Dreamt I was called in by a “spiritual, not religious” family to see to their child’s illness. The child was not responding to traditional medicine, and more than a few medical practitioners had quietly whispered “foul spirit” as they walked past the mother.
The father wanted to send his son off to a very expensive hospital for very expensive treatments that boasted of a success rate of 9%. The mother wanted to try one last very cheap option before committing to the financial burden.
Me.
Both parents remained in the child’s room as I set my bag down. Some divinatory checks before I entered agreed the immediate cause of the trouble was an invasive spirit. But the same checks did not agree what the initial circumstances that led to the problem were.
I sat on the bed and gripped the child’s right hand gently with my left while placing my right hand on his forehead. Standard posturing. Nothing exciting.
Until one of the greater spirits that liked to hang around me suddenly rushed into me with a brutal shudder. My right hand slipped from resting on the forehead to gripping the boy’s left shoulder with unkind severity.
“YOU MOTHERFUCKER!” I could not control my tongue and I was horrified this was the first words out of my mouth. “SHOW YOURSELF BECAUSE IF I HAVE TO GO IN THAT BOY’S BODY TO GET YOU IT WILL BE IN PIECES!”
The boy’s face, originally haughty and defiant, paled as his eyes rolled up in his head. The possessing spirit announced itself with a series of whimpers.
“S…s…s… sir.”
“I’m going to say this once….” The dragged out syllables tickled my tongue. “I am going to let go of both bags of flesh and you are going to leave him and then we are going… to… have… a… talk.“
”Yes….s…s….s…sir.”
“Leave this one to me, Weaver. Kiss the parents’ asses however profitable it may become to you, but leave this one to me.” It could feel where it had shoved me aside into the pinky toe. I communicated both my mirth and my assent.
The spirit released its hold on the boy’s shoulder, and promptly left me as well. I announced my resurgence with hearty peals of laughter.
“Well, that’s it. The only thing left to do know is find out how and why your son was taken, and judging from that interaction, I think your son would be the best person to ask. Not me. I didn’t do a damn thing, so it would be wrong for me to take a damn thing. The story of what happened here is enough. Good day.”
I stepped away from the bed and noted the boy looked very much present and very much guilty. The only person standing between him and his father’s wrath was about to walk about the door.
The mother tried to press some money in my hand, but I wouldn’t take even that. As the door closed behind me, I heard a small boyish voice say, “I didn’t think…”
Isn’t that how it always starts?