Mesmerized

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Clara's desire for her BFF leads to darkness and the occult.
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sheablue
sheablue
62 Followers

With cotton gloves on her hands, Shawn solemnly laid the items on the wobbly wooden table: a dusty old book, and a beautiful silver knife. I eyed them suspiciously. Where did she find this stuff? Her job at the history museum led her down some weird paths. Not to mention her obsession with the occult. I cut my eyes to Shawn, who was wandering the small, dusty room like a kid in a candy store.

"Tell me again why we're here?"

Shawn turned and grinned at me. I rolled my eyes. Only Shawn could have pulled me into this. I should be home; I had to organize my clothes, my schedule, for the weekend. Shawn's long, red-blonde curls bounced around her shoulders as she flopped into a decrepit purple velvet armchair. The dust that poofed up around her was positively ghastly.

"Clara! Isn't this just amazing! It's like from a movie or something!"

I wrinkled my nose and looked around the room. More like a third rate community theater production of some gothic horror piece of nonsense. I mean, god, with the colorful scarves draped over every light source, the dusty velvet wall hangings and furniture, were we supposed to forget we had just walked in from the sad parking lot of a dingy strip mall? I looked around for the omnipresent "crystal ball." It had to be here somewhere. I peered closely at a crooked shelf that hung precariously from the wall. There were glass jars lined up on it that seemed ready slide off together down one end. There was a sickly green liquid in each one and ... were those eyeballs?

"This is so fake. It's like the sad little sideshow fortune-teller you go to at the town carnival."

Shawn threw her head back in the chair, and let out a frustrated noise. "Ugh! Clara! Will you stop and at least try to have a little faith for once? Believe in something besides your schedule and your lists? Sometimes it's ok to just let go and let something interesting happen."

Shawn was giving me that look again. That one that would turn to pity in a few more seconds. A shimmer of tears would appear in her wide green eyes and she would throw herself at me, hugging me tight. I would be assaulted by the intoxicating lavender spice scent of Shawn's curly hair, I would feel the press of Shawn's soft round breasts against my own, much smaller ones.

All of Shawn was so much softer than I was. Sometimes I couldn't stop myself from staring at my best friend, noting the deep V of cleavage that I could never achieve even with the best push-up bra, her pointed pixie face surrounded by the corkscrew-curled red-blonde hair.

I moved out of reach before Shawn could launch herself at me. "Just ... tell me again what this woman told you."

Shawn pushed herself out of the dusty purple chair with a swirl of her multi-layered cotton skirt. "She's a powerful medium. She can sense when someone else has the gift. She knew right away that I'm an empath, and that my sensitivity to earth's vibrations is a strong indicator that I could have the natural ability to be a medium, too, with the right training."

I sighed in frustration. This was my best friend. PhD. Museum curator. And naive beyond belief. "So what, you want to quit your dream job at the museum and take up fortune-telling?"

"I want to be a medium, Clara. It's totally different," Shawn huffed, the "duh" obvious in her voice. "I'm going to get my bag from the car. Oh! And remember, don't touch anything." Shawn flounced out of the room, the scent of lavender trailing behind her.

"A medium, of course, how could I be so stupid." I muttered.

I drifted around the room, inspecting the oddities and dime-store, carny fortune teller feel of the place. My eyes glanced over a skull on a corner table that was so real looking it obviously wasn't. The threadbare red velvet curtains that obscured the windows of the storefront. The gauzy scarves that hung over cheap lamps I had seen on sale at Target, like, last season. The dusty, overstuffed purple velvet furniture, the chintzy oriental rug on the floor. It all just screamed: "I am a fake and the passionate and gullible will give me their money anyway. The passionate and gullible . . . like Shawn.

The only stretch of wall that wasn't obscured by the velvet drapery was the one I had been standing near before, with the crooked shelves inexpertly screwed into it. I clasped my hands behind my back and inspected each jar.

The first one had some fetal animal in it, which could be real, I supposed. The next one had a "severed hand" of some sort. It looked like a plastic monkey's paw, like something you would win at the carnival. Put it on a key chain and freak out your friends.

The last jar on the shelf held the fake eyeballs. I took a step closer. The eye balls were multi-colored, and looked perfectly round, not at all realistic. More like bouncing balls or marbles made to look like eyes. I counted them, and noted the colors of the irises. There was a brown one, a bright blue one, a green one just like Shawn's, and grey-blue one very much like mine. I was thinking how weird that was, when the brown one rotated to "look" right at me. And then tapped itself against the inside of the jar. Tap tap tap.

"Gahhh!" I yelped and took a hurried three steps back. My scuffling feet tripped me up and I pitched backwards, only just catching myself on the edge of the round wood table in the center of the room. The jostled table tipped and Shawn's items tumbled off and onto the floor.

"Ah, shit!" I steadied the table and caught my breath. What was wrong with me? I would not let the desperate ambiance of this faux creepy, dingy room get to me.

I looked at the objects scattered on the floor. The small, ancient leather-bound journal was lying open. I could see the slanted, cramped writing that covered every single one of its pages. The knife glinted dully in the poor light.

Shawn had warned me numerous times about touching these things. Even Shawn, who had collected them over the course of the last year, only touched them with gloves. At first I thought it was because they were very old, and Shawn was handling them as she would handle other artifacts she acquired for her job at the museum. But then Shawn had confided the nature of these objects. How they had all belonged to the same man, some mysterious "psychic" from the 1800s who had died mysteriously. I had only half listened. She believed he had known secrets of other worlds that no one else knew. Of life after death. Shawn believed a lot of crap.

Including that if this meeting with the "fortune teller" was to be successful, no one could touch these objects with bare hands until tonight. But there they were, on the floor, and I had no gloves. I looked around. I could use one of those rotting scarves, ew, or ... leave them on the floor until Shawn got back. But I didn't want to give Shawn the satisfaction of knowing I was spooked.

"It's fine. I'll just ..." I bent and pincered the book cover between my thumb and forefinger. I quickly tossed it back onto the table and closed it using just two fingers. The knife I had to hold onto more securely, though I was loathe to. I didn't want to smudge its glinting silver hilt with my fingers. Damn it, why were my hands so sweaty?

The knife was heavier than I expected. It rolled into my palm. I didn't mean to hold it so tightly but it felt so comfortable there. The silver handle was surprisingly warm to the touch and I could feel the pattern that was etched into it tickling the skin of my palm. I suddenly felt dreamy and dull. My eyes fluttered closed, just for a moment.

I thought I heard someone whispering my name. A tickle of breath against my ear."Claraaaa ... " I swayed lethargically. My limbs felt loose, not quite my own.

The tinkle of a bell snapped me to attention. I heard voices. Shawn. Another woman. With a strange feeling of reluctance, I quickly placed the knife back onto the table and threw myself into the purple velvet arm chair. I crossed my legs and feigned indifference. I only had a moment to wonder what the hell had just happened when Shawn pushed through the drapes at the front of the room. A tall, incredibly gorgeous blonde woman followed her.

"Clara, I want you to meet someone." Shawn was breathless and sparkly eyed as she ushered the woman into what was, to my understanding, her own storefront fortune telling business.

"Annalise, this is my friend Clara. Clara, this is Annalise."

A lifetime of proper manners propelled me to my feet and helped me extend my hand in greeting. Annalise gave me a curious look. Her grasp was firm and dry. I was hyper conscious of my own damp palm.

"It's nice to meet you," I heard myself saying, as if from far away.

"Are you feeling alright, Clara?" Annalise had a low, melodious voice that made me feel strange. Or maybe it was the way Annalise was looking at me, like she knew something I didn't.

I fought to gather myself. "Yes, yes, I'm fine. I was just expecting you to be ... "

Annalise smirked at me. "Older? Shorter? Toothless?"

I laughed in spite of myself. "And Hungarian, maybe."

Shawn had been following the exchange closely. Now she laughed, too. "Clara!" Shawn nudged me with her shoulder. "Don't be rude!"

"Now, Shawn." Annalise smiled a perfect smile. "Don't blame Clara. I mean, look at this place. What else could she think?"

While Annalise looked around the room with obvious distaste, I looked at her. She was taller than me, and at 5'7, I was considered on the tall side. Annalise had smooth, straight, white-blonde hair cut bluntly at her shoulders. She had bright blue eyes, perfect white teeth, a long straight nose, in fact, she looked much more like a super model than a store front fortune-teller.

She wore a belted, short black trench coat, jeans, and tall, black heeled boots. She was well put-together, the kind of woman I admired from afar. The only thing that revealed she was any older than me and Shawn was a crinkle of crow's feet at the corners of her eyes. She was probably in her mid-forties, or possibly as young as thirty-five. In that light, it was hard to tell.

I was utterly fascinated. I just had to ask. "So ... you're the fortune teller?" I was hesitant to even say the words.

Annalise laughed derisively. "Oh god, no. This ...," She succinctly dismissed everything in the room with a wave of her hand, "is not my place."

Shawn let out an exasperated sigh. "Clara! Seriously. Do you ever listen to a word I say? I told you, Annalise is a medium, not a fortune teller. And she works for an organization, the Crowley Continuum, that tries to shut down places like this, and the frauds who take the money of desperate people."

I thought back to the conversation that led to me being here with Shawn. All I could recall was blah blah blah fortune teller blah blah blah. Maybe my skepticism had caused me to have selective hearing. Still, Annalise was a medium? That was a real thing?

"Don't blame Clara." Annalise put her hand on Shawn's shoulder, rubbing the corduroy of her jacket lightly. "She's had a tough go of it lately. Haven't you, Clara."

There was that odd look again. I felt my face flush. What had Shawn told Annalise about me? About the accident? About my brother? I felt anger start to rise up inside of me, I fought to tamp it down. I would not lose control.

Annalise broke the mood with a light clap of her hands. "We should get started, yes? Shawn, these items you have collected, tell me about them."

Shawn's furrowed brow smoothed and her eyes lit up. She wore a form fitting v-neck sweater under her corduroy jacket, I could see a flush blooming on the pale sweep of her cleavage.

"Yes, ok." Shawn began. "These items were the belongings of John Calhoun, a self-proclaimed Warlock and practicing medium in New York City in the late 1800s, early 1900s. Not much is known about him, except that at that time, when attending seances and trying to communicate with the dead was a popular pastime, John Calhoun was the most sought-after medium."

I watched Shawn closely as she spoke. Shawn had started playing with the copper colored buttons on her coat, rubbing her fingers around and around the edges.

"Most mediums of the day were debunked as frauds. They used magician's tricks to fleece their clients. Accomplices researched their marks, and some were very good at cold reads, like the more successful 'psychics' that thrive today."

Shawn stared down at the items on the table, the book and the knife. "Calhoun was one of the most prestigious mediums of his time, and no one could ever prove that he was a fake. He never allowed the press or other observers into his seances or sittings. He had ardent supporters, many among the rich and powerful elite, who spoke for him. Though, as was true for that time period, most of his clients were women. It was said he had quite a way with the opposite sex, the richer, the better."

"Yes," Annalise said with a smile. "There were many rumors of affairs with his rich clients. His sexual prowess was legendary."

Shawn looked up quickly and I thought I saw a flash of jealousy cross her face. "You know about John Calhoun?" She asked, almost pulling off the innocent tone.

"Of course," replied Annalise with condescension. "Those of us schooled in the arts of the medium have studied the methods of the Masters who came before us. In fact, the Crowley Continuum was founded by Calhoun. Didn't I mention that when we spoke?"

I felt the urge to butt in. "So ... how did he die? Not of old age, I assume?"

"It was under mysterious circumstances, certainly." Annalise replied.

"Nobody knows." Interjected Shawn. "He was found dead in his rooms at the Gramercy hotel. There was no obvious cause of death."

"Ok, look," I sighed. "This is all terribly interesting. But it's getting late. Shawn, can we just do this whatever it is and get out of here?" I was starting to feel deadly tired. It was stuffy in the small dusty room. I wanted out.

There was that look again from Annalise. Why did she keep doing that? "Certainly," she purred. "Let us circle the table and join hands."

I stepped closer to the table with Shawn and joined hands with her on one side, and Annalise on the other. Shawn's hand was warm and soft, while Annalise's hand was cool and dry.

"I'm curious, Shawn, did you ever try to have the journal translated?" Annalise studied Shawn's face with interest.

"I did. None of my sources were ever able to identify the language. Most thought it was either a code or a private language Calhoun made up himself."

"Indeed," Annalise flashed a strange smile. "And the knife? It's been authenticated? Wherever did you find it? Many of us thought it was lost forever."

"It has been authenticated, of course. But ... but ... I can't say where I acquired it. I'm sorry." Shawn blushed.

Annalise looked intently at Shawn, as if she were going to pull the information right out of her brain.

"Very well." Annalise closed her eyes and began to speak in a low voice.

"We, with the power of three, call upon the spirit of John Calhoun. We bid you come to us, however you may, and fill us with your power and knowledge."

I wondered what Shawn hoped to achieve with this little bit of theatrics. Did she expect the spirit of this John person to appear like a ghost and impart his knowledge? Or to speak through Annalise? Or to, like, knock on the table three times?

Shawn repeated the words Annalise had said. A sharp look from her told me that I was to speak as well.

"We, with the power of three, call upon the spirit of John Calhoun. We bid you come to us, however you may, and fill us with your power and knowledge."

" ... and knowledge." I finished. I was really starting to feel unwell. My hand ached. My right wrist felt swollen and hot. Little pains shot up into my palm.

Annalise directed me to put my hands on Shawn's right shoulder as she placed her two hands on Shawn's left shoulder. I was standing so close to Shawn I could smell that intoxicating lavender spice scent.

I was having trouble focusing. Annalise was asking Shawn if anyone had touched the objects with bare hands since she had acquired them. Shawn shook her head, no. I was going to speak up, the words were on my tongue, some instinct made me swallow them down. I didn't want to ruin Shawn's seance.

Annalise and I repeated the same words, again and again. Shawn took the book in both of her trembling, bare hands and pressed it against her lips, her forehead. Shawn's lips were moving silently, repeating the same words Annalise and I were saying out loud. I felt ridiculous, but I was swept along, powerless to say anything but the same incantation, over and over. Sweat beads were forming on my lower back, and in my hairline. My right wrist was on fire.

Annalise's voice increased in volume as Shawn picked up the knife and held it against her heart. Her eyes shone as she watched Shawn handle the beautiful silver dagger. There was some emotion emanating off of her that I could swear was malice.

"We, with the power of three, call upon the spirit of John Calhoun. We bid you come to us, however you may, and fill us with your power and knowledge!"

I was gripping the soft textured material of Shawn's jacket tightly in my two hands. The pain in my palm was almost unbearable. I felt like a hole was burning through the center of it. My arms shook and sweat dripped down both temples. Once again I thought I could hear that soft, whispery voice in my ear.

"Claraaaaa ... Claraaaa ... "

Shawn set down the knife and looked at Annalise uncertainly. She looked lost, like she didn't know what to do next.

Annalise's gaze raked her face intently. Shawn looked back, confused. I felt I was missing something. Annalise looked at me and for a moment the repetitive words died in her mouth. Her eyes took me in, the shakes, the sweats, everything. I felt her gaze burning into mine, and I couldn't look away. Then she smirked and moved for us all to once again join hands.

Once we were linked again around the wood table, Annalise nodded her head for us to stop chanting. Thank god. I still felt powerless to interrupt, but I felt hope that this whole thing was finally coming to a conclusion and I could go home and die in peace.

Annalise spoke alone.

"John Calhoun, we with the power of three thank you for hearing our call. We beseech you, come to us when and how you will. Show us your power."

She dropped our hands, and we took a collective deep breath. I stumbled a few steps backwards and collapsed onto the chair behind me. Everything in the room tilted, except, ironically, the shelf on the wall next to me. That damned thing now looked straight. It seemed all of the marble eyes were looking at me. I was too tired and sick to care. I held my burning palm to my chest and watched Shawn and Annalise talk over the table.

"So ..." Shawn started, hesitantly. "How do we know if contact was made? Did you feel anything?"

"Oh, absolutely. I felt a presence in the room with us, and I'm quite sure it was Calhoun. Didn't you feel anything, Shawn? You are the intended ... conduit."

"I ... I think so." Shawn did not seem at all sure. "I felt a little dizzy, like my head was spinning. I was all out of breath."

"Yes, well. That was it, I'm sure." Annalise looked over at me, taking in my limp form, draped on the arm chair like empty clothes.

"And how do you feel, Clara?" She was wearing that smirk again, it was like a mask for something else. I opened my mouth to say I felt fine, when Shawn got a look at me and rushed over in concern.

"Oh my god, Clara! You're so pale, you look terrible!" She squished herself in next to me on the chair and pressed the back of her hand against my forehead.

sheablue
sheablue
62 Followers