Dandy Darkly

Grave Cliche

Mrs. Bond looked down at little fourth grade me, all dark eyes, pale skin and serious demeanor and cautiously asked, "What do you want to be when you grow up?"

My reply, "Dead."

The class had done water color and crayon drawings of our future ambitions, all of them worthy of inclusion on any family refrigerator. There were brave astronauts, United States presidents, happy mommies... and mine. I'd drawn a house with smoke swirleys coming from the chimney. My dog, Possum, woofed in the front yard, and beneath the meticulously drawn blades of green grass was a little coffin. And there I slept. My arms folded across my chest.  

The principal called my mother, of course. It hadn't been the first time. Wouldn't be the last.

Having met the dead version of myself almost two weeks ago, I wonder if ten year old Dandy Darkly would find some bit of comfort knowing his revelatory artistry eventually comes to fruition. But then again, it doesn't take a psychic to know we all end up dead. It's the coming back from the grave that's the tricky part.

And about that...  

I am a bit concerned that I'm all icky and Voldemort-ified when I, presumably, have my First Death and come back. Really? Tattered robes? Skeletal frame? Black coffee with no milk? As an out and proud gay necromancer, I'd hope to be more of a fashion icon for aspiring young, gay exorcists... 

I've been processing what I saw that night on the floor of my former waitressing job. And also considering what to do with the Metrocard given to me by the alternate-me, the rotting self who finally responded when I conjured a witch's brew in search of an identity. The brew was a nasty one, really old recipe. ... I can't help but smile because... as vain as it sounds, the rotting me seemed pleased that I'd decided to use such a dark means to communicate with it. 

I remember rotting me squatting above waitressing me. It was bitchy. Very me. Everything was freezing cold. I do remember flashes of something else though, a blue business suit. I really want to believe it was me. A future me who eventually regains his power and comes all the way back in time to save me!

That's awfully sentimental, ain't it? There's really no room for sentiment around these parts. More than likely future me ends up pledging my eternal soul to some lower power, who in turn gives future me enough influence to put the dominoes in  motion to my ultimate demise... And let's consider those flashes of the the blue suit, and the cliche nature of the robes, the swarm of flies, the skeleton... this entity, whether it truly was me or an illusion, was deliciously malevolent, enticingly so...

Sure bells and whistles are sounding off, but when gauzy sentiment meets power hungry madness, the resulting combination is wonderfully distracting.

I haven't discussed any of this Ms. Margerie. She had been helping me down a less wicked path as of late, but now... I honestly can't live like this. Powerless. Useless. So fuck it. If this is the path back to even some sliver of the abilities I once had, I'll be skipping down that aisle wearing toddler skin slippers. I mean it! Line the toddlers up!

... Alas, who am I kidding? Of course I have reservations. I'm not the soulless demon in booth twelve. Yet. I can't help but think some (all?) of my past misdeeds are the reason this shitstorm was brought down on my goat's blood drinking ass. But I can't start playing mind games. Thinking about past lives or future selves. I have "Lost" for that. All I can focus on is the present. And presently I have this worn out, expired Metrocard given to me by an undead future version of myself.

I need to do research before I swipe this thing at a train station. I've written before how such places are powerful areas of spiritual influence. I also need to read up on accounts of meeting oneself, dead or otherwise. 

At least research is painless.

Pope on a Rope

Much has happened in the past two days. Let's see if I can compose myself enough to relate what's going on. I don't exaggerate when I tell you that I feel lucky to be alive.

My tale begins Thursday night at 3:00 am. Well,
Wednesday if you take into account the visions, but anyways...

I was lurking behind Saint Brigid's Church at Tompkins Square Park. Hidden among a few tiny tombstones and graffiti painted dumpsters, I arranged six red candles in the form of a hexagon - about a foot in diameter. In the center, I placed a single white candle. After lighting the red ones (clockwise), I took from my pocket the 12th card of the Tarot, The Hanged Man. I put flame to the white candle and held the card above the fire. The Tarot card began to burn. The sound of a mob, first a faint whisper which grew into a roar sounded the phrase "let him swing!" over and over. I held the burning Hanged Man above my head and whispered, "let him swing." I heard the click of a gallows. The anger of the necktie party became celebration.

And then silence. From the clouds the silhouette of a man's body tumbled limply like a rag doll. He wore black robes and around his neck sat a noose, the end of which reached beyond vision. His arms were bound behind him. His fair Irish features marked with an emotionless expression. He slowly fell another forty or thirty feet until snapping tight just a few inches above the white candle. His body jerked and his legs kicked wildly. The pale ivory skin of his neck turned the shade of eggplant and burst blood vessels filled his blue eyes with crimson explosions. His swollen tongue jutted from his mouth, forcing out an unholy homily of inhuman grunts and choking noises.

After swinging for nearly a minute, he finally came to rest, the tips of his toes touching the flame of the white candle. They ignited and began to burn like kindling. I asked, "Father O'Riley, what can you tell me about the Pope's visit this weekend."

The spirit regarded me with utmost contempt, "I don't respond to that title anymore."

The fire had reached the wretched thing's knees, "Glenn O'Riley... what can you tell me about the Pope's--"

The ghost leered through the smoke of it's burning form, "You carry the same stain as my boys. That mark of love, that sacred blessing--"

The fire had reached his upper thighs, "Glenn O'Riley! I command you to speak!"

I turned the burning card so that it burned faster. The inferno consuming O'Riley's ghost seemed to match the card's intensity. The fire climbed as far as his midsection. The rope binding his wrists had burned away. He swung his arms wildly. They resembled slender matchsticks.

"Tell me about The Purification!"

The dead preacher howled his sermon, "The Holy Father brings with him a fire to cleanse the wickedness of this cruel city. Minions of The Void shall be purified. Sorcerers, seers and speakers of the dead will burn before His greatness! The Purification is here, my child."

He held his burning hand outstretched as though to grasp the card. The arm was a nothing more than a skeletal cinder, but the fleshy parts of his palm and fingers remained. They bled profusely as though slashed with a razor blade.

The card burned completely and with it O'Riley. His ashes dropped to the ground among discarded needles. The flame raced up the spectral rope. The screeching soul reminded me of a bottle rocket. I dropped the scorched Tarot card on the priest's grave. Pederast was chiseled across his headstone.

"Fuck you, weirdo."

***

The majority of my thoughts on Friday were primarily consumed with what the former priest had warned me. The Purification is coming. Here's the deal about ghosts and their portents. Ghosts are kind of like gossip tabloids. The bigger the rumor means the more readership and more money. But with The Void its all about dreadful omens and fear mongering, kind of like the Republican party - but not as ancient. But something about O'Riley's warning (and his bloody hand) sent a genuine shudder through me. And I do not shudder easy.

That night I was supposed to meet a friend out in the East Village for dinner. But an uneasy sensation paired with my off and on agoraphobia moved me to cancel. I stayed in Friday night with the curtains drawn and my lights off. It was 10:30 pm. I sat in the dark Indian style, exploring my tense feelings - when my doorbell rang. I froze. The doorbell rang again. On my knees, I peered down from my second floor window. A black sedan sat idling in front of my apartment. It's headlights were on. The doorbell rang again. A group of teenagers, maybe seven young men, strolled up the sidewalk talking. Two men in black robes briskly walked away from my apartment. They were carrying briefcases. After they got into the ominous vehicle, it quietly rolled out of view.

I laid awake in bed the entire night with a chair under my front door knob and a small hand gun beneath my pillow. I fled immediately for Larchmont the next morning to stay with Ms. Margerie. She told me I was being ridiculous and worrying about nothing. I returned this morning. She was wrong.

My door was unlocked. Had I left it unlocked in my hurry to leave? Had someone broken in? Was someone here? I tried sneaking, but my creaky floor ratted me out. I'm an exorcist, not a ninja. Luckily, no one was there. Even better, nothing seemed missing. Most of my magical, material mojo is stored in rental spaces around Manhattan. My disorganized closets could have been ransacked, but then again -- I'm a mess when it comes to laundry. No one had been in my apartment. I guess I had left the door unlocked. 

I called Ms. Margerie to tell her that my paranoia had indeed gotten the best of me. I laughed, "I totally expected His Holiness hiding inside with a Howitzer--"

And then I went dead silent. Margerie asked, "Are you there? Heeelloooooo? Ground control to Dandy Darkly..."

I stared above my bed at the single bloody hand print dominating my white wall. The ghost of Father Quinn had been right. The Purification was here.

Ms. Margerie St. Croix

I spent the weekend in Larchmont, New York. It's a pleasant enough town. Plenty of trees, Lots of fancy houses - some of them haunted. Happily, I was there to visit the living, Ms. Margerie St. Croix.

But the social call wasn't all fun and games. I was there to purchase an objet macabre which she'd been able to find for me. She'd also just baked a pan of magic brownies and desperately wanted to discuss last week's episode of "Gossip Girl". Mud masks and home pedicures were also on the night's agenda.

Yep. Ms. Margerie is my psychic fag hag.

She was with a client when I arrived via the Metro North. I headed over to her place in a local car service. I could tell she was working her charms from several blocks away - it was an overcast day, but still a subtle beam of sunlight landed squarely on the top of her modest two story house. She was channeling.

Channeling is a little bit different from my more "in your face" kind of spirit communication. My gifts are more attuned to hauntings - a fixed, focused spectral manifestation. Ms. Margerie can dial the dead long distance, regardless of location or how the individual perished.

Another big difference: when I'm on the case it's usually to get rid of an unwanted entity. When clients come to Ms. Margerie's Psychic Parlor, to sit on her overstuffed pillows and pile around her antique seance table, it's to seek out the spirits of lost loved ones. People have trouble letting go of those they love. She never discusses details. (Good too. I have enough drama!) But while many ghosts don't mind a brief return to this mortal plane - there are some who can be downright nasty when their surviving kinfolk pull them off their cloud to less-than-heavenly Larchmont.

Judging from mommy's streaked mascara and the weepy kids shuffling out from Margerie's parlor, I had to assume that dear dead daddy fell into the latter category.

"He's fucking Marilyn Monroe now. Go figure," Ms. Margerie joked once the family had left.

My gal is easily one of the most fabulous women I've ever met. She was resplendent in a vintage caftan and neon green earrings. The removal of her platinum beehive wig revealed short spikes of grey hair. Her many turquoise bracelets jingled as she hand-talked about her part time job at the local library and her full time job as the town's local eccentric.

I admit I was more anxious to get to the business at hand. Rather abruptly I steered our discussion to the object. Of course she knew what was on my mind, being psychic and all.

"I'm very upset that you're dealing with this kind of shit again."

"I know... It's different."

Normally, Ms. St. Croix would never assist me in the procurement of something that straddles the thin line between "good witch" and "bad witch." Luckily for me, such variables are tossed out the window when it comes to the protection of children. In Ms. Margerie's opinion there's no greater cause. And the item in the sandalwood box was safest in my hands, instead of someone with darker intentions.

The smooth box was 17 inches by 14 inches and five inches deep. It smelled like roses and across the top and sides were freshly carved Gaelic inscriptions for fertility and motherhood.

"I told you not to put all that witchy Goddess crap on it," I shot an annoyed glance in Margerie's direction.

"I had to! It was upsetting my Graymalkins," on cue Margerie's squished face cat plaintively mewed.

"My sincerest apologies to your pussy," I sighed, "I need to examine it."

Margerie laughed, "My pussy?" Graymalkin meowed even louder.

"Gross. No. The object."

"Not in this house. It's the real thing. New moon and the girl bled out but lived. My friend at White Plains called me before they stripped the bed. It's the real thing. Trust me."

"I do. But those carvings better not mess this up..."

"You're using this for good, right?"

I didn't look her in the eyes, "Yeah..."

But it didn't take a psychic fag hag to know that I wasn't sharing all the truth. Whatever... what is done is done. I paid Ms. Margerie St. Croix, stored the sandalwood box with my overnight bag and sat down to enjoy brownies with a woman I consider my sister.

I just wish I wasn't so ashamed right now.