by J. R. Rain
He spoke calmly, assuredly, with no judgment in his voice. If anything, there was a hint of humor. He watched me closely, his blazing eyes almost never leaving me. Whoever he was, I had his full attention. I nearly just wished him a merry Christmas and turned and left, but something made me stick around.
“So, what’s your name?” I asked.
“Ishmael.”
I almost made a Moby Dick joke, but held back. Truth be known, I was a little freaked out that this guy knew me, and I hadn’t a clue who he was.
“Where do you know me from, Ishmael? And give it to me straight. No more double speak.”
“I’m afraid you wouldn’t remember me, Samantha. But I can say this: you know my client.”
Ishmael was an unusual-looking man. He seemed both comfortably relaxed and oddly uncomfortable. He often didn’t know what to do with his hands, which sometimes hung straight down, or crossed over his chest. He radiated serenity, but every now and then, perplexingly, a black streak of darkness, like a worm, would weave through his beautiful, silver aura. Amazingly, my inner alarm system remained silent.
“And who’s your client?” I asked.
He continued to watch me. Now, he held his hands together loosely at his waist. I think the guy would have been better off utilizing his pants pockets. Another streak of blackness flashed through his aura, so fast that I nearly didn’t see it. Then another.
He smiled at me in a way that few men have ever smiled at me: knowingly, lovingly, comfortably, happily, sexily.
Finally, he said, “The client, Sam, was you.”
Chapter Four
We had spent the evening baking cookies and generally making a mess of the kitchen. Flour, cinnamon, sprinkles, and sugar dusted the floor, our three sets of footprints overlapping on the tile, like some mad Family Circus diagram. But what’s Christmas for, if not to bake with children?
Then we all cuddled up on the couch. I had put in the Groundhog Day DVD and we watched it with a fresh batch of cookies and milk. Of course, I only pretended to eat my cookies, which I promptly spit back into my milk. Ah, but those few seconds of sugary delight were heaven...but I would pay a price for it...Anything not blood, no matter how minute, would cause me severe cramping and the dry heaves later.
When the kids were in bed and I had gotten caught up on my office paperwork and billing, I grabbed my laptop and curled up on one corner of the living room couch.
You there, Fang?
No doubt, other creatures of the night were out running around...doing whatever it was that creatures of the night do. I knew what I did. I worked. And besides, tonight was a school night. And, despite being a professional private investigator who works the late shift, I couldn’t leave my kids alone at night unless I could find a sitter.
That was why being married had been so convenient. Danny, my ex-husband, would watch the kids while I worked late. That is, until he started staying late himself, for reasons that weren’t so admirable.
I drummed my fingers along the laptop case, waiting for Fang to reply. At the far end of the hallway, I could hear Anthony snoring lightly, even through his closed door. Along with my condition came an increased perception of many of my senses. Hearing and sight were two of them. I could hear and see things that I had no business hearing and seeing. The sense of taste and touch, not so much, which was just as well. I couldn’t eat food anyway, and I certainly didn’t need inadvertent orgasms every time someone touched my shoulder. The jury was still out on my sense of smell, although it might have increased a little. Not necessarily a good thing with a gaseous eight-year-old around. Anyway, I had always had a good sniffer, so it was kind of hard to tell for sure.
Ah...there he was. The little pencil icon appeared in the chatbox window, indicating that Fang was typing a response.
Good evening, Moon Dance. Or, more accurately, good middle-of-the-night.
Good middle-of-the-night to you, too.
He typed a smiley face, followed by: So, to what do I owe the pleasure of your company, Moon Dance?
Fang was my online confidant. He was also a convicted murderer and escaped convict with serious psychological issues. But that’s another story for another time. Over the years, though, he had proven to be loyal, knowledgeable and extremely helpful. After six years of anonymously chatting, Fang and I had finally met for the first time six months ago. The meeting had been interesting, and there had been some physical chemistry.
But then came “The Request.”
Again, six months ago, back when my son was losing his battle with the extremely rare Kawasaki disease, Fang had asked me to turn him into a vampire.
Now, that’s a helluva request, even among close friends. At the time I was dealing with too much and had told him so. He understood. His timing was off. He got it. We hadn’t discussed his request for a while now, but it was always out there, simmering, seething just below the current of all our conversations. We both knew it was out there. We both knew I would get around to it when the time was right.
And what would be my answer? I didn’t know. Not yet. The question, for now, was bigger than I was. I need time to wrap my brain around it. To let it simmer. Percolate. Brew.
But someday, perhaps someday soon, I would give him my answer.
I wrote: I have a question.
You usually do, Fang replied.
What do you know of silver auras?
They’re common, although they’re usually associated with other colors, why?
I saw a silver aura today, but a bright one. Perhaps the brightest I’d ever seen. A radiant, glorious silver.
No other colors?
I shook my head, even though he couldn’t see me shaking my head. Just silver, I typed.
Hang on.
There was a long pause, and I suspected Fang was either thinking or Googling or consulting what I knew to be a vast, private occult library. I knew something of occult libraries...having met a curious young curator of such a library, six months ago.
I waited. My house was mostly silently, other than Anthony’s light snoring. Was it normal for an eight-year-old to snore? I wondered if I should have that checked. These days, after the ordeal with Kawasaki disease, I was constantly on guard with Anthony’s health.
Fang came back, typing: Please describe him to me, Moon Dance.
Tallish, I wrote. Well-built. Narrow waist. Broad shoulders. Smiled a lot.
What did he say to you?
I thought about that. Said he knew me, and had known me from way back, that he worked with me...or implied that he had worked with me. He knew my name.
But did you recognize him?
No.
What about your inner alarm system? Did he trigger it? Were you on guard?
Quite the opposite, I wrote. If anything, I felt at peace.
There was a long delay, then finally, Fang’s words appeared in the IM chat box:
Unless I’m mistaken, Moon Dance, I believe you just met your guardian angel.
Chapter Five
Charlie lived in a single-wide trailer.
Although the trailer looked old, it appeared well-enough maintained. As I approached the door in the late evening, I realized that I had never been inside a single-wide trailer.
Somehow, I controlled my excitement.
The exterior was composed of metal siding, and there was a lot of junk piled around the house. Controlled junk, as it was mostly on old tables and shelving. Lawn mower parts, fan belts, engine parts, and just about everything else that belonged in a garage, except the mobile home didn’t have a garage.
The front door was, in fact, a sliding glass door. Charlie, apparently, used the mobile home’s rear door as his front door. A quick glance around the home explained why: the front door had no steps leading up to it.
Leading up to the sliding glass door was a small wooden deck, which I used now. I peered inside. It was the living room, and where the exterior had controlled mayhem, the interior was a straight-up mess. Charlie Anderson, it appeared, wa
s a hoarder. The shelving theme from outside was extended to the inside. Shelves lined the walls, packed with plastic containers, themselves filled with computer parts, cables, and other electronic doodads. Interestingly, not a single book lined his book shelves. The floor was stacked with newspapers and speakers and car radios and old computer towers in various stages of disarray. Boxes were piled everywhere. And not neatly. Dog toys and old bones littered the floor. A huge TV sat in the far corner of the room, draped in a blanket, while a much smaller TV sat next to it, currently showing something science-fictiony. Zombies or robots, or both.
I was just about to knock on the glass door when a fat little white terrier sprang from the couch and charged me, barking furiously. All teeth and chub. But at the door, it suddenly pulled up, stopped barking, and looked at me curiously. I looked back at it. It cocked its head to one side. I didn’t cock my head.
Then it whimpered and dashed off.
As it did so, I heard more movement...the sound of someone getting out of a recliner, followed by Charlie Anderson’s happy-go-lucky, round face.
He let me in, asking if I’d found the place okay. I assured him I had. Once inside, I could fully appreciate just how much crap Charlie had. And yet...I had a sneaking suspicion that Charlie knew exactly where all his junk was.
“Nice place you have here.” I was speaking facetiously, and a little in awe, too.
But Charlie took it as a real compliment, bless his heart.
“Thanks, but it’s just home. I used to worry about cleaning and stuff like that, but I figured what’s the point? My friends call me a hoarder, but I just like junk. I think there’s a difference.”
“Sure,” I said.
He looked at me eagerly. “So, you agree there’s a difference?”
I could tell he wanted me to agree, to confirm that he didn’t have a hoarding problem, that he was just another guy with thousands of glass jars stacked on a long shelf over his kitchen table. The jars, as far as I could tell, were filled with every conceivable nut and bolt known to man. Thank God they weren’t filled with human hearts. I leaned over. The jar cloest to me was filled with—and I had to do a double take here—bent nails.
“Yes,” I said. “There’s a huge difference.”
Charlie exhaled, relieved. I think we might have just bonded a little. “I think so, too,” he said, nodding enthusiastically. “Would you like a Diet Pepsi?”
“I’m okay.”
“Water?”
“I’m fine. Maybe you can show me where you kept the safe, Charlie?”
“Oh, yes. Right this way.”
He led me through his many stacks of random junk. We even stepped around an old car fender. A fender. Seriously? Laying next to the fender was the upper half of a desk, the half with the doors that no one ever uses. There was no sign of the lower half anywhere. Just the upper. Seriously?
But there was more. So much more.
The junk seemed eternal. I already felt lost, consumed. How anyone could live like this, I didn’t know. The junk almost seemed to take on a life of its own, as if it was the real inhabitant of the house, and we were the strangers, the trespassers. Indeed, I could even see the chaotic energy, bright and pulsating, swirling throughout the house. Crazy, frenetic energy that seemed trapped and still-connected to the many inanimate objects.
Energy, I knew, could attach to an object, especially an object of great importance, and so, really, I wasn’t too surprised to see the spirit of the old woman hanging around an even older-looking piano. Granted, the piano itself was mostly covered in junk, but the old woman didn’t seem to care much about that.
“Where did you get this piano?” I asked.
As I spoke, the old woman, who had mostly been ignoring us, turned and looked at me with some interest.
Charlie, who was about to lead the way down a narrow hallway, paused, and looked back. “My neighbor was throwing it out.”
“Why?”
“He was moving. I guess it belonged to his mother, who was a music teacher, I think. She died a few years back. I shored up my floor with some extra jacks underneath and pushed it through the sliding glass door. It wasn’t easy, but I got it in here.”
“Do you play?” I asked.
“No.”
“Have you ever, ah, heard it play before?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, have you ever heard it play on its own?”
He looked at me, seemed to think about, or, more accurately, decide how much he wanted to tell me, then finally nodded. “Yeah, sometimes. Just a few notes. I figure it’s mice.”
“Do you believe in ghosts?” I asked. As I did so, the old lady drifted up from the piano seat where she’d been sitting along with some stacks of automobile manuals.
“Why do you ask?”
The woman approached me carefully. She was composed of a thousands, if not millions of staticky, supernatural filaments of super-bright light. Sometimes the filaments dispersed a little. When they did, she grew less distinct. Sometimes they came together tightly, and when they did, she took on more form, more details. As she approached, I could see where light pulsated brightly at the side of her head, and knew that she had died of a brain aneurysm. She reached out a hand, which looked so bright and detailed that it could have been physical. I reached out my own and took hers, and as I did so, a shiver coursed through me.
In that moment, I had an image of a school, with many dozens of children playing this very piano.
“No reason,” I said. “But, wouldn’t you think this piano would do some kids some good? Maybe at an elementary school?”
Charlie blinked hard, thought about that. Giving up his junk, I knew, was a torturous act. He shrugged. “Yeah, I suppose.”
“Would you do that for me?”
He shrugged again. “Sure. But why?”
The old woman, who was still holding my hand, had covered her face with her other hand. Shivers continued up and down my arm. “Seems the right thing to do, doesn’t it?”
Charlie shrugged. “Yeah, I suppose so. I am sort of worried about the floor. Even with the extra jacks underneath. I’ll do it tomorrow. I can check around with some schools.”
“You’re a good man, Charlie Brown.”
He smiled and turned a little red. I released the old woman’s hand, who smiled and drifted back to the piano. As I did so, I had a thought, “When did you acquire the piano?”
“Last week.”
“Before or after the theft of the safe?”
“After. Why?”
Ghosts, I knew from firsthand experience, made for excellent witnesses. Unfortunately, the timing didn’t line up here. “No reason,” I said.
Charlie studied me, shrugged for the millionth time, and led me over to the furnace, which was located about halfway down the hallway. Once there, he removed the metal cover, set it down, and grabbed a flashlight from the nearby bathroom.
“I kept the safe in here,” he said, and shined the light at an empty space above the furnace. “I just set it in there.”
“It wasn’t bolted in?”
“No. It’s heavy, but so’s the furnace. The safe just sat right where the old blower used to be. The thing broke ages ago. That’s it right over there.”
He pointed the flashlight over to a dome-shaped, metal-encased fan. Surrounding the fan were a lot of old baggies full of random screws and washers. One of the baggies even had baggies in it. Hoarding at its purest.
“Can you give me a minute alone?” I asked.
“Sure...you gonna dust for prints or something?”
“Or something,” I said.
He nodded and smiled eagerly, anything to please me. No doubt anything to please anyone. He stepped back through his labyrinthine hallway, contorting his body this way and that, and when he was gone, I went to work.
Chapter Six
First, I scanned the hallway.
I noted a window directly opposite the furnace. The window was covered by both
blinds and a curtain. Upon closer inspection, I saw that the blind wasn’t really made for this window. It was a half inch too narrow...perhaps just narrow enough for someone to see through.
I next ran my fingers along the dusty curtain, and what struck me immediately was how thin the material was. Thin and see-through. Individually, the blinds were too narrow and the curtains too thin. But together, they should have done the job of keeping away prying eyes.
I thought about that as I scanned his hallway...and spotted the oscillating fan at the end. The fan was turned off, but I had another thought.
I went over to it and turned it on. It faced into what appeared to be Charlie’s bedroom. Then it started oscillating, turning briefly toward the hallway. The blast of air from the fan wasn’t much. But it was enough. A moment later, the hem of the curtain fluttered up.
I watched three or four revolutions of the fan, and each time, the hem of the curtain fluttered higher and higher. I went back to the window and studied it, and as I studied it, an image began to form in my thoughts.
The image coalesced into that of a young man standing just outside the window. I closed my eyes and the image came into sharper focus. A young man who was watching Charlie. Standing just outside the trailer. Late at night.
Who the person was, I hadn’t a clue. Why he happened to be standing just outside the trailer, I didn’t know that either. My psychic hits are just that. Hits. Not all-knowing information. Glimpses of information. Snapshots of information. It was up to me to dig deeper, to decipher, to probe, and ultimately to figure out what the hell it all meant.
I went back into the living room, walked around the upper half of a recliner—just the upper half, mind you—and found Charlie scratching his fat little pooch. The dog saw me, promptly piddled on the carpet, and dashed off into the kitchen. Or what should have been a kitchen. In Charlie’s world, it was just another storage room.
“Rocko!” he shouted, but Charlie didn’t really sound angry. He sounded shocked, if anything. He immediately produced a rag from somewhere on his person and went to work on the pee stain in the carpet. “I don’t know what’s gotten into him.”
