Notorious - John Jones (read after .TXT) 📗

to go their separate ways. Jake lived three and a half miles from the club, and deep in the recesses of his mind, something told him that he could take a shortcut through the park. Taxis were none existent.

 

He had staggered, zombie-like, through the park, until he had crashed into, rather than seen, a bench. He worked out what it was, and decided to rest there a while until he felt he could carry on. He didn’t think he would fall asleep.

 

George continued to stare at him like a scientist would stare at a new species of mammal in a zoo. He looked back at Fang who had crossed the path and was now sniffing around the edge of the park pond. The dog chain hung at his side dripping rain. He wound it slowly, once around his hand, and then stepped forward and grabbed pretty-boy’s soaking hair. He pulled him off the bench and began to drag him in to the bushes behind. He could feel the scalp coming loose as he dragged, so dropped him and gripped his throat.

 

Jake was still virtually unconscious. George dragged him into a clearing. Bushes surrounded them and he threw Jake down who regained consciousness.

“Wass goin’ on?” he said, blinking. George ignored him, instead, sent the chain across his face. Jake slammed back into the ground, into the dead leaves and twigs. George struck him again, shattering teeth and splitting his jawbone. There was a scream ready to leave Jake, but it wouldn’t come. George repeatedly sent the chain smashing into his face until it collapsed inwards. Blood splashed out as George relentlessly pummelled away until the eyes slid into the leaves, and his skull cracked enough to show the web of nerves across his brain. Pretty-boy wasn’t so pretty any more.

 

George dropped the chain. It was exhausting work, even for a man of his strength. He saw that only about two metres away, there was a brand new spade, which he picked up. The work was about to get even more exhausting.

 

With Jake satisfactorily buried, George left the bushes and walked across to the pond. He threw the spade into the water and wound the chain back around his hand, as it always was when the dog wasn’t attached to it. He went back to the path, and continued as he did, every morning.

“Come on Fang,” he said, having to say it loudly as the rain continued to shower down. The dog, as usual, did as it was told.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

13

 

 

Outside his dirt smeared window, Curio watched as a plane slowly made its way across the sky, which was slowly beginning to darken as evening crept in. He thought about closing the curtain, but it wasn’t quite dark enough. He was sat at his computer, his face multi-coloured, a mug of tea curling steam in front of the monitor. His inbox had only one new email. He saw it was from Ribbet:

 

‘Dear Curio,

I appreciate you responding to my email. I decided to regress myself again. I was much more in control this time. You were right about it being down to chance which life I see. I can’t control it. I went back even further, and I came to a conclusion that there is something in me that’s generic, and they’re proven scientific facts aren’t they? I’m going to keep trying this, I want to see all the lives I have been. This latest vision of me has taught me a lesson. I finally understood the meaning of the pyramids in Egypt. In my vision, I was exhausted. I was standing at the side of a river. My hands were aching, and I was watching, ahead of me, about half a mile in the distance, the pyramids actually being built.

 

They were about halfway done. I noticed something floating above them, some dark, round objects that I know were helping them. I know of your interest in ancient astronauts, and how else could they have built such magnificent edifices, with little technology if they didn’t have outside help? Outside of this world, I mean. I believe in that now, as I’ve seen them, and when I see the pyramids, these days, I realise what they mean. They correspond exactly with the constellation of Orion. I know now that the pyramids are pointers. Markers left on earth to point the way to the stars where we come from. Whoever created us are simply stating where they are. This is us. I’m not sure I would go so far as to use the word ‘aliens’, but obviously they’re not of this earth. As I stood watching the construction, I looked down and saw why my hands ached. There was a woman lying dead beside me. I had strangled her. I pushed her into the water, and I had no feelings. No remorse. I turned then and walked away. Then I awoke. Maybe you don’t believe me, but I do, and that’s what matters. I thought I would share my experiences with you. I’m going to regress again, and I will tell you the result.

Thanks for reading this.

Yours.

Ribbet.

 

Curio sat back in his creaking chair, staring at the screen. He was right, he thought, he had to be right. The pyramids were pointers to the home of the creators of humans and animals, and maybe the earth itself. Perhaps they had always been there. There had been no mystery. Hieroglyphs and mythology had been created by society. He couldn’t bring himself to reply just yet, the information was still sinking in.

“I wonder who you are, Ribbet” he said. Finally, he managed a response:

‘Ribbet, I can only thank you. The information you have given me cannot be wrong. It’s been staring us in the face all these years. I cannot disagree with you. One thing I must correct you on though is the word ‘Generic’. I think you meant ‘Genetic’, the passing on through the generations of certain traits, characteristics. Yours, unfortunately so, seems to be the desire for, I suppose, murder. When you regress, this seems to be a prominent feature, as though your genes are trying to tell you what you were. I wonder if this has been a feature in all your previous lives, and if so, then it must feature now, in this life. I would be interested to know if this is so. Do you have any murderous tendencies these days? and how hard is it to suppress them? And of course I would be interested to know what you were when you regress again.

 

If you have any more revelations then I hope you will again, think of me first. I don’t know if you know of my intention to write a book which will explain the facts of the paranormal. Other people’s experiences as well as my own will be documented, and I hope, taken seriously. I suspect you already know of my success as a psychic detective. Four in a row. Now if that is not proof, I don’t know what is. The implications of that are quite undeniable, such as the understanding of the energies and brainwaves that I use to find them. They need to be investigated more. What other secrets could they yield?

 

If any paranormal activity is proven to be correct, then that could have a positive domino effect. If you could please refrain from telling others about what the pyramids are, I would be grateful. I won’t claim it for myself. It will be used in my book with your permission, and you will get a special mention. Anyway, time for me to sign off.

Hope you get back to me soon.

Curio’.

 

He sent the reply, then checked the ‘Uncanny Kingdoms’ website for any new additions on the forum, but there were not many, and they were not of any interest. He shut down the computer, then stood up and crossed to the window. He looked down onto a glass strewn car park, at two cars parked there, at two youths leaning against a nearby wall chatting animatedly, at two girls of similar age sauntering over to them, at their unheard banter.

 

They wandered away, one of them putting his arm around one of the girls. They disappeared around a corner, and nothing moved down there, except for an empty crisp packet, rolling along in a gathering wind. He sighed, and closed the curtains. He manoeuvred his way through the dark until he switched on a lamp beside his sofa.

 

He was about to pick up a TV guide to see if there was anything worth watching, when the telephone rang. Its shrill, high pitched tone punctuated throughout the small flat, and no doubt his neighbours could hear it as well. With the walls being so thin, Curio sometimes thought that not only could they hear him talking, but the person on the other end as well. He picked up the receiver.

“Hello,” he said.

“Oh, is that Mr Curio Enchantment?” came a woman’s voice. She sounded elderly.

“It certainly is, how can I help?”

“I’d like a reading, I wonder if…”

“Where do you live? I’ll be round as soon as I can”.

 

The wind was growing stronger and bringing with it an increasing chill. He had put his winter coat on, as none of his others were warm enough. He hardly felt the cold though. He was pleased because it was another chance to prove himself to be psychic. The woman lived a 15 minute walk away, and he found the streets to be fairly empty. He reached her bungalow and was soon stepping inside the hallway.

 

Soon after that, he was in the living room with a steaming cup of tea, perched facing Mrs Abercrombie on the edge of a sofa. She was in a similar position, looking at Curio with sad, hopeful eyes. She looked to be in her late eighties, a small woman who would be unable to stand up in strong wind, or even an ordinary gale. She had the type of face that was basically a mask of wrinkles.

 

She still however, tried to make herself look attractive by applying yellow eye shadow. It had been poorly applied though, a line of it almost reached her left temple. He wondered if she had applied it while he was on his way. It didn’t matter though, what mattered was the advancement of his familiarity and experience, his education. She had asked him to get in touch with Max, who was recently deceased. She wanted to know if he was happy wherever he was, and to tell him that she was thinking of him.

“Right,” said Curio, sipping his tea and putting it down on a coffee table.

“I need an item, something belonging to Max. Something that was personal to him. She uncurled her hands that had been resting on her lap, and Curio saw that she had been holding an object. Handing it to him, he saw that it was a cat’s collar. A tear ran through the maze down her right cheek.

“Tell me he’s alright,” she said. Curio just looked at it for a while.

“Max is a cat,” he said, as a statement. “Not your husband”. Mrs Abercrombie shook her head.

“I had ‘im for years. He always used to jump up when I was sitting here and demand, demand that I stroke him. He could sleep anywhere. Once, I found him sleeping in the cupboard upstairs. He would always...” Curio interjected:

 

“I always thought Max was a dog’s name. Anyway, I’ll see if he’s in the spirit world, and see if he’s got any messages for you”. He tried not to speak through clenched teeth. A fucking cat, he thought. Not a husband, son, human. He sighed, closed his eyes and hovered his hand around two inches over the collar. He knew he could basically make it up as he went along, but decided against it. If there was potential for humans to contact people, then there was no reason to suggest that it was not possible to contact