Josef
finished his late dinner of fish and fries and left the fast food restaurant.
At the corner, he caught the bus for home. He listlessly plopped down on
the empty front seat. Arms folded over his chest, he leaned his head against
the cool window. The bus lumbered along and he stared listlessly at the
people coming and going, some on foot, some in cars.
They
moved about so easily, ignorant of how lucky they were. The bliss of a
dull, ordinary life; he would have traded places with any one of them.
The glass reflected his blue eyes and handsome black face. Since he first
encountered The Voice twenty years ago, many times he had considered putting
a gun against that face and blowing his brains out. Deep down he knew The
Voice would not allow it, not as long as he could be of any use to the
Unseen.
The
bus stopped near his place and he stepped off. Through the dark streets
he walked, avoiding the gaps in the concrete. Unafraid of attack, not really
caring, he looked over the dying neglected ghetto. Past a line of deserted
buildings with peeling paint and boarded windows, he glanced at the graffiti
sprawled everywhere. The neighborhood seemed to suffer more from outright
cancer than just urban decay. They don’t include places like this in
the tourism brochures. Wouldn’t fit in with scenes of the Smithsonian or
the Washington Monument.
He’d
swindled fortunes over the years, mostly with phony endowment schemes like
those out of Nigeria. He lived in this urban underbelly not because he
didn’t have money, but because in a dead-end neighborhood, no one asked
or answered questions. Nobody cared who you were, what you were up to,
where you were from, where you were going, if you lived or if you died.
Here Josef at least had some privacy.
At
his building, he climbed the three flights to his apartment and closed
the door behind him. He left the lights off and laid his watch on the dresser.
Though the window he watched the junkies and dealers at their perpetual
duet. He never did drugs. After what he’d been through nothing that mundane
could possibly interest him. He undressed and got into bed. He rolled onto
his side and hoped that maybe tonight he could sleep without any nightmares.
He smiled grimly and knew he was kidding himself. No rest for the wicked,
they say. He wished it were not so true. He thought about the night
it all began and wished he had died then:
The
heavy, round table tautly stretched Josef’s muscles. The old man frowned
at him. The sixteen-year-old wondered if he was jealous. It wouldn’t be
the first time an old man had been jealous of Josef’s youth.
“Put
it down there!” he snapped and pointed to an empty corner. “Then go get
the table covering from the back closet.”
He
dropped the table to the carpeted floor; it landed with a thud. Siddarth
cursed furiously and Josef marched away to the closet. Lately, he had been
questioning if living with the old man was really an improvement over the
streets. He pulled the white, louvered doors open and craned his neck upward.
The table covering, died dark with astrological symbols woven in, lay on
the top shelf.
He
reached for it and Siddarth yelled from behind, “Don’t tear it boy! I’ll
skin you alive!”
“Drop
dead,” Josef mumbled and tugged the folded cover. He caught it to his chest
with a snap.
Thrown
out by his white, blue-eyed father after his black mother died, he had
lived on the streets of Santo Domingo since he was twelve. He managed to
keep himself fed and clothed by the con games he learned from the older
boys. Sometimes, he had pretended to be a lost youth and suckered getting-home-money
from gullible tourists. However, his most successful con was to come-on
to pedophiles hanging around the pools of the luxurious Dominican resorts,
lure them away to a secluded spot and surprise them with a concealed pipe
against the head. One way or another he always managed to keep some money
in his pockets and stay a step ahead of the law.
Siddarth
snapped, “Go cover the table; and be sure to keep the ends even!”
“Yes!
All right! I will!”
“Don’t
take that tone with me, boy or I’ll put you back where I found you.” Siddarth’s
deep accent belied his Haitian origin.
Josef
had survived okay on the streets, but he’d gotten tired of constantly moving
to find shelter and dodge the police. The old man approached him on a corner
a couple of weeks ago and offered him room and board for becoming a house-boy
of sorts. After looking him over, satisfied he wasn’t some sick freak,
he’d decided to give it a try.
But
enough was enough.
He
threw the cloth to the floor and hissed, “Fine! The streets are better
than putting up with an old woman like you,” and stormed away.
Immediately
Siddarth followed, his footfalls padded on the carpet behind him. “Josef!
Josef! I’m sorry, son. Wait!”
Inside
his little room, Josef slammed the door behind him and he pictured taking
the old man by his white beard and beating in his face. He began flinging
his few personal belongings into his pack. The door hinges squeaked and
he turned around.
The
old man crept forward, a plaintive smile on his face. “Josef, son, I’m
sorry for saying such mean things to you, snapping at you.”
Josef
turned his back on him and resumed packing.
“You
have to understand that I’m old, and sometimes old men don’t act so nice.”
The
zipper of his pack stuck on his first try to close it.
“And
please understand, I’m nervous about tonight. I haven’t done fortune telling
in a while.”
Finally
getting the zipper closed, Josef turned to walk out.
Siddarth
blurted, “Son, if you’ll stay, I’ll do something very special. Something
that could make you a lot of money.”
The
magic word spoken he stopped in his tracks. “Money? How?”
The
old man smiled. “You’ll see tonight when the fisherman comes. I did fortune
telling for many years. That’s how I made my money and bought this house.”
He held his hands toward the walls; religious pictures hung everywhere.
Josef
recalled the first time he saw the old man’s elegant beach house, how impressed
he’d been. A place this big and nice meant wealth.
“If
you made so much money telling fortunes, then why did you quit?”
Siddarth
raised an eyebrow. “Two years ago a powerful man visited me and asked if
he should permit his daughter to marry a young cigar exporter named Devon.
The man was Peerot.”
Josef’s
jaw dropped. Peerot was the famous crime lord who had died just last month,
an event sure to be one of the most remembered of 1974, at least on the
island.
“You
said yes to the marriage?”
Siddarth
nodded. “But Devon only stayed with Peerot’s daughter a short while.” He
lowered himself onto Josef’s bed; his knees cracked as he bent down. “Peerot
blamed Devon, himself…and me for the failed marriage. He said I could not
do fortunes anymore.”
“From
what I’ve heard of the man, you’re lucky to be alive!”
Again,
Siddarth nodded. “But now that he’s dead, I’m ready to start again. That’s
one of the reasons I took you in, to help me.”
“But
why didn’t you see what would become of the marriage? What kind of fortune
teller are you?”
Siddarth
softly chuckled. “Josef, psychic reading is just another confidence game
like the ones you practiced while living on the street. Only this one pays
very well.” The old man smiled broadly. “Most of the time when you’re wrong,
nothing very bad happens. What happened with Peerot’s daughter was simply
bad luck. Besides, I did not think anyone would be foolish enough to cross
a dangerous man like Peerot. Indeed, a short while afterward, Devon disappeared.”
Josef
dropped his pack on his bed.
“But
now that Peerot is dead, I’ve let it be known I am doing readings again.
The fisherman who called a few minutes ago will be my first since it all
happened.” He folded his arms. “Luckily, we live in a fishing town. Fishermen
and sailors are so notoriously superstitious,” he beamed with delight,
“they make up easily half of my customers.”
“But
how can this make money for me?” Josef asked.
Siddarth
pointed at him. “I’ll show you the tricks of the trade, what to say and
how to say it to the fools who’ll hand over their hard, earned money. It’s
just a matter of telling them what they want to hear, anyway. You can be
my apprentice!”
Josef
nodded and began unpacking. Thirty minutes later a knock shook the front
door. The old man instructed Josef to lead his guest to the table in the
parlor. Siddarth smiled at the fisherman as he sat across from him. Josef
peaked through the parlor room curtains.
The
fisherman began, “This evening my wife gave me fish and rice to eat and
I fell asleep. Her fish and rice always makes me sleepy.” The pitch of
his voice rose a notch. “I dreamed of wild boars and black goats. You know
how serious these omens are for a man of the sea!” Siddarth nodded. “They
were fighting, biting and snapping at one another. It made me wonder if
I should go out tomorrow. After such signs, I should probably stay out
of the water, but I have a family to feed! I have come, sir, to seek your
advice.”
Siddarth
said, “Let us see what the spirits have to say.” No Tarot cards, crystal
balls or other mumbo-jumbo props, the old man simply placed his hands,
palms down on the table and closed his eyes. Mumbling in a soft gibberish,
he swayed slightly side to side. After a few moments he opened his eyes
and smiled. “You’re in luck! The spirits have smiled on you and given you
the answer you desire. It is safe for you to fish tomorrow. No harm will
come to you and you will take in a great catch!”
The
fisherman slumped in his chair, a picture of relief. “Oh, thank you sir,
thank you!”
From
the next room, Josef watched as the fisherman handed Siddarth a handful
of bills. He turned and Josef pulled back the curtain, stepped to the front
door and held it open to let the fisherman out. The fisherman said goodnight
and left humming a tune. Josef stepped onto the deck, most of the neighboring
houses already dark and silent, and watched as the fisherman walked away,
a bounce in his step.
“You
fool,” he mumbled.
A
sea breeze gently caressed his skin and he glanced out over the water.
The sky there was clear and star-studded, but directly above him, it was
dark and cloudy.
He
came back inside. Siddarth stood beside the table holding up the money.
“You see how easy that was? A few minutes conversation and I’ve taken a
half-days wages from that man.” He chuckled, “And the fool thanked me for
it!”
Josef
saw the possibilities and smiled too.
“When
word gets around that I’m back in business, the front room will be filled
with people waiting to hand over their money. And as I promised, I’ll teach
you how to do it.”
“But
what if the fisherman dies at sea tomorrow?”
Siddarth
laughed. “That’s the beauty of it. If he dies, he won’t be around to say
anything about it.”
The
old man led Josef into the kitchen and poured some wine. They sat at the
table, drinking, and Siddarth asked, “Son, have you noticed the bookshelf
in the basement?”
“You
mean the one with all the smelly books?”
Siddarth
took a sip of port and nodded. “That’s because some of them are very old.
They’re books on the occult. I bought some when I was young and just getting
started. They were old even then!” He half emptied his glass. “Some came
as gifts from satisfied clients; and some I got in exchange for payment.
You should look through them. You can pick up some phrases that will make
your readings sound more genuine.”
The
old man leaned forward; this close up his foul breath was potent. “Now,
some people take the occult very seriously and they will come to you with
questions. You don’t have to be an expert, but you should know enough to
give a suitable answer. With those people, all you really have to do is
agree with them. They just want to hear themselves talk, anyway.” He gulped
down the remainder of his glass and poured himself a refill. Josef waved
off a refreshing. “Before you go to bed you might want to thumb through
one of them to see what I mean.” He swayed a little in his seat.
Josef
did not like Siddarth to begin with, and less now that he was drunk. He
stood up and said, “Good idea. I’ll go now,” and stepped away from the
table.
Siddarth
called, “Be sure to stay away from the one by King Normond. You’re not
ready for that one.” He sighed, “I’m not ready for that one.”
Using
the stairs at the back of the kitchen, Josef descended to the basement
and walked to a small bookcase against the far wall. The smell of mildew
wafting from the ancient tomes was strong. He leaned forward and looked
them over. Some of the titles were in languages he didn’t recognize. He
reached for a book from the bottom shelf, but a sudden coldness
clasped over his wrist and seemed to redirect his hand. He pulled a thin
hardback from the middle shelf.
“‘Once
upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered weak and weary over many a quaint
and curious volume of forgotten lore…’”
Josef
turned around. Siddarth stood weaving at the top of the stairs. “What’s
that you said?”
As
if making a toast, Siddarth held up his glass and replied, “It’s something
from a very old American poem.”
Josef
had not seen Siddarth drunk before. He thought, Two glasses of port
wine! Mustn’t take much to get an old man drunk.
Out
of the corner of his eye, he thought he saw air moving in waves like on
a very hot day. He quickly glanced to his right but saw nothing unusual.
“Goodnight,
boy!” The fortune-teller held his glass up again. “I’m goin’ to bed.” The
old man shuffled off for his room on the other side of the house.
Josef
turned again to the tomes. Some had strange titles like Witches, Grimoires
and Chants, The Golden Dawn, Egyptian Secrets of Sirius.
Others seemed to be straightforward texts on occult studies: The Beginner’s
Guide to Tarot, and Cabala, Numbers and Signs Explained. He
glimpsed a hardback leaning against the inside of the bookcase. The name h.
p. lovecraft was imprinted on the middle of the spine, arkam
house on the bottom. The title had been worn away.
He
opened the cover of the book he held and flipped through the hundred or
so pages, the edges faded brown. Not his native Spanish, the book was in
English. His English was good so he read on. On the flyleaf was a hand-written
notation explaining this was an English translation of the Novus Mortem
from the original banned Latin edition of 1756. The notation also stated
that the author, King Normond of Prussia, had the distinction of being
the only reigning monarch in the history of western civilization to be
burned at the stake as a witch. At the bottom of the fly-leaf was printed:
Beyond here lies peril. Proceed at your own cost.
The
caution reminded him of Siddarth’s warning against the book and he moved
to put it back, then he stopped and cursed under his breath, angry for
even considering the old man’s drunken ramblings. He went to an old kitchen
table in the corner, sat down and began to read. Minutes later his skin
crawled and he knew no sane man had written this. Mainly it seemed to be
about a group of malign spirits called The Unseen. His head lowered, he
pondered over one of the more poetic passages:
They sing
of Earth’s demise.
Those eons
past from Heaven fell.
They see
with darkened eyes.
Of the
Fallen, countless numbers swell.
They prey
anon and by.
Whose true
story Man can never tell.
They know
all soon shall die.
Hunched
over a long time, his shoulders began to ache. He looked up from the page,
leaned back and stretched. A flash of pain creased his skull and he clenched
shut his eyes. He rubbed his temples and waited for the pain to subside.
He lowered his head into his hands and let his eyes crack open. The instant
his gaze met with text, the pain stopped. Glad for the reprieve, he stood
up to stretch his legs and again his head started to throb. He plopped
into the chair and again put his head down. He saw text and once more the
pain immediately stopped. His stomach knotted. What’s going on!
To avoid more pain he continued.
Though
the passages sometimes made his intestines constrict, he found, to his
surprise, they excited him as well. It was like gaining insight into some
kind of secret knowledge. However, in another hour, the terrorizing revelations,
the secret horrors the book recounted made him so uneasy he would have
paid a fortune to stop. If he just glanced from the words or stopped at
one passage too long, his skull began to ache, a prelude to another attack,
so he kept reading. It was all he could think to do until the old man checked
on him in the morning. He just hoped Siddarth knew how to free him of book’s
spell.
Another
hour passed. He learned more about the Unseen and felt goosebumps rise
on his arms and legs. The book described them as psychic parasites surrounding
the living. ‘It is their desire,’ the book explained, ‘to gain direct control
of human minds and enslave them. This occurs most commonly with those delving
into occult studies.’ His hands softly shook. Whatever initial excitement
he had over this secret knowledge was gone. These things should remain
secret.
Usually
when he read, the words sounded in his mind in a familiar mental voice.
Now the words resonated in another and strange voice. His skin cooled despite
the warm Caribbean air. He wiped his forehead with the back of his hand
and froze. That strange mental voice dimly called his name. He wanted to
look up and see if anyone was around, but he dared not take his eyes off
the page.
“Old
man! Is that you?”
No
answer.
He
laid the book open on the table and rested his forehead on his fists. So
tired now, he didn’t know how much longer he could keep this up. In a minute,
his eyes drifted shut. He immediately opened them. To his surprise, there
was no pain. He read on; his eyes closed again and he leaned slightly forward.
He again snapped his eyes open, blinking. He realized he’d just nodded
off and still there was no pain. He shifted his eyes shortly from the page
and felt a small spike behind his eyes. He looked again at the text and
it stopped. To stop reading is forbidden, but sleeping is okay?
He took a chance and laid his forehead on the book. He closed his eyes
a moment, just to rest them…
Four
tall, bald creatures, humanoid, but clearly not human stride along a boating
dock in the darkness. Elongated faces clean of hair, jaws set, shark eyes
staring forward under hooded lids. Dressed in simple black robes, two lead
wild boars, the other two, black goats. They board a small yacht. Upon
the stern it is written:the
josef.
Captain
and crew all aboard, each one takes a post, the animals follow. One creature
mans the helm, another ascends to the bridge; one stands on the forecastle
and another hoists the mainsail. They sail into darkness; the ocean waves
rage, white caps spit onto the deck…
Josef
snapped awake and sprang from the book that had been his pillow. The nightmare,
so stark and vivid, seemed more like a real event. He looked down at the
page and hissed at the new passage that before had not been there: Hello,
Josef. Welcome aboard.
“This
is crazy! This is just crazy!” He bounded from the table, but halfway to
the stairs he grabbed the sides of his head and fell to the floor kicking
wildly. Screams exploded from his lungs as the migraine—if a word as mundane
as “migraine” could possibly describe this brain-rape—dug deeper and deeper.
Sounding
like a TV turned up too loud, that deep, hollow voice inside his head blared,
“Hello, Josef. This is your captain speaking.”
He
flailed over the floor and banged his head against the bookcase. One of
the volumes fell and landed at his side. In hopes that any book from that
accursed case might stop his torment he grabbed it and snapped it open
so violently the book-spine cracked. At the top of the page was printed
the name, h. p. lovecraft.
He read the first line: For he who passes the gateways always wins a
shadow, and never again can he be alone. It frightened him as much
as the nightmare. The pain did not stop.
“Oh
Josef, dear boy,”
the voice shouted. “Just remember this if you ever think of disobeying
me.”
Josef
would not have believed it possible but the pain increased. He threw the
book away, fell on his back and rammed his hands against his temples. His
eyes bulged and his skull seemed to be splitting open from the inside.
Crying great wracking sobs, he pushed himself into a sitting position and
swayed side to side. After a minute, he crawled back to the table, pulled
himself into his seat, and looked again at the forbidden text. This time
there was no reprieve. He fell from the chair and walked the floor on his
knees, crying and moaning; the concrete floor scraped his knees bloody.
An
hour of torment passed; finally, it began to subside until it stopped.
He slumped exhausted to the floor and closed his eyes. Instantly, the voice
began speaking again, but instead of cognitive words, it shouted madly
in nonsensical jumbles: “Uhmbooj Thkllhf ‘Ngla Y’btlhnk H’zhye-N’grklt’lh
Ah-yr-yr-yr-yrhrrh NNgf’iii Bnngh’aaa ‘Yh…”
Josef
moaned and pulled himself into a fetal position. He stared wide-eyed as
the insane gibbering continued. Hugging his bloody knees, he rocked back
and forth as the incongruities slowed down only to speed up again. Up and
down the volume changed at no certain intervals. Another hour crawled by.
He tried singing to drown the voice out: “Onward Christian soldiers, marching
as to war—”
The
voice stopped long enough to laugh.
Josef
begged, “Please stop! Oh please, please stop! I can’t stand it. Can’t stand
anymore!”
The
voice said, “Oh contraire. We’ve got lots more fun in store.” It
resumed slavering like a mad dog inside his brain.
Josef
screamed, “Siddarth! Make it stop! I’ll pay! I can get money!” Fresh
tears fell on his shirt and he plugged his ears with his fingers, a futile
attempt for quiet.
He
forced himself to his feet and staggered across the basement, hands clapped
over his ears. He knocked an elbow against a box of Dominican cigars setting
on an old dresser and tipped it over. Cigars spilled all over the floor.
He slipped on one and fell, got to his feet and squatted. His throat, so
raw from screaming, could only make a nasal honk now. His chest heaved.
The gibberish continued unabated for some time. His bladder loosened and
a pool of urine formed around his feet. He fell to the wet concrete and
spent the rest of the night honking and weeping.
The
first rays of sunlight shone through the basement window. The gibbering
suddenly stopped. To Josef’s amazement there was no return of pain. After
a moment of blessed silence, Josef flinched at hearing the voice speak
again.
It
simply said, “Do we understand each other?”
“Y-yes,”
Josef croaked. “You speak. I obey.”
“That’s
a good chap.”
The
Voice—as he now properly thought of it—did not say anything else. There
was no pain and he took it as permission to leave. He crawled, exhausted,
upstairs to the kitchen and leaned against the refrigerator. He pulled
the door open and took a carafe of orange juice. In large gulps, he drank
it down, spilling chilled liquid against the sides of his face.
His
aching throat somewhat relieved, he leaned his head against the cool door.
He shook his head and clenched his eyes against a wave of despair. In one
night he learned of the Unseen and now was a slave to one of them. He rested
only a few minutes. He had something to do. Struggling to his feet, he
crept toward the sleeping fortune-teller’s room. You should have read
your own fortune you witch!
He
pushed the door open and looked down at the sleeping deceiver. He wondered
if he was still drunk. He had slept through Josef’s torment. Drunk, so
far away from the basement it was easy to understand. Josef stepped toward
the old man and vowed he would not sleep through his own.
Siddarth
slowly opened his eyes. He asked, “Boy, what are you doing? Is something
wrong?”
Josef’s
answer was his hands around the old man’s throat. Siddarth tried to struggle
free but those strong arms that had carried the table so easily were impossible
to resist. His eyes huge, Siddarth stared a questioning, Why?
Josef
squeezed harder and felt blood pulsating against his grip. The old man
wheezed as Josef glared into his bulging eyes and croaked, “You and your
books got me into this! You and your hexed books!” In a minute, he no longer
felt the flow of blood, but he kept choking just to be sure—and for the
shear satisfaction. By the time the drool on the old man’s lips began drying,
Josef released his grip and fell to the floor. He panted and looked at
his short-lived mentor. His eyes and mouth gaping, Siddarth made an ugly
corpse.
Josef
stumbled to his room, bathed, changed and packed again. He walked from
the house, leaving the door open behind him.
He
sprang upright in bed. The source of his nightmares called. It had been
awhile since he’d heard The Voice, not since last year. His armpits dampened.
“Josef!
I’m speaking to you, dog!”
The
apartment seemed colder. “Yes!” Josef whispered. “I hear you. I’m listening!”
The
Voice ordered, “Go to Nashville and get a hotel room. Then just wait
for me. Do you think you could manage that?”
“Y-yes.”
He jumped out of bed, threw his clothes back on and packed quickly.