
Only one point of interest remains: why I saw Maria in Hong Kong. Maybe a second chat with Santoro, or even the Paranormals’ experiment, will help explain how my brain produced her. If not, I’ll just have to blame the drugs and get on with my life.
Either way, from this moment forth, Maria and Tony and all those other sideshow mutants are squarely in my rear-view mirror.
Onwards!
Alistair Sparks: ‘Google has confirmed that Jack Sparks’ laptop was used to search for the following terms on 12 November 2014, hours after Amoeba Music employee Kate-Linn Kasey recalls mopping up “a heinous mess”.’
/> maria corvi news
maria corvi update
maria corvi latest
maria corvi found
maria corvi arrested
maria corvi dead
tony bonelli dead
antonino bonelli dead
antonino bonelli suicide
inspector cavalcante police real?
trusted combat magicians for hire -sherilyn -chastain
reasons for seeing ghosts
help with ghosts devil supernatural
am I cursed
Alistair Sparks: ‘The following is an extract from Rebecca “Bex” Lawson’s personal diary, dated 12 November 2014.’
Fuck a duck, Diary: I’m off to Los Angeles!
I feel . . . how do I feel? Good and bad.
The good part’s obvious. I can’t remember the last time I accepted this kind of charity, but I feel no guilt. Jack and I both know he owes me. I mean, it’s not like I looked after him during his Year of Drugs for any kind of reward – I did it to keep the stupid sod alive. But it was a really trying time that still haunts me even months later. A return flight to Hollywood and we’re even!
The bad? I’m still gutted about Lawrence. A tiny bit of me wonders if I should have given him another chance. I never had him down as a cheater, but it was tragic how he denied it for a while, even when I had evidence. So the rest of me keeps telling that tiny bit to shut up. If the guy needed One Last Fling before moving in with me, what would he be like after a few years? And if we married? Mum’s right: forget him. Just forget him.
The only potentially bad part of this LA thing? I know Jack likes me.
The funny thing is, he thinks he’s so subtle that I’m totally oblivious to this.
He doesn’t believe, for one second, that I notice the glances at my tits. And how he sometimes holds eye contact for longer than a friend should.
I also doubt Jack remembers the many times he’s tried to make a clumsy move while wasted. The old Arm Around the Shoulders routine, followed by the old Coming in for a Kiss routine . . . He forgets all my brush-offs. He’s a lab rat that can’t remember getting electrocuted every time it presses Button A. Luckily, I’m good at defusing those occasional situations. I know he’d never ever get pushy or grabby – he’s more pathetic than anything else.
