illness…
Cancer…
Yes. He had that look.
“I used to be a reiki practitioner,” he said. He dipped his head to his coffee cup when he sipped, like a bird pecking into a tall glass of water. He looked around at the other tables. “I stopped when I got sick. I want to go back to it, but I feel as though there’s a part of me that’s gone away…”
“Soul loss is common when you go through major illness,” I said. “Did you do chemo?”
“Yes,” he said. He nodded. “I’ve heard of you. Shamanic work interests me. I have friends who’ve done it. Some of them combine reiki and shamanic. Seems like it blends well.”
“It can,” I said. I looked at Maryka and then back at him. “Maryka tells me you had some trouble in Decanter?”
“Yes,” he said. “Some trouble with a neighbor that turned into something else. Do you know Decanter?”
“I’ve been over there quite a bit,” I said. “Done clearings. Lots of bad energy in that place…lots of things going on beneath the surface. Literally.”
“You know the history there?” he said.
“Some of it,” I said. “Burial and holy land to the Sioux…white settlers built right on top of it. Long history of strange disappearances, massacres, madness, crime…just plain ugly.”
“Just plain ugly,” he repeated thoughtfully. “Yes. It’s a corrupt place, energetically and everywhere else.”
“Tell me your story, Tony,” I said.
He twisted his lips sourly. “It was one of those things you don’t think anything about, at first. I had this apartment in Decanter, nice neighborhood, on the South Side, not far from Holy Cross Church and School. Quiet building, just six units. I lived there by myself while I was recovering, just out of the hospital. Mostly older people in the building. Working folks. The apartment above me, this young guy moved. I spoke to him a few times. He seemed like a nice enough guy, he was a school teacher.
“But he was strange. Always staring at me, talking to himself. I heard him complaining a couple of times, to someone else, about me. From his apartment. He didn’t like the smell of my cooking or I played my music too loud. It was strange…he never said anything to my face, but he’d say things loud enough for me to hear. I didn’t give it much mind at first, but after awhile it began to wear on me. It was his energy…”
“It was dark?” I said.
“Yes,” Tony said. “Very. I didn’t catch it at first. Then I noticed how he looked when he watched me. If he knew you were looking at him, he’d smile, look like an All American boy. But if you caught him, he was different…his eyes were dark, he had this hate-filled look, that sideways sneaky thing you see in kids that have gone their whole lives lying and never been caught.”
“Father of Lies,” I said.
“I hadn’t thought of that,” he said.
“Felt it though, didn’t you?”
“Yes.”
He sighed and went on. “I noticed some other people his age hanging around, and then this older man started coming by. His father, by the look of him. I heard the kid complaining to his father about me.”
“You never did anything? Never spoke to him?”
“Nothing. I left him alone, I was polite when I passed him in the hall…nothing that a normal person would find offensive.”
“Normal being the key word.”
He laughed. “That’s right.” His face darkened suddenly. “One day I was sitting in my front room. I spent a lot of time sitting and meditating and working on my healing visualizations. In my recliner. I heard someone screaming outside and when I looked it was this kid…”
“What’s his name?” I said.
“Bryant. Bryant Eichmann.”
“Eichmann? Like the Nazi?”
“In more ways than one.”
“Go on.”
“It was like he was having a schizophrenic episode…he was ranting and raving about me outside my window…like he wanted me to come outside. Then some young woman came by and made him go up into his apartment. About an
Cancer…
Yes. He had that look.
“I used to be a reiki practitioner,” he said. He dipped his head to his coffee cup when he sipped, like a bird pecking into a tall glass of water. He looked around at the other tables. “I stopped when I got sick. I want to go back to it, but I feel as though there’s a part of me that’s gone away…”
“Soul loss is common when you go through major illness,” I said. “Did you do chemo?”
“Yes,” he said. He nodded. “I’ve heard of you. Shamanic work interests me. I have friends who’ve done it. Some of them combine reiki and shamanic. Seems like it blends well.”
“It can,” I said. I looked at Maryka and then back at him. “Maryka tells me you had some trouble in Decanter?”
“Yes,” he said. “Some trouble with a neighbor that turned into something else. Do you know Decanter?”
“I’ve been over there quite a bit,” I said. “Done clearings. Lots of bad energy in that place…lots of things going on beneath the surface. Literally.”
“You know the history there?” he said.
“Some of it,” I said. “Burial and holy land to the Sioux…white settlers built right on top of it. Long history of strange disappearances, massacres, madness, crime…just plain ugly.”
“Just plain ugly,” he repeated thoughtfully. “Yes. It’s a corrupt place, energetically and everywhere else.”
“Tell me your story, Tony,” I said.
He twisted his lips sourly. “It was one of those things you don’t think anything about, at first. I had this apartment in Decanter, nice neighborhood, on the South Side, not far from Holy Cross Church and School. Quiet building, just six units. I lived there by myself while I was recovering, just out of the hospital. Mostly older people in the building. Working folks. The apartment above me, this young guy moved. I spoke to him a few times. He seemed like a nice enough guy, he was a school teacher.
“But he was strange. Always staring at me, talking to himself. I heard him complaining a couple of times, to someone else, about me. From his apartment. He didn’t like the smell of my cooking or I played my music too loud. It was strange…he never said anything to my face, but he’d say things loud enough for me to hear. I didn’t give it much mind at first, but after awhile it began to wear on me. It was his energy…”
“It was dark?” I said.
“Yes,” Tony said. “Very. I didn’t catch it at first. Then I noticed how he looked when he watched me. If he knew you were looking at him, he’d smile, look like an All American boy. But if you caught him, he was different…his eyes were dark, he had this hate-filled look, that sideways sneaky thing you see in kids that have gone their whole lives lying and never been caught.”
“Father of Lies,” I said.
“I hadn’t thought of that,” he said.
“Felt it though, didn’t you?”
“Yes.”
He sighed and went on. “I noticed some other people his age hanging around, and then this older man started coming by. His father, by the look of him. I heard the kid complaining to his father about me.”
“You never did anything? Never spoke to him?”
“Nothing. I left him alone, I was polite when I passed him in the hall…nothing that a normal person would find offensive.”
“Normal being the key word.”
He laughed. “That’s right.” His face darkened suddenly. “One day I was sitting in my front room. I spent a lot of time sitting and meditating and working on my healing visualizations. In my recliner. I heard someone screaming outside and when I looked it was this kid…”
“What’s his name?” I said.
“Bryant. Bryant Eichmann.”
“Eichmann? Like the Nazi?”
“In more ways than one.”
“Go on.”
“It was like he was having a schizophrenic episode…he was ranting and raving about me outside my window…like he wanted me to come outside. Then some young woman came by and made him go up into his apartment. About an
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