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No part of this poetry should be reproduced in any form without written consent from the author, Joe DiMino, who retains all rights: contact poet@light-cards.com
"Dancing Can Be Deadly" (another Halloween Tale)
by Joe DiMino
As a psychologist for some thirty years, logic-paramount to the
profession one would thing-should be a dominant quest of mine.
Yet, an interest in the occult, which started back in medical
school, much to my surprise and that of others, has been my ongoing
exploration.
I have myriad volumes on the various related subject; and am considered
an authority in my own right-and have been called in on more than
several occasions to help the New York City Police as an adviser
on some rather bizarre cases, where practice of the supernatural
was the suspected protagonist.
Looking back over the years, a particularly strange case I recall.
Not having chosen "Strange" to describe arbitrarily-but
using such definition in the strictest sense; for till this present
day I have yet to logically explain away many of the puzzling
circumstances, well documented by generally rational individuals
besides myself. In fact, on that fateful evening, when asked to
assist, I had sensed the phone about to ring beforehand, with
genuine intuition as to the exact conversation to follow:
I arrived home after an extremely hectic day; and settled down
in my study behind my desk to do some necessary patient' charting.
My schedule had been, four schizoids, two manic-depressives swinging
me back and forth like a Yoyo till complete exhaustion; then there
was Mr. Gladestone, a paranoid encyclopedia salesman, convinced
that alien pulp-worms were plotting to take over his empire. Startled
from paperwork, my attention was abruptly directed to the evening
newspaper, when the rubber-band used for rolling by the delivery-boy
had snapped revealing the front page in a rather spectacular way.
Immediately I began reading the gruesome details of the "Saw
Throat" murders; so coined by a sensational press due to
the singular manner and method of the killings. The victims heads
were missing-all having been savagely amputated at the Adam's
Apple by a crude, toothed instrument, type of which yet to be
determined. Oddly enough, it was just then that the phone rang,
the topic of the conversation to follow about the very same subject.
"This is Detective Lambert?"
"Drop the Detective, Dale (Dale Love, captain of the Detective
Division for the 112th precinct). We've had too much to do about
most everything over the years to be so formal".
"There's been another!"
"Sore-throat Murder?" I replied without hesitation.
"Within the past hour. A female torso found alongside the
Grand Central Parkway, in some tall weeds, just off the Main Street
entrance, in Flushing. Her torso sealed in a plastic garbage bag."
"Her head?"
"Missing like all the others."
A short while later I was at the city morgue, examining the body
in the presence of Dale and the coroner.
"What do you think Roy?" Dale impatiently asked. The
press had been giving him a rough time; and with good reason:
the city was shaking with panic. Women feared to leave their apartments
without a male escort, equally fearful to remain home alone.
"I'd say in her late teens," if venturing an educated
guess, based on the her firm looking breasts, and the absence
of loose tissue on her neck and beneath her chin. The coroner
nodded in agreement. Then my attention was drawn to some odd symbols
painted in, what appeared to be, blood (the Coroner confirming
my assessment) on the insides of both her thighs, just below some
rather hideous bruises.
"Sexually assaulted?" I asked.
"Brutalized!" the coroner replied, Dale clenched his
fists.
I made careful drawings of the symbols, also noting the obvious:
The victim, a black female, trim figure, appearing quite athletic-possibly
a dance student-but there were no distinguishing scars or physical
anomalies to further help with identification. I left.
A short while later I was back in my study searching through an
old volume. That's it! I exclaimed, as I compared my renderings
to an image in the chapter on Voodoo. And that's what brought
me the following evening to Madison Square Garden. There was an
exhibition of West Indian Folk-dance.
Many folk-dances are interpretations of religious mores and customs.
As is the case with West Indians. Voodoo, a poignant topic of
quiet discussion-certain daily society, though some practices
outlawed, are yet replete with subtle references.
After the exhibition, my reputation made it easy for me to get
backstage. I approached a female member of the troop. She was
stunning even from a distance. Golden-brown-complexion, with a
mixture of Oriental and Caucasian features. As I approached, her
eyes riveted to mine; their intense look beckoning while warning
to be guarded. But before I was close enough to introduce myself,
the leader, I presumed for his air of authority, stepped between
us.
"May I be of assistance?"
Momentarily distracted, when I looked back over his shoulder,
she was gone; exited on her own or quietly ushered away in the
crowd: Besides the troop, which consisted of some thirty dancers,
there were press, stagehands, other patrons who, like myself,
had exhibited great interest during the performance, and come
backstage wanting to learn more. My attention went back to the
leader of the troop. He was an enormous black male; with massive
arms, developed from playing the drums for hours on end I would
suspect. His deep gaze bottomless, eyes the color of coal. I imaged
them to see my most secret thoughts-unnerving to say the least.
His answers to my probing questions curious; weaving replies with
obvious elements of Voodoo mysticism. When I showed him the drawing,
my crude but accurate reproduction of those on the thighs of the
most recent victim, there was no attempt to hide a scowl.
"Where did you get this?" he questioned. Although his
tone was threatening, his accent was none-the-less musical therefore
fascinating.
"Then you've seen them before!" I replied.
"Veve!" he exclaimed. "Black Voodoo!" he added,
in an overly respectful tone. "Years ago," he went on,
"when yet quite young, my grandfather told me stories about
our island; and how it was wise, during Sabots, not to go out
after dark. Most Voodoo is good. But Black Voodoo-a devilish affair!
Not to be scoffed at. Followers would comb the island at night,
looking for sacrifices. The fate of captives, poor souls foolish
enough to have ridiculed their faith, were used as human offerings-to
appease the "Death Loa (Spirit of Death)". Then he smiled.
"But that was long ago, and if the practice was more than
mere myth, covens were probably small, and their evil influence
grossly exaggerated-a good way to keep youngsters home after dark.
Voodoo today," he insisted, "is mostly dancing. People
acting out sexual fantasies; perhaps imagining consummation of
a great love affair-in pantomime emulating acts of violence against
perceived rivals and enemies. A good way of lessening dangerous
emotions to reasonable intensity, allowing for amiable solution
through non violent cooperative discourse." He further explained,
that though he has spent most of his life in Nassau, in addition
he attended school in Europe-Cambridge, in fact, on a scholarship;
and has a masters in abnormal psyche. Voodoo, he insisted, could
be equated with western "Primal" or "Scream"
therapy, and the Eastern and Far-Eastern forms of meditation;
Voodoo, he insisted, is a curious blend of sophisticated modern
culture spiced with delightful flavors of African superstition.
After having dinner with Dale, during which time he was brought
up to date, I returned home by myself.
Upon exiting the elevator, on the third floor, starting toward
my apartment, ahead I could see a female backing away from my
door. Somehow I sensed it was the same dancer from the Garden,
the one I had approached earlier in the evening, wanted to speak
with, but mysteriously vanished before giving me opportunity.
She continued to retreat down the hallway; and after turning to
enter the elevator, upon seeing me while fleeing, she exclaimed,
quite terrified:
"Talisman! Gheber Loa! Spirit of Death!" Her body fearfully
shook
as the door closed.
Adhered to my door I found a small, strangely painted canvas sack-about
the size of a fist; with a crude looking, wood crucifix stuck
in the top. That night, before retiring, I held the Talisman in
my hand; and while toying with the representative object, in my
mind I went over the profile of a Cultist. He's generally an individual
who feels misunderstood, rejected by society. Who is much more
comfortable defining people as amalgams, for it is far more difficult
to reject and harm individuals. He readily gravitates toward societies
feigning nonjudgmental acceptance, regardless of evil tenants
or philosophies. That makes him exceedingly dangerous
with
sufficient motivation-homicidal!
I retired with many questions swimming though my tired brain.
Awakened on numerous occasions by numbness in my right arm, and
a recognition of slight palsy in my left leg; a general sense
of decaying health, a sense of helplessness with impending doom.
Through sheer will, or, perhaps, simply profound stubbornness,
often having been accused of such, I survived the night.
In the morning I was awakened by a call from Doc Clevale, the
leader of the dance company performing at the garden. Excitedly
informed me of his acquiring additional information of great interest,
however, the nature of his discovery required profound discretion
for revealing esoteric secrets put his life in grave danger. I
was told an address on the lower Eastside-a rundown hotel in not
the best of neighborhoods, which should in itself having given
my pause. And was told to come alone-and to hurry; which I did,
though I felt barely physical strength enough. The palsy that
effected my limbs seemed now to have progressed throughout my
entire body, causing my breathing to become labored.
"Who's there?" Clevale called from inside.
"Lambert," I replied; and following his direction let
myself in. The lights were out. Clevale seated across the room,
moonlight entering through the window making him appear a spectral
vision. His eyes most of all glared at me from out the darkness,
making them seem headless orbs floating toward me. Hypnotic, swirling
black pupils, the whites which were red as hot coals, prompting
a feeling of severe nausea as they closed distance between us.
He held a familiar object in his right hand, close to his chest,
over the heart.
"Trouble with your arm?" he asked. For following the
temporary pause, palsy had also again begun in my right leg, and
was spreading quickly up my entire side nearing my heart. Fear
mounting, my only thought now was to reach Clevale, and yank the
horrid doll from his maniacal hands. He then squeezed the legs
harder, causing me to instantly fall to the floor, well short
of my intended target.
"You'll find that you can no longer speak nor call for help,"
he boasted, laughed tauntingly. Removing the pin from my tongue
and focusing again on the chest area, he continued the assault:
"Listen! do you hear it? Your heart swelling to twice its
prescribed size." The thump, thump, thumping was becoming
a deafening echo. I wondered how the entire hotel did not hear
it, a host of good Samaritans, I prayed, soon to come to my aide.
No help came.
"Shortly your chest will burst, gushing your meddling life
"
At that precise moment, interrupting the climactic event, the
female dancer of the troop, the same one from the theater and
latter seen at my apartment, apparently a powerful priestess in
her own right, stepped from the shadows aglow with moonlight.
"No! No more killing," she cried out! I was still helpless
upon the floor. Clevale began to roar with laughter. Then she
raised her hand, pointing a handgun.
"Are you mad?" Clevale warned, "Have you no fear
for your soul!" He stood up, preparing to rush her, exhibiting
that same air of omnipotence I had come to dread.
"No more killing," she shouted! Defiant of her declaration,
Clevale lunged forward. She pulled the trigger, his powerful hands
continuing to clutch while she emptied the entire magazine into
him.
The rest of the story you probably recall from the newspapers-the
dancer's entire confession. She explained how the murder victims
were human sacrifices. Although spared the death penalty, upon
completion of the trial when handed a life sentence, she informed
the judge that her days were already shortly numbered. And not
a force on earth could negate such unholy determination.
Using my influence, grateful to the young lady, I convinced the
court to allow me to treat her mental state as prison psychologist.
And so I did, for several months afterward, reconciled to show
my appreciation. One morning she was found dead in her cell-dead
and old beyond years-the shriveled, mummified remains of centuries.
An autopsy could not determine the cause of death, and rapid deterioration.
Perhaps an undetectable poison? As for myself, soon as Clevale
had expired I regained my health, almost immediately; and have
been well since. To this day I cannot account logically for much
of the bizarre that transpired. Had I been drugged and hypnotized,
to imagine real mere supernatural suggestion? Some auto response
perhaps, due to the influence of a master mentalist? Some Voodoo
drug administered me without my knowledge?-As for true spiritualism
being at the route of the mystery, the foundation of my profession
excludes such naive speculation. And the possibility that I will
never have a satisfactory explanation, as the years pass, begins
to appear the conclusion I must accept.
THE END
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