The Great Mystery

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Mystery and Crime  |  House: Booksie Classic
A woman attempts to contact the dead.

Submitted: May 28, 2016

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Submitted: May 28, 2016



The Great Mystery

By Joseph Logsdon

To actually contact the dead, legitimately give Larry what he had lost, seemed to be beyond impossible. Mora stared into his eyes, very disturbed by the fact that he seemed almost unaware of his surroundings. Apart from the candlelight, there was no illumination to be had, nothing but darkness within the corners of the walls. Larry continued, to the best of his ability, to keep focused on her, his decision in clear contradiction with his better judgment. There he was, nearly forty years of age, and he still couldn’t seem to come to terms with everything that had happened to him. She was his final chance, his last chance to make any kind of difference.

Larry seized her hand, very calculated as he rubbed the table, squeezed it with such force, so much intensity, that it nearly fell apart. He seemed very doubtful of his abilities, ten times more doubtful than Mora appeared to be, who continued to silently meditate. The very nature of what they were doing, just how absurd it all seemed, appeared to be too much to handle. Larry was torn between so many things, most of all his decision to sacrifice almost everything he had. He stared into the darkness of the room, not too sure of how to proceed with his meaningless, dismal excuse for a life, one that continued to poison his mind.

Mora remained motionless, all of her ability directed solely, almost entirely, towards some kind of greater power, the identity of which could not be determined. With the progression of time, the room became colder, progressively more isolated than it had been before. To what extent her legitimacy traveled, he couldn’t exactly determine. There was a slight smile on her face, one moment that captured her immense beauty, beauty that refused to be ignored. She almost seemed to be begging for some kind of understanding, considerable amounts of tears running down her cheeks.

“Oh, good grief, what’s wrong?”

“It’s the spirits, they’re speaking to me,” she claimed.

“The day they start speaking to you, I’ll stop drinking,” Larry chuckled.

Mora sharply gazed at him, not the least bit amused by his ignorant statement. All throughout the room, there was a force that repeatedly attempted to reveal itself, its very nature among some of the most powerful forces ever felt. Mora closed her eyes, almost too hesitant in how she went about moving her arms, flexing her hands, like she had somehow received some type of signal. She began to shake, slowly at first, swiftly proceeded by a quick and violent trembling of the head.

“What’s wrong?”

“The spirits, they’re angry with us,” she moaned, clenching the table.

“Angry, why?”

“Well, their reasons clearly somewhat confusing, it seems they despise your skepticism,” she gasped.

“It’s a simple question: can you contact my brother? I guess, only going by what I’ve seen here, it seems that you can’t do it. You’ve given me too much talk, not enough results,” he grunted.

“Seven years as a spiritual guide, you people still don’t know how to treat me. This could take, according to my calculations, a lot of time to accomplish, time which we don’t seem to have. You must, I’m begging you, have faith in what I’m trying to accomplish, and you have to let me do things my way, no questions asked, no exceptions, if anything is to be accomplished here. With just a little faith, who really knows, you might just see a miracle,” she stated, forcefully clenching the table.

Larry gasped at her statement, half of what she said almost impossible to understand. Several minutes behind schedule, maybe for the first time, Mora started to question her abilities, much of her doubts, every one of them, exclusively driven by some unknown force. Larry sighed, hardly concerned with her struggles as an actual human being, someone with feelings and problems. Mora stared into the candle, hopeful that through some miracle, perhaps through a force beyond her control, she could finally make contact.

“Have you seen something?”

“I’ve said it before, I’ll say it again: ‘These things take time.’ I should have results very soon, tomorrow morning at the latest. The spirits don’t speak to everyone, principally those who refuse to believe in them, who, because of their cynical nature, can’t understand a reality that exists in space, a confused timeline that can’t be controlled. The world, as you no doubt know, is a very complicated place. The things that we perceive as reality, life and death just one example, don’t really provide the full picture of what’s happening to us. You’re very stubborn, not at all what I’d hoped you’d be, or even what I thought you’d be. We can’t go on like this, as I’m sure I don’t have to tell you,” she moaned.

“Trying to contact my brother, it really wasn’t the best idea I’ve ever had, and now that I think about it, it might just be the worst idea. Suppose I did just decide to fire you, what would your spirits do about that? I’ve spent more money, more time, more effort, than just about anyone I know. You claim that I’m too cynical, to which I say, ‘I’m only being realistic.’ I need evidence, hard facts that will confirm your story, unlike everything else you’ve given me,” he huffed.

Mora sighed, confronted with an impossible situation, respectively the problem of contacting a lost soul. Her eyes, haunted by fear and doubt, suddenly came to life, as though she had received some kind of message. With pain aching throughout her body, more than enough to make the average person sick, Mora cried into the night, so much of her agony, practically all of it, coming from somewhere within her mind. She leaned forward, unresponsive to everything around her, not to exclude the vast number of hateful expressions on Larry’s face.

“I see someone, very likely your brother,” she announced.

“What does he look like?”

“Opposite to everything else I’ve seen, this man appears to be six feet tall, thirty to forty years of age, with a scar on his knee,” she claimed.

“Is it his left knee?”

“Uh, most likely, I would say that it is,” she said, nervousness in her voice.

“Which is it, yes or no?”

“The spirits, well, you understand, they don’t always give a clear picture of what’s going on. More often than you’d think, sometimes just at the drop of a hat, they can become quite fickle. It might help, of course only if you’re willing, to give me another detail about your brother, hopefully something that I don’t know about him,” she suggested.

“He has, or had, some brown hair, a dimple on his cheek, a beard, and, assuming that my memory is working correctly, which it often isn’t, a tattoo on his leg. Is that enough to answer your questions? You know, the more I think about it, it seems that you might not be on the level with me,” he muttered, frustration in his voice.

“Your brother, the poor thing, he seems to be suffering. I think he’s trying to speak, to communicate, but the words, they’re just not coming,” she stated.

“Listen here: you have ten seconds, ten seconds to prove to me that you’re legitimate, because otherwise, I’ll do worse than fire you. I hope I’ve made myself very clear,” he huffed.

Larry slammed his fist on the table, in what became a blatant, if not rather violent, display of his anger. Mora, clearly under a great amount of pressure, desperately searched for a way to please her customer, even if doing so meant sacrificing her integrity, everything she was as a person, in order to satisfy his needs. Larry watched her very closely, both of his eyes, not just one, fixated on her epic attempt to reveal the impossible.

“Details, I need details,” she begged.

“Does he have blue eyes?”

“Not to sound too confident, I’m pretty sure that he does,” she answered, reluctance in her voice.

For reasons only known to him, Larry suddenly rose from the table, not so much angry as he was completely insane. The hatred appeared to be just intense enough, that nothing could seemingly prevent an outburst from occurring. He removed a gun from his pocket, hysterical to the highest degree imaginable, with all of his hatred directed towards something that he didn’t quite understand. Mora gasped, not just in fear for her safety, her very livelihood, but also in fear for everything she had accomplished.

“What are you doing?”

“My brother, the one you claim to know so well, come to find out, has brown eyes. You can’t go on tricking people; I won’t allow it,” he huffed. 

“You made me lie to you. I had it all figured out, the process and everything, so don’t bother to lecture me on ethics. How do you think these things get done? I need more time, just enough to complete the process,” she cried.

“I got a better idea: we’ll see him together, one beside the other,” he said, firing a bullet, the first of two.

The End




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