Off Center In The Attic Read online

  The Swimmer

  “You always appear out of a haze, like a beautiful figment of my imagination.”

  “Maybe that's what I am.”

  “Are you some sort of apparition?”

  “I'm whatever you want me to be.”

  “Why do you swim alone in this dark, foggy lake?”

  “I come to watch a troubled young man sitting alone under a tree, drinking.”

  “Come sit with me here on the bank. I brought cold beers.”

  “No, you must come to me.”

  “You seem like someone I could talk to. Why won't you come out?”

  “Impossible. You must get into the water.”

  “I tried it twice and nearly drowned before someone pulled me out.”

  “Come into the water with me. That's why you've returned.”

  “Hey, I never see your clothes laying on the bank? Do you come here naked?”

  “Clothes? Naked?”

  “What's that you're floating on?”

  “Oh, this?”

  “What is that? Some kind of raft?”

  “Not quite.”

  “I might go in if I had a raft to hold onto.”

  “It's not a raft.”

  “Then I won't go in.”

  “Too bad. I could solve your problem.”

  “Okay, come out for a while.”

  “I cannot.”

  “Why on earth not?”

  “See this?”

  “Your raft… a fish's tail?”

  “It's not a raft, but it is a tail.”

  “A-a-r-rgh! Why did you splash me?”

  “With my raft?”

  “A tail? You're a… a… mermaid?”

  “Yes!”

  “I am losing my mind!”

  “Yes.”

  “But… you're real.”

  “You created me, to help you get into the water again.”

  “To drown?”

  “You'd have succeeded this time. Goodbye.”

  “Wait! I'm coming in… I'm coming…!

  Thanatos

  Every particle in creation carries the urge to return to its source, just as the wave that returns the sand to the shore retreats back into itself, the sea, to evaporate and rise to form the clouds, bantered by the winds, and even they retreat upon themselves and leave the clouds to rain down on the land and feed all blooming things that erupt through the crust from roots to bring up stems and leaves and buds that burst forth with flower and food, to feed every living thing in existence so they may grow and reach their full potential, before thanatos switches on the death instinct causing them to wither and die and be absorbed by the dust, as we in different forms of creation, nourish ourselves on various forms of that same life, brought by rains that cause streams and rivers to flow homeward to the sea, even though the ephemeral bodies we choose to inhabit incubates that same urge that will eventually return us to that source beyond creation by being planted in the ground or by the spreading of ash; ashes to ashes and dust to dust, not without reason of being, but first while living, to come to know that all things are a part of everything else, the great expanse, in inseparable bond, not just to know but to perceive with every cell of our being, that we are but a miniscule bit of creation, because we, unique and not at all unique but just another form of living thing, are made of the same elements and must finally understand that our every cell does not belong to us but to the everlasting unknown, like the life in the waves of the sea, the grains of sand, the wind, the plants of the earth, and even the earth's myriad inhabitants, and may extend far beyond earth to the nether regions of the universe, and far beyond that, too, like black holes that pull back in on themselves, all are created with the same urge; thanatos, keeps us in touch with the essence from which we are created, inborn and felt but unseen, an urge to be reunited with our Creator as our being silently pleads, carry me, carry me home!

  Alien Footprints

  A bloody heel print lay splattered on the floor near the wall, nowhere near the doorway. The toe of the shoe print was on the floor on the opposite side of the wall. It looked as if someone had walked there before the wall was set in place, but the house was old, the blood fresh.

  “Somebody lured our victim into this abandoned structure,” Police Officer Morrow said.

  More prints led toward the opposite wall and disappeared with another heel print at the wall, as if the person had walked right through it to the outdoors.

  Officer Morrow was stymied, but not quite. He was the only officer open to possibilities beyond the norm, especially when investigating homicides that included some strange elements and weren't quite normal. There were a few of them lately, in neighboring towns too. Such strangeness, like that shoe print. Too many weird crimes had happened in recent times. Officer Morrow was the only officer who dared think beyond the rational, especially when some events looked paranormal. He had also found a new recruit whose mother dabbled in tarot cards. Morrow could pick Kurt's mind about certain metaphysical phenomena. However, it was Morrow with his own sixth sense who was willing to look beyond the veil to find some answers.

  “Outside,” he said, motioning to Kurt. “Let see where these lead.”

  “But they stop at the outer wall,” Kurt said.

  Morrow gestured that Kurt follow along. They backtracked past the wall with the footprint half on one side, half on the other, and past the pool of blood and the mangled body on the floor that looked more like it had been slashed by an animal.

  “Whoever or whatever it is that walks through walls,” Morrow said, “can't hide its prints because the blood is human and humans don't walk through walls.”

  “But those are human shoe prints,” Kurt said.

  At the side of the house, the bloody footprints continued up and down the concrete walkway along the street, as if the person didn't know which way to go. The prints stopped near a window alcove. Many prints were there, as if a person had stood and bled. Morrow wasn't surprised. The way the body inside was slashed, it must have been a horrific fight. The assailant himself must have been hurt or completely saturated with the victim's blood.

  As each bent in for a closer look, one of the footprints moved! Both of the officers jumped backwards. Morrow knew he was dealing with something that would be hard to explain, but witnessing along with Kurt. The footprints abruptly began to imprint on the sidewalk, quickly, like running away. Just footprints. They saw no one, just bloody footprints being laid down, one after another, with the speed of someone fleeing, and loose blood splattering in droplets. Each footprint left less and less blood.

  “What the hell?” Kurt asked, sprinting off after the prints.

  “Shoot it,” Morrow said, ripping his own pistol from the holster.

  “Shoot what?”

  Morrow's gun jammed. “Shoot it, damn it!” Morrow said as they ran after the prints. “Shoot!” He was both screaming and terrified. He was nearly out of breath.

  Kurt drew his gun. “What am I shooting at?”

  “Just about where you'd want to hit a person,” Morrow said. “Shoot, man! Before we can't see the prints anymore.”

  Kurt shot once. The footprints stopped, and then began again, slow, dragging. Kurt shot again and the footprints stopped. Both men crept toward whatever was hit but kept a safe distance since they saw absolutely nothing.

  Slowly, a grotesque being began to materialize, curled in a fetal position on the sidewalk. It wasn't bleeding. Blood only showed on the bottom of its shoes and over its clothing, if what it wore was clothing. The shoes morphed into the most freakish clawed feet imaginable. As the head and face came into view, its eyes sunk into hollows like tunnels, with pin point rays of light shining out, though flickering as if losing power. The face began to morph into Morrow's wife's features.

  Morrow jumped backwards. He understood right away. “You're not Calley,” he said. “You're not my wife.”

  Suddenly the creature morphed into Kurt's dead brother. The weak attempt to replicate
their loved ones was horrific. Momentarily, it morphed back into itself, a withered blue-gray being with those probing eyes and curved talons on the ends of four limbs. It wore a strange gray uniform fitting like a body glove and could well have been part of its skin. A blue-green fluid began to ooze out of the bullet holes and mixed with the soaking of the victim's blood. It ran off the cement walkway and into the gutter. The thing was certainly not from this world. Its torn uniform said it had certainly been in a fight. It tried to contain the loss of fluid by frantically pinching closed the bullet holes and other wounds. It whined a high pitched hum and stretched out the taloned end of a limb, as if asking for help. It kept pinching; the wounds kept spilling blue-green.

  Slowly, the creature lost its struggle to stay alive and hissed like an animal as it decayed into dust and blew away.

  Once the officers recovered their composure, Kurt asked, “How are we going to write this one up?”

  No sooner did Kurt utter the words, the blue-green fluid on the concrete dried to a powdery substance and each particle erupted in a mini-explosion, hissing and popping till all the ooze disappeared, leaving only bloody footprints and drippings.

  Morrow shook his head as he and Kurt stared at each other in disbelief. Morrow looked around. “Look there,” he said, pointing to the human blood left from the creature that had dripped over the curb. “They'd say looks like whoever killed that guy inside the house there got clean away when he made it to his vehicle.”

  “DNA will prove this blood belongs to the victim. They'll believe someone else had to be horribly injured in that brawl that went on in there.”

  This crime sent Morrow's mind in a spin. “Yeah, yeah,” he said, scratching his head. Something wasn't right. He felt suddenly horrified. “That thing tried to morph into my wife's features. Why did it try to become your brother too?”

  Kurt shook his head. “He's dead. They never caught his killers either. Rumor had it that a gang of thugs took turns slashing him. He bled out.”

  Morrow was still deep in thought, putting the pieces together in the suspicious way that cops do. “It killed that man in there,” he said. “You think that's what these… these aliens do in order to live.? They kill, but why?”

  Kurt scratched his head. “Maybe they take over a body and live like that person. They could be infiltrating our world like that.”

  “Could be. It definitely ain't a vampire. This one didn't take blood,” Morrow said. “It's all over the ground here and splattered inside the house. Maybe they take a person's life essence instead. Does that make sense?”

  “Maybe these aliens, these creatures, snatch the soul,” Kurt said. His eyes opened wide at the revelation.“After that, they morph into the person whose soul they stole and mix right in with us humans.”

  “But why try to become someone like your brother whose already dead?”

  “If they're so smart,” Kurt said. “Seems they'd just take over the body and kick the soul out into the ether someplace.”

  “This… this alien thing… he tried to morph into my wife first.” Morrow looked straight into Kurt's eyes again and Kurt stared back. “Just call in the murder and wait for our guys,” he said. “No report.” Morrow was already heading toward the patrol car. “I need to go check on my wife.”

  Vibratory Rates

  Heaven and hell are one, including purgatory and other holding stations in between. A friend told me one day that everything in creation, including us, is a vibration of energy. Different frequencies produce heaven and hell and all the rest right in the midst of what we call reality. When it's our turn to cross over is the moment we truly experience the fullness of being.

  Our personal frequencies are connected with the beings that share our lives. When I pondered this, I surmised that though people pass from the physical realm, that meant their soul may still be around if we're each connected.

  That might explain something else I pondered and was a little shaken by. As my friends passed away, before, during and after they die, I find myself thinking about other friends we'd known who have gone before. Strangely, I find little mementos they've left behind or which I connect with them. What we shared when each was here pops into my mind. Occasionally, when someone I know dies, I might think of someone I used to know, only to learn they had passed away long before. I also dream about the departed. So were these souls simply peeking through to send the message of their demise? Why would anyone come to mind as if they had just died? Why would these souls come back to visit coincidentally at the same time one of our vibratory kin passes?

  If the universe and all else is energy vibration, one person leaving the body might open channels for departed souls to visit, like in sympathy as the death vibration revs its frequency to welcome another. One person crossing over opens a channel to pass through and the departed can attune to us, though briefly. A continuum until the people we once knew have switched frequencies. The friends who knew people we didn't know sort of keep the inevitable process going. Each new frequency of souls to cross over helps release those ahead from returning and helps push them toward a new destiny. I never knew my great grandparents and older ancestors. Maybe that's why they don't check in.

  The Voodoo Kit

  Jamaica was a wonderful vacation spot, except for the voodoo ceremony. I attended one and kept it secret from my disbelieving husband. Jim, an electronics wizard, had unexpectedly been invited to deliver a speech to an evening class at a local school. I found myself among strangers in a forest. After experiencing a live snake writhing around my neck, I vowed never again to dance myself into a trance. It's good finally being back in our country home, but something neither of us noticed at the airport was that someone else's suitcase was mistakenly switched for one of ours.

  “Marla, I gotta run,” Jim said after breakfast. “See what you can do about that case.”

  Getting our own suitcase returned could be a bureaucratic tangle in itself. I made numerous phones calls and learned was that no one had filed a missing luggage claim. The suitcase sits in the closet where Jim threw it. It should simply be returned to the airport.

  When I went to retrieve it, a strange light showed under the closed closet door. When I opened the door, the light faded. The light showed again when I closed the door. I pulled the aging brown leather suitcase out and flopped it into a chair.

  What was inside that case that seemed to glow? I opened the lid and barely held onto consciousness as the voodoo ceremony unfolded around me! I didn't lose consciousness this time and witnessed the full ceremony that I had missed the first time. The sound of the drums and the chanting seeped deep into me. Blood from the sacrificial chickens splattered over my face. A machete was flung! I ducked but heard a blood-curdling scream cut short behind me.

  “This isn't happening!” The entry foyer began to fade away. I was being pulled back into the trance in the jungle again. I saw a tree and reached for the closest branch to steady myself. Several hands rubbed warm blood over me.

  “Close it!” I said, hearing myself scream the words. Consciousness seemed fleeting but I managed to slam the lid and snap the lock. The chanting still rang in my ears, even as the blood faded from my body and clothing. My knees nearly gave way. I had to sit before I could stop shaking.

  Why should the suitcase go back to the airport for someone else to fall under the spell when opening it? Had there really been a human sacrifice in the jungle? I saw the machete. I heard the scream cut short. Could this suitcase hold the evidence of a human sacrifice?

  My mind reeled with questions but I couldn't rationalize what was happening. I couldn't return that voodoo kit. It was meant for me. I couldn't even tell Jim and have to disclose what I did in his absence. What had I brought down on us?

  “I'll burn it,” I said, eying the harbinger of evil. “Fire purifies.”

  The accumulated branches and leaves in the burn pit behind our house erupted into yellow, orange and red flames that licked ferociously toward the sky. I flung the sui
tcase. It sailed through the air landing on the heap of burning rubbish. My knees gave out but I had to watch and crawled on hands and knees away from the fire. Flames licked at the old leather. The drums, the muffled screams and crying seemed carried away on the flames. Fire would stop a hex.

  Once back in the house, the shower was revitalizing. A good hot cup of coffee would be soothing.

  Suddenly, Jim stormed in through the back door carrying the suitcase and the machete he used to cut the shrubbery. The suitcase had not burned!

  “What are you trying to do?” he asked, as if he thought I had committed a mortal sin.

  “It doesn't belong to anyone,” I said.

  Light showed from the suitcase. Jim followed my gaze downward. The light startled him. He dropped the case to the floor. The lid popped open and the voodoo scene reappeared as before, yet more powerful and entrancing than being in the jungle. A scream tore from my throat as Jim lunged at me with the machete.

  Pekoe

  A Port-A-Jon had been placed in the lot beside the Java Bean coffee house where I sat on the lanai fronting Kuhio Highway in Kapa'a. The portable toilet should have been placed along the tree line behind the businesses. A new building was being constructed next door. As trade winds wafted carrying the smell, I couldn't imagine why the Jon was placed so close to the café's outdoor eating area.

  Kilauea volcano wasn't spouting this morning. The Halemaumau Crater was on the Big Island of Hawaii at the south end of the Hawaiian chain opposite Kauai on the north. Each time Kilauea erupted, it sent volcanic ash into the air that stuck in the clouds and mists that the trade winds blew over the Islands. The vog painted the sunrises and sunsets pink, coral, and red. Mornings and evenings made for some spectacular photography.

  I sipped my Chai and tipped my face upward enjoying the sun. Between the noises of passing cars, I heard faint mewing. A cat must have given birth to a litter back among the trees or under the building. A kitten was trying to get attention. As the mewing continued, I got up to learn where it originated.