Sinister Entity

by Hunter Shea

  Most of the books were crime novels by Robert Parker, Robert Crais, Richard Stark and Elmore Leonard, along with a handful of paperbacks dealing with various forms of meditation. Dr. Froemer had introduced him to the practice as a way to not only hone his abilities, but also to strengthen them enough so he didn’t experience the same withering away of talent that almost every psychic eventually suffered. Daily meditation practice helped him in more ways than he’d ever dreamed it could.

  After gobbling up three slices, he moved into the living room with one of the books, a yellow-paged, moldy-smelling text about transcendental meditation, and sat on the living room floor. The sun had set and an unexpected cool breeze drifted into his window.

  His mind wandered and he recalled the very first time he had summoned the courage to speak to the dead. He’d been seeing spirits since he was a baby, but lived in terror of the daily visitations until he turned eight. On the night of his eighth birthday, his stomach filled with ice cream cake and cheese puffs, an old woman hovered over him as he lay in bed. Her long, gray hair fanned out around her deep-lined face as if she were floating in water. Her trembling, matchstick arms reached down to him, dangling inches before his face. His first reaction was to scream.

  But no, he was eight now. It was time to stop being a baby.

  Besides, she looked so sad, so lost. So he asked, “Are you lonely?”

  The old woman’s face softened, and without moving her lips, he heard her say, “My son said he will see me on Tuesday.”

  The question, the answer, both forged a connection that allowed him to see into her soul, to read her living past, and to know that her body was decaying in her living room chair, waiting for her son’s monthly visit.

  It had terrified and fascinated him at the same time. In an instant, he knew her name and where she lived and he anxiously told his father the next day. She was local, and his father said the best thing to do was read the paper each day and see if he was right. In the meantime, if she appeared again, Eddie needed to tell her she was dead, and encourage her to move on. She would have to wait some time to see her son again.

  Her death was noted in a very small column in the regional section of the paper three days later. And when she came to him, again hovering over his bed, he did as his father had told him. She nodded, and faded away.

  His life had never been the same since.

  Eddie read the first chapter while sitting on the floor with his back against the easy chair’s leg rest. Taking steady, slow breaths, he put the book down and assumed the lotus position.

  He took his time, giving attention to the areas of stress in his body and releasing the tension, all the while breathing naturally, counting each breath to both focus and clear his mind of unwanted distractions. He continued until he lost count, the breaths taking over completely, bringing him into a deeper state of mind.

  Feeling the nothing and everything that filled his earthbound vessel, he remained still, only his stomach moving in and out with each breath, his back and neck straight and hands atop one another in his lap. If there were noises outside, he didn’t notice them. He was where he needed to be.

  Eddie nudged his mind to concentrate on the energy of the being that had first reached out to him six months ago. The contact then had been all too brief and fragile as gossamer thread. With great effort, he’d worked daily on strengthening the signal, each interaction fortifying the ethereal bond between them.

  The need to find the girl was overwhelming. Everything in his psi-enhanced consciousness screamed that she needed his help. So did the spirit of the man that had found him in the transom between life and death.

  He thought moving to New York would supercharge the signal, a means of hardwiring himself into the direct life source of his netherworld contact. He knew this particular spirit was torn between two entry points in the plane of the living, and communication was never easy. But he had guessed correctly that being here would improve their connection.

  His breathing slowed as his heartbeat calmed, until they were on a one-to-one basis—a beat, flushing blood through his semi-dormant system, followed by a short breath, with long periods of stillness between each. To the casual observer, he would look the part of the upright corpse. His skin paled and not a single muscle so much as twitched.

  It was a full hour before anything happened. Eddie’s conscious mind drifted in a sea of nihility, his hold on the here and now tethered by the thinnest of filaments. And then, unknown to even him, his lips began to move in whispered conversation. Disjointed words flowed from his lips, his physical body a dozen steps behind the flurry of activity occurring in his meditative mind.

  His soft ramblings were the only sound in the apartment, weighed with the eerie undertones of a living haunt. It wasn’t until his shoulders slumped forward that he ceased speaking, slowly lowering his head into his hands so he could rub away the arctic chill that had enveloped his head. He rested a moment, regulating his breath so he could revive his slumbering senses.

  Eddie rolled onto his hands and knees with a soft groan and pushed himself off the floor. Shivering, he walked into the bedroom, wincing from the pins and needles in his feet and legs, and wrapped himself in his comforter. He looked at the clock by his bedside.

  Two hours. A new record.

  But it was worth it.

  After warming up, he went back to the living room and woke his sleeping laptop. He carried it with him to the kitchen and turned on the oven to continue warming himself up, despite the fact it was summer and all of the windows were closed. He opened his email and typed, not all of the words his own.

  Chapter Nine

  A week after Jessica’s last night at the McCammon house, she had completed reviewing all of the video and audio recordings and couldn’t wait to show Tim and Kristen McCammon everything she had caught. This was the tricky part of the job because she was never sure how the person living in the affected home would react. The last thing she wanted to do was scare them any more than they already were, especially with three young daughters who were jumping at every noise. She was a strong believer that knowledge was power. She needed to give them that strength, and rid them of the EB that was plaguing their home.

  When her best friend Angela Bastiani once asked her if she went into a home looking to debunk the claims of the paranormal like all of the people on TV went about their business—and wasn’t that what made them so credible?—Jess had laughed.

  “I don’t even waste my time if I sense there isn’t something credible there. And trust me, I know. Don’t ask me how, I just know. I’ve been able to ever since…”

  Her mind had wandered for a moment, drifting back to a cold cabin in a distant place.

  “I know, honey. I know,” Angela had said, reaching out to hold her hands in her own.

  The physical contact had broken the pull of her past. “Yeah. Well, truth is, I don’t give a shit about debunking because if there’s nothing real there, I’ll have that figured out at least after my first few hours in the house. The only reason I do this is to show them the truth. Maybe if more people weren’t blind, life on the planet would be different. And if it’s something with some bad juju, I’m there to make it disappear.”

  Jessica smirked at the memory as she kicked the Jeep’s door closed.

  The front lawn smelled of sweet, fresh-cut grass and she could hear kids splashing in a pool.

  Tim and Kristen McCammon must have been waiting by the window because they opened the door a second before Jess rang the bell. Tim was wearing an extra loud Hawaiian shirt from the Tommy Bahama middle-aged-white-guy collection and khaki cargo shorts that exposed a pair of hairless legs. Kristen looked as if she had just come back from the tennis club, her tan skin in sharp contrast to her white blouse and thigh-high shorts. Neither looked as if they had been sleeping well.

  “The girls are out in the back swimming with their older cousin,” Kristen said as she led her into the house. “I told them not to come in so you wouldn’
t have to worry about showing us anything you may have recorded.”

  “That’s good, because there’s some stuff in here that’s pretty intense.”

  “Maybe we should join the girls,” Tim joked, his forced laughter unable to hide his trepidation.

  Jessica put her laptop on the kitchen table and started it up while connecting a larger monitor.

  “When I show you the video and you hear the audio, you have to remember that I was egging it on. I don’t want you to think that this is something that will be a nightly occurrence. Like I told you, I’m kind of a lightning rod for this stuff. The good news is, we can rule out any of the girls as the catalyst.”

  “What’s the bad news? If there’s good news, there’s always bad news to follow,” Kristen said, pressing her hand to her heart. Tim reassuringly rubbed the tops of her shoulders.

  “I wouldn’t call it bad news. Let’s just say I have a little more work to do. I may be young, but I’m old school when it comes to what I do. I don’t just make recordings and run, which is why I’ve been to your house more times than the mailman the past month. There’s something I still need to figure out here. I’ll show you in a minute.”

  Her computer beeped to life and Jess entered her password to access her laptop. “Tim, if you can just sit on the other side of me, I’ll go through everything I caught.”

  Chapter Ten

  Summer had just started, but the thermometer told Greg Leigh it was in full force no matter what the calendar said. He slipped on a sleeveless T-shirt and his bathing suit, tried to comb his short, wiry, salt-and-pepper hair—though more salt than pepper lately—and admitted defeat by clamping his old Portland Sea Dogs baseball cap on his head.

  Rita and Selena were sitting in the breakfast nook, talking over bowls of cereal. Selena wore pajamas that were too small and too tight on her burgeoning curves for his taste, but he’d been told numerous times by Rita to leave the dress code to her. “Where’s Rick?” he asked as he reached for a box of cereal bars.

  Rita answered, “He went with Sean and his mom to baseball practice. I told him I could get ready and watch him but he said he’s too old to have his mom and dad there.”

  Selena rolled her eyes. “He almost cried when you couldn’t be at practice just three weeks ago.”

  “He’s at that age, honey,” Rita said with a shrug. “One minute he wants to be a man, the next he wants to be a boy. It’s not easy. Look at your father. He’s still struggling with it.” She smiled at Greg over her coffee mug.

  “Don’t be jealous of my youth,” he said before shoving an entire breakfast bar in his mouth. “Anyone like seafood?” he mumbled.

  “Gross, Dad. No one wants to see your chewed up food. I see what you mean, Mom.”

  Selena took her empty bowl to the sink and went upstairs to her room.

  “Tough crowd,” Greg said.

  “There’s nothing cool or amusing about us right now. She’ll snap out of it just in time to ask you to pay for her wedding.”

  “I don’t even want to think about that. I guess that leaves me with no helpers to change the oil and wash and wax the car, unless you want to be my buddy?” Greg tipped the bill of his cap up with a flick of his finger and sauntered over to Rita. “What say you, pardner?”

  She patted his chest as she rose from her chair. “I’d love to, but I have an appointment to get my mani-pedi. After that, I have to do anything that doesn’t involve changing oil or washing and waxing cars.”

  “You don’t know what you’re missing. When I’m buff and bronze from being outside all day, you’ll wish you took me up on my offer.”

  “I’ll take my chances. Have fun.”

  Greg watched her walk away, still disbelieving that the toned body outlined by the sun passing through her thin robe belonged to his wife of almost twenty years. He still wasn’t sure how he felt about her transformation. He was equal parts impressed by her determination, turned on and, to be honest, intimidated and a bit uneasy. It was as if she were becoming a new person, and when she did, would he still have a place in her new life? He shook his head to chase the thoughts of his own insecurities away.

  “Time to play with the Charger.”

  The air was heavy and there wasn’t a cloud in the sky. He pulled the well-worn metal ramps out from under his work bench and went into the driveway to inspect the alignment. The sun warmed the back of his neck and arms. He placed a cinderblock behind each ramp so they wouldn’t slip out from under his tires as he pulled up onto them. It was foolish to drive onto the ramp without a spotter, but he’d done it so many times he considered himself an expert. One wrong move and he could easily drive up and over the crest of the ramp and wedge it under his car. Shuddering at the thought, he walked back out to the driveway.

  He waved to Mr. Murphy across the street. The old man was out weeding his garden, garbed in his typical yellow polo shirt, plaid shorts that had seen better days, black socks, loafers and straw hat. Rita had told him often how she would leave him if he ever developed Mr. Murphy’s fashion sense in his dotage. He secretly admired the old man’s lack of giving a frog’s fat ass what anyone thought. That was one of the benefits of growing old. You no longer had to care about the small stuff.

  Everyone considered Mr. Murphy the patriarch of the neighborhood and out of respect, couldn’t bring themselves to call him by his first name, Al.

  The sun felt good on Greg’s skin and the air still carried a little of the dampness from the night before. If he timed things just right, he’d be done with the car around noon, which meant he could spend the rest of the day sitting back on the porch and watching the day go by with a few beers.

  His black ’74 Dodge Charger sat in the driveway, looking as if it had just rolled off the factory floor. He’d bought it at an auction ten years ago when it was in pretty sorry shape. Back when he was in high school and college, he and his friend Fred made it a hobby to buy old Mustangs, restore them to their former glory and resell them for a tidy profit. It beat the hell out of working in a retail store or waiting tables, and it was fun. That all changed when Fred joined the army and was sent to Fort Bliss in the searing heat of southern Texas. Rebuilding cars without Fred wasn’t as much fun, so Greg put on a dress shirt and tie and got his first office job. Before he knew it, he was married and raising a family, so there wasn’t any time to get dirty under a hood.

  That all changed when the kids got old enough to go an hour without crying and Rita told him he needed a hobby. She didn’t have to tell him twice and he knew just what he wanted to do.

  The Charger was a real challenge, but damn it was worth every ounce of effort. He considered it his third child. And this one he raised all by himself.

  He noticed a smudge mark by the rear quarter panel. Greg pulled out a soft cloth to buff it away.

  “It sure is nice to see a real car on the block,” Mr. Murphy called over. “Not like these new cars that look the same. All these rice burners have the charm of a shoe box. You do good work, Greg.”

  “Thanks. Someone has to keep tradition alive,” he replied with a grin.

  “You need any help getting it on the ramps?” Mr. Murphy fiddled with a pair of pruning shears. His straw hat, frayed at the ends and looking as if a breeze would undo the loosening weave, started to slip off. He snatched it in midair and crushed it back onto his head. Greg laughed inwardly. The old codger still had good reflexes.

  “I’ll be fine. Let me know if you need any help mowing the lawn.”

  Mr. Murphy waved him off. “My power mower just about does all the work by itself. All I need to do is steer the damn thing.” His laughter degraded to a hacking cough. He’d been a lifetime smoker, tearing off the filters so he could get the good stuff, as he liked to call it. At age eighty, it hadn’t slowed him down a bit. The man had good genes.

  Mr. Murphy went back to his garden and Greg got behind the wheel. The black leather seat was already hot enough to bake the back of his legs and the steering wheel was no be
tter. He turned the key and the engine gave a low, steady purr. The old car vibrated like a racehorse itching to burst from the starting gate.

  “Easy there, girl.”

  Greg dropped the gear into drive and eased off the brake. The car rolled slowly up the driveway and halfway into the garage. He stopped when he heard the scrape of the metal ramps on concrete as the front tires hit the lip. He got out to make sure the tires were lined up with the exact center of the ramps, checked the blocks behind them and slid back into the driver’s seat.

  This was where it got tricky. He had to give it just enough gas to get to the top of the ramp. Too much and he’d overshoot them. If he did it too fast, the pressure might cause one of the ramps to scoot forward.

  He toed the gas pedal and made sure the wheel was locked in position. The Charger started its slow, steady ascent. The view out of the windshield changed as it rose higher, the ceiling now in full view.

  Greg waited for the telltale thunk as the tires hit the depressed slots at the top of the ramp. Any second.

  He looked up and gasped.

  What the hell was Selena doing in front of the car?

  Because he was doing it alone, he hadn’t left much space between where the car would rest and the back wall. If she stayed there, she could be pinned between the car and the wall.

  “Selena, get out of there!” he shouted as he slammed the brakes.