In the darkness, we knew the cockroaches that truly owned the place scampered as if invited. We sensed upstairs our neighbors lying in drug induced sensory oblivion and others across the way slipping folded papers filled with white powders and tiny rocks through slightly open windows to unknown hands. In the hall we could hear homeless teens hiding from the summer mist and the cops. They climbed the narrow, winding stairs to the rooftop, hoping to sleep away from the others, sharing space once used by the Lizard King, Jim Morrison, before his reign became public. All this we sensed, despite our closing of circle and naming our space holy and safe and a time beyond time. It was this energy, this utter density that we called upon. The ground below us was ancient, the vast expanse of ocean but a block away, and the building we lived in was haunted by its own past. And we called into the night for anyone, or anything, that might answer...
We had raised a cone of power that was almost visible, hanging above the mirrored cube that served as altar. The center candle, thick as an arm, had melted to a small puddle, myriad multicolored droplets melded with the previously melted mass, creating a rainbow web. Our chanting had begun to mellow, slowly becoming a moderate hum. The Nichi-Ren chanting of our Buddhist landlord upstairs became a part of our song. "Nam yo ho renge kyo," mixed with our low hum, his slow prayer for love was caught in the trap of energy we had created and let hang above us like a heavy chandelier. As we pulled the cone into itself, gathering the energy into one great, dense ball, the last flame of the center candle flared supernova. We sent the energy on, clapping it away to do our bidding and fell to the floor, grounding. All was silent. In the silence, we prepared to open the circle. The candle had d
diminished, the rainbow webbing hardening, and it was dark. Suddenly, a great flash lit the room. Expecting the ensuing thunderclap, we were startled by a loud knock on the door. Quickly finishing the circle opening, we grabbed robes, and opened the door.
Perhaps we were expecting our landlord. Great, gay and flamboyant, he was always smiling and giving us wonderful gifts found in dumpsters on Rodeo Drive. Perhaps we expected something wonderful. But when we opened the door, it was something else. Framed in the doorway stood a frightful creature. We had seen him before, even spoken with him, but this night, he was not a man, but a creature, something unknown. Before the garishly bright yellow walls of the hallway, the vision was ludicrous. Inside the apartment, it was something quite foreign. His face was white as paper, transparent and iridescent. Black strings of hair fell past his shoulders, his eyes were black pools edged with pale blue. His clothing looked drenched, yet no drops fell when he moved. He reached out his hand to me, and I took it, transfixed by the vision he had become. His hands were ice! His fingernails, black and charpened to points, were long enough to leave marks had he chosen to scratch me. I took his limp hand in mine and led him to a chair. My friend reached out her hand to steady him as he sat, for he never focused his eyes on his destination. As soon as she touched his bare arm she pulled back with a gasp. Looking at me, she whispered, "cold..." and I placed my palm full on his upper arm. She was right. He was cold, as cold as meat fresh from the freezer, but he didn't shiver. I touched his clothes - I intended to offer his something dry - but they were not wet. My friend looked down at his feet and started. They were bare, and again the nails were black and pointed!
"Where have you been?" my friend asked this man, who looked like someone we had met two weeks before. "Are you cold? Hungry? What can we get you?"
"Yes," I said, "Let me get you a sandwich or a cup of coffee. How about a drink?"
He looked at her, and then at me. His eyes, still deep and dark, never faltered, never blinked. "I drowned," he said, in a voice an eerie monotone. "I drowned. I was in the garden under the sea."
For an hour my friend and I sat by him. We put blankets around his shoulders to warm him up. We brought him coffee and food he never picked up. We held his cold hands, and asked questions, so many questions, only to get the same answer. "Are you wasted?"
"I was in a garden under the sea."
"Do you want us to call anyone?"
"I drowned."
"Do you remember your name?"
"I was in the garden under the sea. It was beautiful."
"Don't you want to eat something?"
"Seaweed in my hair, I drowned."
For an hour, perhaps more, we asked these things, we received the same answer. We added blankets; he wasn't warming up. Finally, we stopped asking. We sat with him quietly, sipping hot tea and watching the dry lightning through the window. I watched the air in the apartment as the residual energy from the working we had performed dissipated. My friend's aura glowed bright against the dirty white walls of the apartment. As she reached over to pull the falling blanket over our visitor's shoulder, tracers of energy moved with her. As her hand entered his personal space, I was struck by the difference. He had no aura! Where there should have been a fuzzy light surrounding him, visible in contrast to the walls, there was nothing. Nothing at all.
We sat awhile longer, my friend, the dead man, and I. Then as suddenly as he had knocked upon the door, he stood, dropping the blankets behind him, and walked to the door. He turned and looked at us, his face as expressionless as it had been for the entire hour, and said, "I drowned. I was in the beautiful garden. Seaweed in my hair."
He walked out the door, letting it close behind him. We did not see him pass the window. We never saw him again.
### (c)2000, Suzanne B. Jacobson