Chapter 7
Ophelia
WITH LETHARGY IN MY FINGER S I turn off the tempest that witnessed what transpired within the thin walls of my home; now leaving me in absolute, uninterrupted silence.
It hasn't been more than an hour since the masked man vanished, and I have yet to collect the pieces of my being that he picked apart and left scattered on the kitchen floor.
I can't think of anything other than him.
I desperately want to think of anything but him.
He avenged me, tortured in my name, offered me laurels of enamel so that my plagued mind and scarred body could find a sense of peace, of justice. Teeth, some filed down, some rotted from within. All cleaned to the root of blood.
His mystery has already slithered its way under my skin, along with his serpent's tongue that, though it remained silent to my questions, has grown demanding in its ability to drive me mad with each passing second since he left.
And now, as I stand on trembling feet, holding fistfuls of someone else's teeth, I let them spill one by one through my fingers like hard candy. Their contact with the wooden floor thus becomes a testimony to my certain descent into insanity.
My sixth sense, along with the tangible evidence of that message, reinforces my belief that they belong to the man who attacked me that night.
Is he dead now? Because of me?
Did this mysterious man appear into my life just to present me with a grotesque trophy, only to disappear now that he's avenged me? And if that's true, why did he feel the need to do it in the first place?
How should I even react to such a horrid act? To such a gift?
I've seen my share of cruelty and inhumanity; realities that would send most people straight to a trauma therapist's couch for months on end; sights that would make one go without food and sleep for days. However, this type of predicament has never directly correlated with me.
I don't know how to feel, how I should react.
Even though that night hurt far deeper than the surface, I had never planned to retaliate, even before Marizia assured me he was long gone. My belief had always been firm in karma, in divine justice, in finding meaning through hardship. But he came, executing it swiftly and, as it seems, painfully.
Most likely, a life has been taken. I don’t know if I can make peace with that or with the man who sat at my table and drank my bourbon at three in the morning, not long ago torturing on my behalf with no apparent remorse.
In a daze, I return to my chair in the kitchen, the remnants of his energy engulfing me fully as I take my oracle cards into trembling hands and pour myself a healthy dose of his poison of choice; the bitterness of the smooth liquid flowing down my throat like molten silk. Burning.
I spread the deck on the table, asking question after question with his unsmoked cigarette between my lips. My heart pounds lava over my ribs with each card I draw from the stack, their meaning both easing and adding to my torment.
The Moon, the Judgment, Death.
All Major Arcana. Life altering omens.
Their message is simple but telling – there are veiled intentions sealed in secrecy and a mystery hovering on the horizon. A dark path shrouded in uncertainty that the soul takes blindly. A decision yet to be made about a turbulent past. An end that may also signify a form of rebirth.
I can't refrain from asking about his intentions towards me, biting my tongue at the two that instantly fall out of the pack face down after I've barely started to shuffle.
With trembling fingers, I close my eyes, preparing to turn them over, somehow already knowing their contents.
The Lovers and the Devil are stuck together, as if glued by an invisible binding medium. Their symbolism dries the inside of my mouth with fear and need, but I don't allow myself to ponder their implications and ominous premise, choosing instead to ask the spirit one last question.
"What will become of me if I get entangled with him?" I inquire aloud; too fearful to ask the one question that presses me the most, since I know in my bones that this will not be our last meeting. It goes without saying that I want to hear the answer from his own mouth, rather than an outside source.
I shuffle until my fingers tire but nothing comes of it. This alone is an answer in itself, which means it's either not written yet or I'm not supposed to know. I'm inclined to go with the latter.
My breathing becomes shallow, the sharp tips of my nails tugging at the collar of the silk blouse I put on after he closed the door behind him, leaving me feeling naked.
The cigarette releases a final trail of smoke as I stab it into the ashtray along with the thoughts about him while my eyes bath in the dim morning light that creeps through the blinds.
I offer thanks to the cards for their faithful guidance, returning them to their deck, even though I now find myself with more questions than I had half an hour ago. It seems that only time and patience will assist me in elucidating the mystery of him.
In the end, the truth will always prevail. And somehow I know he will ensure that I won't be left in the dark for too long. It was written in his eyes.
Deprived of caffeine, I reach for the crystal container I store it in, the fragrant aroma reminding me of the one I had with Mr. Graham yesterday.
The memory of his desperate plea to find his daughter, Penelope, tears at me while my conscience reprimands me for forgetting about her even for one night.
The floor creaks beneath my cold feet as I run to the bedroom and retrieve her belongings from my bag, frowning when I find the phone tangled in the pendulum. He didn't take it. Interesting.
I study Penelope intently, her smooth skin and wavy blonde hair portraying the image of early adolescence and young naivety. She is a beauty; her soul pouring from serene blue eyes that at the time the photo was taken knew only of passing worries and carefree joy.
Over the years, my medium abilities have expanded through constant practice, my third eye growing accustomed to the unknown and granting me wider access to the veil between worlds. The troubling thing is that in my pursuit to save and guide those in need, I also began to lose myself.
Still, I would do it a thousand times over.
Naturally, not everything is as it seems. The matters of the unseen are much simpler and more abstract than one might think. Both the spirits of the departed and all other various entities are volatile and unpredictable. Not everyone is reachable, be it by choice or not.
There have been cases such as this one where people have vanished into thin air, my talents contributing to their discovery in cases where I have managed to create a bridge between me and the victim.
When they are close to leaving this earth, their soul becomes more receptive and perceptive, facilitating my communication with their higher self.
In this way, I open a door, invisible to the naked eye, and see what they see, feel what they feel – the details I gather in that small window, thus helping the police in their search.
That is, if I don't feel safe enough to find them myself, much to the displeasure of the officials. A fact they still fail to assimilate to this day, being that I work for the victims, not them.
Hopefully Penelope's case is one of my fortunate ones, where she will still get the chance to live a long and good life despite this horrific ordeal.
Lying on my back, I center myself and detach from my body in the stillness of the room. I press my hand on the back of the photograph while with the other I touch her face and call her name into the void where all their souls dwell, dormant yet present.
Being in this state of mind is peaceful, quiet, natural, allowing me to drift far from the physical plane. I give us both time to connect, for her to find me and accept my intention to contact her.
I wander into the darkness, passive to anything other than what I'm seeking, not wanting to be detected by anyone or anything else.
After a while, all my senses become still and hyperaware. I don't see her, but I feel a hand gripping my knee; pale and delicate, trying to connect with me.
"Cold," I hear a small, feminine voice whisper in my ear and I let out a tremulous breath at the echoing sound.
"I can hear you, help me find you," I say, lowering my head in regret. From the familiar way her voice feels on my being, I know it's already too late. She is no longer with us.
A prolonged pause follows, and yet I don't let go, hoping she'll find the strength to reach for me once again. Fortunately, after a few minutes, she does, even stronger than before.
"Afraid," she whispers from above me, digging her fingers into my flesh as if to anchor herself into something solid. As always, I feel it pass like a cold breeze through my body and into the mattress.
"My name is Ophelia; I'm here to help you. Tell me where you are and soon it will all be over," I say, trying to instill a sense of security, something to root herself in until I find her.
"The cemetery," she breathes, the former blue of her cerulean eyes looking empty and dull in my dark room as I gradually open my eyes. I find her hovering above me face down, her limp blonde hair creating a curtain now framing my head, and trapping our gazes.
The shock of catching a glimpse of her seconds before she disappears brings me back to reality with a violent shudder, her ghost fading through the walls of my bedroom as suddenly as she appeared.
Odd, they're usually not this forthcoming at first contact. The poor girl must have been completely aware of her own ending if she is so receptive in the early stages of her departure.
I inhale deeply, gathering my limbs into a tight ball in a feeble effort of self-soothing. Internally, I am already mourning her while trying to find the strength to get up while my world slowly collapses, bends and takes form all over again.
I don't know how many more twisted emotions I can carry on my weakened shoulders anymore. Perhaps allowing myself a few tears would help, but I can't even afford that. Not when I'm still here and she's long gone.
After another few minutes, my breathing returns to normal, but my heart beats in an uneven rhythm as I drag my limbs to the closet and haphazardly put on a velvet trench coat before carefully placing Penelope's photo in my pocket.
The cemetery. Why there of all places? If Penelope was taken, why would her abductor risk being seen in such a public space? It doesn't make any sense.
Dread settles in the pit of my stomach, another brick falling among countless others at the thought of what I might find there. I don't think I'll ever get used to this feeling, but I have to keep going, for those whose voices are rarely heard.
On my way out, as I bend down to fill Coblina's bowl, a sharp pain runs through my knees and how I long at times for such physical aches and average problems to fill my days instead of all this anguish. But this is my path and I wouldn't trade it for all the paper-thin happiness in the world.
After ordering a cab, I lace up my knee-high boots just so I can do something with my hands, while my mind rakes through the ramifications of what I might find and preparing for the worst, so I can bear it when the time comes.
Once inside the warm cabin of the car that smells of pine and stress, I seal myself to the window, giving the driver the silent message that I want to be left alone. My tired eyes find solace in the detached morning scenery and the sight of people walking whilst contemplating taxes, unfinished loves, and their own cycles that keep on ending and beginning.
As far as I'm concerned, there's only silence and those bottomless coal eyes gazing back at me in the fogged reflection in the window.
We arrive at the cemetery gates in less than twenty minutes in the heavy morning traffic, the driver looking at me with a bored expression as I pay in cash and leave without another word.
Penelope could have been referring to any burial place, even a few towns over, but I felt her close to me, which no doubt contributed to the strong contact we had. Thankfully, our city is home to only two cemeteries, and the pendulum was adamant that St. Patrick's is the one she’s located at. Regrettably, not as a visitor.
I take a minute to myself in preparation for what's to come, the anesthetized landscape looming from the iron gates feeling like coming home. Solemnity and stillness dominate the scenery, the mellow crowing of a few ravens and a worker clearing dead leaves from the entrance summing up the only sounds around me. The air tastes like rot frozen in time and regret, patiently caressed by the bony hand of death.
The chipped gargoyles, weathered by time and the elements, beckon me with their familiar, steely gaze as I open the gates and head out in search of a quiet place to collect myself. Finding Penelope in the vast expanse of this cemetery that hosts thousands will not be easy, not if she remains hidden among the many spirits that wander these funeral grounds.
Mercifully, at least for my sanity, I've learned to master the capacity to limit my sight, interacting only with the spirits of my choosing and keeping the wandering ones at bay.
It happens that some wish to remain here, trapped between worlds until they feel ready to transcend. They must feel so lost; especially since the longer they remain here, the more their ancestral being degrades, as mental illness does to the minds of the living.
Searching for someone has never been a repeated experience, mostly because, each spirit chooses to deal with the aftermath and emotional chaos that follows after their departure, in their own unique way. Especially those who have suffered a traumatic death.
Marble in hues of white depicting time-eaten beings of light and crosses covered in grime and moss are my tacit witnesses as I search for something, anything that might lead me to her among the crumbling tombs and last resting places adorned with wreaths of dead flowers at their doors.
In the distance, through the mist that now obscures my ankles, stands an aged church I have never set foot in, the elements and the countless winters it has endured leaving their mark.
A dusty hearse, with the back door open, is left running next to the east wall, reminding me of the countless times I found one parked in the driveway of the family's funeral home. Its driver, a charismatic elderly chain-smoker who used to hide his stubs under my grandmother's flower pots, ultimately found himself in the back – only this time in an oak casket, driven on his last road by his own grandson.
Having found a hiding place next to a mausoleum that seems untouched for decades, I let my back rest against one of the side walls and close my eyes, clutching tightly the photo in my coat pocket.
Here, I feel Penelope's presence more intensely, her anguish feeling like a suffocating corset that leaves my lungs gasping for air while her desperation to be found scratches my eye sockets like beaks.
"Alone," her voice echoes, making me shudder at the haunting sensation – one I don't think I'll ever get used to, no matter how many times I've experienced it.
I force myself to let my intuition take the lead, giving it room to sense the path rather than see it. She is close.
My feet carry me down an old, worn path; passing countless decayed gravestones scattered in a straight line along the way, leading me to a less-traveled trail near the brick wall at the end of the property.
I stop in my tracks, suddenly feeling as if she were in flesh and blood near me. The realization instills an icy spear in my chest, prodding me until I feel nothing but…this premonitory feeling that I found her.
"Where are you?" I ask as I stare out at the sea of crosses and stone statues. Nothing seems to be amiss, though there is this putrid taste coating the inside of my tongue, a migraine that makes my temples throb the longer I stand still.
A breeze, cold and misty, scratches the side of my face, as if telling me to turn my head and then – I know.
I approach the brick wall in front of me, which is high enough that I have to tilt my head up to see beyond it.
My palms settle with a mind of their own on the weathered bricks, which must have been here for centuries, their uneven surface unforgiving in its roughness.
Minutes pass, but no matter how hard I push or search the scene, looking for any hint that it has been tempered with, none of the stones yield. Nevertheless, I am beyond determined to find her. She is closer than ever.
I run my palm along the coarse wall, closing my eyes and letting myself be guided by an unknown force. Then it happens – something deep inside tells me to stop moving, urging me to take a closer look.
This section of the wall is covered by a curtain of withered vines, but some of them are ripped, the remains lying on the floor as if trampled. As if someone had disturbed them not long ago.
With my heart in my throat, I push aside a large portion of them, trying to remove a piece of brick out of the way, and though heavy, it glides easily into my now scarred hands. I take them out one after the other, a small pile growing at my feet until I create enough space to crawl through the wall.
The sinister energy I find on the other side is heavy and pungent. Between the brick wall and the one separating it from the neighboring property there is no more than ten feet. From its size, I assume the space is probably used as a passage, created with workers in mind for easier access. The decaying space is now covered in debris and unkempt trees, more dead than alive.
My eyes instinctively move to the right, the sight of freshly turned earth cutting the blood from my veins. Penelope.
On trembling feet, I walk towards the girl who will never get a second chance at life, and out of respect, I don't lay a hand on her early grave.
Nevertheless, with tears in my burning eyes, I retrieve a small tea candle from my pocket, and light it in silence. I softly utter a prayer for her departed soul, but the heaviness remains.
Life. Death. Both of them can be unscrupulous and so unfair.
After a long moment of silence, I sink to the floor beside her, leaning my back against the wall that now feels paper-thin compared to the pain it hides in its no longer barren insides.
Suddenly, I sense her spirit looming over me as I reach for my phone. Slowly, I raise my head, meeting her tear-filled eyes and angelic features – the sight touching a spot in my soul where each one of them has left their mark.
"Tell my father," she whispers before her ghostly silhouette becomes indiscernible, fading in a matter of seconds.
I don't recall dialing his number; nor do I hear any sound near me other than the generic tone before Mr. Graham picks up.
"Tell me she's alive," he pleads, in the way any hopeful parent would.
Deep down, I believe he knew the truth long before he sought my help. Yet he still clung to it, because the unthinkable is too cruel of a pill to swallow.
At times like these, I so wish I didn't know firsthand how heavy the burden of death can drag one down to the lowest level of being. In a place where nothing is the same without the soul that has been forcibly ripped from feverish arms. Where no begging on bruised knees will bring them back, not even in a dream.
"I'm so sorry," I whisper, my voice sounding foreign and faraway even to my own ears. When will the pain end?
"No, no, no!" he sobs, the sole pained word being the first and last one I hear before the line goes dead.