Ciji Ware (35 page)

“That about describes it… yes,” Corlis nodded.

“Well…” he said slowly, “let me start at the beginning.” He swept his arm in an arc over his head and declared, “The atmosphere contains not just the air we breathe but also energy, invisible in the same way that ozone is. The friction generated by material objects moving around on the planet, acting and reacting, creates the electrically charged energy.” He looked at her closely. “With me so far?”

“I think so,” Corlis replied thoughtfully. “Are we also talking ‘auras’ as part of that energy?”

“That’s a piece of it—yes.”

Corlis nodded. “At UCLA I covered a story once where scientists in the botany department used special cameras to photograph the energy given off by the leaves of plants, energy they called auras. Ever heard of that?”

“Sure! Kurlian photography, right?” Dylan nodded eagerly. “Those folks were able to create a
visible
record of a supposedly
invisible
phenomenon in nature. Same kind of thing,” he added approvingly. “The energy floating around everywhere ranges from the very low level—in other words, the friction between material particles is moving at a slow rate… to very high energy… up to, some would say,
spiritually refined
energy. I won’t give you a lesson in quantum physics at this late hour, but there’s becoming a recognized science behind this stuff.”

“Wow…” Corlis said, trying to absorb everything Dylan was saying.

He smiled encouragingly and continued. “So, then… it appears that certain places on our planet play host to very high levels of this vibrating energy. Sedona, Arizona, for example, is considered a place of refined energy. Delphi, in Greece, is another.”

“The idea of sacred sites, you mean… like Stonehenge in England. Those are places of spiritually refined energy?”

“Precisely,” Dylan agreed. “Well… there are those of us who believe that the energy activated by everything that ever happened in a particular place goes out in ripples, like the effect of a stone being dropped in a pond. The emotional energy put out by people—their actions, reactions, conversations, arguments, kind words, moods, and the energy-charged atmosphere they create—has to go
somewhere
.”
He pointed at the wall behind her chair. “It gathers inside structures… on the walls… on the floor… invisibly clinging to the ceiling of buildings. Even furniture, objects, plants, and pets give, receive, and store up energy. Therefore, the interaction of what takes place in very old buildings like this one gets
imprinted
,
in a sense, into the very fabric of the wood and mortar.”

“Wow…” Corlis repeated. “What a concept!”

“Cool, isn’t it?” Dylan said with a smug smile. “Repetitive patterns get
deeply
imprinted. Events accompanied by strong emotions or trauma are recorded the most intensely into the immediate surroundings.”

“So, are you saying that what you end up with over the years are kind of like psychic cobwebs clustered inside buildings… or at places like the battlefield at Gettysburg, where there’s just a
sense
you feel that a lot of people suffered and died at that spot?”

“Exactly,” Dylan nodded. “Think of it as concentrated clumps of static energy—generated in great part by trauma and unseen to the naked eye—that can accumulate in all the corners. A residue, if you will, of psychic debris that gathers over time, and this state of affairs can be especially true inside really old buildings like this one.”

Dylan became lost in thought as he gazed steadily, first in one direction, and then another.

“Well…?
What
?”
Corlis demanded. “Are you saying you can feel leftover tension and—what do you call it—psychic debris in
this
particular room, for instance?”

“I not only feel it, I can
see
,”
he declared calmly. “The stuck energy in this place of yours stands three feet thick off the walls and feels like psychic molasses. There must have been a lot of mental and emotional anguish going on here since—when were these row houses built?”

“I think King said 1832.”

“Even in the lives of people with the normal ups and downs of living, that accounts for a lot of Sturm und Drang taking place within these walls. Births and deaths happening in these rooms: run-of-the-mill arguments, even physical struggles. All this stuff can generate plenty of psychic caca,” he joked. Then his expression grew serious. “However”—he glanced at her strangely—“I believe you, particularly, would be able to pick up on the energy that’s congealed around here and in other old places around New Orleans.”

“Why me?” Corlis asked apprehensively.

“Because I think you were drawn to New Orleans and to buying this house for a reason,” Dylan replied. “And you’ve probably guessed by now what that is.”

For a long moment Corlis remained silent. Then she said, barely above a whisper, “The minute I saw this place from the street… it felt familiar…”

“The dates are about right,” Dylan said, nodding. “Didn’t you tell me earlier tonight that the first Corlis McCullough was in New Orleans around that time? She could have been a visitor in this room at some point and left her energy imprinted. Perhaps you, her direct descendent and her namesake, simply picked up on it like those extra-sensitive cameras at UCLA you described. Like it or not, Ms. Show-Me-the-Facts,” Dylan said gently, “from what you’ve just recounted to me, you obviously have some psychic abilities of your own.”

“Oh, go on!” she protested.

“No, I’m serious. People inherit blue eyes and bowlegs, don’t they? Have you ever thought that perhaps it’s possible for DNA to pass on—just like blue eyes or brown hair—a few lasting memories to succeeding generations of the McCullough clan, and you simply have an unusual ability to tune in to them?”

Corlis lay her head against the back of the club chair and closed her eyes.

“Oh, wonderful. Just what I need. Inheriting some old relative’s memory bank!” Then she opened her eyes to look Dylan squarely in the eye. “For some reason, I’m sure now that Corlis Bell McCullough
lived
here in this very apartment,” she said quietly, silently recalling her vision of a young mother padding down the hallway to eavesdrop on a conversation between Randall McCullough and Ian Jeffries that took place over brandy and cigars in a New Orleans parlor more than a century earlier. “I just know it.” Then she tossed a petit point pillow at him and declared, “I want you to space-clear this place—pronto—and then I want to forget all about this weird nonsense, once and for all!”

Dylan, who’d neatly caught the tossed pillow, laid it carefully on the love seat beside him. “From what King told me about you, I figured you might want to do something like that,” he said with a short laugh. He unfolded his long legs and stood to leave.

“You’re going?” she said with alarm.

“It’s late, sugar,” Dylan said in a tone of familiarity, as if they’d known each other for years.

“You mean you won’t help me?” Corlis protested. She sprang to her feet. “You
have
to help me,” she pleaded. “I mean, I don’t exactly know if I
believe
all this stuff you’re telling me… or the stuff I’ve been telling
you
,
Dylan, but I’m at my wit’s end!” She began pacing in front of her fireplace. “It’s starting to affect my work… my judgment… my
life
!
Please—”

“Now, calm down, sweetheart,” Dylan said soothingly. “I’ll do a space clearing for you.”

Corlis halted in her tracks. “You will?” She was filled with an enormous sense of relief. “Thanks! Thanks
so
much!” Then she added in a small voice. “I guess.”

“But what I’ll be doing takes some planning and preparation,” he warned.

“What will you do, exactly?” she asked. “This doubting Thomasina needs a full-on
exorcism
—okay?”

“All right!” he said, laughing. “But, I don’t just snap my fingers and say, ‘Abracadabra! Entities, beat feet outta here!’” he protested. “I need to make some arrangements. And I’ll need my equipment.”

“What kind of equipment?” Corlis inquired doubtfully. “This isn’t voodoo or anything, is it?”

“Look, now,” Dylan said, gently chiding her. “You asked me for help, and that’s what I’m trying to do.” He looked at her closely. “You’re not accustomed to asking for help, are you, darlin’?”

Corlis was startled by the directness of his question, and something in his voice hinted he already knew her answer.

“No,” she admitted, surprised by how meek she sounded, even to herself.

“Well… it’s about time to seek some shelter in the storm. You could use it. I’ll see you around noon, okay?”

Corlis nodded, thankful he’d agreed to return.

“And before I get here, I want you to vacuum and dust, throw away the garbage, and empty all the wastebaskets. Tidy up any clutter in that office of yours. It makes less work for me.” Corlis looked at him questioningly. “Less extraneous stuff for the built-up energy to cling to.”

Just then Cagney Cat sauntered into the living room and rubbed sensuously against Dylan’s pants leg. Dylan reached down and vigorously scratched the cat’s back near his tail. “It’s okay if this guy sticks around tomorrow. He’ll adore it.”

She felt like giggling at the notion of Cagney Cat, assistant ghostbuster. She escorted her visitor to the front door with her feline trotting along behind. Dylan leaned forward and bussed her on the cheek. “See you at noon tomorrow.”

“Thanks, Dylan,” she said. “I don’t understand very much of this, but I’m grateful you don’t think I’m a mental case.”

“Naw… I think it’s pretty amusing that a person like you should be having things like this pop up in your life right now,” he avowed, his golden-brown eyes twinkling slyly.

And before Corlis could react, Dylan strode down the stairs and walked out the front door into Julia Street. To her amazement, Cagney meowed plaintively. The cat turned on his paws, dashed down the hallway, and scampered into the front parlor. Corlis quickly followed and was startled to see him leap through the open window and onto the iron gallery’s hand railing, balancing there precariously, exactly as he had the morning she’d burned the oatmeal. The twenty-three-pound feline appeared to focus his complete attention on Dylan Fouché while the former priest got into his car and drove off. Then Cagney closed his amber eyes and went to sleep, seemingly undisturbed by the thirty-foot drop to the pavement below.

As for Corlis, she didn’t even attempt to persuade the cat to come inside. Leaving the balcony window open with her pet snoozing contentedly under the night sky, she quickly got ready for bed and prayed for a dreamless sleep.

***

Dylan appeared at the stroke of noon. He was dressed in a pair of jeans and a T-shirt that sported an image of Pete Fountain blowing his clarinet and the words “Jazz Fest ’03” embossed over his narrow chest.

“I thought maybe you’d be wearing a black cape,” Corlis teased, leading the way down the hallway toward the front parlor. He paused at the door to her office and glanced inside.

“Very neat and tidy,” he said approvingly. “Good girl.”

Cagney Cat, who’d been asleep on the love seat where Dylan had sat the previous evening, opened his eyes, stretched languidly, and hopped down onto the Persian carpet. He trotted over to Dylan and rubbed his side vigorously against the man’s pants leg.

“Hey, buddy… how ya doin’?” Dylan drawled. Cagney chirped ecstatically, arched his back, and flopped onto the floor, wanting his stomach rubbed. “What a guy,” Dylan said, laughing. He gave the cat’s vast tummy a playful pat.

“Damn if that cat doesn’t do the exact same maneuver with King,” Corlis said, disgruntled. “He hardly gives me the time of day!”

Dylan just smiled and set down the briefcase he had brought with him. He proceeded to take out, among several items, two small leafy green bundles wrapped in twine. Then he retrieved sticks of incense, a few white candles, a salt shaker, and a bouquet of small daisies.

“What are those?” she demanded, pointing at the green bundles the size of cucumbers.

“Trussed-up sage with some rosemary mixed in,” he informed her. “When this particular herb burns, it helps cleanse the air of psychic pollution.”

“You don’t say?” Corlis commented, deadpan. “I hope the smell doesn’t send me back to the Crusades.”

Ignoring her, Dylan continued. “The candles, salt, and incense aid in consecrating the space for higher, healthier purposes.”

“And what are the flowers for?”

“They’re offerings to the guardian spirits of the house and to the earth it sits on.”

“Whatever,” muttered Corlis, suddenly feeling as if she was getting in way over her head with this woo-woo routine.

“Thanks for your enthusiasm and support,” Dylan replied wryly. “Do you want to purify the objects in the rooms as well?”