SPIRIT BE GONE: Douglas Wickard

…it was only one glass, one large Bordeaux glass of red Sangria, sweet, and fruity, and full of tiny chunks of orange, lemon, and ripe green apple. Surely, one glass off Sangria could NOT have provoked those feelings – hallucinated that touch, those cold, bony fingers, moving surely, bit by bit, as if planned, driven almost, up my naked legs, wanting, searching as if in need of something, somebody to hold onto. Trust me, I was not under the influence of alcohol. Not to that degree, anyway. Not to the legal level of intoxication to have those kind of delusions? 

Never!

I was new. New to the City. New to Los Angeles. New to my job -- that monotonous, repetitious, clock in-and-clock out profession -- standing at my large, white, sterile counter, located in the basement of that huge metropolitan hospital, without windows, centrifuging, swirling, tipping and twirling, vial-after-vial of blood, and blood, and more blood. Wearing my white, starched laboratory jacket (very Dr. Kildare), notating results, entering ‘within normal limits’, documenting my ‘two cents’ onto lab chits, lab reports, and lab results…ad nauseum. Argh!

 

Francine warned me. From the beginning. My longtime friend from Ventura. She entered the apartment, tentative, hesitantly and instantly began twitching. Me, dragging her, pulling her further into the living room, excited beyond words at sharing my first apartment in Los Angeles with her. She urged me, pleaded with me, please…“before you move into this place, please, please, please…clear out the energy of the spirit who lives here. A woman is trapped here in this hellish purgatory, and she is unable to let go…” 

What?  

I scoffed, I laughed, I made fun of her ridiculous antics. Francine could be dramatic! She proclaimed herself a ‘witch.’ A good witch, of course, but nevertheless. She performed séances with candles positioned circularly around us.  She channeled spirits forth. Frames rattled, pictures fell, and candles extinguished themselves without the benefit of breath or wind or the barest of breezes. She flirted, (far too much, for my taste) with Mr. Ouija Board, sniffing out answers, searching affirmations, and digging up assents. She was meticulous, a divine creature, with a hard, soft spot for black men, a nurturer’s soul for bruised fruit, particularly angels with broken wings, yet she lacked that same love and grace she gave so freely to others, toward herself. Francine’s lips were large and outlined in black. Perfectly. She colored well within the lines using a bevy of robust fall colors: brown, burnt orange, deep-set purple, and red. She smelled of the exotic, a flower out of place, a bit of jasmine, sage, a torrent of musk skillfully blended so as not to suspect…what? 
  

I loved the apartment. At first sight. Well, actually it was only a studio. The Russian elderly renting the space roamed the grounds with humongous pink curlers, piled high, tucked tightly under the restrictive band of a flimsy black hairnet. She wore slippers, I recall the color being white, and they were fluffy, always clean, with a band of cotton attached across the arch of her porcelain-white foot. Each time she took a step, they would slosh. Slush, slosh, slush, slosh… Her smile was welcoming.  Contagious. In addition, the price was right!

I took it! 

The studio was unfurnished and barren. Recently renovated, it had nice, shiny, hardwood floors and nostalgic crown molding connecting the high, loft like ceilings. California sunlight drenched the room, bleeding in from the large floor-to-ceiling windows. Freshly painted a bone-color, the space was immaculately clean, and smelled of Mr. Clean. My possessions were few. Blankets, a few flattened pillows, a sleeping bag (one I purchased at the Navy exchange in Port Hueneme) and some sheets, all neatly organized and piled in layers against the wall. 

Slightly woozy, a bit fuzzy that night, but not drunk --I was NOT drunk! – I climbed the several stairs, the outside cement stairwell that lined the three-story house. I went through my evening routine, the brushing of my teeth, the flush of the toilet, a lying down of my sleeping bag in the main room creating a cushiony foundation against the hard wooden surface of the floor. Next, several layers of sheets, sheets collected and bought on the cheap from fast, quick Latino shops around the area, and finally my blankets. My pillows, the ones I took from base had been with me for years, my companions, always there, alongside me. Okay, I admit it, my security blanket. I negotiated a comfortable position, one pillow tucked firmly between my legs, and gazed out the curtain less windows at a twinkling Hollywood. My Hollywood. A kaleidoscope of stars and colors and hopeful dreams blended in the street sounds below, the distant whine of a hemorrhaged siren. The jagged limbs from a Maple tree scratched against the surface of one of the giant windows. I ignored it.

Then…a stirring. Different. Unsettling. The rustling of blankets, being raised, fanned and pushed off me.  I woke up. I took a moment, a brief second to do an assessment, feel, hear… Is this really happening? Did somebody break in? Then, the touch, that touch, those fingers, those cold, bony appendages working, scratching their way up my ankles to my calves and then up my back thighs. Definitely, this was happening. I was frozen.  

My mind leapt for answers. Francine! Francine pleading, saying, loudly, proprietarily with force: “Spirit, be gone!” three times, sequentially.  “Spirit, be gone! Spirit, be gone!”

By now, the covers were off me, bunched at my sides. My buttocks and lower back were completely exposed. I knew I had to stand. I knew I had to unlock the grip this thing had upon me. I raised myself to my elbows and crawled, military style forward until I felt the cold comfort of the wooden floor. It sobered me up. Quickly. Next, I thrashed my legs, as if in a spasm, eliminating any hold this creature had upon me. The wails, the cries, the hushed screams writhing in anguish below me as I stood, naked with only my t-shirt and underwear on and screamed, loudly, out into the night sky… “Spirit, be gone! Spirit, be gone! Spirit, be gone!” Instantly, the three windows unlatched and opened. A Twilight Zone moment. Night air flooded the space, whirling around my body, circling the room, freezing my senses.  

I dressed quickly. I ran down the cement steps, two at a time. I couldn’t get to my car fast enough. I drove to my friend’s apartment, the one who had earlier shared Sangria with me and pounded on her door. She sat, mesmerized while I told her the details of my story. I slept that night, at her place, on her sofa. Awake. Aware. Unable to go to sleep. She kept the heat on, even during the summer months. I remember uncovering myself, but then pulling the blankets back tight, close around my neck. To this day, I rarely go uncovered. The thought still scares me. Petrifies me, actually.

I moved from that apartment. Several weeks later, as I carried my few belongings to the car, the landlord caught up with me and asked me why, with a look of genuine concern on her face? I asked only one question. “What’s the history of that space?” She told me the truth. She told me of an elderly woman in her 80’s who had lived in the house most of her life, for many years with her husband. He died. She committed suicide in my apartment, which at the time was the attic. Her husband’s belt had been tied securely around her throat. She stood on a chair. She attached the belt to a makeshift bar and dropped. All she would have had to do to save her life…was stand up. She chose, not to. 

“Spirit, be gone!”

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Amazon Kindle Bestselling author of the SAMI SAXTON series A PERFECT HUSBAND and A PERFECT SETUP. Soon to be released: ENCOUNTER, a dark, psychological thriller based in San Francisco, introducing FBI Agent DAN HAMMER and Inspector Vanessa Sanchez. Release date: HALLOWEEN. Seems like the perfect launch date for a bit of murder and mayhem...

A moment of weakness...an afternoon of passion...
a brutal murder hits close to home...
The explosive sequel to A PERFECT HUSBAND
 
Sami's back! And this time it's personal!

The New York Times, Daily News and New York Post all hailed her a hero!

Samantha Saxton 'owned the night,' they reported. She was the victor, the quiet champion, the anti-heroine single-handedly destroying the career of a lethal serial killer stalking the tri-state area of New York, New Jersey and Pennsylvania for six unremitting years. The disappearance of six teenage girls and the horrific details of their deaths received national, frenzied attention and Sami Saxton became the unlikely poster woman in all the coverage.

Sami's attempt to find a quieter, less hectic life by moving to a cabin her deceased father built years ago in the remote urban township of Montague, New Jersey didn't turn out quite the way she'd planned.
Returning to the City, Sami purchases a spacious, fifth floor, open-airy, glass-walled condominium on the Upper West Side overlooking the Hudson River...another new start!

But, that night continues to haunt her...in her dreams and in her life. The nightmares persist, vivid, ongoing and relentless. Posttraumatic stress syndrome paralyzes her, keeping her a prisoner in her newly renovated home. The anxiety attacks intensify and not even prescription painkillers can relieve the anguish.
Then, the unthinkable occurs. A young, female model is found brutally murdered in a midtown hotel. And, Jerry Saxton, Sami's ex-husband, is taken into custody for the heinous crime.

TRUST NO ONE!

* * * * *

ENCOUNTER the new thriller by Douglas Wickard

You know him...
you've known him.
You met him in college... you were sweethearts, lovers... remember?
He wasn't your first...
But you vowed he'd be your last.
For over fifteen years you've been married to him...
had children by him...
created a life together with him...
Then...
he takes a business trip.
Not unusual for his profession... a normal occurrence.
Problem is...
he doesn't return...
EVER!


*  *  *

San Francisco
2010
Five men.
All mysteriously disappear.
No clues...
no ransom notes...
no bodies...
Vanished... without a trace.
ENCOUNTER
Are you available tonight... for a thriller?

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UPDATE: OCTOBER 5TH GIVEAWAY CLOSED! ALL

COPIES HAVE BEEN CLAIMED! CONGRATS TO

THE WINNERS!  

OCT. 5th GIVEAWAY: 

Mr. Wickard is giving away TWO ecopies of his new bestseller A PERFECT SETUP, and TWO ecopies of his soon-to-be released thriller ENCOUNTER . ENCOUNTER will be published on October 31. How apropos! 

To win either of these two novels, simply click on the link below, and comment in the post announcing today's October 5th blog that "I WANT TO WIN A PERFECT SETUP" or "I WANT TO WIN ENCOUNTER." If you're one of the first four, guess what? YOU WIN!! It's that easy. 

https://www.facebook.com/events/164385847097718/

I will update the remaining copies throughout the day. 

Good luck! May the howling winds of October be at your back!