Ms. Josephine leaned back in her chair, thinking about the place she used to call, home. “We were descended almost entirely from African slaves. We won our independence from France in eighteen-oh-four. We were da second country in the Americas to free ourselves from colonial rule. Da first being the United States.
“ . . . dat being said, centuries of economic, social, and political problems 'ave done us badly. Haiti is da poorest nation in da Western 'emisphere. It was not like 'ere. Being a child in an environment like dat is difficult . . . scary.”
I leaned towards her, “Scary, how?”
“Dere's a lot of energy on da island. Da ground is always rumblin', like it's angry at somethin' we done. We got underground rivers, limestone caves, and dark places where people don't need to be. Dere's a lot of magic on da island.”
She looked over at Billtruck, “You don't believe in magic, do you?”
He finished chewing a huge piece of chicken and raised his fork, “I mean, I'm an objective scientist. And there's just not that much room for magic in the math. I'd like to think there's something mystical to the world.” He sighed, “Just haven't seen any proof.”
Ricky and I glanced at each other briefly.
“Dere's da magic you can see, and da magic you can't,” Ms. Josephine said softly. “When I was a child, I couldn't see. I was blind.”
Whoa.
“ . . . I was born dat way,” she said. “Dat's why my eyes look da way they do.”
And I remembered how her eyes looked when I saw her, both from this side, and the Land of Sorrows. She had these glassy, glowing eyes, like a blind person might.
She closed her eyes, “I 'eard tings, you know. Nothin' special, mind you. Just people talkin' and whatnot. And when you're a child, well . . . you don't know no better. I didn't know who was talkin' to me 'alf da time, but I was never alone.”
“No, dere was always somebody sayin' somethin' to me. And since I couldn't see who it was, I didn't know no better. My mother used to sing to me, in French and Creole, little rhymes and tings to keep me quiet. She was catholic, very religious. My father, whenever 'e was around, well . . . 'e was into other tings. Darker tings.”
“Can you drink the water in Haiti?” Billtruck asked, holding his glass of wine up, sloshing it around the sides.
“You can,” Ms. Josephine said, “ . . . but you'll probably get sick if you ain't used to it. Lots of tings on the island can be dangerous. We have other problems, much worse dan bad drinkin' water.”
I've never seen this side of Ms. Josephine. The human side. Ever since I met her I figured she was just one of those strange characters you meet. No background. No past. Just a strange gift that appears in your life. But she's real. Her past, it's just surreal to most people because they grew up in the cushy comforts of America.
Since I can't remember my past, I find it fascinating to hear about someone else's. Plus, it's taking my mind off of my itching tattoos.
“ . . . in Haiti dere is a certain percentage of da population who have a taste for . . . long pork.”
“ Long pork ?” Billtruck said as he took another bite of chicken.
Ricky and me, we looked uneasily at each other. I'm kind of just touching the table with the tips of my fingers, wondering how far this is going to go.
“Dat's human flesh, Mr. Billtruck,” She explained. “It's one of dose less publicized 'abits dat we brought from Africa. And my father . . . ” she said, letting the words trial off as if she was walking on eggshells.
None of us said anything. We didn't move.
Didn't even breathe.
Billtruck's still got half-chewed jerk chicken in his mouth. Ricky's staring at his fork. Me, I'm still wondering how to cook long pork. When I was in the cooking class offered by County Support Services, I learned about thoroughly cooking meats to remove bacteria and microbes that can cause illness to humans.
To get all the nasty little bugs out of chicken you need to cook it until there's no more red or pink in the meat. You don't want salmonella.
For most fish, you grill or bake it until it's golden brown.
“My father was into da darker side of da occult. Unlike my mother,” she said slowly, a slight smile briefly passing across her face, “ . . . 'e didn't follow da tenets of Catholicism. 'is religion was much closer to Africa. To da earth. And dere was always a power struggle between my mother and father over which way I should be raised.”
If you're frying fish, you know it's safe when it floats in the grease.
Looking at her plate, Ms. Josephine smiles and kind of laughs to herself, “My mother thought my blindness was her punishment for having a child out of marriage with my father. And you couldn't say nothin' to convince 'er otherwise.”
For red meats like beef and buffalo, you cook it until it visibly stops bleeding, and make sure the center is pink instead of red. Although, I can't actually imagine eating a buffalo. That's something pioneers and Indians eat.
“ . . . my father, 'e . . . 'e believed dat I was special. Gifted. And every chance 'e got 'e took me into da jungle. I 'eard da priests, and medicine men, and all da strange sounds of da world of Voodoo.”
She considered her words, as if she might be doing injustice to say too much, “And, although I didn't know it when I was a young child, dere were more voices talking to me, dan dere were actually people. My mother started to fear dat my father was filling me wit evil and black magic. Not to mention 'e 'ad developed quite a 'unger for long pork.”
That chicken on Billtruck's plate, it could be human flesh the way he's staring at it.
The wine might as well be blood.
My potatoes, they just might be cooked cartilage.
The fried bananas, skin chips.
“ . . . dey're careful not to eat white people. See, people ask questions about missing tourists and white men. But villagers who stray off course late in da night,” she shrugged. “I'm not sayin' it's right . . . ”
Generally, with pork, you need to cook all the pink out of it until it's closer to grey. If not, you could get a disease called trichinosis—where a bunch of tiny worms mate in your small intestine, after which the fertilized female trichinae burrow into your intestinal wall and release their larvae. Those larvae are then transported by the bloodstream to all parts of the body. The worm grows within muscle tissue, requiring around 16 days to mature. A cyst develops around the larva's body. And this horrible cycle continues. So cook your pork.
“ . . . and den, when I'm almost ten years old, I wake up one night and I can see. No warning, no nothing. One day I'm blind. Den I can see.” She took a deep breath, her hands touching her chest. Her eyes, they really sparkle when she's animated like this. She has a blind person's eyes, but she sees everything. More than everything.
She nodded, “Dat's when I knew I was 'earin' voices from somewhere else.”
“Ms. Josephine,” Ricky said, asking the question that was on all of our minds, “ . . . did you ever eat long pork?”
She picked up her napkin, dabbing her lips and stood slowly, “'elp me clear dese dishes and make room for some dessert.”
We're all basically paralysed, waiting for an answer. And no answer, that's as good as an answer. That's like having her say, Yes.
She seems to sense this and smiles, “Do you really tink I could eat a person?”
And then we all laugh it off as she takes a stack of several plates into the kitchen. Billtruck and Ricky start talking about their computer stuff. I'm helping with the dishes. And what's on my mind, the thing that keeps repeating itself is . . .
. . . she still didn't say, No .
I hand her two plates with what could be Caribbean cuisine, or could be the missing neighbors, and Ms. Josephine is just giggling to herself. She's probably reading my mind or something, having a grand old time.
And as I turn towards the dining table I have a sudden flash in my left eye that stops me dead in my tracks. It only lasts a fraction of a second.
But I'm frozen.
I-35 North.
Friday 13th, 10:26 am . . .
It's really a perfect day to visit a supposedly haunted house. Ricky, Ms. Josephine and I, we're driving out to a semi-new housing development in Flower Mound where they have those billboards that say, ' Homes starting from the mid-300s and up .' So, they're pretty nice.
We're on our way out for our initial consultation which, from what Ricky has explained, is a lot like calling a plumber. We're going to walk around, listen to this guy's fanciful story of horror and late night terror, then quote him a price on phantasm relocation and removal .
I like that because it sounds like we're going to gather up all the wandering spiritual entities and move them to a different place. We're like those people from the bank that slap eviction notices on the door, only for ghosts.
You don't have to go home, but you can't stay here.
His plumbing analogy is fairlly accurate because about 99% of these hauntings are probably going to turn out to be faulty wiring and noisy plumbing. At night, even normal, sensible people can be turned into panicking children by completely rational things.
Since Ricky doesn't see the dead, he'd sure like to find some poltergeists floating around leaving ectoplasm.
Ms. Josephine hears the dead speak to her, so she's probably hoping for a little quiet.
Me, I see the dead, commune with an angel, fell in love with a dead chick, and work with creepy little monsters. So, I'm not expecting much out of all this. After what I've been through in the last month, I'm not sure a living room wall that bleeds at 2 am., red eyes in the garden, or babies screaming in the attic would give me much of a rise.
Ms. Josephine brought her big purse full of creepy, crawly curiosities. I try not to stare at it, but I can't help it. I'm always waiting for hairy critters with way too many legs to start a mass exodus and disappear in the seat cushions.
I'm a bit phobic about bugs right now.
See, the last time I was in Deadside, when I was undoing everything God had designed and intended, my body started to give up on me. I was deteriorating into the final stages of hypothermia. And the way back was to find my shell of a body and climb back in my open chest cavity. But I couldn't make it all the way back to where I'd left myself.
That only left my safety button. Ms. Josephine gave me a necklace with a pouch on it. She said that if I ever got lost, or stuck, or found myself freezing to death, that I should empty the contents into my mouth and swallow. Well, the contents were all varieties of spiders and centipedes and they seemed to come right back to life once I poured them into my mouth.
I'm talking about all kinds of red hour glasses, and brown fiddles, and green dots—the bugs they warn you about in camping magazines—are stinging and biting the inside of my throat and mouth, and I started to choke. My throat swelled completely shut and I pretty much was drowning without actually being in the water.
And drowning is my worst, most horrible, can't imagine anything else more awful kind of dying. See, with drowning, you're dead way before you actually die.
Stuck in Deadside, I had to die just to get back to my earthly body, which itself was freezing to death.
Long story short, I'm a bit nervous around insects with lots of legs. And I know that Ms. Josephine probably has her purse full of them. Something about utilizing their life-force and whatnot. I just get a full body quiver when I think about it.
Billtruck is set-up at the ALG office, putting the finishing touches on the computer system. We hope to go online tomorrow and then the research for strange death footprints begins.
There's this kind of excited energy among us as we approach the house. It's like we're all kind of hoping we find something here. And as we pull into the driveway, Ricky looks at me in the rearview, “You know that billboard that said, mid-three hundreds and up? ”
Yeah.
“Well, this is the and up they were talking about. This is a half-mil, easy.”
This place is huge, and it looks brand new. The driveway is paved with flat grey stones. Spiralling Junipers flank the driveway, leading to a large eggshell and white, two-story house with dark red Spanish tiles on the roof. It's like something that you might see in Europe, or Latin America. Like a drug dealer's house.
As we pull around and stop near the large front doors, an athletic looking guy comes out wearing a white t-shirt, blue jeans, and flip-flops. He's waving at us, a big smile on his sun-burnt face. He's got curly blond hair and a stubby nose that looks like it might have seen the inside of a boxing ring.
When we get out he introduces himself, “I'm Travis, thanks for coming out so quickly.” Then he glances nervously around and lowers his voice. “Things don't start getting dodgy until the sun goes down. Follow me.”
15
114 West Briargrove, Flower Mound.
10:51 am . . .
“So, how does this work?” Travis said as he led us into the living room.
“First thing we're going to do is try and debunk you,” Ricky says as we walk past a giant gilded mirror.
This house is large and intimidating. It may have been built recently, but they gave everything that old rustic look as if we were on the outskirts of some wealthy place where Zorro is rumored to be raising an army in the hills. I half expect guys with those sharp little mustaches to walk in.
And I get this feeling that something is going on here. Just can't nail it down yet.
The floors are dark tile, the furniture a deep brown leather and stained to either look authentic and antique, or it actually is the real deal.
“Debunk me?” Travis said indignantly.
“Sure,” Ricky said as he leaned forward, his hands posting on the edge of a giant couch. “We're going to look for a rational, scientific explanation for whatever you're experiencing here. And if it turns out there are paranormal events taking place,” he turned to Ms. Josephine and I, “ . . . they'll sort it out, relocating any negative energy so that you can go on about your life in peace.”
Travis is looking at the three of us, maybe a little less confident and comfortable than he'd like to be. We're a motley crue, Ms. Josephine, Ricky and I. “I didn't think they actually had companies like . . . your's.”
“There are no other companies like ALG,” Ricky said as he walked slowly around the living room. “We're the real thing.”
Travis nods, probably hoping that we're not a group of house burglars using ALG as a ploy to case-out nice homes for future heists, “ . . . right.”
Ms. Josephine can sense his uneasiness, “Mr. Travis, I'm Ms. Josephine. I been dealin' wit dese kinds of situations for many years. If dere's a problem wit your house, we're goin' fix it for you.”
He seems to warm up to her, especially with her creole accent. She has a way of making people feel comfortable. She's the embodiment of a black-magic woman. A spiritual Aunt Jemima.
She turns to me, her hand reaching for my forearm, “This is Jack, and he has experience in this field, too.”
“So, what, you guys are like, Ghostbusters ?”
And right about the time the n-sound is forming at the top of my mouth, Ricky says, “Think of us as paranormal specialists. We don't have backpacks and laser guns. But we're intimately familiar with situation of the afterlife. Ergo, After Life Group.”
That Ricky, he's good. I can see why his family is so successful. He's got salesman DNA. He could rent ice to eskimos.
“Mr. Travis, what exactly is going on wit your beautiful 'ome?” Ms. Josephine asks as she walks slowly towards him.
He crossee his arms, his head tilting to the side, “Well, I'm a contractor by trade. In fact, I laid the foundation for this house.”
Ricky's got out his little notepad, “Was this property built on an old cemetery, or historic site?”
“No,” Travis said, kind of bothered by the idea. Maybe he had never asked.
“Did anyone ever die during the construction of the house?”
Travis looked shocked, �
�� No ! God no. Nothing like that.”
Ricky nods, marking something down in his pad. He can tell that Travis is rattled. “Relax, sir. These are just routine questions. I have to ask them.”
“Right,” Travis says, walking past us and leading us towards a large stair case that takes us to a lavish second floor. “At night, we hear things up here, and doors . . . they open and close and rattle on their own.”
We're walking, we're walking.
Ricky puts his hand on one of the door handles and delicately jiggles it, checking for any play. Ms. Josephine is leaning over the wooden guardrail, looking down on the living room where we just were.
The ceiling in this house is enormously high. It's vaulted, with a huge fresco that looks like a knock-off of the Sistine Ceiling. It's illuminated by several wall sconces and lights that look like torch fixtures.
I'm just looking at all the darker parts of the hallway, and under furniture, seeing if the shadows are really just shadows, or if they're guardians of the Deadside. Everything seems fine on the surface, but I still have this eerie feeling that something is untoward.
“I know the carpenter who hung these doors and set the thresholds, and he's good. There's no reason the doors should be rattling all of the sudden.” He looks bothered by this. As if a natural explanation would be a black mark against his craftsmanship.
Then he looks up at the ceiling in the hallway, “And up there, that's where the noises come from.”
“Noises . . . ” Ricky repeats as he makes the proper notations. He doesn't even look up from the pad, “And what kinds of noises do you observe, if you can describe them?”
Travis rubs his forehead, obviously bothered by all of this, “Hissing, kind of. But, like . . . grunting, too.”
“Hissing,” Ricky says, still scribbling, “ . . . grun-ting . . . ” and then he glances up, scratching his chin with the back of his pen, “You have an attic?”
Travis nods, “Yes. But it's empty. I'm a bit of a stickler when it comes to fire safety, and I don't have anything up there that could present a fire hazard.”
“We're going to need to get up there,” Ricky says, almost to gauge Travis's reaction.
See Jack Hunt (See Jack Die) Page 7
