The A.S.S. Creative Writing Lab: Prompt #12

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Prompt:

Author: Pat

Requested feedback: Harshness welcome, compliments preferred

~~~~~~~~~~~

"Did you ever masturbate while thinking about the murder?" Stephen asked absentmindedly

"What?!" The shock in the man's voice was enough to make Stephen look up from his steno pad. It had been a long week and Stephen was more or less running through the standard questions on autopilot.

"Sorry," Stephen replied in a low, flat tone that contained no hint of contrition, "but it's just what I do. Standard question. These things feed off of the energy of our memories. Or, you know, fantasies, if you didn't actually know them. And I need to get a full picture of what we're dealing with. So, I'll ask again…"

"No," he stammered indignantly. "No, I've never thought about her murder while... I don't do that in the house. Especially not now. Every minute I'm in there I feel like I'm being watched."

"You're anxious?" Stephen asked.

"Yes. Very," the man replied tersely.

"And you've been anxious for... how long again?"

"For eight months!" He was annoyed now. "Since I talked to that woman..."

"The woman at the block party, right. I'm sorry, it's been a long week."

It had been. Stephen lied a lot—mostly for work and mostly for his clients' benefit—but this was undoubtedly true. Monday had been spent talking to the owner of a skull found in an old tree during a Boy Scout trip. Tuesday had been following a trail of watery footprints into what was now a tract of luxury condos and finding the soaked and bloated culprit standing in the middle of what was now an indoor pickleball court. Wednesday and Thursday was assuring a seven year-old girl that the scary old woman in her dreams was just a nightmare, while simultaneously brushing all of the windowsills and door frames in the house with sage. At least the last one hadn't turned out to be a full-blown exorcism. An ounce of prevention was worth a pound of cure.

"So this neighbor, she told you a murder had happened?"

"Yes, back in the early 1900s, I think. I told her where I was living, and she said that her mother had grown up hearing that house was cursed."

"Have you seen her since? This woman?"

"No. I tried finding her, but the block captain said she had moved to a nursing home out in Bucks County."

"OK, that's helpful. So to be clear, you've only been feeling this presence since you heard that story?"

"Yes. I got home that night and couldn't shake the feeling that someone had died in my house. Well, not just died, been murdered. I've had anxiety for a long time, but this felt different. This felt like something was there. I'd get cold, I'd have bad dreams, I'd..."

"Did you ever try to talk to it?"

"No, never."

"Have you ever seen it?"

The man hesitated.

"Yes. Once."

"Tell me about it."

"I was..." The man gathered himself. "I was working late. I went downstairs to get dinner. To get to the kitchen, you have to walk through the dining room. I walked in and saw... I'm sorry."

Stephen took a deep breath. Time to use the Therapist Voice. Therapist Voice usually helped. It must be hard to see these things if you're not used to it, he thought. He wouldn't know. Stephen couldn't remember a time when he couldn't see them.

"I know this can be difficult," Stephen said in a calm, but direct voice. "But the more you can tell me in detail, the more it will help in our session."

"OK." The man steeled himself. "It was a silhouette. It looked like a woman in a dark dress. She had shiny black hair."

"Was she looking at you?"

"No. I ran, but she never turned around."

"What was she looking at?"

"There's a painting in my dining room. I found it when I first moved in. I think it's of the Schuylkill River. It's nice, so I hung it up."

Stephen perked up.

"The painting was there when you moved in?"

"Yes."

"Interesting."

"Interesting? Does the painting mean something?"

"Maybe. Do you still have it?"

"I took it down, but I was too afraid to throw it out."

"Good. That could be useful. Now, have you told anyone else about this... thing you're feeling?"

"No. Just you and my therapist. The one who referred me."

"Yes, Jacqueline Ann. Wonderful woman. She's very familiar with my process and will know all about the aftercare. OK, Mr. Velez, that wraps up the interview portion. I just need to ask one more question."

Stephen stood up from his seat and began to walk out of the room.

"Wait, what was the question?" the man asked.

"I'm not asking you," Stephen called back.

Stephen returned a moment later with a brightly colored plastic box the size of a laptop. The top was adorned with letters A through Z, printed in red, yellow, blue and green bubble letters. Stephen placed it on the table between himself and the man, then flipped the big blue switch to "ON."

"Learning is fun!" a chipper girl's voice called out, as a wordless rendition of Old McDonald began to play. The man looked at this children's toy with utter confusion.

"What is…?"

"It's a conduit," Stephen explained. He had this part pretty well memorized by now.

"Most ghosts can't talk, or if they can, they can't be heard. This allows them to speak at our level."

The man stared, half panicked, half incredulous.

"Don't you use a ouija board or something?"

"Ouija boards were invented in the 1890s as a board game. Hasbro owns the trademark. This is just as good. Better actually." Stephen didn't mean to sound like a dick, but he had offered this explanation so many times before that he basically had no control over his delivery. It was a reflex at this point.

"Now," Stephen continued as he sat back down, "please take my hand."

He extended his right hand, palm up, across the table. The man laid his left hand on top.

"I'll need you to be quiet for just a moment."

This next part was tricky. Stephen closed his eyes and tightened his brow as he tried to focus his remaining senses. He likened it to trying to listen to a song through static, but with his touch, taste and sense of smell as well.

He picked up on the man's aura right away. He was nervous, but also very, very tired. He was not one to believe in the supernatural and especially not one to pay several hundred dollars up front to an alleged medium. But the presence in his house had worn him down. He was desperate and would try anything if it could help.

Stephen focused and listened past the man whose hand he was holding. There was a faint indication of something. "Echo" wasn't the right word. Stephen pressed on, honing in toward the feeling, trying to tune out the man in the room. This was like trying to listen to two songs through static and understand the words of the quieter one. Then suddenly, the volume went way up.

Pain. Sadness. Loss.

Stephen pulled his hand back and balled it into a fist. It was a smooth, quick motion, the way you would pull back a treat from a puppy that wasn't quite listening. He opened his eyes.

"She's here."

The man's eyes widened.

 "She's here? Now?!"

"Yes." Stephen opened and closed his hand, then turned his full attention. "She's here."

"But I thought the house was haunted. Why is she here?"

"Ghosts attach to a source of energy. In your case, the house isn't the source. You are. So she follows you around, the way those little fish do on a shark."

"A remora?"

Stephen looked at the man with interest for the first time in the session.

"Yes? Is that what they're called? Sure, it's like a remora. Now give me your hand again."

Hands joined once more, Stephen focused, quieting the static on his mind. Then he spoke.

“I'm talking to the one who is here. I can help you. Would you like my help?”

His words hung in the air for a moment. Then, the chipper girl’s voice erupted from the alphabet toy.

"Y is for Yak! E is for Elephant! S is for Snail!"

"Fuck!"

This time the man pulled his hand back in a shocked, jerking motion, as if the disobedient puppy had bitten him.

"What was that?!"

"That was an excellent sign," Stephen answered as he flexed his fingers again. "It means she's willing to separate. We can move to the back."

Stephen and the man moved to the exam room, which consisted of an overhead light on a dimmer switch, a single folding chair, and a massage table. Most clients didn't notice the seven pointed stars that had been crudely carved into each leg of the massage table. Stephen was certainly one of the best bridges between the visible world and the various worlds beyond it, but he was an amateur woodworker at best.

"You can lay face down on the table. Please do not remove your clothes."

The man climbed onto the table, but remained seated.

"So, the way this works? You do your thing and this ghost goes away?"

"As far as you're concerned, yes," Stephen replied as he laid a comforter over the folding chair. "This seems like it will be a pretty easy excision. You want her gone and she wants to be gone. You never knew her when she was alive, so the only thing she's attaching to is your fear. I'm going to pull that fear out by pulling out the memory."

The man was wearing that panicked/incredulous look again.

"You're going to wipe my memory?" he asked meekly.

"It's more nuanced than that. The fear is pretty well defined, based on what I've already felt. Think of this attachment like a weed. I pull it up and all the roots come out, but the ground stays the same."

"I thought you said the ghost was a remora."

"Look," Stephen said as he pinched the bridge of his nose. "Don't get bogged down in the metaphors. There's no easy way to explain how this works. It's not based in anything that you would consider 'the natural world.' Now please, lay down and we can get started."

"Hold on, am I going to remember you? Or why I'm here?"

Stephen was getting annoyed. It was already 3:30 and on a Friday no less.

"Yes, you'll remember me. You'll remember coming in for chiropractic work. You won't remember it was because of a ghost. You'll chalk it up to having back pain and go on with your life. Live, laugh, lobotomy."

The man frowned. Even Stephen knew this was a bit too far.

"Sorry, just a joke. I promise, the only thing you'll forget is what you want to forget."

The man shifted in his seat, then looked up again.

"Are you actually a chiropractor?"

"Look, I'm not going to crack your back. If everything goes smoothly, you won't move at all."

The man had no more to say for now. He rolled onto his stomach and placed his face in the ring cushion. Stephen stood up, in front of the folding chair, and laid his hands on the man's back.

"Wait," the man said without turning around. "What happens to her?"

Stephen now hesitated.

"It's better if you don't know. If I tell you, I may not be able to pull that part out."

The man didn't respond. Stephen pressed his hands into the man's back.

"Just relax. Try to clear your mind. Think about a whirlpool and all your thoughts are going down it."

Stephen closed his eyes, too. This seeking was more intense. It was now as if he was moving through fog toward the sound. The sound was getting louder. He was on the right track.

It's not too deep, Stephen thought to himself. He would've continued the thought, but within a millisecond he was feeling what amounted to a firehose of information.

Pain. Horror. Screaming. Screaming the human ear was never designed to tolerate. The scream shot through Stephen's brain, ricocheted off the back of his skull, and exited through his eyes. His eyelids shot open, but Stephen couldn't see the man in front of him. Instead, he saw scenes from another life.

A paintbrush moving across a canvas. A woman, holding my hand, as we walk along the river. A man, standing in front of me, a hatchet raised above his head. The hatchet comes down. Again. Again. Again. The world is spinning. The world is tumbling, head over heel. The world is going dark. My world is going dark. The pain surrounds me and I sink beneath it. The screams fade. My life flows out of me, like the currents of the river. My last thoughts are of the river.

I am looking at the river. The one I painted years ago. How many years? How long have I been here? Who is this man in my home? I do not know him. He does not know me either, but he thinks about me. He is afraid. His fear calls out to me and I respond. It pains me, but the pain is better than nothing. I will never go back to nothing. NEVER.

Stephen flew back into the folding chair and toppled over it. The comforter had barely dulled the impact. I should've put down the futon, he would have thought, had he been capable of coherence at that moment. His mind had been splattered by several different humans’ memories at once. It would take a few seconds for the being called “Stephen” to fully congeal.

"Oh my God, are you ok?!" the man asked as he rose from the massage table. Stephen looked up. His vision was returning and the static was fading

"Yes," he rattled out. "I'm fine. Missed the chair sitting down."

After the man helped Stephen up, they made their way to the front of the shop. The man thanked Stephen for his time and made sure to let him know how much better his back was feeling.

"Before I go," he asked, "can you tell me how to get back to 95? My phone is almost dead and I can't for the life of me remember the way I took to get here."

Shit, Stephen thought to himself. Definitely ripped that chunk out by accident. Not my best work.

After giving him directions, Stephen watched the man depart. He waited until the car was out of sight to take the vape out of his pocket and draw in a deep, refreshing breath of nicotine. Tobacco always helped after an encounter with the other side, for both normal and paranormal reasons.

"Alright," Stephen said as he turned to face the blood-drenched woman behind him. "Let's talk."

The man's description hadn't been accurate, but Stephen could understand the logic behind it. The woman's head had been split open, leaving her hair dark and slick with eternally fresh blood. She was wearing a once white nightgown, now stained completely red with the exception of a two inch white strip above the hem. She only had eight fingers and a number of deep lacerations on her forearms. Her whole right arm was bent at an unnatural angle, probably from falling down the stairs at the end.

The most jarring feature was her face. Her right eye, ear, and cheek had been completely cleaved away, exposing her eye socket and the top row of teeth. The right part of her lower jaw had been totally separated from her head, leaving her mandible and lower teeth hanging at a precarious angle. The left side was more or less intact, and wore an expression of quiet, seething fury.

Stephan didn't take that look personally. He had looked through her eyes and knew that rage was directed at everything, seen and unseen.

"I only do jobs like this on Fridays," Stephen explained. He was way off script now.

"On Friday nights, I turn off my phone, I turn on Iron Chef, take a couple bars of Xanax, and forget the whole day ever happened."

"Revenants are only kept awake by the memories of the living. If I do my normal Friday night routine, I'll forget about you and you'll go back to sleep. Maybe forever. I don't know."

Her expression—as much as it could exist—did not change.

"But," Stephen exhaled, "I saw what happened. Not just your death, either. I saw your life, too. I felt your essence. I know you're looking for peace, not to get even. So I'm willing to help. What do you think?"

She continued to stare. Then the chipper girl's voice returned.

"W is for Watch! H is for Horse! Y is for Yak!"

Stephen shrugged.

"Because it's been a long week. I'll admit, I was half-assing it when I made our connection. You hit me a lot harder than I was expecting. Let's say you made an impression on me. I won't ask for anything in return. I'm off the clock, anyway. What do you think?"

The silence hung for a moment. Neither moved when the chipper girl called out.

"Y is for Yak! E is for Elephant! S is for Snail!"

"Fantastic. First things first: I don't want to send you back to anywhere you don't want to be. Do you want to return to your house?"

"Y is for Yak! E is for Elephant! S is for Snail!"

"Now, I'm not trying to upset you, but the man I saw. The one who did this. Is he in the house, too?"

Her left eye narrowed.

"H is for Horse! E is for Elephant! L is for Lion! L is for Lion!"

Stephen winced. He had seen Hell once, when he was younger, dumber, and more reckless with his talents. Though he had only looked upon the topmost layer for a few seconds, it was enough to flash fry his mind and get him put on a 72 hour psychiatric hold. No amount of benzodiazepines from Jacqueline Ann was going to help him forget that vision.

"Is there anyone or anything else in the house besides you?"

"L is for Lion. E is for Elephant. N is for Newt! ..."

"Stop. Lenape, right?"

"Y is for Yak! E is for Elephant! S is for Snail!"

Lenape spirits were something of a given in any area Stephen investigated. They and their ancestors had lived and died here for thousands of years, so naturally almost every square inch of the region was the site of some Lenape cemetery, or marriage site, or murder, or some particularly nasty disagreement. However, the spirits themselves tended to be minimally active or outright hibernating when Stephen found them. Not many living people around here gave much thought to the Lenape anymore.

"They're not bothering anyone, right?" Stephan asked, even though he could guess the answer.

"N is for Newt! O is for Orange!"

"Doesn't sound like it will be a problem to return you. So, let's get to know each other. What's your name?"

"M is for Mouse, A is for Apple, R is for Rabbit! ..."

On Monday, Stephen gave the man a phone call.

"Hello, Mr. Velez. Just wanted to check up on you after our session last week."

"Oh, hello. Yes, I'm feeling... really good, actually. I slept like a rock on Friday night for the first time in a year, maybe?"

"I'm glad to hear it."

"Yeah, so, thanks again."

"While I have you on the line." Stephen was never one for logical transitions. "I wanted to let you know, I looked into that river painting you told me about."

There was a pause on the other end.

"I did?"

"I'm something of a local art buff, and I think it could be a painting by Margaret Sweidel."

Another pause.

"Who is that?"

"She was a landscape artist who lived in Roxborough in the early 1900s."

"Oh? Well that's..."

"Her works are some of the best renditions of lesser known parts of the city before color photos were available."

"Are you saying the picture is worth something?"

"I mean, in terms of local art history, it's priceless. But it probably wouldn't get a lot at auction."

"Oh." The man trailed off. Stephen decided the seed was planted as well as it could be.

"Anyway, just wanted to check in and share what I found."

"Right, thanks. And thanks again for working on my back. And thanks for the art trivia. That's... cool."

The call ended and Stephen looked up.

"Sorry I had to change your last name. We don't want him to look you up on Ancestry.com and find out again."

"I is for Ice Cream! T is for Tiger! S is for Snail! O is for Orange! K is for Key!"

"I have to say, you're looking a lot better."

Stephen lied a lot—mostly for work and mostly for his clients’ benefit—but this was undoubtedly true. The blood had faded from the woman's head and Stephen now saw she had chestnut brown hair. Her nightgown was still a shade of pink; it would probably always bear evidence of what had happened. But her arms were now unmarked and her face was that of a young woman with hazel eyes. Those eyes contained a hint of sadness—the past could never be changed—but, more than anything, kindness radiated.

The woman smiled at Stephen.

"Tiger is for Tiger! H is for Horse! A is for Apple..."

"You don't have to say it," Stephen insisted. "Not now. Not ever. It's just what I do."