by James Swain
“Yes, I think so.”
“Tell us what happened,” Holly said, hovering behind them.
Peter pulled himself up to a sitting position and took a deep breath. The memory was starting to fade, no different from the way a dream faded upon awakening. “I was taken to see one of Satan’s disciples. I need to write down what I saw before I forget.”
“Holly, please get some paper and a pen from my study,” Milly said.
Her niece hurried from the room. Peter got to his feet, righted his chair, and parked himself in it. Max pulled a handkerchief from his pocket, and draped it over his palm. Whisking it away, he produced a tall glass of water, which he handed to his student.
“Drink this. It will make you feel better.”
Peter sipped the water. Max had fooled him, and he would stay up late into the night wondering where the glass had been hidden, and how Max had produced it without spilling a single drop. Max’s repertoire was endless, his knowledge of all things magical unsurpassed.
“I found a new evil,” Peter told his teacher. “I encountered a man who looked like a frumpy college professor, but in reality is a serial killer who’s targeting innocent women.”
“That describes most serial killers,” Max replied. “I read in a book that most serial killers target prostitutes and runaways because they want victims no one will miss.”
“These victims are missed. They were actively involved in doing good in the world, and they pushed back at the darkness,” Peter said.
“Then he shouldn’t be too difficult for the authorities to track down. I’d say you’ve hooked a live one.”
“Or perhaps he hooked you,” Homer said, his cane tapping the floor.
For a blind man, Homer had an uncanny way of seeing things. Peter had been hooked, and knew he was lucky to have escaped with his life. Holly returned with a pad and pen, and pulled up a chair. “You talk, and I’ll write,” she said.
Peter described his encounter with Dr. Death with Holly transcribing. Tomorrow, he would contact the FBI, and pass along the information in the hopes they’d be able to track down the serial killer. Peter’s name would be kept out of it, along with the rest of the Friday night psychics. That was the deal he’d struck with Garrison after he’d helped the FBI stop a madman from releasing a canister of deadly nerve gas in Times Square. So far, the arrangement had worked pretty well.
When he was done, Holly read aloud what she’d written. It was exactly as he remembered it. Now it was his job to try and stop Dr. Death from carrying out his grim task. So far, he’d been successful in preventing many bad things from happening, but deep down, he knew that every streak came to an end. Even the best struck out sometimes.
He thought back to the copy of the New York Times he’d seen in Dr. Death’s kitchen. The headline was a highly publicized murder trial in New York that had ended with the jury finding the defendant guilty on all counts. A photograph had shown the victim’s family rejoicing outside the courthouse. Justice had been served.
“Who’s been following the Crawford murder trial?” Peter asked.
“I have,” Holly replied.
“When is the jury supposed to get the case?”
“Late next week after the lawyers wrap up their arguments.”
“I saw a newspaper in the killer’s house. It had the verdict on the cover.”
“You know how the trial ends—tell me!”
“He’s guilty,” Peter said.
“Yea!”
“Now here’s the bad news. Our killer is going to strike on the evening of the day that the verdict is announced. That doesn’t give us much time.”
Milly placed her hand on Peter’s shoulder. “Don’t tell me you’re thinking of getting involved. Remember what happened last time? The CIA nearly caught you, and sent you down to that farm in Virginia where they keep psychics prisoner and force them to spy on people.”
“I still need to alert the authorities,” Peter said.
Peter placed his empty glass on the table. His mind was made up, and there would be no changing it.
It was Homer who spoke next. “You said this man was in league with the Devil?”
“He is one of the Devil’s disciples,” Peter answered.
“Then you will have to go to the FBI to make sure he doesn’t kill all of them when he’s captured. That is reason enough to get involved.”
“Thank you,” Peter said.
Homer dipped his chin. He’d been an ordinary housepainter until a car accident had stolen his sight. With the loss of vision had come a gift of prescience and clarity of thought that few people ever obtained. His advice was always heartfelt, and seldom was he wrong.
Peter stiffened. The room’s temperature was dropping, a sign that a spirit was in their midst. His eyes found the quivering dark spirit hovering against the far wall. Blacker than black, it looked like a tear in the universe, and pulsated as if breathing. The rest of the group saw it as well, except for Homer, whose metal cane continued to tap the floor.
“That thing tried to kill me,” Peter said under his breath.
“It looks like the work of the Devil,” Lester said. “Max, do you have any idea what it is?”
“Beats me,” Max confessed. “Milly, any ideas?”
“I have no earthly clue,” the old witch said.
“I’m going to talk to it,” Holly said out of the blue.
“Peter said it was evil. You’ll do no such thing,” her aunt told her.
“If it’s evil, then why did it come back?” Holly asked. “I think it returned for another reason. Let’s find out, shall we?”
Holly pulled a small talisman from the pocket of her faded jeans. She crossed the dining room and waved the talisman in front of the dark spirit while reciting in a soft voice.
Shadow, shadow, dark as night, explain to me your mission tonight.
Are you here to see a friend, or have you come to make amends?
If there’s something you wish to say, then say it now, or go away.
It was impossible to resist a witch. The quivering mass jumped off the wall, and swirled cyclonelike over the dining room table. Out of the vortex popped the shape of a hand. It was followed by the shape of a foot, then a human head. Each shape struggled to break free, only to be pulled back inside. Suddenly, it jumped back to the wall, and was swallowed up by a large crack. Holly stood transfixed.
“Holly?” Lester asked. “Are you all right?”
No response.
The little Scotsman hurried to Holly’s side. He clicked his fingers in front of Holly’s eyes while repeating her name. After a few tense seconds, she snapped to.
“Oh, my,” Holly said.
“What happened?” Lester asked.
“That thing was trying to take me away. It was scary.”
“To where?” Peter asked.
“The basement of some creepy house.”
Just like me, Peter thought.
“I hate to say I told you so,” her aunt said stiffly, “but I will in this case.”
Lester had taken to examining the crack in the wall into which the dark spirit had escaped. Running his forefinger across the crack, he emitted a stiff cry. “Ow!”
Peter rushed to his aid. A nasty red blister had formed on the tip of Lester’s finger.
“What in God’s name was that thing?” he wanted to know.
If any of the Friday night psychics knew, they were not saying.
3
The gathering soon broke up. Lester left with a Band-Aid, vowing not to stick his finger where it didn’t belong. Then Max bid adieu. The old magician made the glass he’d pulled out of nowhere disappear in equally baffling fashion, and left with a smug look on his face.
Holly was next. She kissed everyone good night before departing. When it came to kissing Peter, she gazed dreamily into his face. “We need to talk. I’ll call you tomorrow.”
She left, leaving Peter, Homer, and Milly. Peter would have liked nothing better than to
stay up trying to figure out what the dark spirit was, but tomorrow was Saturday, and he had two shows to do, a matinee in the afternoon followed by an eight o’clock show in the evening. He needed his rest if he was to be sharp. “I wish I knew what that damn thing was,” he said.
“I suppose it was some form of poltergeist,” Milly said. “To be forewarned is to be forearmed. Next time it comes around, fight it.”
“Do you think it will return?”
The rules governing the spirit world were vague. She shrugged.
“Homer, what do you think?” Peter asked.
Homer was bundled up from head to toe, ready to brave the elements, the tip of his cane tapping the floor as he spoke. “I talk to ghosts regularly, and am visited by poltergeists. Our visitor tonight was neither. It came from the darkest of places. I heard its silent scream.”
Peter had no earthly idea what Homer was talking about. “What’s that?”
“A silent scream is a life force begging to be heard. I started hearing them soon after I lost my sight. There is no sound, just the pain. It cuts through the air like a sharp knife.”
“How many times have you heard this?” Milly asked.
“Enough times to last a lifetime. I have a theory about their origin. I believe there is a place which exists between the spirit world and our world. A buffer zone, so to speak. These life forces exist there.”
Spirits were like lightning, and rarely struck in the same place twice. Peter had seen the dark spirit twice in the same evening, which was not normal. “This thing made itself known to me twice tonight. Should I be worried?”
“To worry is to poison oneself,” Homer replied. “I would advise caution. I think we should say good night before Milly throws us out.”
“Perish the thought,” their hostess said.
Milly walked them out of her apartment to the elevators at the hallway’s end. She kissed them both affectionately on the cheek. “Be safe,” she said.
“And you as well,” they both replied.
* * *
Peter and Homer descended to the lobby. A uniformed attendant opened the front door for them while tipping his cap good night.
A cold wind slapped their faces as they stepped outside. Two weeks from May, and the city was still locked in winter’s grasp. Peter’s limo idled at the curb, his driver buried in the sports section of the Post. “Let me give you a lift home,” he offered.
“No offense, but I’ll take the subway,” Homer replied.
“Are you sure? It’s late.”
“I realize that. There is something perversely pleasurable in the feeling of passing subways rumbling beneath my feet. Don’t ask me to explain, because I can’t.”
“Well, then let’s talk here.”
“What would you like to talk about?”
“You’re holding back. I want to know why.”
A frown creased Homer’s face. “You’re right. Did you read my mind upstairs?”
“I didn’t have to. Your cane gave you away.”
“My cane? How so?”
“You tap your cane whenever you talk. The tapping accelerates when you start bending the truth. I’ve noticed it before.”
“So you can hear when I’m lying.”
“Afraid so.”
Homer’s frown became a scowl. “Well, I’ll be damned. I’d throw my cane away, only then I’d be in a real bind. You should have become a detective, Peter. You’re very observant.”
Peter had been told this before. He caught things that other people missed. It had as much to do with his perceptive skills from being a magician as it did from his psychic ability.
“I was holding back—to use your expression—because I was sworn to secrecy by a psychic named Selena about the very thing you saw tonight,” Homer explained.
Peter had heard of but had never met the legendary Selena, who was consulted by the most powerful people in the city for her celestial advice.
“You’ve actually met Selena?” Peter asked.
“I most certainly have. Years ago, a dark spirit visited my apartment, and scared the daylights out of my family. My family described this spirit to me in detail. It was not like any ghost I’d ever heard of. I needed help, and a mutual friend arranged a meeting.”
“Was she helpful?”
“She most certainly was. Selena told me that the dark spirit that visited my apartment was a shadow person. Shadow people are evil apparitions that attach themselves to humans, and refuse to let go. They are usually seen out of the corner of the eye for a split second before disappearing. When a person sees one fully—like you did tonight—it’s because the shadow person is seeking him out.”
“What do they want?”
“I asked Selena that very question, and she did not reply. But she did tell me this: Shadow people can destroy your life. They’ll attach themselves to you, and scare away your family, friends, and everyone else. Your existence will become a living hell.”
Peter understood the gravity of what Homer was saying. Most psychics could deal with ghosts and spirits, but their friends and families could not. More than one psychic had seen his personal life destroyed by the intrusion of unwanted visitors.
“Did you rid the shadow person from your apartment?” Peter asked.
“Eventually, I did,” Homer said. “At Selena’s urging, I began to wear a five-pointed star to ward it off. I’ve worn one ever since, and so have my wife and children. I also keep them hanging on the walls. You can never be too careful about these things.”
“Did the shadow person return?”
“No. My family has not seen it since.”
“Did you ever wonder why it picked you?”
“Sometimes. But I quickly pushed the thought out of my mind. If I thought about it too much, I was afraid it might return.”
Peter understood this as well. Often, ghosts and spirits became tuned in to a person’s thought waves, and knew when their subject was thinking about them. It was at these times that a ghost often chose to pay its subject a visit.
Peter touched Homer’s arm. “How about that lift home?”
“Thanks, but no. I’m looking forward to that subway ride. It’s where I do some of my best thinking. If you’ll point me in the right direction, I’ll be on my way.”
“At least let me walk you to the station.”
“By all means. I would enjoy your company.”
The subway station was a half block away. As they walked down the street, Peter’s limo crawled behind them, its headlights turned low. Reaching the station’s entrance, Peter stopped to shake the blind psychic’s hand. Thank you for confiding in me,” he said.
“You are more than welcome,” Homer replied. “First thing tomorrow, I’m going to purchase a rubber tip for my cane. Good night, Peter. Be safe.”
“And you as well.”
Peter climbed into the backseat of his limo. Herbie spun the wheel and headed toward the 65th Street transverse through Central Park without being told. “Want some music?” he asked.
“I’m good,” Peter said.
“That blind guy you were talking to, I’ve seen him before. He tells fortunes down in the Village. Why you hanging out with him?”
Herbie did not know of his employer’s psychic talents. One day, Peter planned to tell his driver about his unusual talents, but it wasn’t going to be today.
“We’re old friends,” Peter said.
“You don’t say. He’s a strange one, that’s for sure.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Another limo driver told me that guy can make himself disappear while standing beneath the arch in Washington Square Park.”
“That’s impossible.”
“I’m just telling you what the other driver told me. He said it was some kind of trick.”
“The man is blind, Herbie. He doesn’t do tricks.”
“I know he’s blind. But that’s what this driver told me. Swore on a stack of Bibles he was telling me the truth.
Said he saw it with his own eyes.”
“Even I can’t do that.”
“Maybe he can teach you.”
Peter leaned back in his seat. He tried to put Homer and the shadow person out of his mind. There were more important matters to deal with, like the serial killer he’d seen during the séance. A woman named Rachael was going to die if he didn’t solve this thing.
He removed Holly’s notes from his pocket and reread them. Her notes were meticulous, and captured every detail of his encounter with Dr. Death. Yet it was all still terribly vague. He didn’t know the killer’s name or address, what he did for a living, or anything solid about him. He simply knew that the man had joined forces with the Devil, which had allowed him to know that Peter was present when he shouldn’t have. That kind of thing wouldn’t show up on a Google search. Finding Dr. Death would be like finding a needle in a haystack, maybe harder.
Herbie stopped to let a pair of bundled joggers run past. Central Park was an oasis in a concrete jungle, and someone was always out running. New Yorkers were like that. They didn’t care about things like cold weather. Peter caught Herbie’s frowning eyes in the mirror.
“What’s wrong?”
“You’re thinking too hard, boss. Remember what I told you. Just use Occam’s razor when something’s eating at you. Always worked for me.”
Occam’s razor was Herbie’s solution to life’s problems. A British philosopher, William of Occam, believed the simplest solution was usually the best solution. In this case, the simplest solution was to contact Special Agent Garrison, who knew a thing or two about solving crime. Garrison would take the clues Peter had assembled, and put together a profile of Dr. Death. Once a profile was finished, it would be only a matter of time before the FBI would figure out who the bearded man in the basement was.
Only there was a problem with contacting Garrison. Garrison was with the government, and the government, especially the CIA, was looking for him. The CIA wanted to imprison him on a farm in Virginia with his psychic buddy Nemo, where they could track down the nation’s enemies and other assorted bad guys.
That was the risk he faced contacting the FBI. Garrison had sworn never to reveal his identity, but if Garrison slipped up, or betrayed him, Peter would simply disappear from the general population.
