Stephanie Doyle - Possessed

“Great,” Dougie muttered unenthusiastically. “Mr. Connections goes free, but there’s a wacko loose in the city.”

“A psycho-city wacko,” Cass repeated, recalling his description from last night.

Dougie looked back to the stairwell where they were finally bringing the body up. That they had tried to be careful with her was obvious, but the body bag was still covered in the woman’s blood.

“Definitely.”

Cass walked through her front door and instantly started shivering. She hadn’t realized how cold she’d been, almost numb from it, until the warmth had started to creep back into her skin. She didn’t know what she’d been thinking, running out of the house barely dressed late in October.

Actually, that was the point. She hadn’t been thinking. She’d been reacting and she found the idea unsettling.

To combat the cold, she found a sweater in her bedroom and then went back to the kitchen to make some soothing lemon tea. Five minutes, that’s all she wanted. Five minutes to not have to think about anything.

But that wasn’t going to happen. The image of the woman’s body being carted off haunted her. Then, as people came outside ready to start their day, a crowd had gathered around the scene, as tends to happen when there is trouble. Neighbors spoke about the woman, talked about suspicious characters that she called customers. Apparently there was no boyfriend in the picture, no obvious enemy. Nobody that anyone could instantly finger as a murderer, anyway.

After an hour of Cass sticking to her story about simply hearing the dog, Dougie had relented and let her go. It wasn’t as if telling him about the monster was going to get him any closer to the person who did this. Trace evidence, detective work, finding out whatever link there was between Lauren and the palm reader-that would be helpful to him.

Ghostly monsters in her head…not so much.

Cass dipped her tea bag and sighed. She was lying to herself and she wasn’t very good at it. The real reason she hadn’t told Dougie about it was because she didn’t want there to be a connection. She didn’t want to believe that she was ever going to have to see that thing again. Shame descended on her as she considered what she’d done. If the monster was related to the murder and she was ignoring it because of that god-awful fear that she’d experienced during contact, then she was nothing better than a coward.

What had the palm reader suffered? What had Lauren? Certainly more than mere fear.

Thinking about Lauren brought Cass back to the night when Lauren had been killed. There hadn’t been any monster then. No unusual dreams at all that she could recall. Did that mean that the monster and the murders weren’t related? Or did it mean that maybe Lauren’s murder and the palm reader’s death weren’t related?

No, that didn’t make sense. They had to be. Dougie had said so. Two women, blocks apart, both stabbed and both with missing tongues. Philadelphia could be a dangerous city, but such gruesome deaths weren’t exactly standard fare.

Who the hell cuts out a tongue?

“A sick bastard,” she told the empty room. Who the hell else cuts out a tongue?

Cass thought about the serene young woman who had made contact through her to reach out to her brother. Lauren was beautiful. And there was an aura around her spirit that suggested sweetness and gentleness. Two qualities that her half brother obviously didn’t share. To have her life end that way-so abruptly, so brutally-was wrong. Unjust.

Of all people, Cass knew better than to expect fairness in life. She hadn’t been born cynical. Growing up with television and movies, where the good guy always won, the bad guy always got caught and the right thing, whatever that was, always happened in the end, had given her a rose-colored view of life and the people in it. Being raised by old-fashioned grandparents who believed in things like trustworthiness and honor only reinforced those lessons.

But that all ended the night the nurse locked her into her room at the asylum.

A phone ringing startled Cass out of her memories. There was no point in going back there, not when it only brought sadness. She put down her cup of tea and reached for the phone, but stopped when she recalled that Dr. Farver now had her new number. She waited for the three rings to pass and for the answering machine to pick up.

Only it wasn’t Dr. Farver-it was Kevin, the manager from the coffeehouse.

“Uh, hey, Cass, I heard about what happened last night from Susie. Look, I hate to do this, especially over the phone, but…you don’t need to come back to work. It’s just…nobody will work a shift with you. You’ve wigged them all out and if it’s a question of you or everybody else…well, I’ve got to let you go. If you could mail back your apron and keys that would be cool. I’ll mail you your final check. You don’t have to worry about stopping by. Uh, well, see ya.”

Fabulous.

She didn’t have to worry about stopping by. Translated: please don’t show your face around here anymore. Fired. By a kid who she knew carried a fake ID.

Cass took her tea, flopped down on her futon and waited for her cats to come and comfort her, which they did in short order. There was no point in getting upset over it. It wasn’t as if this was the first time she’d lost a job because of her gift; it was just that jobs in general weren’t the easiest things to come by for her. She didn’t have a college degree; for obvious reasons, she never had good references to offer a prospective employer; and if anyone looked too closely into her past, there was that whole “committed to a mental asylum” strike she had against her.

Fortunately, her lifestyle didn’t require much money. The minimalist style she’d adopted helped to keep costs down while giving her flexibility if she needed to leave in a hurry, as she did when she’d decided to leave Dr. Farver and the institute in D.C. Not to mention, she wasn’t the type of person who needed things. Cass imagined that came from a very intimate understanding few people had: possessions didn’t follow you to the other side.

Luckily, this time she would have a check for her consulting work, which would be enough to tide her over until she found something else. Maybe another coffeehouse or an ice-cream parlor. Something where she could connect with people because she believed it was important for her to do that, but not so many people at once that the connections overwhelmed her. Like at the waitressing job she’d taken last year at a popular roadhouse. She’d been so bombarded by energies knocking at her door that she’d ended up dropping more plates than she’d served.

Better to wait and find something that fit. If she had to, she could always go back to doing readings for money.

Cass cringed. The thought of using her gift to make a living had always made her uneasy. Oh, she knew others who had done it, had in fact grown rich as a result of their talent. She didn’t resent them, but to her it too closely resembled selling herself. Not unlike a hooker.

“Get over it,” she mumbled to herself. “You’ll do what you need to, to survive. You always have.”

A knock on her door had the cats bolting off the futon in opposite directions.

“Let’s see,” Cass said as she stood and made her way to the door. “This day started with a monster, then a murder, then being fired. What do we think is behind door number two, Stan?”

More than likely it was Dougie coming to bug her again for answers she wasn’t ready to give. Cass checked the peephole and gasped in surprise at the ominous presence of Malcolm McDonough.

This just wasn’t her day.