Demonic Double Cross

by B Branin

  * * * * *

  “I honestly can’t believe what I am hearing.”

  “Yeah, well doc that’s the shit that I had to deal with for the past few days.” I replied, still amazed that this Dr. Spriggan hadn’t hung up on me, “And I could really use some advice.”

  For the last half hour, I had gone into explicit detail with the good doctor about my recent run-ins with the unexplainable. I began with the trash-thing and then ended the story with the floating junkie. All observations I had made during these events had been given; the blood-painted rune on my office ceiling, the way I damaged the trash-thing, how it exploded when leaving my office and the symbols on the junkie’s chest and the cold chills he summoned.

  I graced Dr. Spriggan with a rare gift: the truth.

  Something about my story kept Dr. Spriggan on the line and hopefully he could offer some help or insight. I do realize that the lore concerning floating smack addicts or walking trash piles might not be as wide spread as the legends about vampires but there had to be something for this guy to decipher.

  “Help?” Dr. Spriggan spoke, his voice the murmur of one trapped in deep thought, “I am sorry…er…Mr. Broker, was it? Yes, I am sorry but I can’t help you.”

  “Why the hell not?!” I nearly shouted into the phone, “I swear to God if I die thanks to this crazy bullshit, I am coming back and haunting you!”

  “Sir, you do realize that would be a blessing for someone in my profession?”

  I couldn’t help but crack a smile. Whoever this guy was, he didn’t get his feathers ruffled too easily. Unfortunately I was too upset and too confused to truly appreciate his calm demeanor. I wanted answers! I wanted help! I wanted results!

  “It isn’t that I don’t want to help you, it is the simple fact that I cannot.” Dr. Spriggan explained, “What you have described is far removed from any legend or lore that I am familiar with. Quite a feat, really.”

  “You think I’m crazy.” I sighed.

  “Sir, anyone who could have discovered my home phone number despite the lengths I’ve gone through to hide it must have a sharp mind.” Dr. Spriggan chuckled softly, obviously not comfortable with the fact that I had called his home phone.

  “I’m just well connected,” I grinned, glancing over at Buggy who was completely absorbed in cyberspace.

  “I have heard many strange tales before but never one so detailed as yours. That’s why I am inclined to believe you.” The good doctor told me, pausing for a moment, “But all I can offer you is speculation.”

  “Please, speculate away. It’s not like I know what the hell is going on.”

  “Point taken. Well…from what you have explained to me, it seems that these symbols appear to be of importance. Many cultures considered script and runes to hold special properties. Some even believed certain signs to be a direct link with a higher power.” Dr. Spriggan began to explain, transitioning easily from the role of listener to lecturer, “Geatish and the Kabbalah are good examples but not entirely accurate in this case. It seems to me that whatever these symbols are, they play a key role in whatever phenomena are occurring.”

  “What about with the trash-thing? I mean, the symbol was washed away by the steam and then my shit got organized and attacked!”

  “Yes but you mention that whatever power it held diminished when you attacked it or when you left your office. I believe that might have been caused because it had a weaker focal point.”

  “Lost me. Completely.”

  “Your…ahem… ‘shit’ became the focal point or the receiving end for whatever energy was released when the rune on the ceiling was broken. However, inanimate objects might have been a weaker focal point, then, lets say the human body. In the case of the possessed individual, he became a powerful focal point because the symbol was on his chest. Many spiritualists believe that the soul is an actual force or type of energy. Much like chakra, Qi, or ruach. Some believe this energy can be harnessed to produce phenomena like astral projection or psychic manifestations.”

  “So focal for what? Demonic? Magic? Alien?”

  “Well, that I am unsure of. Whatever it is, it seems to manipulate people or objects physically and mentally. You mentioned that when you struck the trash-thing, it grew more violent and aggressive? That’s a sign of not only sentience but also a higher intelligence. Then you mentioned that the possessed individual seemed to be completely lifeless and lacking intelligence.” The good doctor attempted to explain but I could tell he was talking out his own conclusion for his benefit as much as for my own, “This indicates a suppression of the host intellect. Perhaps you are not dealing with a force or spell, or anything of the like. Perhaps these runes are not a link to a force like magic but to another entity entirely.”

  “Meaning…?”

  “Meaning that whatever carries these markings or symbols is being manipulated by a greater mind, probably not of this plane of existence. Perhaps it is an entity unable to manifest itself directly in our world so it uses these focal points to influence objects or people instead.

  “Fantastic.” I sighed and rubbed my temple, “So what do I do? Load up on holy water and silver bullets?”

  “That I do not know. Some believe that holy and mystical artifacts only affect the supernatural because they themselves are a focal point to the divine. If we are correct, which is a one in a million possibility, then any dime store exorcist with a red candle and table salt will be able to help you.”

  “And if we’re wrong?”

  “If that is the case, holy items, artifacts and rituals might not be effective at all. Or they could merely disrupt the link between the host and these focal points. Again, this is all speculation. If items of faith are ineffective, I would suggest trying to sever the physical connection between our worlds, like you presumably did when damaging the symbols.”

  Okay, the good doctor hadn’t got the entire truth from me. I forgot to mention how it took two bullets and a makeshift spear to put down the levitating junkie. Instead I just mentioned harming the scar tissue tattoo on his chest had eventually put a stop to his paranormal powers. But the doc had a point. The more damage to the symbol we did, the less homicidal and powerful the junkie had been.

  “Remember there are thousands of possibilities out there for what you are dealing with,” Dr. Spriggan reminded me, “But nearly all legends, lore and other such beliefs have to abide by some laws. If you can find out what rules these forces are playing by, then you can be sure to use that to your advantage.”

  “You almost sound like you’ve been in my shoes.” I laughed nervously, trying to cover up my disappointment for being offered guesswork instead of concrete information.

  “Many people don’t choose the profession they work in,” Dr. Spriggan sighed, his voice surprisingly grave, “Sometimes we are thrown into it kicking and screaming. I’m sorry I couldn’t be of any more help but it is late and I have prior engagements that I need to attend to first thing in the morning.”

  “Thanks,” I mumbled into the phone, just about to hit the button that would cut off what was essentially my last life line on the weird and unexplainable.

  “One more thing,” The good doctor spoke, stopping me from hanging up, “Next time call my business line, which I have no doubt you already know. When you speak with the secretary, tell her that ‘you seek shelter from uncertainty and the unexplained.’”

  “Does that get me a discount on your books?”

  “No. They will transfer you directly to my personal team and then to me. It is a code I only give out to those who I believe might have been involved in actual paranormal events. It changes every month, so don’t bother telling all your friends.”

  “Gotcha.” I replied, “Um, thanks. You’re not going to charge me for a house call are you?”

  “Ha ha, very clever.” Dr. Spriggan chuckled again, “I do hope you are victorious in this endeavor. Goodbye Mr. Broker.”

  The line went dead.

  Before I had called Dr.
Spriggan, I had mentally prepared myself for the worst; him hanging up on me. Now I was at least armed with his professional opinion. Deep down, I had really been hoping he could have just told me some mumble jumble to utter while clicking my heels together and it’d make all the bad things go away. Or, at the very least, conjure up some oiled, bikini-clad massage therapists.

  Tucking the phone away while issuing a massive sigh, I walked over to Buggy who was still staring at the various screens before him. Watching him work was kind of funny. His neck, shoulders and arms did not move but his eyes were constantly darting back and forth while his hands and fingers were a blur of activity with the keyboard or mouse.

  Not wanting to disturb him, I began replaying the day’s events in my head. Odd thing was, even after witnessing/almost being murdered by the actual paranormal, I didn’t feel that different. It was the same kind of emptiness I had felt after my encounter with the trash-thing. My world view didn’t become skewed. My life wasn’t tumbling down around me and I certainly wasn’t rushing off to Father O’Brawley for confession. Nope. The paranormal plaguing me was just another obstacle to overcome.

  It kinda reminded me the time I was caught up in a gang-related riot. Rival gang leaders died within hours of each other (one overdosed and the other had a deathly allergic reaction to a fish sandwich) and since I just so happened to be providing each of them with information, I was blamed for the deaths and hunted by both gangs. It was a crazy, unpredictable and harrowing experience but I managed to stay alive.

  And profit.

  So I just needed to treat this whole paranormal experience like I treated that riot. Exercise caution, trust in my various talents (and paranoid nature) and do whatever it took to keep breathing. If I followed those guidelines I’m sure I’d come out on top…or wind up dying a horrible death.

  Checking my watch once more, I saw that it was just past five o’clock in the evening. Last week at this time I was just barely waking up, removing the beer bottles from my bed and trying to remember the name of the girl I had fooled around with. Last week at this time everyone was driving home from work and I was just content to lie back and let the hangover battle with the Aspirin. Last week at this time my biggest worry would be which gambling hall to go to.

  In short my life had been perfect last week and I was hell-bent to set things right.

  “How much longer is this going to take?” I asked Buggy, hating the semi-silence of his basement apartment, “I can swing back by later if you want.”

  “Huh?” Buggy turned from his computer and looked at me with a confused expression.

  “Those impossible tasks?” I reminded him, “Finding that one woman and getting the 411 on those adoption papers?”

  “Oh those? I got done while you were still talking to Dr. Spriggan,” Buggy informed me, “I’m sending an embedded virus to that Swiss security biz to see if KT catches it.”

  “That the…?” I began.

  “Yeah, the chick who busted me before,” Buggy said, beaming, “We have a pretty good cat and mouse game going on. I already checked her out to make sure she wasn’t apart of the illuminati or a puppet for the alien Cabal. She is smart, human and pretty cute.”

  “That’s great. Send me an e-vite to your wedding.” I smiled then added through gritted teeth, “But why didn’t you tell me you were done?!”

  Buggy shrugged, “Thought you knew that. Geeze.”

  Deep breaths. In and out. Have to keep calm.

  “So…Buggy…” I managed to choke out through my anger, “What did you find? Who was that woman? What is with the adoption papers?”

  “Well finding the woman was a lot easier than you made it sound. I just checked a few of the local traffic cams and security tapes that are in the Hell Scratch’s general area. Sure enough, I found a red sport car speeding through a red light. A sports car in the Docks? I mean, come on! Why not just scream ‘find me?!’” Buggy snorted a laugh and then waved a hand at his computers, “I got a clear shot of the license plate and ran them. Belongs to one Dr. Salina Livingstone.”

  The haphazard hacker tapped his keyboard and a driver’s license photo appeared on a monitor. Though it was a bland picture, the woman in the photo was beautiful. Her black eyes and crimson smirk seemed to boil over with seductive suggestion…which took the focus off the negative signs of her aging. Without a doubt that was the woman I had run into at the club…the very same one who sicced the paranormal powered junkie on us.

  Hell, even her picture made my skin crawl and my hands clench in anger.

  “Doctor, huh?” I mused aloud.

  “Yup. She’s flown through every medical course since high school and after Pre-med she became a dermatologist. The doc has done quite well for herself thanks to the never ending supply of pimply teens.” Buggy went on, reciting all of this information from his hard drive-like brain, “Oh and she even received a few awards for her work on skin conditions like Folliculitis and Pityriasis Rosea. According to one medical journal, Livingstone is being recruited by some pharmaceutical company that is studying a new strain of ringworm.”

  I tore my gaze from the computer screen and looked at Buggy who was uncouthly picking his nose without realizing that a social norm was being broken. My skin crawled again but for an entirely different reason.

  “So wait,” I said letting the information sink in, “I was almost killed by a junkie who’s on a skin doctor’s payroll?”

  Buggy shrugged and wiped whatever deposit he had withdrawn from his right nostril under his chair.

  “I guess.” The haphazard hacker replied with a shrug.

  “Can dermatologists write out prescriptions for painkillers?” I pondered aloud, wondering if that’s why so many junkies were associated with the Daughters of All.

  “Yes, I suppose any doctor could write a prescription but she would have been busted for sure. No way would a pharmacy accept a large order of valium or whatever from a dermatologist.” Buggy replied but then smiled that odd little smile of his, “But I haven’t told you the best part!”

  “Don’t keep me in suspense.”

  “You know that girl you had me track down earlier today? I got you the room number of the hospital she was staying at, remember?” Buggy chattered excitedly, glad to finally be in his usual position of well informed, “Well that’s where Dr. Livingstone works! The very same hospital!”

  It seemed like a lifetime ago but really it was just this morning. Before I found out that I had danced with her dead sister, I had intended to resign as Fiona’s Paranormal Investigator. With that plan in mind, I had Buggy find out which hospital held Ellen, the friend Iris Roth had mentioned (before the fucking cultists killed her in cold blood in an attempt to frame me). Though it was a slim shot, I had planned to visit Ellen and question her about the Daughters of All since according to Iris, Ellen had been an actual member of the cult.

  Well at least two pieces of this gargantuan clusterfuck of a mystery fit together: Ellen the cultist and the murderous Dr. Livingstone were connected. Somehow. After all it was just too damn suspicious that both of them would end up at the same hospital.

  “Guess I’m headed for the clinic.” I announced, wincing as the sigh I issued agitated a few wounds, “Maybe I’ll get a MRI while I’m there. Having your ass kicked so many days in a row really sucks.”

  “Want me to tell you about the adoption forms?” Buggy offered, waving the papers I had stolen in the air, “It makes the rabbit hole go even deeper.”

  “No.” I grunted, turning my back on the hacker and heading towards the door, “I am planning on getting out of this whole mess ASAP with the help of Dr. Salina Livingstone. I don’t want to know more than I have to.”

  “Wait…” Buggy called after me, “You’re going to make a deal with her?”

  “Yes.” I replied bitterly as my nimble fingers drew my switchblade and snapped the blade out, “One way or the other, I’m going to deal with her.”

  Yes, I am cowardly and yes I know I was
involved with forces far beyond my comprehension but one can only be pushed so far. With pain, fatigue and frustration as my fuel, I vowed right then and there that if Dr. Livingstone couldn’t solve my particular set of problems, her next hospital stop would be the morgue.