I’m being interviewed? What a strange dream this is. Okay. The usual questions by a light blue skinned, pale blonde, young girl appearing, really she’s three times my age and more, “reporter”. Favorite foods. (It depends.) Favorite stories. (All blackmail so can’t tell ya.) Any crushes? (Unrequited, each and every one.)
She’s getting frustrated because I’m answering vaguely to every question. With no concrete, or confirmed, information from me, her article is going to sound like a bunch of rumors were tied together. Which is my intention actually. I don’t want celebrity status. I don’t want a “following”. And I certainly don’t want to point out the weaknesses in my armor.
“I heard that you are silly when you need to be, and professional when you need to be. Since it’s clear you are avoiding the ‘About Me’ pages, let’s move on to the meat in the dish.” I nod in agreement. “Weaver has stepped through many worlds and pantheons. Has any of those worlds and pantheons stepped through Weaver?” My blood chilled at the question. Out with it. Speak it plainly, dammit.
“Have you been possessed?”
Why am I trembling in fear? I keep a smooth visage and try to deflect the question. “Have I been ridden? A few times by …”
She cuts me off. Did she catch scent of my fear? “Possessed. You were Christian at one time, correct?” What I observe in her chases my fear back into the leash. Yes, she caught my fear. But she was expecting it. She has flushed her prey out into the open, and she’s rushing for the kill.
I am not prey.
“Yes. I suffered involuntary possession in my years as a Christian. Though I did not understand why until I left Christianity and had the clear vision of hindsight and ‘forbidden knowledge’. Not all that claim to be demons, are demons.” My sudden calmness and steady voice confused her. I should be crying and broken by a flood of flashbacks. Her plan is derailed. But she pressed forward anyway.
“Is it possible, you may be possessed even now?” It wasn’t a question. It was a statement phrased as a question. It was toned in such a way, that her intent was now clear. She was hoping to trigger a paranoia response, to push me into unreasonable fright. I struggled not to laugh.
“I hope so. That would be fun.” My cheery delivery made her blink. “You see, I get tired of nibbling on human spirits and minds. So many in the Waking world are walking around half-sleep, half-dead, or both! No taste to them. Pablum.”
I lean in close to her, like I’m telling a deep truth, like I’m bathing in her own sudden scent of fear. I drop my voice into a deeply alto whisper. “But the spirits of other kind. Ah. Exciting! I am not the prey I once was. I’m told I have an ‘open head’, that I am a ‘doorway’. But I am also the guardian of that door. And I will rend and devour any that come. As I have done so since leaving Christianity. As I will do so now.” I look up at her and lock her eyes with mine. Our faces almost touch by our noses. I make it clear, I am relishing her scent. I allow a self-satisfied smile to tease at my lips.
Her glamour slips. Her appearance blinks. I get a quick glimpse of someone male, middle-aged, and bronze toned skin. The glamour is restored. I do not betray that I saw behind the mask.
A memory teases me, of when I was once cornered like this. A phrase spoken then almost made me piss my pants in fright. I wonder…
“You have the scent of other places. Do stay a while…”
She lept to her feet and scrambled away from me. She stared at me in fright, trying to salvage her decorum, and maybe even the interview. She decided the price was too high. Snatching her forgotten notes, she fled from the cafe at speed. She never looked back.
“Weaver? What did you do?” The server had come to remove the reporter’s untouched drink.
“She wanted a glimpse of my madness. So I gave it to her!” The server groaned at the wording, then started chuckling herself.
“No more interviews?” “Please.”
“You don’t like the attention?” My return glare made her laugh openly. “Okay, I’ll tell the others that your booth is ‘Invite Only’.”
“I’d appreciate that.”
I checked the booth for anything the reporter may have left behind. Finding nothing, I settled into the comfortable cushions and sipped myself into deeper sleep.