Mists of the Miskatonic (Mist of the Miskatonic Book 1) (26 page)

              “I see,” he said.

The fortuneteller sighed, and looked at the stack of documents. “Are you going to question me about every vision I’ve had?”

“We might,” Walden said. He opened another spiral-ring notebook read the title. “
Comes Together
. Did you write this one also?”

“Of course,” she said.

“The FBI is not portrayed in a positive light in this story. Government cover up, oppression of indigenous people. At some point it feels like sedition,” Walden said. “Almost treason. If you had set out to write a work of fiction designed to create doubt in the minds of citizens, I don’t think you could have done any better.  It’s almost un-American.”

              Jaelle stared. “Treason for a work of fiction? Almost treason is like almost pregnant. You don’t believe in my gift anyway, so good luck convicting me in a court of law.”

              “Treason for writing and distributing seditious materials designed to undermine and overthrow the United States Government. Materials that, if distributed, could foment unrest in the places like the Middle East. The Patriot Act allows us to detain you indefinitely, without trial. I don’t think you realize how tenuous your position is. While the climate at Guantanamo Bay is tropical, I think you would have a hard time fitting in.”

              “I can’t believe this,” the fortuneteller said.

              “Your vision. Story. Has the government covering up the end of the world. The FBI engaging in the attempted murder of local law enforcement. The Catholic Church, even. You can’t believe it. I can’t believe it.” Walden leaned back and chortled. “You are about out of time. Say hello to the boys at Gitmo for me when you get there.”

              “The flow of reality is dictated by forces beyond our imaginations, Agent Walden. Their appetite for destruction knows no bounds. The membrane between our flimsy reality, and the untold terrors lurking in the dark, show themselves to the sensitive. Whether you believe it or not, or are willing to believe it or not is irrelevant. I can’t explain why the Nameless City or its half-dead denizens have not been found by modern archeologists. I can’t explain how we survived the end of 2012, when all the ancient prophecies said we wouldn’t. Why when Hitler tried to scour the Jews and the Gypsies from Europe, my Grandmother was lucky enough to stow away on a crowded boat that landed at Ellis Island. Was it divine intervention, or some other force at work we don’t understand? Is it just freak luck based on the fleeting decisions of mortals? What I do know is I see the possibilities in my dreams, and I write them in these notebooks,” she said. “My gift is real, just like the cascade of realities that I see. Why one comes to pass and one other doesn’t, I can’t explain. That is a gift I do not possess. When the child floats that stick down the stream, the currents tug at it. It can only go one way, even though there are a thousand possibilities.”

              “Miskatonic University is in Arkham, Massachusetts. Essex County, near the Miskatonic River.  The librarian I talked to on the phone said that they had never heard of a book called
The Necronomicon
,” Walden said.  “Maybe your book is lost to time.  Lost in the mists of the Miskatonic.”  

              “What if we put your powers to the test,” Marsh croaked as he pulled a crystal from his pocket. He stared at Jaelle. “See if you can do an accurate reading on Agent Walden here. Prove to us you have the gift and we will let you go.”

              “I’m not a clown,” she said to Marsh. “I don’t perform just for your amusement.”

              He continued to ogle as he opened another notebook and read the title. “
Red Ruins
. Looks like your writing again.”

              “It is,” she said.

“I am amazed you have any visions of Americans on Mars. Given the state of NASA, shrinking budgets, unclear mission focus, lack of support, I find this last story most preposterous,” Walden stated emotionlessly. “NASA’s mission is to trump phony global warming data and build self-esteem for third world countries. We don’t even have working shuttle programs. You could take the A and S out of NASA and it would make more sense right now.”

“A possible reality, in the future,” she repeated. “Not all of them will come to pass.”

“We have never seen anything that would indicate ruins or indigenous life on Mars,” the FBI agent scoffed. “Pretty far out stuff.”

“I don’t ever remember the story indicating the Mi-Go is indigenous to Mars,” she retorted.

Agent Marsh laid the crystal on the table he had held. “Your crystal. Take it and show us.”

Jaelle took the crystal in her hand and reached out to Agent Walden. He smirked and held out his hand, and she grasped it. She concentrated and clasped the crystal tightly.

“I see a young boy. A house on a quiet cul-de-sac in a small town. Hot summers. I see cactus and yucca. It’s dusty. Dry. I see Arizona? No. New Mexico. Right on the border. There is an arroyo, filled with brackish water. It is turgid, warm, and winds through a neighborhood. A fence, but the gate hangs loose, off its hinges. The young boy and his older brother ignore the warning signs, and swim in the warm waters. The young boy dives and hits his head on a motorbike submerged in the arroyo. The bike was stolen and abandoned in the canal. I feel a pain in my neck, intense. I heard the bones crack, feel my legs and arms go numb. The water is heavy, it burns in my lungs. He broke his neck. His older brother cannot find him in the muddy water, he searches fruitlessly. His parents blame him for the death…”

Walden pulled his hand away and stood. “Ok, that’s enough. I’ve heard enough.”

Marsh looked on. “Is there a problem, Agent?”

“She just had some lucky guesses, that’s all. I don’t believe in your gifts, Ms. Mircea. You may read people well, but that’s it. Excuse me.” The FBI agent slowly backed out of the room as he glowered at the gypsy. “A stopped clock is right twice a day.”

“Interesting,” Marsh said. “A reaction I did not expect.”

“It would be tough to carry the burden through life. That you feel responsible for killing your own brother,” she said, sadly. “It was not his fault, but he has never come to grips with it. It was just a freak accident.”

Marsh pulled another notebook from the stack. “This story interested me. Partly because you didn’t finish it, but partly because it intersects with your own history. I assume, somewhere in one of the boxes from your house is the second part of this.”

“That would be correct,” Jaelle said.

“Well, let me ask about this one,” the unblinking Homeland Security Agent said stoically. He opened the notebook and read the title. “
Sturmbannführer
. That’s German.”

“Yes. It means Major,” Jaelle said. “Military rank.”

Marsh closed the notebook, and then sighed. “You watch
Indiana Jones
movies a lot, Jaelle? What does Ph'nglui mglw'nafh Cthulhu R'lyeh wgah'nagl fhtagn mean? What language is that?”

“I don’t know the language. It means in his house at R’lyeh dead, Cthulhu waits dreaming. The god of the statue. And these are the visions of what was, or what could have been. I am not always privy to the flow of history, if the vision is actually accurate. What I wrote was accurate, in that time line,” she said. “I don’t interpret my dreams. I just document what I see and how the parts were played. It’s also possible events transpire as I dreamed, but we are just not aware of them.”

“An interesting conundrum, given your own family history in the extermination camps,” Marsh said, his eyes transfixed. He set another notebook on the table. “It makes me wonder if these dreams are predicated on your own subconscious issues. The loss of your grandfather, maybe? I have the sequel in the stack. We need to read it. See who in Germany ends up with your statue.”

“You will believe what you will, Mr. Marsh.” She shifted in her seat. “Read whatever you want. My answers stay the same.”

Agent Marsh reached for the crystal on the table. He accidently brushed her hand and she recoiled quickly. Her mind was flooded with images, and she felt doom, submerged under icy water. In the back of her mind the ocean roared.

“You…no,” she whispered as she backed away from the table. “You have it. The look.”

He smirked. “I don’t have the foggiest idea what you are talking about. What is the look?”

“The Innsmouth look. You know more than you let on,” she murmured. Her body was numb, her brain drowned in visions of frigid oceans. “You are one of them. I know what you are.”

“I am from Innsmouth, Massachusetts. But what do you mean the look? I don’t understand. Are you all right, Miss Mircea?”

Jaelle began to scream hysterically until a man entered with a syringe and ended it.

Walden walked through the white corridors of the West Seattle Psychiatric Hospital. It looked and smelled hospital clean. The odor of industrial disinfectant permeated his nostrils. Overhead the air conditioner hummed, the faint sound carried through vents. Somewhere distant music echoed, faintly through the hallways. Ahead of him was a desk, his destination: the nurses’ station.

The station was a half circle, topped with industrial white linoleum counters. Two nurses with nametags sat quietly. One was an attractive, blond haired woman, the other a young man with dark, close cut hair. They flipped charts and scribbled notes. The FBI Agent pulled out his wallet and showed his credentials.

“Your patient, Jaelle Mircea is in our custody. How is she doing?”

The two nurses looked at each other. The female nurse fumbled with a folder that sat in front of her. “She is on a lot of medications right now, Mister Walden,” the male nurse said.

“Can she answer questions?” he asked.

“She is pretty out of it. Communicative, but a lot of it is ranting. A lot of complaining about no Diet Coke. Good luck if you want to speak with her.” The nurse took a drink from a mug, and then sat it down. The Agent could smell coffee.

“What kind of medications?” Walden asked.

The female nurse looked at the file, and then read from the chart. “200 milligrams of Clozapine, twice a day. That is an anti-psychotic. 150 milligrams of Burpropion HCL XL twice a day. That is an anti-depressant. Also Trazadone, 150 milligrams at bedtime to help for sleep, Xanex .5 milligrams three times a day for anxiety, and Lamotrigine 100 milligrams daily as an anticonvulsant to help counter the side effects of the antipsychotics.”

“That’s a lot of meds,” Walden said emotionlessly. “Is that normal?”

“Pretty standard load for schizophrenia, anxiety and depression. Maybe a bit heavy, but she is out there,” the nurse said. She then shut the file. “I don’t think questioning her will do any good. She’s talking pretty crazy. Ranting at times. Visual and auditory hallucinations.”

“Thank you for the information,” he said. Walden walked down another sterile corridor, detoured to the soda machine, then up some stairs. Another hallway on the second floor led to where two Seattle Police officers waited outside a door. He showed his credentials and they allowed him to pass.

The small room was bare, carpeted in low institutional blue. The walls were plain white trimmed with a light blue. A thin, horizontal window of double-paned safety glass allowed a view of gray clouds. A small, nondescript laminated nightstand sat beside a hospital bed. On the nightstand was a covered plastic cup with a straw, filled with a clear liquid. A simple chair sat near the door. Jaelle’s right wrist was cuffed to the bed.

She stared out the sliver of a window at the sky. Her eyes were vacant, her face emotionless. Her dark hair was disheveled, her lack of makeup noticeable. Around her wrist was a bracelet that identified her to the hospital staff.

“Good afternoon, Jaelle. I apologize for leaving our interview so suddenly yesterday. It was very rude of me to walk out like that,” Walden said quietly, then set a Diet Coke on the table. “I came by to see if you needed anything. We got off on what felt like the wrong foot. I just want information, to know more about your visions. Your writings.”

She laughed and sobbed at the same time, an odd outburst. “My life was fine until Homeland Security decided my writings were seditious. Decided that my dreams were a threat to the future of the country. I had a successful business, clients, and a tidy little home. Who knows what I will return to?”

The Agent pulled the chair close to the bed. Jaelle tried to reach across to get the soda. She couldn’t get to it. He opened it, handed it to her and she drank it dry. She cradled the empty can and stared at it.

“Is this good cop, bad cop?” the Fortune Teller asked. “If it is, it’s pretty obvious.”

“Nope. We just want to clear this as quickly as we can. Homeland Security is pretty paranoid after the last couple of years. Boston, Benghazi, and Iraq. No one wants any more mistakes or the appearance of cover-ups,” he said. “This is about a bureaucratic backlog.”

“I’m sorry about your brother,” she whispered. “Sometimes the visions come so fast that I don’t think about what I am saying. I’m sorry I upset you.”

“It was unprofessional of me to get upset like that. Normally, I wouldn’t admit that. But this investigation has taken some odd twists and turns. I believe that you have a gift.” Walden looked out the window at the gray clouds above. A prophecy of rain: an easy divination to make in Seattle. “It’s something I thought was dealt with a long time ago. It wasn’t my fault that motorcycle was in the irrigation ditch. But, I was the big brother. It was my job to protect him. I didn’t do my job. In a way, this job now is a lot like being a brother. To protect those who are innocent.”