Death is a Living
I drew in a deep breath, and let it out slowly. This was going to take some careful explaining. Of course, I couldn't tell the Fosters that little Jimmy told me about how crappy they treated him when he was alive, and that he was pretty cheesed off at the treatment his homicidal little brother was getting, now that he was dead.
I rolled my eyes back into my head, and began swaying and moaning. The norms need a lot of melodrama to accept the supernatural as genuine. Gotta have a little bang for the buck, as they say.
"James is very…upset. His spirit is restless. He wants his killer known!"
"Oh, please, that little jerk pushed me off the overpass! For 50 bucks and some concert tickets! That little shit needs to fry…." James' ghost seethed in anger, pacing around me. The dead don't have a lot of tact. Mommy and Daddy weren't forking over five hundred bucks just to hear that their precious little Jacob was a precious little killer.
"Who is it? Does he know? Is he telling you?" Jeaneane Foster had big, puffy hair that was 20 years out of date, and makeup that was undoubtedly applied with a trowel.
I gave it a bit more flair, pretending to be rocked back on my heels, rolling my eyes wildly.
"Such pain! He grieves-he fought with his brother, and there was an accident! All in the heat of the moment…a shout-a push-he falls!"
"Oh, god. Such bullshit! That little asswipe knew exactly what he was doing. They oughta lock him up, that psycho little fucker." He kept up the frantic pacing. Finally, he'd gotten past the stage where he'd thought that yelling would make living people hear him. Now all he was doing was giving me a headache.
"He fears his brother needs help! He may blame himself and go mad…" I moaned. If they took the kid to a shrink, at least they might find out he was a sociopath and a murderer.
Jeaneane Foster started sobbing incoherently. This was my cue for the big finish.
"He has a message for you!"
"What, oh, what?" She sobbed.
James took this as his cue to start yelling again.
"I hope you all die in a fire, you rotten miserable bastards! Especially Jacob! Hell, I hope he wrecks the damn car on the way to the show!"
Somehow, I'm sure this wasn't the message the Fosters were looking for. So I gave it a little of the good old time honored bullshit everyone wants to hear.
"He says he's doing okay, and safe where he is. He will always be watching over you, and he loves you all."
She started sobbing again.
James started laughing. Then he finally Disappeared.
I left later that night, with the assurances that the Foster's would find counseling for their secretly homicidal son, and five hundred dollars richer. The work may be demeaning at worst, and extremely irritating at best, but it paid my rent. At least something good came of my 'gift'. I'd been at this racket a year, ever since a 12-minute brush with death turned me into a walking movie cliché.
I see dead people.
Go ahead and laugh. Get it out of your system now.
It's a lot more irritating and inconvenient than you'd think.
I rolled my eyes back into my head, and began swaying and moaning. The norms need a lot of melodrama to accept the supernatural as genuine. Gotta have a little bang for the buck, as they say.
"James is very…upset. His spirit is restless. He wants his killer known!"
"Oh, please, that little jerk pushed me off the overpass! For 50 bucks and some concert tickets! That little shit needs to fry…." James' ghost seethed in anger, pacing around me. The dead don't have a lot of tact. Mommy and Daddy weren't forking over five hundred bucks just to hear that their precious little Jacob was a precious little killer.
"Who is it? Does he know? Is he telling you?" Jeaneane Foster had big, puffy hair that was 20 years out of date, and makeup that was undoubtedly applied with a trowel.
I gave it a bit more flair, pretending to be rocked back on my heels, rolling my eyes wildly.
"Such pain! He grieves-he fought with his brother, and there was an accident! All in the heat of the moment…a shout-a push-he falls!"
"Oh, god. Such bullshit! That little asswipe knew exactly what he was doing. They oughta lock him up, that psycho little fucker." He kept up the frantic pacing. Finally, he'd gotten past the stage where he'd thought that yelling would make living people hear him. Now all he was doing was giving me a headache.
"He fears his brother needs help! He may blame himself and go mad…" I moaned. If they took the kid to a shrink, at least they might find out he was a sociopath and a murderer.
Jeaneane Foster started sobbing incoherently. This was my cue for the big finish.
"He has a message for you!"
"What, oh, what?" She sobbed.
James took this as his cue to start yelling again.
"I hope you all die in a fire, you rotten miserable bastards! Especially Jacob! Hell, I hope he wrecks the damn car on the way to the show!"
Somehow, I'm sure this wasn't the message the Fosters were looking for. So I gave it a little of the good old time honored bullshit everyone wants to hear.
"He says he's doing okay, and safe where he is. He will always be watching over you, and he loves you all."
She started sobbing again.
James started laughing. Then he finally Disappeared.
I left later that night, with the assurances that the Foster's would find counseling for their secretly homicidal son, and five hundred dollars richer. The work may be demeaning at worst, and extremely irritating at best, but it paid my rent. At least something good came of my 'gift'. I'd been at this racket a year, ever since a 12-minute brush with death turned me into a walking movie cliché.
I see dead people.
Go ahead and laugh. Get it out of your system now.
It's a lot more irritating and inconvenient than you'd think.