Chapter 5
Ophelia
Present day
I WANDER WHERE NO ONE CAN FIND ME. Deep within.
Either a lifetime or a matter of seconds seem to pass in the following four days, the practice of returning into my battered physical body proving to be far more easier than the matters of the soul and mind. It’s cold out here, barren.
But, that's the beauty of life, unending winters of the soul and all. I have come to know that just by truly tasting its potency through experience rather than observing it from a safe distance. Passion after all is suffering.
In truth, it was the only way of trying to understand and accept even an ounce of the meaning beyond the apparent unfairness scraping my knees.
That being said, beauty has never been a desirable ideal in my eyes, not in its traditional skin anyway. My cravings had always been particular and far in between. Neither perfection nor growth ever invoked in me that dark barely graspable thing, the nearest thing stirring my lust for the absolute being their distorted form.
What I want is rest. Blades that may not rust, keeping at bay the ones aimed at my soul. Everything in me is tired of fighting itself.
Still, I have to ask even in my sleep for God to undo his hands from me.
There are moments throughout the day when I'm too caught up in my inner life and without warning an invisible hand will grab me forcefully by the arm, demanding me to come back.
This subconscious sense of foreboding comes through without fail at the sound of screeching tires or a fleeting glance at the steel-toed shoes on display in the shoemaker's window near my building.
Those small, apparently insignificant moments flood me with unwanted memories, dragging me in the present moment by forces much stronger than my will to escape at any cost their harsh aftertaste.
It will be a slow process, but I'll recover. Being patient with myself is what I need at this time and nothing else will do.
My phone vibrating with a call halts me mid tarot reading. Anxious, I lean towards it, looking to see if one of my clients has contacted me. I breathe a sigh of relief when I see my cousin Caroline's name displayed on the screen. These selfish thoughts fill me with guilt, but I'm far too exhausted to extend my energy to another soul in need at the moment.
"Ophi, wait a second," she says as I gather my cards into a neat pile, knocking on them once to remove any residual energy. She's still at the morgue, considering the hour, probably working on someone as we speak.
"Good grief, this was a nightmare to reconstruct," she sighs. I deeply empathize, physically feeling her tiredness through the phone.
I wince involuntarily at the sound of her metal utensils being thrown into the sink, my sudden reaction waking a heavy-eyed Coblina who had been asleep in my lap for the past hour. I hug her to my chest as I sink further into the sea of pillows spread across the floor.
Apparently I'm still on the edge.
Spending my days in complete silence may be a slice of heaven, but the fall will always be costly on the mind once I inevitably hit the ground on my way back to reality.
"Accident or homicide?" I ask as I carve my way through a pomegranate, using the pointed tip of the knife to cut along the ridges. How I love seeing my fingers stained with crimson.
"Car accident, the poor fella got hit by a bus," she answers, popping her bubblegum. "His family insisted for an open casket and I can't complain. Those six hours were an open battle I don't care to repeat too soon, but the work I did on him will look terrific in my gallery," she says proudly and I can’t help but admire her work ethic and avid passion for her craft as a mortician. Truth be told her display of passed clients is a piece of art in itself, macabre as it may be.
"You’re one of a kind," I say on a blue smile, her endearing morbid nature never failing to remind me of why she's so close to my heart apart from our shared childhoods. Such passions are rare.
"Your taste will never lead you astray, Ophi," she teases as she sinks with a sigh into her leather chair, no doubt kicking her feet on the desk, as she always does after a long day of work. "Do you want to come over? My walking dead man paid me a visit earlier and brought with him the finest of Irish gins."
The case of the man she's talking about fascinates both me and anyone who has lived to hear the tale, to this day.
He was pronounced dead on an ordinary Sunday, his lifeless body found by a passer-by in his car parked sideways near the airport entrance.
Caroline initially concluded he had suffered a heart attack after a brief and superficial examination. Customarily, she placed him in one of the mortuary's individual refrigerators located in the basement of her home, as she did with any other cadaver.
That evening, my cousin had made sure all the essentials were ready for his autopsy the next morning; she could have gone upstairs and yet, as fate has it, chose not to.
Instead, she settled at her desk and started working on an urgent thesis in the company of imported wine and with opera metal blasting in her ears.
At around midnight, she received a phone call from one of her former boyfriends, which interrupted her flow. By the time she took off her headphones, she heard the most bone-chilling sound anyone could ever hear in a morgue after the witching hour.
Feet pounding solid metal, screaming, begging.
During the next few seconds, her spirit left her body in utter horror, but she came back to her senses just as quickly, calling for immediate assistance after realizing what had actually happened.
The moment she unsealed the door and pulled him out, he hugged the life out of her. In return, she placed her ear to his erratically beating heart, in disbelief.
His organs were pumping with life, a pulse was clearly audible, and at the sound of it she was overcome with a mixture of emotions she can't fully describe to this day.
They had an instant connection and have remained together ever since, even though Caroline keeps their relationship fairly private, which is quite unusual for her.
These days, the man whose name I now know to be Damian, is prowling around her mortuary at every given chance, making sure my cousin sees him in the flesh and blood. The flowing, still vibrant kind.
"Don't you want to share it with him?" I ask as I rub my legs, trying to regulate my blood flow after keeping them in the lotus position for the last two hours.
"He went out of town for a few days, doing God knows what. Frankly, I'm afraid to ask. Anyway, see you in about an hour? I have to clean up the mess after Mr. Clarksons. Finding an assistant is harder than I thought."
I could continue my self-imposed hermit existence, but I need human interaction if I'm to heal fully. Isolation can be a salve in small doses, but after a while it can dig a bigger hole than the initial one.
"I'll be there. Last night's lasagna sounds appetizing?" I ask as I head for the bedroom and grab my black mohair dress on the way.
"You are a blessing, Ophelia Grimes," she says before the line goes dead. The woman never fails to make me feel less alone in this world.
I place the leftovers in a glass container, feeling a little guilty for abandoning Coblina at home when she dutifully kept me company all the days I spent licking my wounds. Hopefully her favorite brand of wet food will suffice for the few hours she'll be on her own.
Distractedly, I lace up my Victorian leather boots, keeping my eyes still on the timeworn deck of cards left on the table. It happens to be my very first one and I can't part with it, especially since it was gifted to me by my grandmother. A family heirloom passed down through generations from mother to daughter, yet untouched by mine.
The powerful knowledge they hold has always gripped me, perhaps even more than their precious guidance.
In years of continued practice I have learned that the gifted ones, who are willing to trust them, have the key to a portal at their fingertips. A visual pathway that possesses the capacity to answer questions only to those who are prepared to venture into the unknown and face the unmasked truth, free from ego or subjective desires. The cards never lie, but digesting their wisdom is another story altogether.
Most people who seek answers claim they want the truth, but few can accept it once they receive it, especially if it doesn't align with the resolution they crave to hear.
That's why I use them mostly as a medium for the benefit of those who specifically seek them. As for myself, I prefer my inner voice unless an otherwise urgent matter is stealing my sleep.
It never fails to make me smile when a client asks me what they should choose or do in a specific situation, and almost every time having them receive their response even before I draw the first card just by the outcome they wish for at that moment.
The truth is that most answers are already buried deep within us; we just seek validation from outside ourselves. Preferably from a trusted, impartial source, be it in the form of a deck of cards or a confidant's ear.
After being notified that I have less than seven minutes until my cab arrives, I slip on my coat, the softness of the familiar textures reminding me that everything I've held dear up to this point has remained the same, but something inside me has changed profoundly.
The illusion of safety has dissolved.
I could always use a personal chauffeur to feel more secure, like I've been advised by numerous people in my niche, but routine creates bonds, questions. It leaves space for conversation, and these days I need invisibility and silence like the air I breathe. Draining my energy on small talk is a pit I'll circle in the hope that I won't have to build bridges if unavoidable circumstances don't demand it. I take great comfort in my solitude, one of the few luxuries so hard to keep in these soul sick times.
I drape my soft wool scarf over my head, carefully planting my signature cat-eye sunglasses on the tender skin of my nose, trying to conceal what will eventually fade but will plague me for the rest of my days.
It's in the past. I may be in physical pain, scalding in waters that steal my sanity by the second, but I will not walk out the door wearing the skin of a victim.
I refuse to give him that power. I've been through hell and back once or twice before, and as a consequence, I now know that I will always return regardless of the barb in my side or the thorny infection.
In a trance of sorts, I slide my fingers through the heavy burgundy curtains in my living room, letting the light seep through the eternally dark apartment. I move it aside, revealing French doors leading to a Juliet balcony that barely fits a plant, my eyes following my reflection in the full-sized glass.
The woman I see looking back at me appears to be famished in ways no great feast could possibly nourish her. She's hungry for something soulful. Drained yet not defeated.
"Breathe Ophelia, life demands it," I whisper to myself.
Do I even care to listen?
Once I step out and enter the car, I greet the driver and offer nothing else, my destination having already been specified in advance. I feel his eyes on me in the rearview mirror, inspecting my almost entirely hidden face and guarded disposition. His energy is overwhelming in its sadness; my senses recognizing as through a thin veil his anguish over a recent loss.
I wish I could offer him a semblance of humanity, of compassion; knowing how cold we have become as a whole, how wide and far the gap between each of us has ampled through generational trauma and social constructs. Still, my current state of mind is too fragile to comfort others.
In the end, the greatest service we can offer in times of hardship is to let each other be, to heal with dignity on our own, to be private in our pain. Thankfully, we both accept the humble kindness of silence.
Shrouded in it, we arrive at Caroline's house in less than fifteen minutes. With my hands burrowed deep into the pockets of my coat, I take a long breath; the cool and crisp late autumnal air stinging my lips.
Sensory nostalgia hugs me tightly and briefly, my hurried feet slicing through the mist as I climb leaf-covered stairs, their crunching sound the lone one in the otherwise sedated neighborhood.
The family's Victorian home, which is also a funeral parlor along with her basement practice, has been passed down through generations for nearly two centuries. I find it both eerie and strangely comforting how our name has always been linked to death in some shape or form.
There is beauty in the unknown, in working with a side of life that most people translate as fearsome and even cadaverous. Justifiably, they do it only because fear compels them to run away from it, since they themselves don't accept it, even if it represents life's only predictable facet.
The grand oak door is unlocked as per usual, the checkered floor at the entrance along with the pungent smell of formalin mixed with fresh flowers bringing back so many memories. Recollections of times I remember fondly considering I lived here for most of my teen years.
To my left is a large viewing area, where the families of the deceased mourn their loved ones before the memorial service, and to my right is the arrangement room, reserved for discussions with the grieving relatives about funeral plans.
It goes without saying that once I learned the craft of coffee-reading, palmistry and perfected the art of interpreting oracle cards, I used that very room with my first clients. Curious women in their late sixties still hoping for an unexpected inheritance or girls in their teens begging to see themselves through the eyes of their latest infatuation.
The main staircase facing me, leads to the upper level where my grandmother and I used to live. Sometimes I wish I'd encapsulated the smell of chamomile tea and blackberry cookies on late nights when the candlelight flickered in time with the creaking of the attic floorboards.
While melancholy has its charm, I know that what I really miss is her soft hand on my shoulder, rather than this place and the memories it once created.
"Caroline," I call out in the quiet, dark foyer that seems stuck in another time.
"I'm still down here," echoes her textured voice from the basement, in the thick Southern accent she inherited from her late father.
I make my way to the autopsy room, descending the steep stairs I know by heart from all the years of not-so-secretly shadowing our grandfather's mortician days; making his strictly forbidden practice our field of exploration after he fell asleep. Innocence, I wonder if I ever had it.
The smell of chlorine and death welcomes me with every step I take, my senses finding in their familiarity a kind of disturbing comfort.
When I enter the small mortuary area, I am greeted by the sight of my cousin's caramel waves, her hair now cascading over Mr. Clarkson's limp legs as she washes his stone like feet with a damp cloth.
"There you are!" she greets me with a warm smile, but swallows her words after I take off my scarf and sunglasses. "Ophi, what in the world happened to you?"
I should have used a green base under my foundation, though as self-centered as it may seem, it feels good to have someone who genuinely cares about my well-being. Even if answering her questions is the last thing I'd like to do this fine and dreary afternoon.
"Remember Evelin, the little girl I found earlier this month? I was attacked at the charity ball held in her name," I respond with a sigh, detesting the worried look on her face and the way it makes me feel all over again just at the thought of recounting the events.
"Good gracious, woman! Let's go in my office," she says with a distressed expression covering her doll-like features, while tossing the washcloth into the sink and washing her hands.
I skim over the story quickly, giving her a watered-down version of what really happened. Partly because I haven't forgotten Marizia's implied threat, and because Caroline's concern won't help the matter in any way.
Even so, through the lens of having years of criminal investigation behind me, I know that if something were to happen, precautions need to be taken early on.
Therefore, I tell her everything that happened except for the three days that followed, while lying through my teeth that I had been hospitalized and that there is an ongoing manhunt yet to be concluded.
"So, you were found by someone in a random car in the middle of nowhere, and that lowlife vanished into thin air from the scene of the accident?" she asks incredulously.
"Yes, he must have been relatively unharmed and probably ran away shortly after we hit that tree," I swallow the lie along my drink with practiced calm, trying not to rouse her suspicions further. I despise bending the truth, but I have to.
"Ophelia, it's a miracle you're in my office as we speak. Who knows what would have happened if, God..." she says wide-eyed, her hand gripping mine tightly.
"I know, but as horrible as it was, in a way it was also enlightening. Everything is a lesson when viewed from a detached perspective. I come face to face with the dark side of humanity on a daily basis, and with the territory, I have become desensitized to the dangerous nature of my work. I am not immortal and perhaps as fragile as those I am trying to save. I need to be more careful, maybe it was a sign. Some kind of omen," I explain, in an effort to reassure her, all the while seeking to integrate these words into my scattered being.
"It makes sense, but I wish this lesson had been broken down into a hundred smaller ones, just so I wouldn't have to see you like this," she sighs, shaking her head.
"It's in the past, so let's leave it there for tonight," I say, forcing a gentle smile for her benefit.
"Only if you promise to be careful, Ophi. I mean it," she says, pointing her finger at me with sisterly severity, her spirited charisma making its presence known. She was right, the liquor didn't disappoint.
"I will be," I say, moved by her care and concern.
When an individual such as myself, who is depraved of love, of a family, feels heard, well – each interaction becomes holy and beyond pure when genuine. And Caroline abounds in these specific traits.
"So...before the incident, did you find an honest man among the barren grape vines?" she asks playfully as she watches me carefully, her tipsy gaze meeting my glazed one.
I pause, remembering, feeling. Reminiscing about that mysterious presence, that rough masculine voice that spoke of an unshakable strength, that beautifully tattooed hand that made me feel protected for the first time in my life.
Pieces of that evening, envelop me when I least expect it, especially at night when sleep evades me.
Be that as it may, I must forget about him and accept that comforting moment for what it was – an unexpected gift in a distressing time that will never return. No matter how deeply it affected me.
He left that room, I left that night behind.
My grandmother used to say that it would take a special kind of man to love a woman like me. Capable of igniting a lifelong fire even when submerged in the deepest of oceans, possessing an abyssal heart willing to sacrifice it all in the name of love, whose strength could end a war by the sheer power of his eyes alone. Devoted to the bone until the end.
Love, everyone claims to know it. But I haven’t met a soul who has it in the form I most yearn for. I myself have never felt it in the bottomless ocean of my heart, since I have never found the one who would naturally reflect in my waters.
What I need is the unspoken, the hunger of the soul, a shared need for the absolute. Superficial and lukewarm bonds are narrow ideas that I will never long for and under no circumstances will I ever again invite them into my whipped heart out of a need to belong.
And yet, a faceless man, whose hand held mine while I was crumbling, still lives in my memory. That is why, out of respect for the raw beauty of that moment, I will not mention him to anyone. Ever.
I don't know why it felt so deeply intimate, but that's reason enough to want to keep him for myself alone.
Furthermore, the potency of that night is a strong enough incentive to forget about him completely. Only to remember, twenty years from now, on a given Tuesday, the way he made me feel. I can envision the vague memory of his touch making me smile into my coffee cup, because I was fortunate enough to experience him when I needed it most.
I wonder if he has recovered, if he remembers me, if his eyes really do glint in the dark the way I imagined them to when he spoke with that deep voice that had the power to awaken my senses with every word.
If, there is always an 'if ', when all I want is the present moment, without having to look into a distant future, since the former is enough.
So, by omission, I lie with a contented heart to my only friend, sealing him in this existence as my secret.
"You know me. The sight of false characters and stale small talk do not blend well with the needs of my soul," I say as I rub my temple, feeling an incoming migraine.
"Ditto," she chuckles, gazing dreamily at the tattoo of her lover's initials on her wrist.
Her phone ringing interrupts us after an hour or so of talking about nothing and everything. Caroline rolls her eyes, apparently still frustrated by the ringtone she's been promising herself for months to change.
"Doctor Tram speaking," she answers, straightening her spine, followed by a few minutes of total silence on her part. At one point her sepia eyes look up at me with worry and apology.
"Yeah, she's right in front of me," my cousin replies sheepishly, biting her lip.
Understanding from that look alone the nature of the call, I nod; silently letting her know that no matter how tired or troubled I am, my personal life will never come above those who urgently need my help.
The abilities I possess are regarded by the majority as controversial and in most cases a last resort when desperation prevails. When contacting me, the ones who ask for my aid leave behind any skepticism or lifelong belief if it means that a glimmer of hope in finding their loved ones is on the horizon. Therefore, such cases cannot be ignored or denied. I wouldn't be able to sleep at night knowing that they can't just because I chose a path of selfishness.
"The address of the funeral home is at the bottom of the business card, we'll be expecting you in an hour," Caroline says, trying out of habit to sound optimistic, but it's visible how strenuous the conversation has been for her.
"Ophi, I know this isn't a good time, but I just couldn't refuse him," she sighs, leaning her head back on the armchair.
"There's nothing to apologize for, you did the right thing. Those who come to me are never by coincidence. A firm reason is always behind it."
Especially now, that I've been on the victim's side and experienced the horrors at the hands of someone with a muddied soul.
Since my early years, I had a close connection with the afterlife. My talents cannot be sought, bought or thought, as they are a divinely given gift. And in some cases a burden when used recklessly by an inexperienced hand that fails to understand the dangers lurking in the shadows along with their desperation when they can't reach the light on their own.
Both tarot and aura readings have been ways for me to earn a living and contribute financially as much as I could as a teenager, but my soul has always been attracted to the spirit world. And no matter how much I imposed on myself a connection with tangible reality, the one with the other side was always much stronger.
Over time, as a result of delving deeper into unseen waters and after a prolonged contact with countless entities, people found me. Either by reputation, word of mouth, or ultimately in later years when the police hit dead ends and closed decade old cases.
Naturally, the victims' families never gave up, so they came to me.
Three years ago, albeit reluctantly, a missing persons detective offered me the chance to work independently on current cases. Hence, these days, it has become quite common to get a call and a file.
The next hour passes in a blur, with us trying to sober up with double espressos and leftover lasagna, all the while having a foreboding feeling that eating will be the last thing on my mind for the next few days.
Before we know it, our early dinner is interrupted by a brief but hurried knock on the front door.
As always in such cases, I choose to observe from a distance by the stairs as Caroline greets them. I do it out of a necessity to control my energy, as these unfortunate souls need my strength far more than my compassion at this time.
A man in his fifties and a boy in his teens who is the faithful image of who I assume is his father enter the foyer carrying with them the kind of pain no one should ever feel. Their despair and anguish lashes me with an inescapable force right in the center of my chest, their empty eyes bleeding with unshed tears at the corners.
Once he sees me, the older man marches towards me as if his life depends on it. He goes straight for my hand, squeezing it tightly between his trembling ones before saying the words that my younger self would have given anything to hear from the mouth of her own father: "I beg of you, help me find my daughter. There is no life without her."
In response to his grief stricken plea, all I can do is nod, because words are void in the face of a parent's suffering. I can only wish his hope won’t become resentful, a myth to be chased while parched, rather than something that can be held and squeezed of all its nectar.
We take our seats on the couch, Caroline and I facing him and his boy, who wants to give the impression of strength and maturity beyond his years, seeing that his family needs him. Perhaps, because in his mind there is no alternative but to become prematurely a man when life has come and stolen his innocence with cruel hands. I know the feeling intimately, I have felt it on my own skin.
Mr. Graham recounts the events that brought him here through a weeping soul, even though he does not shed a tear. He can't, because if he did, he would think himself defeated.
No, he'll only let himself do it after finding her. It will happen at the feet of his wife, kneeling at the foot of their bed, when only she and God will witness his weakness, his gratitude.
He tells me with fondness in his eyes about his beloved Penelope, of how she will always be his little bundle of joy. Of how he can't sleep at night since she left for skating lessons on her own, when he was supposed to drive her that day. About how guilty he'll always feel because he had an eye infection and as a result she hasn't set foot in her room since.
When night came and a report was made, the police found her practice bag untouched, tossed haphazardly in some nearby bushes. Apart from this crucial detail, no other evidence was found and no witnesses came forward. Nearly two weeks have passed without much happening, while each day Penelope is missing dramatically decreases the chances of her being found...alive.
Hopefully it's not too late for her.
"The person who recommended me must have told you I am a medium, in other words someone who communicates with the departed. I can also energetically read someone's state of being at a distance. If they're open to it, of course," I say, trying not to give him a false sense of hope. There are no guarantees in this practice, as some entities and souls want to be left to wander alone or are simply unable to form a connection, no matter how much we wish for it.
The father nods passively in response, still looking at me as if I'm holding his reason for living in the palm of my hand.
"I will do everything I can to reach your daughter. Some of her personal belongings will be needed. Preferably a photograph and a piece of clothing she has worn recently and often," I say, forcing myself to swallow the utter unfairness directed at those poor souls.
"Yes, of course, we came prepared," he says, extending a paper bag filled with a bundle of her items.
"Thank you, I'll keep them safe."
"Can it be done now?" he asks on a hurried breath.
"I'm terribly sorry, but you came unannounced and I wasn't going to make any appointments in the next few days for personal reasons. At the moment I don't have a firm grip on what I would see and hear and we need reliable information to proceed. If not handled carefully, the route will be unsafe for both me and your daughter's well-being. I need at least a day," I explain, trying to be as gentle as possible, but still instilling some boundaries, considering I need to protect myself.
"Miss Grimes, we are deeply grateful for your help. We'll wait and do whatever it takes," he says as he shakes my hand and clenches his jaw tightly, struggling to keep the wetness in his eyes at bay.
The sight is heartbreaking and yet I force myself to hold onto it because he needs hope, because it's not over yet. I chose a long time ago, in this very room, to face it for the rest of my days no matter how much my soul will wither.
"And I sincerely hope that I can get back to you with good news," I say with a dejected smile, trying to detach myself if I want to be of any help to this unfortunate family.
In this life nothing is promised, not even life itself. If I can have a role in saving another, I will gather my scattered being among the ruins, bruised hands or not. There is no other option, for theirs has been torn to pieces with little chance of being sewn back together.
No more than five minutes after they leave, I hug Caroline tightly, mentally thanking her for giving me a brief island of time away from my own struggles, which now seem so small in another’s ocean of sorrow.
* * *
In what seems like the blink of an eye, I open the door to my apartment, the familiar scent of burnt incense and dried roses enveloping my senses. These two alone remind me that no matter how far I try to run, I will always come back to myself. For the deeper I sink, the closer I get to the truth.
Exhausted and in desperate need of a bath, I remove my coat. As I enter the living room I catch my little shadow by the middle just before she sinks her claws into my leather boots and cradle her warm body in the crook of my neck.
I might still be slightly lightheaded from the few drinks I've had and the heavy conversation, but as I scan my surroundings, something is definitely amiss.
The more I read the energy of the house, the more I sense the lingering imprint of a presence and a foreign fragrance that has lingered within the walls of my home. It's subtle, but distinctive, so different from my own – masculine and woody, with a hint of smoke. Strangely familiar. Dangerous.
No one but me has ever entered my home, considering there is nothing I protect more fiercely than the privacy and energy of my sanctuary.
I silently retract my steps at this instant realization, trying not to make any sudden moves as I go for the door, holding tightly to my phone.
With my heart beating in my throat and a mind swarming with questions, my sixth sense tries to steer me away from fear. I need to be in control, to breathe.
Paranoia comes naturally, telling me that what I felt could be that man who attacked me, that he might have followed me here, or maybe his associates did it out of retaliation. You never know how far other people will go to silence and eliminate a possible risk. They can be unpredictable when so much is at stake.
Instead of letting it eclipse my judgment, I close my eyes and let my instincts and intuition rule over fear. After all, the two have played an immense role in keeping me alive to this day.
In my twenty-nine years of life they have never betrayed me or led me astray, which is why I choose to listen to them at times like this when I need the world to be reduced to silence so I can hear.
The energy that has somehow invaded my home doesn't seem menacing, but it is indeed intense, domineering. As if telling me, like a ghost planning to stay indefinitely, that I should get used to its presence within my walls.
As I try to digest this resounding thought, I release Coblina from my arms, pleased to see she's not heading for the hall stairs, her frail body circling my legs in an effort to comfort me. Poor thing, I wonder what she saw while I was gone.
In need of immediate answers, I take out my bag a chain I was gifted by a shaman years ago. Ever since, the black apache tear crystal, with a pointed tip at the base, offered me psychic protection, absorbing any form of negative energy around me or sent my way. It also offered me a drop of further insight and clarity, perpetually cleansing my chakra root since I keep it near me.
In addition, it serves as a pendulum, just like any other instrument that has the capacity to swing from left to right while in a suspended position.
"Spirit, I need you in my service. Left acts as a no, right as a yes. Please guide me safely from all that I cannot see," I whisper from above it, making my intentions clear.
I take a deep breath, centering my energy in my sacral chakra, aligning myself and straightening my spine. "Is anyone in my house at this moment?"
My question hangs in the air as I hold my body and outstretched hand perfectly still.
It swings to the left. At first it's almost imperceptible, but after a few seconds it continues to gravitate in that direction, slowly rotating on its own.
"Good," I say aloud, letting out a relieved breath. I already knew it, but it doesn't hurt to be sure. "Has anyone been in my house while I've been gone?" I continue, needing to be certain that an actual person was here rather than a lost spirit or entity.
Immediately, the pendulum swings to the right and I am petrified of being proved right in my suspicion.
"Is he evil?" I have to ask, even though the question is vague and may have many nuances.
The crystal slowly rotates in place, the movement signifying only two things – the first being that for some unknown reason I am not allowed to know the answer at the current time, or that the intruder is so complex in character that he cannot be defined in such broad lines.
"Does he have malevolent intentions towards me?" I ask, knowing instinctively and with absolute certainty that the energy comes from a man and that that poignant masculine scent has little to do with it.
The pendulum swings sharply to the left and I instantly breathe easier. But it begs the question – what was he doing here then?
"Has something been stolen?" I inquire, even though I sense this is the furthest scenario from the truth.
The moment I end my question, a hard left follows, validating my inkling. I was the subject of his visit.
There exists an unspoken rule that the spirit of the pendulum can be asked a limit of six questions at one time, and I've just come to the last one, so I have to be practical.
"Will I be safe if I go back inside?" I whisper, no longer feeling secure, no matter what the final verdict may be.
A firm yes materializes. It is decided then.
I thank the crystal for its prompt answers, placing the silver chain in its place and deciding to follow my instincts and the guidance I had just received.
The lock is untouched, but how could it be? I live on the eleventh floor, and there is no spare key he could have used. The thought is more than unsettling.
As soon as I enter the house, I run to the kitchen, keeping my eyes and ears alert for any stray details. I may be spiritually inclined, but real life has taught me to always be prepared for the worst when it comes to the base of human nature, especially after what happened.
I open the drawer, taking out the biggest knife, even though in the deepest recesses of my being I can feel him, whoever he is, from a distance; the damage he's capable of now living in my mind like a canvas I can't touch, but see clearly.
Sharp as it is, the blade will be of no use; not with the man who only hours ago studied my most intimate space. Still, for my peace of mind, I must keep it under my pillow if I want to sleep tonight.
I could call the police, but there is no evidence of a break-in, only a suspicion and a lingering scent in the air that is not mine. My connections might be helpful, but all they can do is advise me to give them a call when something more substantial happens. The city is too crime-infested to keep an officer guarding my door until the dust settles, so that's out of the question.
Since it's almost dark, no locksmith will help me, and Caroline has just left for the night to test some body tissue at a private laboratory out of town.
I have to take the risk, there is no other option. First thing tomorrow morning I will decide on the next step.
Inspecting the rest of the house is an experience that leaves my knees feeling weak and with goosebumps crawling on my skin. Though, for some strange reason, as scared as my mind pushes me to be, something I can't explain is holding me back.
I have known fear in many forms and have witnessed some of the worst nuances of cruelty, as well as the monstrous acts a seemingly harmless individual might be capable of; therefore I am far from being naive or delusional.
But currently, there is this hold over my senses, as if telling me to look beyond the surface, to understand something I cannot yet name. Perhaps it’s something entirely different than I imagine it to be. All these contrasting emotions are proving to be too much for my psyche to bear, and it's already been a long day as it is.
Resigned and ready to pull the blinds over this emotionally charged evening, I draw the curtains and play my thunderstorm sounds, knowing that after the last few hours there is no way I can sleep without white noise. The rustling wind stirred by the approaching tempest settles like a blanket over my senses, helping me find a semblance of peace as I settle into my feathery soft bed.
Coblina soon joins me, seeming calm, even serene since I set foot in the apartment. If she sensed any danger, she would surely be acting differently. Strangely, no matter the angle, nothing makes sense.
"My sweet girl, who has been here?" I ask, running my fingers over her chin.
She yawns, climbing on the rigid limbs of the gargoyle by the window and settling down for the night on her favorite tasseled pillow.
With a sigh, already hanging between worlds, I lose myself in the oversized mirror hanging from the ceiling of the canopy above me, the image of my own cross-shaped reflection being the last one I see before I sink further into a tasteless unconsciousness.
* * *
Water, let me immortalize you.
I have always loved your mystery, the darkness with which you guard your secrets as fiercely as a lover. It is so soothing to be surrounded by you at such depth, close to the sea bed; so lonely, yet peaceful.
The silence feels whole and dense; velvety yet subtle like yards of unwoven silk wrapping around me – a snake, making me one with it as it seizes me.
Something – an obscured hand I feel rather than see, beckons me to follow it to the surface, in the tender direction of the unending night awaiting me.
I close my eyes as if blissfully comatose while my legs continue to push, swimming towards the place where I am wanted. To the possessive touch of cold leather on my parted lips, wrapping around my neck with a poetic destructive force created specifically to steal my air.
Every sensation that follows becomes vague and elusive, as if it were fragmented smoke. Although I feel them all, I can't hold the momentum in my hands long enough to fully grasp and taste it.
Once I reach the veil and break through the surface, my lungs fill with salt water rather than air. While struggling to breathe, someone abruptly turns me around and my heart stills.
The figure now facing me splits me in two with harrowing disbelief.
Am I sick or the sickness is I?
My own self stares back at me with a terrified expression in her empty eyes, digging razor-sharp nails into her hallow cheeks until ribbons of blood cover her wet flesh.
Soon, she breaks into a howl, with a voice that seems to choke on broken needles as she struggles against the blood that's pouring out of her gaping mouth in rivers.
Numb, all I can do is watch and wonder...since when do I have any more tears to shed?
As the waves recede there comes a fatal silence, with death and perishing sea life joining us in a dark slumber, just before she utters: "Wake up, Ophelia. You are not alone."