The Curse of the Hirudineans
by John W. Steele
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Table of Contents parts: 1, 2, 3 |
part 2
Isaac hovered overhead like a plume of green smoke. In his hands, he clutched a meat cleaver. A wild grin exploded on his face. He raised the cold slab of steel, and aimed it at Father O’Reilly’s lustrous skull.
Fortunately, Edna happened to be sitting on the patio of her villa on the Lake of Dreams in paradise. She sipped her Goi berry, watching the whole incident unfold from the other side of the Grand Illusion.
Just as Isaac was about to swing the cleaver, Edna let out a shriek. “Look out!” her voice reverberated in the room. Milton looked up with a start. He raised an ion-amplified lithium stun gun to his shoulder, and fired a pulsating blast of silver lightning at the crotch of the grinning lunatic above them.
Isaac froze, quivering in an epileptic convulsion. The ghost screeched, and started blinking like a green neon sign in the window of an all-you-can-eat Chinese buffet.
“Sweet Mother of God!” Father O’Reilly cried, “The demon was about to decapitate me!”
“Quick, get the capacitor,” Milton cried. The priest pulled a military-grade nano-composite storage cell from the plastic bucket. Milton grabbed the high impedance antenna from his tool belt and rammed the probe deep inside the flickering cloud. The meat cleaver fell to the floor with a clang. The ghost let out an ear-piercing howl, and then, with a blink like a spent flash bulb, Isaac flowed into the battery. Milton placed the capacitor in a carbon composite container he’d designed. Father O’Reilly grabbed the cord of the device, and ran over to the wall.
“Quick Father! We haven’t got much time!” The priest plugged the jack in the socket, and the tiny compressor mounted in the lid began to hum. When the air had been evacuated from the jar, Milton sealed Isaac in the vacuum with a twist valve.
“That was a close call,” Father O’Reilly said. He pulled a clean white handkerchief from his pocket and wiped a film of sweat from his brow.
“Is he gone... is he gone for good?” Constance asked.
“We have to take him to the church quickly,” Milton said, “But I can assure you he won’t be back.”
Constance raised a handkerchief to her eye and wiped away a tear. “Oh bless you, bless you both. You’re angels, the both of ya.”
They flew down the steps to the Lincoln, Milton clutching the jar to his chest, Father O’Reilly trailing behind. The priest unlocked the trunk and they placed the jar in a sanctified relic box.
Milton squealed the tires, leaving a cloud of smoke as they sped back to the parish. When they arrived at the church, Father O’Reilly unlocked the doors of the basement, and they scuttled Isaac into the bowels of the chapel.
“We have to hurry!” Father O’Reilly said. “I fear this one may be an Archon.” He reached into the sarcophagus, clutching the container in his clammy hands.
Milton released the valve, the jar hissed, and the lid fell to the floor with a rattle. The capacitor vibrated, a green ethereal shadow surrounding its surface.
Father O’Reilly’s forehead wrinkled, and he set his jaw firm. He pulled the battery from the container, shafts of lime green energy surging up his arms. The priest raised the capacitor over his head and cried, “Back to hell with ya, ya denizen of the dark side.”
With a grimace, Father O’Reilly hurled the battery through the air. It hovered for a moment, then landed with a splash in the vat of Holy Water he’d prepared. The water bubbled and hissed, a green vapor seething on its surface. From deep in the fog, a hollow voice rang out.
Ye be damned, Milton Harrington. The curse of the Hirudineans is upon ye.
The water stilled, and the mist evaporated. Father O’Reilly lowered his head and did not speak. The curse had been sanctified by the energy of the ghost, and he knew it could not be lifted.
Shortly after this incident, Milton began to experience the bloodsuckers in his arms, and the problems associated with them.
* * *
When it came time for Milton to collect the fee for the exorcism, Constance refused to pay him. She filed a complaint with the International Guild of Paranormal Investigators, and threatened to sue Milton and the guild. A hearing was held.
Constance arrived at the chambers of the temple with her attorney, Simon Washington, an enormous African-American man with a shaved head and a heavy gold hoop earring. Constance wore a full-length sable coat and was smothered in the diamond jewelry Isaac had bought her. One diamond for every affair he ever had. On her right hand, she wore her five-carat oval-cut wedding band.
The chamber was filled to capacity with members of the guild. Some of them fidgeted in their chairs. The Honorable Justin Squires, a Senior Deacon of the order, had flown in from Detroit to preside over the proceedings.
Deacon Squires sat down at the end of the conference table and put on his glasses. His flowing black robe accented a diamond-encrusted pentagram amulet with a ruby eye that dangled from a heavy gold chain around his neck. He picked up a file, cleared his throat, and began his inquiry.
“It’s been brought to our attention that on the seventeenth of August you were summoned to perform paranormal services for a client, Mr. Harrington. The plaintiff alleges that during this procedure you assaulted her husband. Is this true?”
From that point Milton’s inquisition sank deeper into hell. When it came time for Mrs. Goldstein to testify, she claimed she had invited Milton to her house to establish contact with her wonderful husband, not to sodomize him and seal him in a pickle jar. She recited her lines with such perfection she should have won an Oscar for her performance. Tears streamed down her cheeks, and her voice quivered when she spoke.
“How you in good conscience could perform such a heinous deed, is a crime against the soul of humanity and a revilement to God, Mr. Harrington. Isaac and I were more than husband and wife... we were soul mates.” Constance sobbed hysterically.
Simon rubbed her shoulder, glaring like a rabid wolf at Milton.
When the charade was nearly over, Deacon Squires said, “The disciplinary arbitration board has decided your actions were appalling and plainly irrational. There is no room for psychic abuse in this profession, Milton Harrington. The arbitrator has decided that your license to conduct extrasensory activities is to be revoked.”
There was a long pause as the words settled in Milton’s mind, like muddy sediment coagulating in a stagnant pool. Milton shook off his astonishment and cried, “Deacon Squires, please listen to what I have to say.”
The room erupted with disparaging remarks and detestable hisses from the other clairvoyants in attendance. Someone from the rear of the gallery bellowed, “Burn him!” The room rumbled with applause.
Deacon Squires sounded the gavel. “Order, there will be order in this proceeding!” The room grew quiet. “You can always seek legal council if you’re dissatisfied with our findings Mr. Harrington,” the deacon said. The wizard’s voice softened, and he looked sadly in Milton’s eyes. “You’ve offended the guild, and besmirched the sacred trust, Milton. You’ve let us down, son.”
The deacon hung his head. Like a man walking away from a ten-dollar harlot, Squires stood up, and headed for the door. His long black cloak flowed behind him like the cape of superman.
* * *
Now a broken man, his career in shambles, Milton fell into a dark depression. At times he turned to the bottle for solace. What was he to do? He’d never see fifty again. His only other marketable skill was his amazing ability to read and write Sanskrit.
From an early age Milton’s father, an archaeology professor, had encouraged him to pursue his uncanny interest in the ancient and esoteric Sanskrit symbols. In time Milton grew to adore the mysteries contained in the twisted, abstruse characters. After years of relentless study, he became a master Sanskrit interpreter. His knowledge of the symbols grew until it was second only to the understanding of his native tongue.
Throughout this bleak and hopeless period of his life, Edna came to visit Milton every day. She’d grown to love him for his brilliant mind and tender heart. With her heavenly eyes, she saw the powerful, tormented angel inside him.
Edna stayed with him through the hard times and tried to comfort his broken spirit. They’d often have long discussions about the vicissitudes of life and the glories of paradise.
“Life on this plane is so dull and painful. Why do you insist on an existence that offers nothing but suffering? It would be so easy for you to join me in paradise,” Edna would often say.
One evening after a terrible bout with the Hirudineans, Milton fell into an ocean of despair. He told Edna he loved her, and he wanted to join her in heaven. But when he sobered up the next day he changed his mind.
Days turned into weeks, and weeks into months. One day Milton received a phone call from a university where he’d sent a resume. They were extremely interested in his credentials. During the interview, he made it clear to the chair of the archaeology department that he suffered from phobias, and since his accident, he’d developed other psychological imbalances as well. If they wanted him to translate Sanskrit scrolls buried in the archives, there would be stipulations.
With a humble but confident heart, Milton prioritized his requirements. He was to be provided with a private office inaccessible to other staff members. His conversations and meetings with other faculty and especially students were to be minimal. And most importantly, he would deal personally with only one administrative aide.
Because Milton’s skills were so unique and he was willing to work for little monetary compensation, the dean of the department immediately hired him as an Assistant Professor of Asian Studies and assigned an administrative aide. All things happen for a reason, and on this page of his life, the reason’s name was Alice.
* * *
Copyright © 2009 by John W. Steele
