The realization that my psychic neighbour and Polly's sister's ex-boyfriend were the same person changed everything. It felt like we had all the answers in the world, but no idea what they meant. It was giant puzzle was spread out before us, yet we were missing the picture to use as a guide and didn't know where to even begin putting the pieces together.
It couldn't be coincidence that both her sister and I were attacked after interacting with him-Luc. He was the only connection we had in common. He must have something to do with this... but just how much?
Polly was convinced that everything that had happened-her sister's death and my attacks-were entirely his fault. But even faced with the staggering evidence, I was hesitant to condemn him. I mean, I wasn't convinced that Luc was a good person, but nor was I sure that he wasn't. If Polly's theory was correct, and he was the one who was after me, what exactly was his motivation? Polly's sister had at least shared an intense relationship with him. I had only been in limited contact with him! So why would he choose to attack me? What had I done to offend him?
But I couldn't think of anything else it could be.
Luc was the only person who was even remotely supernatural that I had been in contact with-that I knew of, at least-and it was true: the strange occurrences started right after my first interaction with him. After all, it wasn't like I had a ton of enemies... I couldn't think of one person who would hate me enough to want me dead. Well, I wasn't exactly on good terms with my ex, but he wasn't exactly the murderous type or one to dabble in stuff like magic. That, and the moron couldn't even finish reading The Hobbit; there was no way he could follow the complex instructions I assumed magic of this level required.
So the evidence of Luc's guilt was piling up. I desperately wanted to talk to him, to interrogate him, to find out what his involvement truly was... but we couldn't find him. Not a single trace. It was like he disappeared.
He didn't return to his apartment that day, or the next day, or the day after that-we know this because we even spent a few days parked out in front of my apartment building, on a stake out, waiting to pounce if he showed up.
But he never did. And he didn't answer his door when we approached it or his phone (the number painted on the window below the neon sign) when we called. He had truly vanished.
All I could figure was that he went somewhere else to lay low. I didn't understand why he felt the need to do so, or why he looked so horrified to see us standing there on the doorstep that day-aside from the fact that Polly all but tore his face off. But it was the way he looked before she confronted him that disturbed me; like we were ghosts.
When I shared my theory with Polly, she-of course-wrote off his behaviour to guilt. But I just couldn't bring myself to be convinced. I couldn't help but feel like I was missing something, something obvious. I needed to confront him, to interrogate him; I had become obsessed.
But Polly just wanted to kill him, as she thought that his death would solve it. Like it would be that simple.
However, after several days of being unable to contact him, unable to discuss it with him, we were backed into a corner. We had no other information to go on, and Luc still looked like the likeliest suspect. Polly had become ansty, and I more so. The threat of the thing-the Beast, as we now referred to it-seemed to hang over us like an impending storm... a storm that wouldn't start, that just filled the air with its sickening electricity, with no sign of an end.
So that was it. We weren't quite sure if he was definitely the one behind it, but we couldn't sit around and do nothing for any longer. I decided it couldn't hurt to find someway to stop him, even if we weren't sure it was him.
+ + +
However, that was easier said than done.
After our unsuccessful stake out, we moved into a hotel in my neighbourhood, near my apartment building. Polly had called into work saying that I was terribly ill and she needed to take care of me, and she had enough pull at work that she could get away with that. I admired her foresight. I was content with completely ignoring my job, even if it meant losing it. However, Polly was always one to have everything carefully considered and planned, so she was right on top of the situation. So now our days were free to find a solution to our paranormal problem.
But we were office girls who had no idea the supernatural had even existed until recently; what did we know about stopping this...this... hell, we didn't even know what we were up against! We may refer to it as "the Beast", but that didn't mean that we knew what it was.
We tried the typical sources of information first: the library and the internet. But the information we got from those two places were completely contradictory or just plain unbelievable. The books and websites we visited were clogged with input from new-age hippie types, so it was impossible to discern what was truth and what was just nonsense. It seemed like another frustrating dead end.
Feeling desperate and a little reckless, we took a shot in the dark. After our more traditional methods of research had failed, we decided to seek outside input, an expert on the subject.
Our logic was that if maybe a Psychic was behind it, surely there had to be another Psychic who could know how to stop him. We turned to the business pages of our hotel's phonebook, and tried to determine which Psychics would be our best bet in consulting, trying to weed out all the flashy fakes and new age earth-mothers.
But even then... the results did little to build our confidence.
The first Psychic we visited was a straight-up joke. Her shop was exactly what I thought Luc's would be when I first visited i; this was a stark contrast from his clean, white and almost clinical shop. It was colourful in a garish way, with gaudy shawls hanging on every surface and draping on every wall. The air was thickly perfumed with dollar store incense that irritated my airways so badly I nearly gagged. And what I assumed was once a table was just now a mound of even more scarves, with a crystal ball was snuggled into a nest on top. And the woman herself? There are no words.
She smelled strongly of the repulsive incense, tinged with some other thick and sickly perfume. She talked in a phoney gypsy accent, while waving her arms around for dramatic effect. Her act would be hilarious if she wasn't wasting our precious time, inching us closer to danger.
"My dears," she hissed in a husky, faux-bohemian tone. "You've been abused! Someone seeks to injure you!"
"Ya think?" Polly snapped, her face wincing into scowl as her cast clunked loudly on the floor. Our wounds were still visible in many places; it was obvious that we had seen some action. So much for her powers of divination.
This so-called psychic tried her best to get us to sit across from her, but we resisted. We knew we weren't going to find anything useful here, so we left as soon as we could-but not before buying a cheap knick-knack; the lady practically clung to Polly's (uninjured) leg until she promised to buy something.
The rest of the shops were much the same; maybe not so much in style, but in terms of ridiculousness. The same things were repeated: garish interiors, overly dramatic people, and the damned insistence to buy something. The only thing that got better was our ability to say "no" forcefully enough that they would leave us alone, and let us exit their stores.
I was getting more anxious by the day. We weren't making any progress and it had been a little too quiet; I hadn't suffered a single attack in the three weeks since the throw down at Polly's house. There wasn't even a whisper of its presence-now footsteps, or growling, or voices. And I couldn't help but feeling like there should be another one just around the corner.
Nothing was happening, and the longer it went on, the more it worried me. I felt my strength diminish with each passing day; it was wearing me down.
We had all but given up, our list of Psychics diminishing daily until there was only a few selections left. Just when I thought that this was just another dead end, we stumbled across exactly what we were looking for.
All the Psychics we had visited before had been located mostly downtown or in the nearby residential areas, set up in little shops and storefronts. But this one of the last new addresses was in a distant suburban area, specifically in a rougher neighbourhood.
The neighbourhood was old and shabby, streets lined with mass produced houses from decades past that had fallen into disrepair. Strangely enough, I could point out the house that we were headed to before we even saw the numbers. It didn't seem that different from a distance, but for me, it kind of shone-like a beacon. Despite its peeling paint and dirty accents, it seemed homey and warm... safe. There was something comforting about this structure, like it was protected.
After all the failure and ridiculousness we had faced in the past week, I couldn't stifle the good feeling I got about this place. I could barely contain myself as I knocked on the door. In immediate response to my knock, there was some shouting on the other side of the door, followed by the rapid sound of footsteps. The door creaked open, and a face appearing in the open crack. There stood a motherly woman, light, greying hair that was accented with bright warm eyes. Her face had deep lines but they were an afterthought to her strong, dominating mouth with a welcoming smile stretching its corners.
The woman surveyed us closely from her view through the opening int he door. She scanned Polly without a change in expression, but the moment she laid eyes on me, scanning me up and down, her warm face fell cold-much like Luc's did, the day he did my reading. She gasped, her hand flying to her throat, like I threatening to slit it open. The look she gave me was of fear, anger-like I was the last thing she wanted on her doorstep.
She slammed the door in my face. What a good sign.
Yes, this was a good sign. She recognized it, she knew there was something dangerous about me right away-she knew more about this, she knew what this was. And I hoped she could tell me just that.
I was frantic at the first sign of help. There was someone who could help me! I pounded on the woman's door, without shame. This was as close I had come to an answer in the past few weeks, and I was desperate for more. I pleaded, screamed, begged. I needed her, I needed her to answer me. I had no dignity left, and even if I did, I would discard it for a chance to survive.
Polly stood by and said nothing. She didn't judge me; she understood.
"Please!" I screamed. "PLEASE HELP ME! I don't know where else to go! I don't know what's happening to me!"
Something of the desperation in my voice must've softened her to me, just a little. Slowly, quietly, the door reopened-but just a sliver-and her now guarded eyes peered out at me once more. She surveyed my face, her brow furrowed. I only then realized that I had tears streaking my face.
"Please," I choked again. "Let me in. Please, help me..."
She shook her head, her eyes never leaving mine. "No way, I won't get your mark on my house."
"My... mark?" I asked, though I knew what she meant. I knew that thing could follow me, and she didn't want to risk it coming into her house. I heard a child playfully cry out somewhere in the house, and I didn't blame her.
Her lips formed a harsh line. "Your curse, honey. You're cursed."
Curse? I balked at her. Haunted, sure. But cursed? Somehow that seemed absurd.
But who was I to question it? I would do anything she suggested, if it meant a solution; I had none.
"But... I don't know what to do! Or even where to start! How do I undo it?"
The door closed again, not with a final slam but a click. I wailed on the step, throwing my head back and tearing my fingers through my hair in frustration. I had gotten barely any information, and I was no further to answers than I was when we arrived.
I may not have been crazy at the beginning of this ordeal, but I definitely felt like I was headed that way now.
My shoulders then slumped, and I was ready to return to Polly's car in defeat. Polly reached for me, wrapping her arm around my shoulders, bracing me. But the door opened again for a third time, and this time only a hand emerged from it holding out a small book that seemed worn. The hand and the book lingered in the air for a moment before the book fell with a soft thud. The arm was retracted with similar speed, followed by the final gentle snap of the door.
I stared at the book lying on the porch, not quite sure what to do with it. Polly patted me the shoulder, jolting me, and stooped to pick the book up. She dusted off the cover, and flipped it over in her hands examining it. It looked like it might have been homemade. The book was thin, and the binding looked like it had been sewn by hand. It had a simple fabric cover and faded gold embossed letters on it, with a nondescript typeface spelling out the title: Protective Spells.
"Well," Polly said, her smile weak but still kind. "This might help."
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