Click this to read Part II Click This 
Had this been a novel I would’ve disclosed how Jarrod’s call went. Suffice it to say that Clayton could put two and two together, but he was partially distracted and complimenting Tammy on her industriousness with outdoor and indoor lawnmowing. He was about to dismiss Jarrod’s call when the phone rang. It was Doyle. He shakingly confessed to him that ever since the night they went out to dinner, he kept witnessing his doppleganger walking toward his loft’s balcony, 9 sotries up, and jump. When he looked down from the stainless steel round bar railing, he got treated to a vision of his splattered alter ego on the pavement, beckoning at him to follow suit.
“Clay, I have some hashbrowns and squeezed orange juice for you,” Tammy ebulliently offered.
“Just leave right there honey,” he monotoned.
“Hey, honey, you look possessed. By a brilliant idea for a magazine perhaps?”
“I’m okay.”
” I wouldn’t want to derail your money train of thought. I’ll be in the laundry room.”
“Thanks sweetie.”
“See you later, in bed,” she purred.
Clayton’s misgivings were mounting exponentially. If that thing had something to do with my friends, and my friends are telling the truth, then the next call would come from…
The phone rang.
“Hello! Aunt Maylene?” What he heard was a woman laughing hysterically. He slammed the phone. That was when he rifled through the yellow pages and never bothered to make an appointment with me. He brought along the item in question in a Coleman all weather ice chest.
There was a long line of supplicants when he rushed my front desk receptionist, lugging the chest and put it down on my desk, an altar that is a marble affair sold to me by a struggling orthodox church.
There was an uproar in the lounge. Haitian immigrants stalked by smiling zombies of their irate moneylenders, gypsies who tampered with an Egyptian relic with a minor curse that enthralled them to stroke every cat they came across, even somnambulists who were pestered by “Don’t Walk” signs in their dreams, and geeks who never get dates or ever invited to college parties, they all sported pouting, disappointed faces.
Apologizing profusely and giving me the lowdown, I got moved by his lovelorn but terrified countenance. Whether he was going to pay cash, credit card, check or with fresh produce, I didn’t care. So I immediately blurted out my professional opinion.
“Then destroy the damn thing.”
“But Tammy, she might go back to being…”
“Being a whore? What’s the name of the nearest hospital to your residence, gringo.
“Mary Johnston.” I pressed the intercom and spoke to my receptionist.
“Tanya, please call Mary Johnston Hospital in Boca Raton, Florida, ask them if there is an increase in admissions within the last 5 days, with special mention for mysterious maladies. Tell them it’s urgent. Scream at ‘em if necessary.”
“Yes, señorita.” After 10 minutes, the receptionist reported an affirmative.
“Mister Clayton, you heard that. More would get sick, haunted, and eventually lose their life if you don’t smash it,” I squeeked.
“All right, for my dear Auntie. Would she be okay?”
“No time to check. Bring it out and give it to me.” He lifted the lid off the chest. He took it and quickly laid it on the desk next to my name plate. It stared at me with sneering eyes. That’s the only time I sensed by my own Third Eye that its mouth was really siphoning life forces upon inciting fear, and his reading the inscription underneath had summoned entities cursed to do the task. I could sense on a very weak spectrum the energies channeled from his woman then sent off to a receptacle probably based in Florida. I took out from a metal cabinet holy water disguised as Clinique Happy perfume and preserved lock of beard from a Buddhist monk and a plain mallet. I wrapped the hair around the head of the mallet, sprayed it with the water, and muttered my prayers in Latin, Sanskrit, and Chicano-laced Brooklynese. I raised the esoteric tool when both of us jumped at a whiny voice, beseeching…
“I am just a courier, you know. No courier, no mo’ problem. And the porn girl will remain as she is.” With that, the mouth liquefied and sealed itself. I hammered the idol, which flew apart, then turned to ash, and got dissipated by an unseen wind.
“That’s it?” Clayton questioned.
“I don’t think so,” I quavered, “There’s a spiritous receiver somewhere who supplies your woman qualities that she did not learn or have, then feeds off the life-forces stolen from people who might be either dying or already killed. Those might be people who were attracted to her, with the exception of you of course. Most likely it inhabits an artifact similar to the one we just vanquished.”
“I bought it…” Clayton began.
“I know already. You purchased that from a shop selling curios and esoteric items from all over the world,” I pronounced.
“My, you are really truly psychic. So you know where it’s at?” he probed.
“No, lead the way please.” We passed by the queue at the reception lounge. Groans started to fill the room. I raised a finger.
“We’ll be back shortly. He’s in love.” I jerked a thumb at him, who raised both his hands.
“Aaahhh,” was the collective amazed reply. I also told them to order pizza, on the house. I went to the adjacent room to my ‘weapons locker’. It was crammed with bishop’s croziers, Hogwartz wands, garlic powder bombs, holy water guns, incantation books, spirit hunter night vision goggles, worn-out miracle crusader microphones and megaphones, not to mention some ancient PKE meters bought at ten cents apiece at a Universal Studios garage sale.I brought out my personal favorite: a kindhearted logger’s axe that was accidentally forged with a shard of St. George’s spear. Legend has it that when the logger held it, he suddenly had an epiphany and swore never to cut trees. With Clayton on the wheel, we drove all the way to Florida.
TO BE CONTINUED…
Memoirs of a Psychic Investigator: the bouncing idol
{ November 17, 2008 @ 8:49 am } · { Behavior, Horror Thriller, Psychology, Sci-Fi, Short Story, Social Commentary, Writing, death, humor, love, lovers, relationships }
{ Tags: love, paranormal, scary, serialized stories } · { Leave a Comment }
Young girls screaming otherworldly voices and vomiting a whole banquet’s worth of slime maybe cinematic fare for Hollywood but life, in its own effort to preserve its equilibrium and thus avert the end of the world for now, sends a woman like me to do a man’s job: performing hybrid-psycho-religious exorcism on these poor Lolitas. It could be expected that millions of slums and ghettos in Latin America and Asia, with their observable conditions allow for sinister essences to occupy minds crazed by hunger and slowly murdered by malnutrition, while five star restaurants and fastfoods throw leftovers by the ton. Just a matter of distribution, remarked Azriel (see Anne Rice’s Servant of the Bones). Paranormal phenomenon like I’ve just mentioned have sent muy macho grandfathers, fathers, and/or loliteros elbowing each other for the only door in the confining room, their cojones up their throats, while I go about the business of sending the possessor back to the underworld where they belong. Move over Constantine, here comes the Latina chick with balls (I look like J.Lo by the way, sans the callipygian attraction). I have a lot of such experiences on my menu, but let me start regaling you with a recent case of mine in East Los. This young, bedraggled looking white guy came to my office, Stefana Reyes’s Investigadores de Fenomenas Paranormales de Todos Colores: Or Your Money Back! Located at the 11th floor, Paragon Plaza building in downtown L.A., complete with full-time staff, airconditioned-heatered comfy waiting lounge with the latest issues of Paranormal Vogue, hot-cold anti-negative aura mineral water dispenser with disposable cups printed with smileys and counter cruel intentions runes. You may ask, why the corporate façade when I’m just a glamorized shrink who tells people what they want to hear? Like, “Oh, your husband is right beside us now, he’s saying something to you, silence! I can’t hear him with all your whimpering, ah yes, he’s shouting, ‘you bitch! Look what you’ve done. Now I’m stuck for all eternity with your criada (housemaid) since the night you shot us both.’ (‘Serves you right, Casanova!’ retorts my client.)” Well, a rich Don paid me handsomely for curing his favorite tabby housecat. His cat was chasing the spirits of dead mice she had eaten, and this distressed the pet-loving Don so much. I’m gonna say how I did it but let me tell you, PETA people, I’m sorry, I’m just doing my job. I mesmerized the psychic feline with a rusted pendulum, then smacked it between the eyes with an enchanted wooden ruler, disabling its bothersome Third Eye. Right now she’s blind to spectral mice and very perceptive to Whiskas. I’m paying the amortization of my office space with the interest earned monthly from the time deposit of the Don’s largesse. Now where was I? Yeah the white guy, Clayton was his name. I’m going to tell you his story briefly since I just asked a favor from the hot and sexy writer of this blog to publish my story. I have an urge to tell but not to gain fame, you follow? Here goes.
You see, Clayton, a graphic designer who worked from home in his Florida pad, was surfing the net for teen porn when he caught sight of this blond, flaxen tressed and pubed vixen getting it on with a well endowed guy in one of the interracial offerings of pimpmygirlfriend.com.
He was smitten. After contending with security, directors, and actors as he sought to get hold of their star performer at the site’s filming venue in LA, he finally got a giggling yes from Tammy Torridd. They went out on a date, and he won her virginal heart. He convinced her to leave the business, and she agreed. The head honcho of the dotcompany was not the least bit pleased, but he was gentlemanly enough to demand that he be invited should the lovebirds wed, along with the cast and crew. He promised to pay for the reception as long as he could film an orgy at the venue once the celebration was over. Clayton sheepishly acquiesced. Tammy moved in with him two days after.
Tammy had no problem adjusting to a monogamous relationship with Clayton, during the day. However, at nights, Clayton had to keep Tammy from going out and seeking a satisfaction of her nymphomania. She allowed him almost grudgingly, to stop her, but she confessed later on that she needed a much more direct method of persuasion. She implored to be tied on the bed, and be administered sleeping pills. This is particularly distressing to Clayton so much so that in desperation, he erred in deciding to solicit the aid of the supernatural. One evening, he drove out to stop from hearing Tammy’s ravings in her sleep, he happened upon a small shop that had a sign saying “Cures and Charms”. He came in, the brass chimes rang with languid tones as the glass and aluminum closed. He gazed at an assortment of curious items displayed on the shelves flush with the walls, illuminated by yellowish bulbs. Floating tiger penises, hawkeyes, or hyena teeth in amber jars. A figure of an Egyptian god. Pictures of Elvis with dried up leis. Dolls of all kinds. Necklaces of bone, twine, beads, blood red rubies, with pendants of black and white photos of old folk staring back. Of shrunken skulls and skewered snakes. Something glinted in the far wall as a headlight flashed into the shop, and he walked toward it. A small idol of dark wood like a Congolese buddha with a thicklipped mouth open as if sucking in air, its hole extending deep in an otherwise foot-tall sculpture, with red agate for eyes. Clayton’s hand moved to grasp it behind for a closer look.
“You may touch. Is that wat ya seek?” A deep uvular voice made Clayton jump and whirl around, “That is the Inkatka god of cleansing. It absorbs bad juju, manners, and bad odour. Is dat wat ya want?” rumbled the shopowner in suspenders, shirt, and black pants. He wore dreadlocks and a thick curly beard.
“Say uh, mister, I didn’t hear you come in. Do you surprise customers like this?” Clayton demanded. The shopowner apparently wore black shoes with wooden soles. The floor though was carpeted.
“I don’t. You mind filled wid problem. Money? Girl?
“Yeah, my girlfriend, she’s…er…troubling me. You said this thing absorbs bad…”
“Bad manners, bad action, bad personalliddy, bad…”
“I got it. How much?” Clayton fished for his Louis Vuitton wallet.
“$300.”
“I’m outta here, Marley,” Clayton sneered. He made a step toward the door and the shopowner was already in front of him, hold under his nose a black plastic bag.
“$20, plus Dr. Phil’s pamphlet, ‘How to Make Your Girlfriend Love Your Womanizing’.
“Fair price. Here you go.” He gave him the amount. The guy told him to read thrice the inscription under the idol before her girlfriend. Clayton nodded and went to the door. The chimes rang again, louder and more plaintive this time.
“Yes, dat suck your girlfriend’s bad breath,” Clayton hurried to start his Ford Taurus, “but someone has to die…” In the backroom, a deep laugh echoed, as if from a large hollow container. The shopowner shudder.
TO BE CONTINUED…