The Angel Alejandro

by Alistair Cross

  He seemed skeptical.

  Madison wished he were sitting next to her. A deep part of her wanted to comfort him when the movie made him uneasy. It was silly, but true. There was something about him she wanted to soothe and protect, and really, it wasn’t a wonder. She felt bad for the poor guy.

  She knew amnesia victims could lose massive amounts of memory, but Alejandro had lost a lot more than that. It was as if the modern human experience had been erased from his mind. He was like a toddler, seeing everything for the first time. But in other ways - the way he’d handled Clint, for instance - he was very much a man. A powerful one.

  Thoughts of Clint Horace darkened her mood. All day, she’d wondered how badly he’d been hurt - his cheekbone must be shattered, for sure - but she wouldn’t admit to herself that she was worried. He got up and walked away, so at least he didn’t die. Beyond that, screw him. He deserved what he got. She was just glad the police hadn’t come by.

  She thought of the wings - that vast flame-tipped spread of black - she’d seen just before Alejandro pounced and attacked. Given the way Clint had been bouncing her head on the hood of the car, it would have been easy to believe she’d hallucinated were it not for one thing: the look on Clint’s face when it happened. But did he see what I saw? She looked at Alejandro, tried to imagine him with wings, and couldn’t.

  That’s when she noticed she wasn’t the only one watching him.

  Dette’s eyes were dark, glittering, and riveted to Alejandro with not-quite-sane concentration. She’d turned her body his direction and was leaning forward as if she were being drawn to him by magnets. She was as rigid as a hood ornament except her left hand, which fondled the silver crescent moon in a way that struck Madison as lewd.

  Alejandro sat mannequin-still, one hand tight on the arm of the chair, the other a vise around his cereal bowl. His expression was blank but his posture told Madison he knew he was being stared at. But he didn’t look at Dette. Or rather, he wouldn’t look at her.

  It took Madison a moment to find her voice. “Dette?”

  Dette’s gaze flicked to Madison and at first, she looked demented, like a woman in the throes of a stroke. Then her eyes lost that deranged vacancy, and she blinked. “What?”

  “What are you … doing?”

  “I’m watching the movie, Maddy. What are you doing?” Her tone had teeth, which made her sudden smile alarming … and then she was herself; Madison could practically see the Dette-ness returning to her friend’s eyes.

  Madison glanced at Alejandro.

  Both hands had relaxed, and his expression seemed less intense.

  Madison wondered if she hadn’t imagined the whole strange moment, but when Dette said, “And what are you doing, Alejandro?” and giggled her flirty giggle, there was something distinctly uncertain in his composure. He didn’t answer, just returned his attention to the movie.

  Madison stared at the screen, not really seeing it. The room felt colder now, but she was pretty sure the chill was not weather-related.

  Dette called out, “Boooo,” to Bette Davis and tossed some popcorn at the screen.

  Madison shuddered.

  * * *

  Beverly opened the door and stared at the men on her porch. “Chief Grayson? How can I help you?” She glanced at the guy next to him. They both stood there, looking uncertain, nervous, like two football players who’d arrived at the kick-off point simultaneously and couldn’t decide which one should punt.

  Finally, the chief spoke. “Ms. Simon. Beverly. I’m sorry to bother you again.” He paused, blinked, and nodded to his friend. “This is my, er, my buddy, Tom. He’s the priest at St. John’s, and-”

  Beverly’s jaw dropped. “What the hell is wrong with you people?”

  The men’s mouths became Os of surprise.

  Beverly looked from one to the other, prepared to do some serious finger jabbing for emphasis. “I have seen a lot of ignorance in my day and endured my fair share of prejudice, but this is too much! I sensed that you don’t approve of what I do, Chief, but I assure you that I do not need a priest! I’m sure there are plenty of other souls in more desperate need of saving, so if you gentlemen will excuse me, I’d really like to finish what I was doing, which, by the way, was laundry, not worshipping Satan or sacrificing babies to arcane gods, not that it’s any of your concern what I worship or-”

  The cop broke out in laughter. The priest had the good sense to look uncomfortable.

  “I won’t tolerate-”

  Grayson cut in. “You’ve got it all wrong. We’re not here to … save you or perform an exorcism or anything. I wondered if we could come in and talk to you about … about some of the things you mentioned the other night. You know, when you said that, uh, that there was something … in my house.”

  Her gaze flickered to the priest. She couldn’t figure out why he was here.

  Grayson said, “The padre was visiting when … well, could we talk?”

  Beverly was baffled. And more than a little embarrassed by her presumptive outburst.

  “Please, Ms. Simon.” His face was grave. “I need your help.”

  She looked at the priest. He too appeared quite shaken. Beverly met Nick Grayson’s eyes. “Um, sure.” She stepped back to allow them in. “Sorry about that. You wouldn’t believe the kind of flack I get-”

  “Oh, yes, we would.” The priest smiled.

  As the chief passed, she caught the scent of Old Spice and beneath that, a faint whiff of booze, which explained the puffiness of his cheeks. Thanks to her ex-husband, she was well versed in the ways of drink and guessed the cop had gotten tanked to the teeth the night before. He had circles under his eyes and a gray pallor: the signs of a problem drinker. It didn’t inspire fondness in her.

  In the parlor, they sat down, she in an armchair and the cop and priest on the divan. There was a beat of awkward silence and then the priest spoke. “We haven’t been formally introduced.” He held out his hand. “Thomas Wainwright.” His grip was firm but not unforgiving.

  “Beverly Simon.” She paused. “So … how can I help you?”

  Grayson cleared his throat. “I was hoping you’d tell us what you meant when you said someone was trying to contact me. And how did you know?”

  “When you touched me … when we shook hands. I sensed it.”

  “Sensed it?”

  “Like a flash of insight. It happens sometimes.” She paused. “I take it I was correct?”

  He nodded and gave her a slightly crooked, half-assed smile.

  He was attractive, she realized. A little broody-looking, but handsome in a way that deepened with exposure. It’s those blue eyes with the dark hair, she told herself. He reminded her of a superhero’s human counterpart, though he was undoubtedly taller - and broader - than Clark Kent or Bruce Wayne.

  “So tell me what happened.”

  “Well … it sounds crazy, but-” He paused, shifting. “I’ve suspected something strange was going on in my house since I moved in, but tonight, it was … stronger.” He cleared his throat. “A lot stronger.”

  She hesitated. “Explain what ‘it’ is.”

  “I don’t know. That’s why I’m here.”

  Tom spoke up. “I think you’d better tell her what you told me about the previous experiences you’ve had. Then we’ll talk about tonight.”

  The cop seemed reluctant, but told her. “I guess I’ll start with the footsteps I’ve heard. Not creaky, slow ones like you see in scary movies, but fast ones, like someone was rushing me from behind, but when I turn around, no one’s there.”

  She’d expected him to continue. He didn’t. He just stared, her cue - she supposed - to add some kind of insight. “Had you been drinking?”

  His face reddened. “No, not then.” He cleared his throat.

  She’d touched a nerve and felt guilty. “The sounds of footsteps are common forms of hauntings, as are voices and slamming doors.”

  “You think my house is haunted?”

  “In a
way all houses are haunted.”

  Both men blinked at her.

  “I think of ‘ghosts’ as little more than memories in motion,” she explained. “Events, especially very emotional ones, leave behind a kind of psychic residue, impressions that become absorbed into the fibers of a place. For example, a home where a lot of violence has taken place will often feel uncomfortable to some people years after the fact. Sometimes bad memories replay themselves - like a tape on a loop. I doubt if what you experienced is any more than that.”

  “So ... you don’t believe in ghosts?” The chief looked like a dog trying to grasp a new command.

  “If you’re asking me if I’ve ever seen a ghost, the answer is no. If you’re asking me if I’ve ever felt a presence I couldn’t identify, the answer is yes. But most of it, like the footsteps you heard, is a simple matter of leftover energy. It isn’t intelligent. It’s just a layer of science we’ve yet to understand. It always comes down to science, Chief Grayson.”

  “Call me Nick. I guess I’m just confused because you’re a …”

  Beverly smiled. “Let me be blunt about what I am and what I do. You probably think that because I’m a psychic my default position is full and unquestioning acceptance of the unknown. But in fact, the opposite is true. If anything, it’s made me more skeptical.”

  “Skeptical? But you said someone was trying to get in contact with me.” He sounded frustrated.

  “I did. And I believe someone is. But I don’t think it’s a ghost, Nick.”

  He looked exasperated.

  “Tell me more about your experiences in the house.”

  Nick cleared his throat. “Well, I saw a man’s silhouette behind my curtains. He was there one minute and gone the next.”

  Beverly nodded. “More residual memories, the same as the footsteps, but visual rather than auditory.”

  “And it unmade my bed, stacked pillows on the floor, and wrote REMEMBER on my bathroom mirror. You asked if that word meant anything to me? Well it did.”

  Beverly perked up. She thought it possible that he was experiencing poltergeist activity, likely due to drinking, but she didn’t want to bring that up again.

  “Then,” he said. “Yesterday, it shattered the bathroom mirror.”

  Beverly felt her eyes widen. “So there have been physical manifestations?”

  The priest barked a laugh. “To say the least.”

  “Definitely,” said Nick. “But none of it even compares to what happened tonight.”

  She studied them. “Okay. Let’s talk about tonight.”

  The men began tripping over each other’s excited words, telling her in disjointed bursts about a bouncing dining table, slamming cupboards, and flickering lights.

  She listened and tried to keep it straight, her eyes darting between them as they spoke. When they were finished, she said, “That much activity is incredibly rare. Any real activity is rare, but this is-”

  “It happened. I swear to God, it did,” said Nick.

  “And you two weren’t drinking?” She couldn’t ignore the powerful smell of old booze.

  The men exchanged glances. The priest gave the cop a nod. “Tell her.”

  “We’re in A.A. The padre is my sponsor.” Nick paused. “I got drunk last night, but-”

  “I’ve got twelve years of sobriety,” said Tom. “And I saw the same things Nick did.”

  “So can you help us?” asked Nick.

  Beverly chewed her bottom lip. “The first thing you have to understand is that what I do … it’s not always reliable. I most often receive a series of impressions and intuitive notions that I think of as a kind of portent.” She stared at her hands. “Sometimes it strikes like lightning, and I don’t see it coming, but most of the time, I see it because I’m looking.” She glanced at Nick. “When our hands touched the other night, I saw a man. He was screaming in your ear.”

  A moment passed; no one spoke.

  “What did he look like?” asked Nick.

  “He was tall. Very tall.” She looked at Nick. “Taller than you. But he was hard to make out beyond that.”

  The chief scratched his chin. It made a sandpapery sound. “Could you understand what he was screaming about?”

  “I don’t know that either, but it was clear he wanted your attention.”

  Tom cleared his throat. “You said there’s an intuitive side to the visions. What did you sense?”

  “I got the very strong feeling that this presence is real. What I mean is that it’s not a ghost. But I also don’t think it’s … of this world, exactly. I wish I knew what that meant, but I don’t.”

  Nick studied her, but if he doubted her, it didn’t show. “The other night, you also mentioned your visions have been strong lately, and scary. What did you mean?”

  She suppressed a shudder. “That’s a conversation for another night.”

  “The, uh, entity in Nick’s house,” Tom said. “Did it feel … evil?”

  “No. Just frustrated.”

  “So how do I find out what it wants?” asked Nick.

  “The most common reason that people are unable to receive information is because their minds are closed to it. I’d try to be more open, Nick.”

  He stared at her, his blue eyes seeming to darken. “Believe,” he said.

  “What?” asked Beverly.

  “I heard a voice. That’s what it said. ‘Believe.’”

  “He came through,” said Beverly. “And he gave you good advice. Trust it, that’s mine.”

  The Emptiness Gaped

  In the beginning, Alejandro’s dreams were a tumble of clown-faced Bette Davises, distressed Joan Crawfords, and dead birds on silver platters with occasional glimpses of a little girl with bouncing ringlets.

  Then the images changed.

  The Bette Davis face became Dette’s scowl. Joan Crawford became Madison, helpless and reaching out. The little girl’s hair turned the shade of autumn leaves and she grew taller and taller, her shoulders broadening, her soft face gaining hard edges - squared jaw, heavy browed - until Alejandro stared at a pale man with incandescent auburn hair that flowed past his shoulders.

  He was familiar but Alejandro couldn’t place him. Though sitting in front of a dinner tray, the man must have stood at least six-foot-eight. He lifted the lid of a shiny silver platter and stared down at a dead bird. Alejandro saw red clotted craters where the wings had been ripped off. With his fingertip, the man stroked the bird’s head. A tear slipped from his eyes. Alejandro wanted to go to him, but he couldn’t move - he could only hover in the distance.

  “Where are your wings, brother?”

  Alejandro tried to answer but … no body, no voice. I’m here! he thought.

  The man looked up, searching with shimmering golden eyes.

  Did he hear me?

  The man stood, scanning the stark white room. “I can’t find you, brother. Come to me.”

  A white flash bloomed, blinding Alejandro, and then the man was gone. There was nothing but emptiness now.

  * * *

  In the guest bedroom, Dette dreamed of Astaroth - his hands, his mouth, his sweat-slicked body pressed against hers. There was nothing surrounding them, no walls, no ceiling, no earth, no sky. It was just the two of them in darkness, their bodies tangled like slippery writhing serpents.

  But he wouldn’t enter her.

  She raised her hips, opened her legs, urging him. “Please?”

  A large hand ran the length of her thigh, cupped her buttocks, and squeezed. His erection, hot and as hard as marble teased between her thighs, so close, so close. “Not yet.” His voice was rough, animal.

  “Please, please ... please.” She reached for his cock, wanting to force him into her. But her hands found nothing.

  Nothing at all.

  “It’s time.” And then Astaroth was gone. The dream was over.

  Dette woke covered in sweat. She lay on her back, legs open, arms out, her hands tight fists. She felt like a starved dog who’d bee
n given a lick of steak, her cravings so deep and sharp she was agonized with need. She felt the void within her - the same bottomless void she’d felt that day with Tyranny and Astaroth. When he’d exited her, there’d been an emptiness so powerful, so painfully there that she thought it might consume her entirely.

  Now the emptiness gaped, gnawing at her.

  Between her breasts, she felt the pressing heat of the pendant Tyranny had given her. She touched it; it was warm, almost hot. Glancing down, she saw a blue glow around it, and what looked like tiny bolts of lightning sparking. Strange, but in the midst of the aching need, she paid it no mind.

  She sat up, needing, needing, needing.

  Needing what?

  Skin. Flesh. Sweat. Bodies. Sex.

  “Go to him.”

  She didn’t know who’d spoken, but she understood the command. In a lacy black thong and matching bra, she rose, relishing the cool air against her wet, fevered skin. Leaving the bedroom, she paused at the end of the hall.

  Barely visible in the sparse moonlight, Alejandro was a blanket-tangled figure on the couch. His torso was exposed and she could make out the crests and hollows of his body. Her mouth watered as if she’d bitten into a fresh lemon, and the crescent moon pendant gave off a deeper heat, singeing her skin, releasing something fiery that burrowed deep into her. She hardly noticed. She needed to touch that bare skin. Skin that Madison will never touch. She doesn’t deserve him.

  Before she realized she’d moved, she was kneeling beside him. His dreaming eyes moved behind his lids. Anxiety was written on his beautiful face. She traced a fingertip down his jaw and her gaze lit upon his lips. She hummed with a need - a living, breathing need - to kiss him, to taste him.

  But not yet.

  She traced a finger down the silky, improbably hot skin of his throat and it was as if, through that feather-light touch, she could draw him into her, siphon just a little of his life and take it in.