Wednesday, August 6, 2014

"A Haunted Mind": A story about what I'm reading



Eyes wide open.

Nice table, an office. A blond lady in a black pant suit is sitting in easy reach next to me and has these two ring binders open with color pictures of people fucking in document protector sheets. If I scoot my chair over a little I could reach my right hand down and stuff it between her legs and give her pussy a little squeeze, see if she goes for that. Real women, they go for that.

She’s stopped talking and she’s looking at me. Maybe she’s waiting for me to make my big move on her.

“What do you think of that?” she says.

“Of what?” I said.

“Kids.”

“Kids? Fuck that shit.”

She looks baffled like a cow. “I’m a little confused here,” she says. “This house here - “ she puts her finger on a photo of a house in the ring binder (wait - houses?) “ - is in the Columbia County area which is known for some fine schools.”

“I don’t need schools.”

Blondie looks shook. Holds her breath and lets it out. “Did you just say a minute ago you have kids?”

“Maybe.”

“Maybe you have kids?”

“Maybe I might have said that.”

She looks shook again. And a little mad. I guess I don’t get to squeeze her pussy hello now. Or maybe just not yet.

“Maybe I didn’t understand you the first time, yes.” She gives me this brittle smile.

“Well, maybe.”

It’s hard to listen to her because I’m imagining her tied up naked to a brass bed with bungee cords on her wrists and these tiny brass clamps on those teutonic tits and her giving me that tight little smile as I toss her feet up over her head and bang her silly Russian style. I’m distractable that way.

“So do you and your wife have any children?”

“Hang on a sec, babe.” I lift up a little and reach behind my ass and pull out a little green pocket notebook from my left ass pocket. I flip it over to the first couple pages. No. No kids mentioned there.

“No, kids,” I say. “I might have said that a minute ago.” Which is true.

She sighs and starts over. “Tell me again what kind of house you’re looking for.”

“Just a minute.” I reach into my left jacket pocket and pull out a note and flip it open. I turn in my chair so she can’t read it. I’m getting this sense. She smells like CIA. Maybe even NSA. The note says “Get something near a lake with a wrap around porch and a basement. Hod.”

Hod. That’s him. I take out a pen and scribble on the bottom of the note “Fuck you, Hod. Liberal fuck faggot.” I put it in my right jacket pocket where he’ll look for it in a while. Hod.

“What’s in that book?” I point at the binder she hasn’t shown me yet.”

“Oh, you wouldn’t want those.”

“Why? Ain’t they houses?”

“Those houses are more unusual. Not really for families.”

“Like how?”

She closes the first ring binder, the family friendly binder with its nice faggoty little schools and pulls the other binder up and flips it open. The first house has a black border around it.

“What’s the black for?” I point at the black border.

“That means this particular house has problems we’re required to inform you of.”

“Kinda problems? Bad pipes?”

“No,” she says. “It’s haunted.”

Oh. Now Blondie got my full attention. “You mean you got ghosts in there?”

“This house has one ghost. A lady ghost.”

“What kind of lady ghost?”

“A lady ghost with problems. If there is a ghost. You know.”

“Fuck that shit! A lady ghost with problems?”

“If she’s a ghost she has problems. Or else why would she be a ghost?”

“Fuck that shit! What’s her problem? Does it say?”

She leans in and reads some information on the house. “Said property was built in 1923, originally a gift from Warren G Harding to his third mistress, said to suffer from severe sex addiction.” She’s reading this. I swear to god she’s not screwing with my head. Maybe she’s not CIA. Or maybe the NSA wants me to buy this house so they can fuck with my head again. She’s in on it. Should I kill this woman and run? “Died in 1926, suspected cause from administration of a concentrated aphrodisiac, most likely a distillation of Spanish Fly. Spanish Fly. Hmn.” She looks up at me. “So there really is such a thing.”

“Keep going.”

“Previous male tenants complain of unsolicited sexual assaults at night of increasing frequency and intensity resulting in sleep deprivation. Wow.”

“Shit wow.” I take out the note from my right jacket pocket and add to it. “Black border houses, Hod. That’s what we want.”

She flips the page to another house with a black border around it. She looks up.

“Yeah, so read it.”

She gives a little snort of disgust. Go ahead CIA bitch. I know what you’re thinking, see? You’re thinking your gold plated cunt’s too good for me. I can read minds too. When the NSA fucked with my head they gave me super powers and I can read minds. You think I’m a pig. But you like pigs. You like dirty pigs humping you like a bitch. She looks like she’s got a little black blood in her somewhere. Half breed back there somewhere. A little karate chop to the throat and we’ll have us some fine fried chicken right down here on the floor. “It says here - this house was built as a boarding house over a forgotten Indian burial ground. During the civil war it was employed as a prestigious brothel for the exclusive custom of Confederate officers. It burned down under mysterious circumstances with the tragic loss of all tenants, young women mostly and then rebuilt and abandoned several times. Said to remain in an ectoplasmically active condition. Male tenants complain of serial encounters with sexually demanding women and Indians leaving them in an exhausted condition.”

“Indians?”

“It says here.”

“Why’s it have to be Indians too?”

She shrugs.

“I mean, why would anybody ever fuck an Indian? Am I right?”

She looks at me, not smiling. If she gets up she’s gonna kill me. Or call in a hit squad. Time to go.

“Wait,” I say, “Be right back. Got to pitch a loaf.”

“Men’s room is down the hall, left.”

I get up and leave the room. In the hall was a water fountain but they took it away. I think.

I go outside and I’m standing on the side walk of a little strip mall on county road 55. I look behind and the store front where we was talking - it’s empty. It’s been empty a long time from the glass and the for lease sign in the window. Funny. There’s a black border around the sign.

Here’s my real problem. I think I’m dead.

I mean like seriously tits up dead. Everybody knows it but me. I think this stuck up bitch knows it, I think Hod knows it, but nobody wants to say so. So I should know. But I’m the guy who doesn’t know.

The other day I went walking in the cemetery and there’s this feeling like deja vu and I see it. There’s this grave near the back and its a new grave and its got my name. It’s even got my middle initial. If it ain’t my grave then how did they know that middle initial? You can’t explain supernatural shit like that. You got to respect that shit. And it says on the stone “I’LL BE RIGHT BACK”. Now the guy who had that epitaph put there, that guy is some motherfucker. That motherfucker knew some shit. That guy’s just got to be me.

I close my eyes. I open my eyes. I’m sitting in the cemetery on the grave with my name on it. I pat my right pocket. The note is gone. I pat my left pocket. Something in there. Hod’s been here.

I take out the note and flip it open.

“The doctor wants to see us. He has some women lined up for you but you have to check into the hospital to get at them. The women are just for you but you have to go there first. Okay? Trust me on that. Big women, just the way you like them, but only if you go there. Go to the address and ask for the doctor by name at the registration desk. Behave yourself. The next nurse you try to rape you’ll get us both locked up. I for one do not want to wake up in a cell. Not with you in my head. Hod.”

I think I’m dead. I think Hod is a ghost. I think my head is a haunted house. There should be a black border painted around my eyeballs to warn people to stay the fuck away.

I put the note in my mouth and chew it up good and swallow so those NSA motherfuckers won’t get a hold of it. I lay down on the grave and wait. Let’s see if I’m dead. There’s way worse shit than being dead.

I don’t know what I’ll do if I’m not.


These days reading:

The Future of the Mind Michio Kaku
The Collected H P Lovecraft
Haunted Places of Georgia



11 comments:

  1. And they all get munged together!

    BUT can you make a novel out of this?

    Very weird but compelling, too.

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    Replies
    1. Hi Lisabet!

      Yes - then a truck came through teh window and ran over them all! Someday I'm going to end an story that way.

      This story actually comes from somewhere.

      In Michio kaku's book "The Future of the Mind" I read one of the truly strangest and spookiest things I have ever read. Not a ghost story exactly, a medical phenomenom. A while back when doctors were trying to find a cure for severe epilepsy (remember Nixie?) they experimented with a radical form of brain surgery. Seizures are caused by a kind of electrical feed back loop between the left and right hemispheres of the brains that disables brain activity until the loop subsides. So one way of maybe pulling the plug on the loop might be to surgically separate the two hemispheres of the brain. A kind of longitudinal lobotomy. So they did this in a few cases and two things happened - it succeeded. To the huge relief of the patients the seisures stopped permanently. But something else happened two. The persnality/ego split into two distinct and separate human beings living side by side at the same time in the same head - with no awareness of the other's existence. Like taking a flatworm and cutting it in two and having two independent flatworms, these were two independent and self aware egos inhabiting the same body with different values hopes and dreams, completely unaware of the other.

      The implications of this for human identity, soul, ego, the very question of who we think we are and who we really are, to me are terrifying. I was just stunned when I read that.

      Garce

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  2. Wonderfully whacky, Garce. Talk about an unreliable narrator!

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    Replies
    1. Very unreliable -see the back story above. We are all maybe unreliable narrators.

      Garce

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  3. Replies
    1. Come on, Spencer. Don't tease!

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    2. Lisabet:
      Your mom would say look it up. These days you can Google it, but you have to read the entire chapter to really appreciate how it applies.

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    3. St Paul is preaching to King Agrippa and someone remarks that he is beside himself that too much learning has made him mad. Which I get.

      Actually listening to Fox News makes me mad.

      Garce

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  4. Is this the genre called slipstream? Intriguing.

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  5. Replies
    1. I would say there's a case that this is slipstream. I'd define slipstream as a sort of mainstream literary fiction "touched" by SF/fantasy/horror. It's got enough specfic to feel unsettling, to feel possibly outside the real world, but it remains realistic enough that it's also sort of plausible. It also feels like a really odd day, the sort of day when a person can believe in things a little outside ordinary reality.

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