Voodoo Mumbo Jumbo

Professor Smith dragged his gaunt, delicate frame to the porch thankful that Elisa doesn’t live on the third floor of an apartment building. He took off his hat and was about to push the doorbell button with his slender fingers but he remembered something. Reaching into his coat pocket, the professor pulled out a small white pendant hanging from a thin bronze chain. It was made of polished quartz and he let it hang from his hand for a few seconds. It was still, suspended by gravity between the porch floor and the palm of his calloused hands. No movement, he thought to himself, better take a note of that. He put the pendant back into his inside jacket pocket and finally ringed the doorbell.

Small, nervous footsteps scurried to the front door before it creaked open. A woman in her late fifties greeted the elderly professor and welcomed him into the house. She had short, cropped hair the way some old women do. Her apron was worn but still brightly colored yellow. Her cheeks were rosy, possibly from preparing something for the professor, but it was equally likely that her demeanor was to be credited. She would hardly ever allow herself to be seen without a smile on her face despite her inability to hide her true feelings in her eyes.

“Please! Please! Have a seat!” she implored Professor Smith. “It’s been so long! I’m so happy you could make it!”

“Thank you, Elisa,” the professor answered as the corners of his mouth curled upwards. “The years have been kind to you.”

“Oh, thank you!” Elisa answered, her rosy cheeks growing even rosier. “I hope you’ll forgive the way I look. Let me take your hat and coat.”

“I’m a bit chilly so I hope you don’t mind if I keep my jacket on.

“If I remember correctly, you always loved blueberry scones with your tea.”

“You really didn’t have to go through the trouble, dear. You asked for my help and I’m here to give it. There’s no need for any of this.”

“Never mind all that! You’re a guest in my house and I always treat my guests with the utmost hospitality!”

“Even old friends?”

“Especially old friends! Oh, look at me blathering on like a doting grandmother. Your tea! I’ve completely forgotten about your tea.”

Those same footsteps that scurried to welcome the professor into this quaint house scurried on into the kitchen. Utensils rattled about and the refrigerator door opened. The scurrying slowed as the refrigerator door closed.

“Oh, my,” Elisa said as she emerged from the kitchen shamefully. “I’m so sorry this never happens to me. I guess I’m just a bit out of practice playing hostess and everything. But it seems I’ve run out of milk.”

“That’s perfectly all right. I really don’t need tea. I can get started right away actually if that’s all right with you.”

“Nonsense! I’ll just skip to the store! It’s not that far. I shouldn’t take long at all. Again, I am so sorry! At least I remembered you like milk with your tea. Really, it’s no trouble and I’ll be back in no time. You sit tight, professor!”

And with that, the scurrying took Elisa out the front door leaving the professor alone in the house. The ticking of the small clock reverberated off the hardwood floors and wallpapered walls. The faint smell of lilacs indicated that she had the windows opened for a short while in the morning. The sunlight, though plentiful, just barely warmed the house. The professor reached into his jacket pocket and let the pendant hang just in front of his face. It moved back and forth just slightly. There was barely any movement until—

SLAM! Heavy footsteps walked through what the professor believed was the door leading from the garage. The professor clumsily put the pendant back in his jacket pocket. A man about the same age as Elisa came into the living room where the professor was sitting.

“Elisa! Have you been moving my tools in the garage around again? I can’t find my—,” the man stopped when he saw the professor sitting in the large chair. Elisa usually saved that seat for guests. “I apologize. I didn’t know that Elisa had a guest coming over. My name is Artie, Elisa’s husband.” Artie extended his hand and the professor shook it.

“Oh yes, of course! Elisa talks about you all the time. I’m Professor Smith. We—”

“Now, I remember. You two knew each other in college if I remember correctly.”

“Yes, she was my student; very bright.”

“That she is. But if I’m not mistaken she brought you in here for a very specific purpose: a purpose which would totally fly in the face of all evidence that either one of you had a shred of intelligence.”

Professor Smith’s eyes widened as he was taken aback by the verbal abuse. He wasn’t expecting anything so aggressive from Elisa’s husband.

“I’m sorry?” the professor tried to be as cordial as one could be.

“I’m sorry again. It’s just that… I know how brilliant she is and how brilliant you are. She talks about you all the time but you are here to get rid of our little ‘ghost’ problem, is that not it?”

“Elisa did mention that there was a possibly spirit haunting the premises.”

“And you’re some sort of ghostbuster?”

“Actually, I’m a medium. I know that sounds strange coming from someone who has worked in academia for so long but I simply help spirits trapped here move on.”

“What does that even mean?”

“Sometimes there’s something a spirit couldn’t do when they were alive. That happens all the time but every once in a while there will be that one thing that doesn’t allow them to leave this plane of existence. And until that one thing is complete, the never will. They end up haunting a place. They’re usually harmless though. Rattling here, banging there.”

“I appreciate that you want to help my wife but she’s just a bit scared of a few creaks, that’s all. It’s nothing but the house settling. It was already old long before we bought it. Honestly, I think you’re just making things worse. You’re just enabling this behavior with all your voodoo mumbo jumbo.”

“Don’t be silly. I doubt I’ll have to use any voodoo for this particular case.”

“Geez, you’re really doing this? Look, you seem to be a nice guy. And if you’re a close friend of Elisa’s I’m sure you’re a really smart, stand up guy but I really don’t appreciate you exacerbating the situation. These are just superstitions, her imagination running away with her.”

“So how scared is she by all the supposed things going bump in the night?”

“It freaks her out. It upsets me because she should know better, you know? I hate worrying about her but when she gets so frightened it makes me wonder how she gets along whenever I’m out of the house.”

“What will it take for you to not worry about her? She’s fully capable of living an independent life. In fact, she had for a long time before she met you.”

“I know, but to see her giving in to these little superstitions is frustrating. If it wasn’t for the fact that I didn’t have a job when she was pregnant with our second child she would have had a PhD herself. She always wanted to go back to school, but I don’t know if she can still do it. Every little floorboard creak has her jumping even if it’s just me coming from the kitchen after a midnight snack. It breaks my heart.”

“Sounds like you care for her on a deep level, Artie.”

“I do. I really do. And I hate worrying so much.”

“How about you just trust her? Maybe she’s so scared is because instead of making her feel safe you make her feel like the victim of her own psyche. I know you don’t mean to but she’s as sensitive as she is intelligent.”

“Yeah, that’s one of the things I love about her. She’s sensitive enough for the both of us. The kids really needed that in their lives. Did you know when our first child was born, I couldn’t even bring myself to read her a bedtime story? How simple would that have been? Just read a story or make one up. Kids really don’t care as long as they hear your voice as they’re going to sleep. Didn’t really figure that out until our son was born. Three times, before we had a son. I guess third time is the charm. Ha!”

“Do you really think that’s all it took? Some implied reassurance from you to send them off to sleep? I’ve always been good with kids but I could never put my finger on why I was able to get them to stop crying or go to sleep or anything like that. But I think it has to do with trust. See, their innocence doesn’t allow them to mistrust their parents. They trust their mother and father wholeheartedly. But trust goes two ways.”

“Oh, I trusted them, all right. I never knew how to say it short of actually saying the words. And even then it took me until they were in college for me to tell them how proud of them I was. How much I would trust them with my own life.”

“Maybe they feel that on some level. It’s that one bit of comfort they need. They trust you but felt they didn’t have your complete trust.”

“Now that you mention it, I did get closer with our oldest daughter around the time she graduated college. Makes me wonder what else I missed out on.”

“It’s the little things, Artie. Those are what count. You don’t have to say the words to tell someone something.”

“Are you saying I don’t trust my wife? That’s why she’s scared all the time?”

“I’ve only been talking to you for ten minutes and I know that you undoubtedly trust your wife as much as you love her. But does she know that?”

“I don’t think she does.”

“Then let her know.”

“How?”

“Let her feel safe. Let her talk to me about this ‘voodoo mumbo jumbo,’ as you call it, because it comforts her. It’s not going to hurt anyone. And she’s going to get the sense that you trust her decisions.”

Elisa’s familiar scurry approached the front door and both men looked towards the rattling knob, then towards each other.

“I better get back to the garage. It would look out of place if I just all of a sudden was supportive of this haunting nonsense. But I won’t interfere.”

“I understand. It was nice meeting you, Artie,” the professor said. They shook hands and Artie headed towards the garage before turning back saying, “Stay awhile and have some of her scones. She’s quite the little baker, Elisa.”

“I’ll do that,” the professor answered. The door creaked open and the professor offered to carry the small plastic jug of milk for Elisa.

“Oh, don’t be silly,” Elisa responded. “I’m perfectly capable of carrying this thing to the kitchen. Now have a seat and I’ll get you your tea.”

“And a scone too if you don’t mind.”

“Oh, yes! Of course.”

“Elisa?”

“Yes, professor?” Elisa asked. The usual cluttering noise of the kitchen ensued as she boiled a pot of water and popped in a few scones in the oven to heat them up.

“I never really got a chance to ask you since you left to go to the grocery store in such a hurry. But how are you? How have you been?”

The scurrying of her feet stopped as if Elisa had completely disappeared from the house completely. Professor Smith walked towards the kitchen and saw her just standing there. Elisa was watching the steam slowly billow out of the tea kettle.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—” the professor apologized.

“No,” she answered, “Don’t be sorry.  I’ve been good.”

The professor took out the pendant once more and let it hang in front of him. There wasn’t even the slightest movement.

 “What’s that?” Elisa asked.

“Sacred stone,” he answered. “In the presence of a spirit it should swing.”

“It’s not moving.”

“No it’s not.” The tea kettle began to whistle and the professor put the pendant back into his jacket pocket. Elisa scrambled to make the tea and prepare the scones.

“Look at us blathering on,” Elisa said. “You know my husband would have never approved of all this business. Other than your foray into the supernatural, professor, I think Artie would have liked you.”

“I’m sure I would have liked him too.”

“I miss him,” Elisa said, her voice breaking up, “so much.”

“I understand.”

“But wait. I could have sworn all that ruckus in the garage in the afternoon was him, my husband’s ghost. The kitchen lights turning on and off in the middle of the night when he would get those late night snacks. It had to be him. Don’t tell me all that was just the house settling.”

“Who’s to say it wasn’t Artie?”

“But your pendant. Your stone didn’t swing a single millimeter. That means there’s no spirit here at all.”

“Not anymore.”

“What happened?”

“Just some ‘voodoo mumbo jumbo.’”

Chained Down

 

The young man awoke with a start. His eyelids opened as he lay flat on his back. He squinted at the sun hanging high overhead but was wondering why it didn’t feel as warm as it should have. The ground was flat and hard, covered with dust almost like he was inexplicably at the bottom of a lake that had dried up years ago. It took more energy to get up than he had anticipated. There was a chain wrapped around his waist. It didn’t restrict his movement at all. He barely noticed it was even there until he got to his feet and felt the weight of the links of steel clinging to his waist. Try as hard as he might, the chains refused to move. It was as if they were some living entity, a steel anaconda refusing to let go of its prey.

“They ain’t budging,” a voice said from behind. “Believe me. I’ve tried.”

“Who are you?” the young man asked.

“Now, that’s a real good question. But ain’t that the darndest thing? You see, I can’t remember for the life of me.”

“Are you a cowboy or something?”

“I reckon. What about you? Do you remember who you are?”

“Well that’s a stupid question! Of course, I--” the young man paused, “actually now that you mention it I really don’t. That’s just crazy.”

“Isn’t it though?”

“So where are we?”

“At first I thought we were in Hell. There’s no denying this isn’t the world of the living. It’s a desert with no warmth, no life. I figured I was paying for some sin I had committed when I was alive. And son, I have my fair share of sins to pay for. I might not remember my name but this place doesn’t let me forget that I’m a murderer.”

“Are you serious? You’ve killed a guy?”

“I’ve killed plenty of people. I fought alongside Stonewall Jackson hisself. But that’s not the death I’m paying for, son.”

“Did you kill a guy for cheating at cards?”

“What kind of crazy person does that?! No, I killed the man who stole my family’s land. I regret it, I do. But I was a young man who let his head get hot before his heart got warm. That’s no excuse though. I made a mistake and I’m here paying for it. What about you, son? If I’m right, you’ll at least remember your sins. This place won’t let you forget.”

“I was shot. There was something in my hand. It was a paper bag; a small brown paper bag full of money. The liquor store! I robbed the corner liquor store. I guess that store owner was a better shot than I thought.”

“So you’re a thief?”

“And you’re a murderer.”

“We make a fine pair.”

“What’s the deal with these chains? I know I didn’t die with them on. They feel different.”

“Look closer at them. They’re not exactly made out of steel. At least not the same steel you or I am used to,” the murderer nodded towards the thief’s chains.

The thief saw a shadow fall on the texture of one of the links. Upon closer inspection it seemed the shadow did not fall on the link but was a part of it. A mysterious glow beckoned. The thief looked closer and there were the last moments of his life being played out like a movie. It was as if moments of his life had been captured in a chain link and used to bind him to this strange place. One was of his first big score, another of the day he stole candy on his first day of kindergarten, and each link made for every moment he had stolen something from someone. He imagined the murderer had a link for every life taken on the battlefield. Just then a wailing shook the very air.

“What the hell was that?” the murderer asked.

“You’ve been here longer than me,” the thief answered. “I was hoping you knew.”

“Well, let’s go check it out.”

The thief and the murderer found the source of the wailing. Initially, they thought it was a rock. But they found it was a mound of chains. And at the top of the mound was a head of a man. They weren’t sure that he was alive until he started moaning again.

“Are you okay?” the thief asked. The face contorted, acknowledging their presence. While the wailing stopped, this mysterious man continued to groan in discomfort. The face seemed frozen in perpetual fear.

The murderer approached this man and looked closely at one of the links in his endless length of chain. The chain seemed to consume this mysterious figure who barely resembled a man at all anymore. But if the shriveled skull sticking out of this pile of memories and steel was once human, the murderer imagined it looked like the face in the one link that caught his attention. It was a face of hope and of promise of a bright future. The eyes were both exhausted and indescribably elated. It was a look the murderer was once familiar with. This moment was the birth of his first born child.

The thief saw a link containing the memory of the same face, again happy and nervous. This person took out a velvet box and in it a diamond ring. It wasn’t anything special. There were no special inscriptions, no indication that it was a family heirloom. It was just what this man could afford. There was no special plan just him and the woman he loved. He got down on one knee and showed her the ring. Her “yes” was a mere formality to what her tear-filled eyes and stifled smile had already answered.

This contorted face seemed to melt into a kind of sadness as the murderer and the thief stepped back a bit to awe at the sheer size of the old man’s chains. The murderer nodded in an unspoken understanding as he and the thief walked away to some indefinable nowhere.

“I don’t get it,” the thief commented. “I thought these chains were our sins, our biggest regrets in life. I would have killed to have moments like that.”

“Looking at all those memories, I reckon may actually have.”

“So what’s the deal?”

“They way I see it you and I have committed sins that have cursed us into perdition or purgatory or wherever the hell we are. Those are the sins that we’re used to hearing about from preachers. But we hardly ever hear about the sins we commit to ourselves. The times we think we’re protecting ourselves but in the end just end up hurting ourselves. No, son, those ain’t sins like you and me have done. He had dedicated an entire life to a sin of regret.”

The thief and the murderer wandered the barren wasteland never once looking back at the life of a man who never was. Neither could imagine a worse hell than having to re-live, for all eternity, the dozen lives that could have been.