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Prayers to Sheos
The beach house was reportedly owned by an old mobster that hadn’t used it in five years, and what’s more, he rarely rented it out to others. For a while, I thought there was something fairly silly about the idea of squatting in a place like Hilton Head Island, South Carolina, but as we drove through the night and into much of the day I started to warm up to the idea, until suddenly I was certain that nothing could go wrong. Don’t you hate sayings like that?
It played out like a horror movie, the family members falling to the spirits of the house with no real provocation on their part. The three storeys of luxurious, high-ceilinged rooms were the perfect place to squander a number of days, weeks, or months. That is, unless one was to squander such an allotted amount of time at the same instance two gods were betting on this house for sanctuary. We didn’t know why they were there, or who they were, but these questions and their answers were arbitrary. What everything boiled down to when they showed up with their beach umbrellas and Igloo coolers was that this was our home on the beach, in a manner of speaking, thinking, whatever, and we were of the mind to keep it that way, by any means. In the billiards room: The pool table’s pocket tassels hung suspended above the floor, reflected in the shine of the brown Formica panels. The television filled with static, but there was no sound, not unless the woman of the room got close to you. The wine rack, which held a capacity of five bottles, was filled with the best brands and years. The sink just below the wine rack caught leaking water from the stainless steel faucet. The couch facing the big screen was comfy, sinking everyone that sat onto its cushions into a realm of pure laziness. The lighting of the room was dim with the exception of the muted white noise on the screen. All the light bulbs, a meager five for the entire room, were muffled to a candle’s glow. The corners of the room were lost to shadow, which provided her camouflage to watch, unopposed. The air was cold. Breaths came out misty. With the darkness and the limited visibility and the cold, the whole scene was unsettling—a real air conditioned nightmare.
Dear Sheos, I have lived a tormented life, unable to make any decisions, and have decided upon suicide. Do you think this is a good idea? Man from Iowa
Man, One less prayer sounds good to me, but since you asked, I guess I should cough up the facts. The chance that someone like you will actually succeed in committing suicide is very slim. Such a commitment to indecision sticks to your little soul thing, if you’re not careful. People of your countenance will shoot themselves in such a way that they become vegetables. They jump from rooftops, only to bust their heads, or break their spines, and become instantly paralyzed. These types spirits are so used to staying in the limbo of conviction, they don’t want to choose between life or death, so instead, they find ways to keep from both. So there you have it: The truth. Now what are you going to do?
The woman in the billiards room had the tell-tale signs of a debutant suicide. Beautiful maroon dress. Drippy mascara-stained tear trails. Smeared lipstick streaks. A makeshift sheet-noose. Crazy tangles of chocolate brown hair, some curling down, some in thick, matted clumps. That crazy, faintly recognizable torment harbored in her eyes, most mistook for rage—though both emotional bursts, in their purest form, react to people in about the same way: both want to be shared.
Dear Sheos, I have arthritis. Evan – Douglasville, Florida
Evan, Sucks to be you. Better luck next time.
There were three others before the billiard room belle. The guest apartment sat atop the house, and used the large roof like a patio deck, complete with a self-contained hammock, a grill, a table and chairs. Frosted glass panels attached themselves to the railing with a decidedly modern effect, save for one panel that had been broken though by one of the uncles in the family. Late one night, he was thrown from his guest apartment bed by a ghost that went by some ominous mob moniker, such as Knuckles, and then he was dragged out onto the porch and skidded off the side of the house, glass shards following the whole way down. He was the first kill. Unfortunately, the family considered him suicidal to begin with. So, his death drop was chalked up to his own tendencies--the phrase “I should have seen it coming” was spoken a number of times. And even after this, they stayed. So two more were brought forth. One in the pool, a little boy, and one in the kitchen, an old man. The pool boy’s skin had a greenish-blue tint to it that kept him hidden against the vinyl floor. His eyes were whiter than a blind man’s and his tongue was a purple slug. His hair was thin and flowing, green with chlorine, waving back and forth like a patch of helpless seaweed. The man in the kitchen looked older than the house itself. His skin dripped into his skeletal frame, making craters all over his body. He was a Swiss cheese man, and had an ingrained need to throw things from the shelves and drawers of the kitchen. Though no one was hurt from this, everyone was inconvenienced. The boy, on the other hand, had a certain attraction to other little boys. He took a liking to two children in particular, and kept them down with him for a little too long.
Dear Sheos, Dear Abby says no, but I wanted a second opinion-- Garshner Xeronomous, 85
That bitch has the biggest deity complex I’ve ever seen. What makes her so special that she can answer the great mysteries of the cheating spouse, the abusive workplace, or my favorite, the disobedient child? Answer: Not a goddamned thing. The woman’s life is as fake as her confidence, her miracles are all smoke, mirrors and sound editing, and yet you people keep feeding her with faith, hoping that all she says is more than sugar coated excrement. If I ever decide to take control of this backward world, all Abbey worshippers (Abbeists, if you will) will have cigarettes flicked in their general vicinity and be sneezed upon while their clothes are used as snot rags. That goes especially for you, Garsh. Pick a side.
The house was filled with these kinds of spirits. Apparently, the old mob man had been very busy in his younger days, and the house retained all the memories like a flash imprint. There could have been one ghost in every room, possibly two, but, to great protest, only one more was summoned. And she took residence in the billiard room. There was so much certainty that the unwanted family of vacationers wouldn’t return after what had happened in the pool, but “Just to be sure” and “Come on, no one will come back anyway” and “You worry too much” came out of his mouth with such conviction that to believe otherwise sounded unimaginable.
She kept herself hidden while I shot pool in the low illumination. Maybe she didn’t know what to make of me, or maybe she knew exactly what to make of me. Either way, I could feel her eyes on the back of my neck. I had tried talking to her, telling her she wouldn’t be here for very long, asking her to tell me how or why she ended up the way she had, but all I got was the intense stare from her vein-burst eyes. Ghosts were hard to talk to in any case, for both mortals and for gods, but the troubled spirits were the ones that flat out ignored every word spoken around them. They were all in their own heads, seeing the outside world as it was when they were alive, and lashing out on what they felt was the cause of their pain: the living.
Dear Sheos, According to Marx, religion is the opiate of the masses. If you’re a demigod, are you a drug? If so, which one? What effect do you have on the masses? Birdman, 36
Harvey, Does heroin know that it’s heroin? Cocaine, cocaine? I think not. For me to tell you what drug I am or what effect I’ve had on my believers, would constitute that I’ve looked in on the people praying to me, when the truth is I could care less about you, and the deeper you fall into your confusion, the happier I’ll be. That said, I can speculate. I’d like to think I’m some kind of hallucinogenic, like ecstasy. Something that makes you feel walls and kiss sidewalks because they look so sweet and drippy. On the other hand, being an Aspirin wouldn’t be all that bad. At least I’d be useful. In any case, I wouldn’t put a lot of stock in the words of Marx. He’s also the one that said “Dogs can’t look up.” Or was that Big Al? I’m always getting those two confused.
The door opened at the same moment I sunk the fourteen-ball into the left, corner pocket. He popped his head in and froze when he saw me, then he came in with an attitude. “Who are you?” he asked. His long, dirty blonde hair swished in his face and he brushed it out of his vision. He was not a man, more an older boy, a teenager, full of youthful strength and fire and all those other things one may comment upon. His small frame was covered in muscle. He was surely an athlete; a football player, perhaps. “Why are you in this house? Is that your... uh, car out there?” So full of questions, that one was. Rabies must have gotten back from the putt-putt golf course. “Yeah, the car is ours,” I returned. “I know it’s not much, but--” “It’s been split in half.” I checked out the window, and he was right. The Strom lay halved in the driveway, next to what I assumed was the boy’s pickup truck. The crack in the dash had extended onto the hood of our car and back into the upholstery of the rear seats by the time we reached Hilton Head Island. I figured it was only a matter of time before something unfortunate happened, and apparently that time had come and gone. When I came back to him, the boy kept glancing at the television; that’s when I knew she was creeping up on him. Slowly the static became clearly garbled, loud in our ears. She appeared behind him, in the far, darkened corner, her legs swishing as she floated down, her eyes fixed on his head. Then she stopped and diverted her attention to the entrance of the billiard room. The boy sensed the shift and turned to look, as well, so I quickly asked, “What are you doing here?” before he could glance to the lady just over his shoulder. “What am I doing here?” he asked back. “I came for the luggage my family wanted to leave behind.” He took a step closer to me, a confrontational step. “What are you doing here?” “Me and my associate needed a place to hide out for a while, and were referred to this house by a trustworthy source, or at least I’m told he’s trustworthy.” “Hide out?” the boy asked. The ghost had yet to stop staring toward the door. “Yeah, hide out,” I said, and lined up for another shot on the pool table. “I thought it was a bit too nice to be a secret haven, as well, but Rabies said—” I shot the two-ball, which went bouncing from rail to rail—“‘Well, where’d you expect me to go, some shitty hotel room at a Hilton?’ Personally, I think he’s a bit spoiled, but they’ve got a nice pool table here, so I’m not complaining.” I would have taken another shot, but I had to stop. “Hey, kid, you’re not decomposing right now, are you?” The air was suddenly putrid, and I had to actually think a moment before I knew what was happening. The ghost’s attention deficit. The darkness. The smell. The door opened and the ghost lady fell to her knees. A skeletal hand was rested on her head— “It’s all right. You may go.” —and then she disappeared. “What have you been doing here?” Death asked me, to the total surprise of the boy standing with me in the room. He swung around, took one look at the tattered robes, the ancient scythe, the floating, red eyes, and he dropped dead to the floor. Death glared down at the body. “Get up,” he ordered. His will was done. The boy got to his feet. “Leave us.” The boy looked like he wanted to ask about his and his family’s belongings, but decided against it. Instead, he ran out the open door. Faster than a firecracker, his engine sparked up outside, and he was gone. “What do you think you’re doing?” Death asked, again. “You’d better check your tone,” I advised from my renewed stance at the pool table. Now that the ghost had vacated our current realm, the television was blasting static behind me. Then it was abruptly cut off. Not my action. “Sheos, you’re so full of shit,” Death spat. “I made three unscheduled reaps this week because of you and you’re little counterpart.” “You know, most people call me his counterpart, but thanks, I really appreciate someone finally speaking the truth.” “You’re fucking with my balance, Sheos.” “And?” I asked. “Did it put you so far out of your way?” “You can’t just take human souls and use them for your own purposes. There are procedures, and limitations.” “It’s not like we’re downloading movies, or anything. They’re just humans. In fact, I don’t know why you’re getting so pissed off at me. I didn’t consider it necessary to ‘fuck with your balance.’ You should be speaking to Rabies about that. He’s the one who couldn’t veer away from bloodletting, or drownings.” “You two shouldn’t dabble in things with which you have no knowledge.” I threw the pool stick on the table and walked to him. Death didn’t budge; all those years of reigning over life had made him mad with power. Maybe it was time he relearned his place in the hierarchy of existence. Maybe. Death had always been a decent being, if not a bit eccentric. For the most part, I didn’t want to quarrel with him, because I wasn’t sure how out of hand it would get, and, truth be told, this place needed him. Without Death to regulate, everyone would either live forever, or die in an instant. Both scenarios bring with them a terrible stench. Death’s red eyes brightened with anger, lighting much of his skull for me—his version of “fightin’ words.” I could feel energy cumulating in my hands. Whatever I threw at him would have been a hit reserved for gods and annoying countries. The house would certainly be destroyed, along with all the memories contained within, but I was sure the insurance would cover it, and the beachfront property would not stay unhoused for too long. “All right, you’ve said what you needed to say,” I told him. “Now it’s time to go.” But Death had made his decision, and it would keep him here until the bitter end. I was in my heavenly hibernation when Death was created, but during my time on Earth, I had run into him a number of times. This was the first I’d ever seen him in the stereotypical garb. It was quite effective. “I’m not going to put up with this much longer,” I said. “Move along.” He did no such thing. So I prepared to launch my first strike. I raised my arm and a blue light filled the room. I could feel myself draining the energy from the house, the beaches, the sea life. The light grew large, brighter, more powerful, and as it reached its peak, as the force was begging to be released from my fingertips—
Dear Sheos, I beg you to stop with all this prayer business. Christ, San Francisco
Rrrrraaaagggghhh! Huh? What? Where’s the ka-boom? Where’s the blue light? Stop? Christ? Oh...hmmm...
Hey-Suess Crisco, I know we’ve had our problems in the past and all, but know that I have nothing against a thing such as yourself (the humans have since created a term for you: Clone. I guess this is better than the title of “It” I gave you back in Heaven, eh? Though, since reading about you in the Bible, I’ve been referring to you as the Holy Zombie.). So, know that I say the following with no resentment or anger: Piss off. Know, also, that I have not come here with the idea of competing with either you or Jehovah. If possible, I would reject these prayers, outright. However, in the aftermath of that little battle Rabies and I had prior to our incarceration, many humans viewed a small portion of my power—and word spread. So, “Stop” you ask? These beings are the creation of your donor. Take your concerns to him. P.S. How’s Frisco?
“Prick.” I came back from the prayer, and realized I was sailing through the sky, high above land, at mach speed, and my chest hurt—always a surprising thing, since I so rarely experienced pain. It only dawned on me what had happened when I passed into a thundering cloud. Death had made his move, and was victorious. These things happen, I suppose. Only they seemed to be happening to me a lot lately. And though Death had gotten the better of me, and there were a million things that should have immediately concerned me--like migrating birds, or homebound jetliners, or where the hell was I going to land--only one thing kept swirling through my mind: Fucking prayers. ____________________________________________________ END |