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Authors: Brent Hartinger

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BOOK: Grand & Humble
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The woman turned away from the front door. “It appears I am suddenly very popular with high school students,” she said, a knowing smile on her lips.

A psychic, Harlan thought from his seat on the sofa in the woman’s living room. He’d actually come to get a “spiritual reading” from a psychic. What if the press found out? His mom would be livid. She’d specifically warned him to stay away from psychics; apparently Nancy Reagan had caught hell for consulting with psychics when she was First Lady.

On the other hand, if premonitions and Ouija boards told the truth, maybe psychics did too.

“Now, where were we?” said the woman—Marilyn Swan, according to the sign in her window. “Ah, yes. Do you take lemon in your tea?” She lowered herself into a seat in front of the tea set on the coffee table.

Harlan didn’t take anything in his tea, mostly because he didn’t take tea. But he said, “Yes, please.”

“So,” she said. “Tell me how I can help you.” She had poured two cups of tea before she’d answered that knock on the front door; now she squeezed lemon into them both.

“It’s kind of complicated,” Harlan said.

“It usually is. That’s why I believe it’s always best to start at the very beginning. Sugar?”

“No, thank you.” He watched her drop a cube of sugar into her own cup and stir. “I’m sorry,” he said. “Maybe this is rude, but I can’t help asking. How did you become a spiritual reader?”

“I don’t seem like the typical psychic, is that it?”

“Not exactly.” Then, thinking that maybe he’d offended her, he added, “I’m not sure what I expected.”

She handed him his tea. “It started when my husband, Richard, died.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Thank you. My, you’re such a polite young man. Anyway, the night of the funeral, I came home and found him sitting in his favorite chair, just like usual.” She nodded to a black leather wing chair with matching footrest just opposite her. “He was as real as you are.”

“A ghost?”

“For lack of a better word. For a long time, I thought I was imagining things. And I knew what other people would say, so I didn’t dare tell anyone. But then Richard started telling me things. Things about other people, things I didn’t know but that turned out to be true.”

“He could predict the future?”

She sipped her tea. “Sometimes he sees the future, but mostly he sees the past. But you’d be surprised how, for most people, the past and the future are very much the same thing. Cookie?”

“No, thank you.”

“Anyway, it seems that in Richard’s past, he had made some rather poor business decisions. He told me about them too, even though by then it was too late to do anything about them. Before long, I was broke, or near enough. I needed to get a job, but suffice it to say that there was not a large demand for a fifty-six-year-old housewife who could not process words. Then, one day, Richard suggested that I become a spiritual reader. He said he could tell me what to say. Of course, my friends were horribly shocked. Then they heard what Richard had to say. They’re all clients now.”

“What are you saying?” Harlan said. “Richard is still here?”

“That’s right.”

“He’s here right now?”

She nodded, the knowing little smile back on her lips.

Harlan looked over at the empty wing chair, then sat upright in his own seat.

Mrs. Swan kept smiling. “People always do that. When I tell them there’s a ghost in the room, they always sit up straighter. As if somehow a ghost would expect them to have better posture.”

“I…” Harlan didn’t know what to say. Until recently, he had
always
known what to say.

“So,” Marilyn Swan said. “How can we help you?”

“We,” Harlan thought. She had actually said “we.” Was she serious? He looked at her, sipping tea and watching him.

She was certifiable. Of course she was! He hadn’t known what to expect by coming to a psychic, but it sure wasn’t taking tea with Lady Properly and her dead husband. Maybe it was like what everyone said about hot dogs—that they tasted all right, but you really didn’t want to know how they were made. Well, Harlan had seen inside Mrs. Swan’s slaughterhouse, and now he didn’t want any more of her hot dogs.

“You know,” he said, standing, “I just remembered
how much homework I have to do. I really should get going.” He reached for his wallet. “I’ll pay you for your time, of course.”

Mrs. Swan sat quietly for a moment. Then she looked up at Harlan and said, “Richard wants to know about the party.”

Harlan froze. “What?”

“A party. Something happened at a party. He says that’s the reason you’re here.”

Harlan stared at her. Had he mentioned Jerry’s party when he came in? No, he was certain he hadn’t.

He looked over at the empty wing chair. Then he put his wallet away and sat back down.

He took a sip of tea. Finally he said, softly, “It was a Ouija board. It spelled something.” He wasn’t sure where to look—at Mrs. Swan or the wing chair. So he looked down at his feet. Then he told Mrs. Swan what the Ouija board had spelled.
H
2
O danger Tub.

“I’m a swimmer,” he went on. “And I have a swim meet on Wednesday. At Harriet Tubman High School. I think that’s what the Ouija board was talking about.” He looked up at her at last. “What’s going to happen if I go to that swim meet?”

Mrs. Swan was quiet for a moment; then she nodded, though Harlan wasn’t sure if she was nodding at
him or her husband. “As I said, Richard’s forte isn’t necessarily the future. Besides, he usually doesn’t put much stock in Ouija boards.”

“‘Usually’? What about when things aren’t usual?”

Mrs. Swan smiled. “Richard likes you. He thinks you’re smart.”

“Mrs. Swan, please.”

She listened to Richard, then said, “Dark forces, just like people say. Evil spirits from foul dimensions. But for such a force to inhabit this world, to speak through a Ouija board, it must be connected to a person. These dark forces need our essences to be anchored here; otherwise they get swept back to where they came from. So they attach to our souls. Sort of spiritual stowaways. But they can only attach to a wounded or confused soul—someone who is so disoriented, he or she doesn’t recognize the presence of the dark force alongside his or her own. For a dark force to have spoken to you through a Ouija board, it would have to be connected to you.”

Harlan waited for her to say the rest: that there was no dark force connected to him. Because that’s what she meant, right? His soul wasn’t “wounded” or “confused.” But if that’s what she meant, why wasn’t she saying it?

“Anyway,” Mrs. Swan said. “This isn’t the beginning.
Richard thinks we should start at the beginning.”

So Harlan took a breath and told her—them?—about the premonitions: about the choking, the drowning, and all the rest. And about how he’d seen an image of himself being hit by a vehicle, and then how a bus had almost run him over at the corner of Grand and Humble.

“So one premonition
did
come true—or almost,” Mrs. Swan said. “But the premonitions haven’t stopped.”

“Yes,” Harlan said. That was it exactly.

“But that’s not the beginning,” Mrs. Swan said.

“What isn’t?”

“The premonitions. That’s not when all this really began. It began before the premonitions. With an accident.”

“What kind of accident? I haven’t been in any accident.”

“Long ago.”

Harlan thought for a second. When he was twelve, he’d had a big wipeout on his skateboard. But he was sure that wasn’t what she was talking about.

“In the water,” Mrs. Swan said.

Harlan perked up. “Water?”
H
2
O danger Tub!
“But that’s what the Ouija board said! That I’m in danger if I go to that swim meet!”

“As I mentioned,” Mrs. Swan said, “the past and the future are often one and the same. They can also be very hard to distinguish. Especially for a soul in turmoil.”

“What are you saying? That my soul is confused?” He didn’t say out loud the rest of what he was thinking: that if his soul was confused, then there
could
be dark forces stowing away on his essence!

She tilted her head, listening. “Richard says there was an accident in the water. It wasn’t your fault, but you almost died. And that’s when things started to go wrong.”

“Wrong? What do you mean?”

“Your life’s road. Your spiritual direction. You’ve been led astray, to a dead end. That’s why you see death. You’re doomed to repeat the tragedy of the past until you get back on the right spiritual road.”

“What road? What tragedy?”

“Stop it!” Mrs. Swan almost shouted. “I’m sorry,” she said to Harlan, more softly but perspiring. “You’re both talking at once. It’s confusing me.”

Harlan waited breathlessly for her to speak again, for her to tell him how Richard thought he could get back on the right spiritual road. But instead of speaking, Mrs. Marilyn Swan reached for a cookie from the plate in front of her.

That was when Harlan knew: she was a fraud after all. It was the cookie that had done it. Here she was, supposedly all flustered from the different “voices,” and she’d reached for a cookie? A drink of tea he would have bought—some liquid to soothe her ragged throat. But people didn’t eat in the midst of a real emotional disturbance.

He thought about all that she had told him so far. That something happened at a party? That could have been a lucky guess; good-looking teenagers like Harlan were always going to parties. And since parties meant lots of people, that meant lots of chances for her to stumble upon some important interaction of his. Then there was the “accident in the water.” How vague was that? And besides, he’d just told her what the Ouija board had spelled out.

H
2
O danger Tub.

She had just taken the little bit of information he’d given her, rearranged it, and repeated it back to him to make it sound like she was saying something real.

Her act had been a good one—especially the bit with her serving tea, and the dead husband. And she’d performed it impressively—well enough for it to be worth the price he would pay for it, to tell the truth. He had almost been convinced. But it
had
been an act. He was sure of that now. At least he had realized the truth before she had made him do something stupid—or bilked him out of a lot of money.

“That’s funny,” Mrs. Swan said to herself. She still hadn’t taken a bite of the cookie in her hand.

“What is?” Harlan asked.

“Richard is gone.” She dropped the cookie back on the plate; it landed with a clink and broke into pieces. Then she glanced around the room. “Richard?”

“Maybe he stepped out for a minute,” Harlan said, starting to stand again. “And I think that I should—”

“You don’t understand. Richard has never left before!” Her eyes had gone wild; her jaw had become a junction of creases and tremors.

She was an incredible actress. She should be doing theater, Harlan thought, except it probably didn’t pay as well.

Suddenly Mrs. Swan stood up from her chair. Her leg caught the corner of the tea tray, knocking it over. Nothing broke, but everything spilled—milk, tea, and sugar, all over the carpet.

“Mrs. Swan?”

She didn’t say a word. She ignored the spilled tea and milk, just let it soak into the carpet. She stood there, hunched down and glaring around the room
like a cat before an earthquake.

“What is it?”

“There’s something here with us!” she hissed. “Not Richard!”

Harlan smiled. Here it goes. There were “dark forces” stowing away on his “confused” soul after all. And of course only Mrs. Swan was going to be able to banish them—for a not inconsequential price, of course. He marveled at how cleverly it had all been set up.

But to Harlan’s surprise, she didn’t ask him for money. Instead, she said, “You must go!” Without waiting for a response, she stepped closer to him but stopped short, like she was afraid to actually touch him. “Please! You must leave!”

“Wait,” Harlan said. “Don’t you have something to banish the dark forces?”

“What? No! Now go!”

“But the money I owe you—”

“No! Just go! And please don’t come back!”

“Don’t come back”? Harlan thought. But if he didn’t come back, how was she going to scam him out of his money?

“Mrs. Swan…?”

Now she
was
touching him, roughly, prodding him toward the door but still trying to keep her hands off
him as much as possible, like she had just learned he had leprosy. “Go!” she said. “You must go!”

Okay, now he was confused. What sort of con
was
this? Did she ruin her carpet for all her dupes? Was she able to conjure up such a convincing fear in her eyes for everyone?

They reached the door, and she threw it open. “I’m sorry!” she said. Even before he could respond, she tried to push him through.

He caught himself on the doorframe. “Wait!” he said. “At least tell me what to do! To get rid of the dark forces? I’ll do anything you want!” This was what she wanted, right? For him to plead with her? For him to be willing to spend any amount of money? Because this
was
all a con; it had to be! Because if it wasn’t—

Mrs. Swan shoved him through the door.

“Mrs. Swan—”

She slammed the door in his face.

Manny stood in the bridge of the original U.S. starship
Enterprise
. The door had just swooshed closed behind him.

“Captain.” Mr. Spock spoke to Manny from his place at the science officer’s station. “I’m picking up some kind of large astral body up ahead.”

“On-screen,” Manny said, crossing to the captain’s chair, where he took his seat. But as he sat, something crunched underneath him. He stood up again and looked down to see that he’d crushed a pair of wire-rim spectacles.

He ignored the spectacles and glanced up at the viewscreen, which now revealed a large swath of deep space. In the middle of the screen was a great ice-encrusted asteroid barreling right at them.

“I don’t like the look of
that!
” Dr. McCoy said
from a seat next to Manny’s.

“According to my calculations,” Mr. Spock said, “we are on a direct collision course with the asteroid.”

“Evasive maneuvers, Mr. Sulu,” Manny said.

Mr. Sulu, sitting at the helm, punched helplessly at the controls. “I’m sorry, Captain,” he said. “The controls are not responding.” He sniffed the air. “Does anyone else smell gasoline?”

Manny hit a button in the armrest of the captain’s chair; it activated an intercom to the Engine Room. “Dad?” he said. “Are you there?”

There was no answer.

“Dad!”

“Engine Room here,” said a voice. It was a man, but it was definitely not his father.

“You’re not my dad,” Manny said.

“Yes, I am,” said the voice.

“No, you’re not!”

“Captain,” Mr. Spock said. “Logic would dictate that it does not matter at this point whether the man in the Engine Room is your actual genetic forebear.”

Manny agreed. “We’ve lost control of the helm!” he said to the Engine Room. “Can you get us back online?”

There was a moment’s hesitation. Then the voice
said, “No.” And with that, Manny and the U.S.S.
Enterprise
slammed right into the ice-encrusted asteroid.

 

So did you talk to him?
Elsa signed eagerly.

Manny nodded.

And?
Elsa said.
What did he say?

That he couldn’t get the helm back online, Manny thought. And as a result, we’d crashed into the ice-encrusted asteroid. Oh, Manny remembered, and he also wasn’t my dad.

He and Elsa were standing in the hallway before class. Manny had another headache, and his eyesight was as blurry as ever. But Elsa was staring at him, waiting for an answer.

He was even weirder than before
, Manny said.
There’s definitely something he’s not telling me. I think it’s something that happened to me as a kid.

What makes you think that?

A feeling. But I’m sure of it.

So that’s it! The movie’s off!
Suddenly, Elsa’s signs were fast and wide.

Why?

Because now we have a new project: we have to find out what happened to you when you were a kid!

Really?
Manny said.

Are you kidding? Now I’m just as curious as you!

 

The stairs still creaked on the way down to the basement. But this time Manny wasn’t dreading what was at the bottom of those stairs; this time he was eager to get to the bottom—of the stairs, and of whatever the hell it was that was causing his nightmares.

Why down here?
Elsa signed at the base of the stairs.
Why not start looking in your dad’s bedroom?

It’s just another feeling I have
, Manny said.
I think there’s something down here—a clue or something
.

In the light of the bare bulb overhead, they stared at all the clutter piled haphazardly up against the concrete walls—folding chairs, an old sewing machine, the croquet set, lawn furniture, a table leaf, a computer monitor, and several shopping bags full of wire coat hangers. There were also plenty of cardboard boxes.

Neither Manny nor Elsa said anything for a second. A big brown spider darted across the floor, a nimble cluster of long legs desperate for shelter from the light. But halfway across the concrete, the spider stopped, and Manny realized that it was hunting, not running, and that it had captured some kind of prey.

It’s hard to look for something when you don’t know
what you’re looking for
, Elsa signed.

You’re not kidding
, Manny said.

Since he had to start somewhere, he knelt down in front of the closest cardboard box. He opened it and found it was full of snapshots, which seemed promising. They were all still in the envelopes from the developing lab (his dad couldn’t afford a digital camera). But what was Manny supposed to do now—sort through them all?

Look, it’s our Egyptian sarcophagus!
Elsa was pointing to a rounded wooden casket standing upright in one corner of the basement. Its gold paint and colorful Egyptian imagery had been dulled by time and dust, but it was still an impressive sight.
Remember when we found it at that theater’s old prop sale? We
have
to use it in a movie!

Manny looked down at the photos in the cardboard box. The envelopes all came from the same developing lab—the same place that his dad had been taking their film ever since they’d moved to town thirteen years ago. There weren’t any unfamiliar envelopes—which meant that there weren’t any photos more than thirteen years old either, baby pictures or the like.

Where
did
his dad keep those? Now that he thought about it, he couldn’t remember
ever
seeing a
picture of himself as a baby. Was that possible? It couldn’t be the case that his dad hadn’t taken any photos of him; he always took lots of photos.

Elsa’s gesticulating hands caught his attention again.
Look at this!
she was saying. She’d found her and Manny’s papier-mâché dinosaur from the sixth grade—a six-foot-long blue
Brontosaurus
with a long, sweeping neck.
Do you remember how much work this was? It was this stupid neck! Remember how it kept breaking? We’d finish it, get it all dried and painted, and then it would break. See? It’s broken now. It’s your fault. I wanted to make a
Tyrannosaurus rex!

Everyone wanted to make a
Tyrannosaurus rex,” Manny signed to her. He opened another box and saw it contained kitchen utensils—measuring cups and spoons, wire whisks, a scum-encrusted blender—and an old-fashioned jack-in-the-box. So much for his dad’s organizational skills.

This was such a disappointment,
Elsa went on, still meaning the dinosaur.
When you’re a kid, nothing ever turns out as good as you imagine.

Manny spotted an old seaman’s chest up against the wall near Elsa. He was pretty sure it was full of winter clothes—snow pants, wool socks, stuff like that—but he wanted to make sure.

He motioned to Elsa.
Try that chest, would you?

But she wasn’t watching him now. She’d found a cardboard box of her own.
It’s the decorations from our haunted house!
she signed, barely looking at him.
Remember trying to figure out how to turn those wig-rests into decapitated heads? Paint kept dissolving the Styrofoam. We ended up using my mom’s makeup, right?

Elsa!
he repeated.
That chest?

And here’s our skeleton!
she went on.
We had to mail-order this, didn’t we? But it sure looked good. Imagine if we’d had to use one of those paper skeletons!

Manny walked over to her and yanked her sleeve.
Forget the
damn
Halloween decorations! Would you remember why we’re here?

She stared at him like he’d slapped her. He hadn’t said anything out loud, but he’d yelled at her all the same. He had never been so angry with her before, and he knew the anger was still right there on his face.

Elsa was so surprised that her face lost all expression. Looking at her now reminded him of staring into a deep lake whose surface had suddenly stilled so he could see all the way to the bottom. There were strange shapes down there, confusing forms—feelings of Elsa’s that Manny didn’t know were there and, even now, he couldn’t quite identify.

I’m sorry,
she said quickly, her hands uncharacter
istically clumsy.
Manny, I’m really sorry!
As fast as it had calmed, the surface of the lake had rippled over again. To tell the truth, Manny was glad that the clear view into her soul was gone.

He shook his head.
No, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have snapped at you. I’m not sure why I did
. Where
had
that anger come from? It had popped up out of nowhere like—well, like a jack-in-the-box.

He walked back to the cardboard box to look at the toy nestled in with the kitchen utensils. It was a wooden jack-in-the-box with a dulled brass crank. Each side of the box had been carved and painted with a different letter—a blue “M,” for example, and a red “H.”

It was his. He used to play with it as a boy. He hadn’t seen it for years, had forgotten all about it. But it was coming back to him now. There was something unusual that popped up from inside—not a clown, something else.

It wasn’t surprising that his dad had saved his old jack-in-the-box. From the look of it, it was pretty valuable. Besides, his dad saved everything—every snapshot, every kitchen utensil, even every wire coat hanger, apparently. Except that wasn’t quite true, was it? He hadn’t saved any of Manny’s other toys. No baby pictures, and no toys.

He looked around the basement and saw he was right. And it wasn’t just toys. His dad hadn’t saved any evidence of Manny’s early years at all—no trike, no crib, no bassinet. Nothing from before their move thirteen years ago. It was as if Manny had never
been
a baby, as if he’d crawled almost fully formed from some kind of pod. What was that about? Manny knew the answer his dad would give: he’d thrown everything away when they’d moved thirteen years ago.

Except for the jack-in-the-box. It was beautiful—a work of art. Hand-carved, no doubt.

Elsa watched him watching it.
What is it?
she asked.

I’m not sure
, he signed. He reached for the toy.

It was heavier than he expected. He needed to turn the crank. If he could get the thing to open, see the inside, then he’d know—not just what was inside the jack-in-the-box, but maybe also whatever it was that had happened to him as a child that was causing his nightmares.

And yet he hesitated before turning the crank. Did he want to know the truth or not?

There was a creak at the top of the stairs. “Manny? Are you down there?”

His dad!
He’d come home! How had Manny not heard him come in? He’d been distracted, first by Elsa, then by the jack-in-the-box.

“Yeah,” he said, not loudly, not softly. “I’m here.” The door was open and the light was on, so it wasn’t like he could lie.

Manny heard footsteps—loud ones, more urgent than they should have been. The stairs didn’t squeak now; they trembled. Manny stood up, still holding the jack-in-the-box. Without thinking, he slipped the toy behind his back.

Halfway down the steps, his dad said, “What are you doing down here?” It was more than a question, but not quite an accusation. He stopped when he saw Elsa, but he didn’t greet her yet. No, he wanted an answer from Manny.

Manny needed a lie, and he needed one quick.

“Going through our stuff,” he said, mustering up all the innocence he could manage. “Why wouldn’t I? Didn’t you say that we’re taking it all to Goodwill?” Realizing how stiff he looked trying to hide the jack-in-the-box behind his back, Manny forced himself to relax.

At the bottom of the stairs now, his dad looked at him, then glanced quickly around the basement. When he didn’t see anything out of the ordinary, he finally looked at Elsa and smiled, saying, “Hi, Elsa.”

Hello
, Elsa signed.

His dad looked back at Manny, thinking. Then he
smiled again, as if he’d made up his mind about something.

“What?” Manny said.

His dad shook his head. “Nothing. I’ll make dinner.” And he turned for the steps.

As his dad started climbing back up the steps, Manny looked down at the jack-in-the-box, which he’d pulled part of the way out from behind his back. He could hardly wait for his dad to leave so he could open it up.

But at that exact second, a third of the way up the stairs, his dad suddenly turned back around. “Manny, did you happen to—?” He stopped, eyes locked on Manny—and on whatever it was he was holding down at his side. “What do you have there?”

“What?” Manny said. Suddenly it was deer-in-the-headlights time. It would only make things worse to now try to hide the jack-in-the-box again; on the other hand, he still didn’t want to show his dad what he’d found. So he just stood there, frozen, looking tense and very, very guilty. “It’s nothing,” Manny said, trying—now unsuccessfully—to sound casual. “Just something I found in one of these boxes.”

“What
is
it?” his dad said. He was trying hard to sound casual too, but he wasn’t any more convincing than Manny had been.

And already he was starting down the creaking stairs.

Manny had no choice but to show his dad the jack-in-the-box. “It’s a toy,” Manny said. “I found it in with the kitchen stuff.”

His dad stopped in front of Manny, eyes on the jack-in-the-box like it was a ticking time bomb about to explode.

“Can I see it?” his dad said.

“Huh?” Manny said. “Oh, I guess.” He handed it over, forcing himself to do it nonchalantly.

“Hey!” his dad said, holding the toy. “I just got a great idea!”

Right then, Manny knew he would never hold that jack-in-the-box, or even see it, ever again.

“What?” Manny said meekly.

“I can donate this old jack-in-the-box to the silent auction! I mean, it’s in great shape. And it’s obviously a classic. It just needs a little restoring.”

“But—” Manny knew there was nothing he could say. Even if he protested—if he told his dad he wanted to save the jack-in-the-box because it was the only childhood toy he had left—his dad would just say something about how important it was for the charity. No matter what Manny said, his dad was taking that jack-in-the-box. He couldn’t even tell him
to hold on a minute, ask his dad to let him turn the crank just one last time. His dad wouldn’t let him. He would make some excuse. And Manny couldn’t go to the silent auction and turn the crank either, because it wouldn’t be there. That jack-in-the-box was being swept out of his life forever, and there was nothing whatsoever Manny could do about it.

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