The Haunting of the Gemini (10 page)

Tonight, he took me to a building. I never completely saw the structure or the people we passed on the way. It was all like a badly edited movie, jumping from image to image too quickly with a jerking camera. We went inside and walked down a long, sterile hallway. We stopped in front of a large window and I saw little bassinets lined up in rows, with tiny babies tucked snugly inside. Earth's new arrivals.

In all those rows, one name tag stood out. It dangled from a pink ribbon at the end of a bassinet.
Baby Jane
. She lay still. I looked across the glass cubicle of a room and saw what must be her parents, cooing at their precious bundle with adoring looks. The mysterious man next to me brought his hand out from beneath his robe and took mine. He squeezed it, and I felt his sorrow.

Then he let go. I closed my eyes and saw through the child. I saw through her eyes and looked out and above the bassinet at my new parents. I was Jane.

I did not remember every part of her very short life as I lay there in the hospital nursery. It was like flipping quickly through a book, skipping pages everywhere. I was not getting the full story. I was only rushing toward the end. Isn't a book supposed to have a beginning, a middle, and an ending? This one didn't. I went from that nursery straight to my eighth birthday. And then—nothing.

* * *

I stumbled out of bed and grabbed for my recorder. I had to get down the raincoat-girl dream that had awoken me. I felt that I might be getting closer to figuring out what she wanted, but my head was literally so crowded with people that my normal intuitiveness had dulled—a once-sharp record needle forced to skip all over, slamming down in a different spot every time.

I finished my recording and drew a bath. I slid my numb body into the hot water and let the scent of the lavender bubble bath soothe me. My eyelids began to feel heavy, and I started to relax. I scooped up a handful of bubbles and stared peacefully at the glistening circles. My head nodded forward.

Suddenly, a cackle filled the air and bubbles flew everywhere. And Patricia was there, sitting at the side of my tub. I sat up quickly and pulled my knees to my chest. As if that made me less vulnerable. Ha.

“You, Jackie, you don't know how to have fun,” she said as she grabbed a big bath sponge and began to scrub my back. “Look at how dirty you are . . .” Her scouring made my skin burn. I tried not to gag at the stench of dried blood and the sight of her cracked and gray hands. I did not want to talk to her. I kept my head down, letting only my eyes wander. My gaze fell on my razor, perched on the edge of the tub. God. I reached for it, but she beat me to it.

“Did you ever cut yourself?” she asked. Her eyes were glued to the razor. “Well, did you?”

Enough. I ordered her to give it to me, but she pulled away like a child with a snatched treat. “Come and get it. Catch me!”

She ran right through the door, her laughter the only thing left in the room. I jumped out of the tub, threw my clothes on, and ran after her. I searched every closet and corner of my house, but I couldn't find her or my razor. Still soaked through from the bath, I sat down in my living room. I was insane. No, I was haunted.
Haunted
was the right word. It had to be. My back burned from her heavy hand. I fought back tears.

“Damn you,” I screamed. “You rubbed my skin off.”

I had tried so hard to be empathetic to her. I had tried asking her what she wanted. I had tried to help her like I had so many other dead souls. But this was the last straw. She was hurting me mentally, emotionally, psychically—and now physically. I was done being nice. I wanted her gone. I don't know how long I sat there, drenched in my own misery, before the phone rang and jolted me out of my daze. It was my mortgage company, wanting to know why my statements were getting returned and my bills weren't paid.
What?

“Well, your statements are coming back to us—marked up, scribbled on in big, bold letters: MOVED.”

I could not come up with an explanation that sounded at all sensible, so I just went into my office, got my checkbook out, apologized, and paid the bill. The late fees and the pay-by-phone charges hurt almost as much as the skin on my back still did. But the woman did realize that my confusion came from the fact that I wasn't responsible for the returned mail.

“I suggest you stop whoever's doing this,” she advised.

“Lady, if I could, I would,” I said.

She went back to her script and asked if she had been helpful. I was about to brush her off when something occurred to me.

“Oh,” I said. “Can I ask you what the name says on the statement envelope?”

Papers rustled on the other end of the line.

“Well, your name was crossed out, stating that you moved. And the only name written is a first name. It just says, ‘Patricia.'”

Patricia.

I ended the call and dropped the phone on my desk. Since I was there, I looked around, taking stock of everything, including the pile of mail. I rifled through it, not purposefully looking for anything in particular, and I came to one, already opened. I did not remember seeing it before. Or the sender's name.

The return address read:

Heriberto Seda

Great Meadow Correctional Facility

P.O. Box 51

Comstock, NY 12821

I drew a single piece of paper out of the envelope and unfolded it. There was a traced drawing—the outline of his hand.

Dear Jackie

Place your hand in mine if you dear
[sic]

Let me show you what lives inside of me

You can't save what is already dead!

Your friend, Eddie

Next to the hand was the simple sign of the Gemini, and below it his signature—and the sign of the zodiac.

TEN

As I looked at the handwriting of Patricia's killer, it gradually came back to me. What she had done. She had really, truly shoved me aside. She had used my hands to write letters to this man. She had reached out, from beyond the grave, to Eddie Seda, the man sitting in prison for her murder.

Slowly, all the missing chunks of time that I'd experienced over almost a year began to come back to me. I hadn't remembered anything at all about my “blackouts” as they were happening, but now they started to become clear. I would be in my own body, fully aware of what I was doing, and then—that fast—I would be standing outside myself, watching a person who looked just like me but wasn't. My mouth would be moving, but the me standing outside couldn't grasp the words. The action was jerky and fast, and I couldn't see or understand anything clearly. It was like an old black-and-white movie, where the film is spliced and jumps forward, and scratchy white lines run through everything.

I now remembered watching myself write letters to Eddie—seeing Patricia looking for answers, trying to finally understand why he had killed her. Her life had never been validated and her death never truly noted. No one had cared. And so her anger and frustration had been building all these years. She was so powerful now.

One occasion came back to me full force. I had been fully within myself and getting ready for the day. I'd moved quietly because the rest of the house was still asleep. I started the shower and tossed my day's clothes on the floor as I searched through my dozens of body washes for what I felt like that morning. I found a honey scrub—perfect—and put it on the side of the tub. I was about to pull my T-shirt and pajama pants off when all the lights dimmed. I began to shake and my breath came fast. I felt like I was trapped. I heard myself call out to Will, and my voice sounded like a faraway echo. I thought I had passed out and hit my head and that I'd dreamed the events that followed. Now I knew I had not.

I walked out of the bathroom and went into my closet, knowing right where to put my hands. Back behind a cabinet, I found three envelopes, stamped and sealed. I didn't look at the names or addresses, just took them and walked out the front door.

I walked down the avenue in my pajamas. I didn't feel the cold. I didn't even feel my feet touch the ground—not once. I looked straight ahead and did not acknowledge anyone I passed. I walked down a long city block and across the avenue to the mailbox. I kissed the letters in my hand, closed my eyes, and tossed them in.

I came back by the same route, not bothering to stop for the two-way traffic. Horns blew and people yelled, but I didn't care. I walked through the front door, which I'd left wide open, and back up to my bedroom. And then I returned to myself. My stomach was heaving, and a horrible, foul odor seemed to be oozing from my pores. The steam from the shower I had left running now filled the whole bedroom. I could barely make out Will, still asleep in bed. I went over to wake him up, and just as my hands moved to shake him, I noticed that he was flat on his back, pressed down into the bed.

I have seen him through the years being held down in his sleep. Thousands of others have come to me and shared these same experiences with me. It's as though a heavy weight is sitting on you, paralyzing you. You are being tormented in your most vulnerable state—sleep. I have seen Will and many others struggle with such entities while sleeping.

I climbed into the bed to help him and clapped my hand over my mouth in horror. He was clacking his teeth together again and again, with enormous force. I shook him and called his name, but he would not wake up. Joanne rushed in and asked what was going on. I told her I had just taken a shower—honestly, that's what I thought I had done—and came out to find him like this. She stepped back from the bed like I was some monster.

“What's that smell?” she demanded. Still busy shaking Will, I did not answer. She stomped into my bathroom, turned off the shower, and came out with the clean clothes I had not changed into. “I thought you said you took a shower.” Her tone accused me of lying. I was about to respond when Will came to. The poor man sucked in air like he'd been drowning and then grabbed my arm. His voice was weak and raspy when he finally spoke.

He had seen me go into the bathroom and then heard a struggle. It had sounded like I was fighting with myself. My voice had taken on different tones as I had cursed and screamed. I didn't remember any of that, just blacking out and having that awful dream about walking around on the street outside.

Joanne came over and hugged us both and then wrinkled her nose. The stench was still overpowering. As one, we all looked down at my feet. They were covered in muddy water and dog mess. The poop had stuck between my toes and covered parts of the tattoo on my foot. And now I had gotten it all over the bed as I'd tried to wake up Will.

The vomit came up so fast that I clamped my hand over my mouth to stop it and ran to the bathroom. Will jumped up, too, but couldn't get the toilet seat up in time. The vomit burst through my fingers like water through a dam. Will took charge as I staggered around—grabbing a towel, instructing Joanne to bag the bed sheets and throw them out, and helping me into the shower.

I used the whole bottle of honey scrub, trying to get every last particle of poop off me. When I finally emerged in clean clothes, Will was waiting for me, and he told me more about what had happened to him earlier that morning. He said he saw me go in to take a shower, and he was starting to get up so he could fix me a cup of coffee when a huge dark form appeared and threw him down. He hadn't seen any of this thing's face except the eyes, dark and glassy with a crazed look. The thing pinned him to the bed and started choking him.

“Jackie, this thing was strong. The force was unbelievable. I couldn't move for shit.” And this was coming from my Will, whose favorite pastime is working out. And he had felt himself getting pushed down into the bed and the mattress coming up on both sides like he was a human hotdog in a bun. I saw the marks around his neck as he spoke. “That thing kept me down and away from helping you, stopping you from going out the door, no shoes.”

I did not know what to say, because I did not know what was going on. I still felt sure I'd blacked out and been dreaming. Just like many other times that I was just now remembering, when I followed my body as it did Patricia's bidding—talking on the phone or writing Eddie to ask for a lock of his hair. Once, I watched myself go down the steps into the garage and hide a bundle of letters. Hide them from myself. Patricia was covering her tracks. She did not want me to know that she was forcing me to communicate with her killer. But now, I had figured it out.

* * *

Will was leaving for work. I stood at the glass doors to the garden. I could feel Patricia right behind me. I wanted to spend time with my husband, but at the same time, I couldn't wait to be alone. I longed for those moments when I could roam freely. I knew she was coming faster than ever as I watched him straighten his clothes and give me that smile. The garden behind him began to wilt and die. I felt a single tear fall from my eye. He wiped it away and told me that he didn't have to go in. I said no, that I was fine, and I held him tightly. I squeezed my eyes shut in relief that I could still feel what was closest to me—his heart, as it beat in his chest.

He turned and went down the walkway. I stood at the glass doors and waited for him to turn and wave as he always did. The garden was alive and well now, but the minute he left it, the colors bled away, and weeds choked the life out of everything. I backed away from the glass, feeling inexplicably that I had a task to do. I walked over to the phone, my heart aflutter like I was expecting a call from a long-lost love.

The lights began to flicker, and the whole house began to settle into a tight cube. There were no doors or windows. I started to feel claustrophobic. The phone rang just as I reached for it. The caller ID said “unknown.” I picked it up anyway. The person on the other end of the line said my name.

“Who are you?” I asked.

“It's been lonely. I'm cold and scared.” She sounded like a child. Her voice crackled and gagged at times, as though she were choking on something. “I'm stuck, just like you, Jackie. I've been trying to get you to help me. You can help me, Jackie. My life is in pieces.”

And then she asked me the question so many of them do. “Jackie, am I dead? I come and go in different parts of my life. If I turn one way, I'm doing something completely different. If I turn the other, I'm somewhere else. I can see people, but they can't see me. I can put my hands through things. I can scream and yell and no one turns around but you.”

I clutched the phone to my ear and leaned against the counter.

“I have a memory of being pulled out of a cold steel slab. It looks like a tiny freezer, like a tomb. I was in there and then it gets all mixed up. I don't remember eating or sleeping anymore. I don't think I have to do those things anymore.

“Was I that lady in that tiny freezer box all cut open? Tell me, Jackie, tell me.”

My throat felt tight, and I couldn't speak. Finally I got my mouth open enough to yell, “Stop it! Why are you doing this to me?”

“I want to know what happened to me. Where am I?” she pleaded. “You are the only one who can see me, help me. It's been so long; I must be missed. Jackie, make the pain stop.”

I opened my eyes. I was standing in my kitchen with nothing in my hands. The phone was in its cradle on the wall. I really was losing my mind. And then the phone rang. For real. The number came up on the caller ID. Great Meadow Correctional Facility. No way. I was not picking that up. I turned away.

A voice that was not mine came out of me like a burst of thunder. My head swung to the left and my arm extended as though I were fighting with someone. I swung from side to side as the phone kept ringing. I was shoved against the counter. Pain from the blow stretched up my back and into my neck.

“Don't you walk away from me,” the voice that was not mine said. “Pick it up, Jackie. Pick up the phone. I waited so long. Now it's my turn.”

Shaking, I picked up the receiver. A recording came on that asked if I would accept the charges for a call from—and then his voice came on the line and I heard him say his name for the first time. Heriberto Seda.

I said I would accept the charges.

“Hello, Jackie,” he said over the phone from prison. “How are we doing?”

“We?” I said slowly. “Who's
we
, Eddie?” I was sweating and freezing at the same time. Patricia didn't care. She started talking to him through me.

He began to chuckle. “Oh, there you are,” he told Patricia. “I thought I'd lost you.”

She screamed at him. “You can't get me. You're locked up!”

“Oh, you're so wrong, Patricia. We are all in. Jackie, I want you to listen to me—” Patricia kept screaming, not wanting to hear his words. She insisted, over and over, that she had been loved and he had taken everything.

“I was loved. You took my life, you son of a bitch.” The screaming was unbearable. My ears felt like they were shattering. I slipped down to the floor, unable to let go of the phone.

Eddie broke through her wailing. “If you're done now,” he said to her and then focused on me. “Jackie, I want her back.”

Patricia's voice responded. “No! I trusted you. I followed you. I just wanted you to give me a kiss and a cigarette. What did you do to me? You didn't even know my name!”

Eddie was unfazed on the other end of the phone. “Of course I did. Don't you remember, Patricia? You told me your name. You're my companion. You can't run. Hell has no use for you, and heaven doesn't want you.”

Patricia screamed at him. “I'm a good person!”

“You're dead,” Eddie exploded. “And I will kill you again.”

* * *

Why is it that I attract some of the most diabolical criminal minds? It is one more way for the devil to come knocking at my door, I suppose. They come to me to find a way out of the concrete cell, looking to reconnect with the world outside of prison walls. They speak to me as though they know me, feel me. Some even bring me down the road of death. The steel bars cannot isolate or constrict them. The killers are not forgotten after the passage of years because they find me. They come back, through that dark escape tunnel to the open swirling portal of “the medium.”

Others have done this—contacted me—but not like this. This was unfinished business. As I sat at my desk and stared at the handprint traced on his letter, I knew I had to take his hand. I had to save myself before I was taken over completely. It didn't matter anymore whether I was asleep or awake—my visions and nightmares of Patricia were constant and becoming increasingly unbearable. And facing Patricia also meant facing her murderer. I knew that now. Oh, how delighted he must be to have found me. In what lifetime does a killer get to sit and speak to his victim? Get to live again the thrill of the hunt, the rapture of the homicide? Get to control and conquer again a life he has already taken? In
my
lifetime, it turns out.