Birthing the Lucifer star Page 4

Chapter 3: The Gift of Prophecy

  Shirley opened her eyes. The soft air was ecstasy for every crease of her soul. She was awake. Her eyes followed the iridescent lavender curtains as they danced to the music of the new morning’s song. The French doors were open and sharing their view, like windows to her soul. She could hear the autumn’s brilliantly hued leaves rustling in the soft breeze. She could hear the subtle calls of the birds to their lovers and friends. She heard a mockingbird telling her his favorite memories. Her feathered friend sang with his heart while his mind created vistas of beauty for Shirley to partake of. She could see squirrels playing tag through the trees, and she could feel the warmth of life in the crisp, dew-filled air.

  She snuggled into her silky black sheet. She closed her eyes and breathed in the most magical air. When she exhaled, she rolled over onto her back and opened her eyes. She glanced at the ceiling before letting her sparkling brown eyes fall to the other side of the bed. A wave of sadness washed over her, followed by a rush of sweetness, when she noticed a single yellow rose in a crystal vase next to the bed, on the art deco nightstand. She marveled over the fantastic, simplistic beauty of a single yellow rose in a plain glass vase—that something so small and seemingly insignificant could fill her with such joy and hope! The day before had been a nightmare, the morgue cold and inhuman. She had been so close to spilling her guts, admitting to the most unthinkable crime.

  Shirley had trusted in her own strength. She turned over and gradually sat up on the bed as she took in the air and thought about what she would do that day. I will cook today, she decided. She had not cooked in months, and she felt that it was time that she started doing normal things again.

  She wondered if she had any more of those blue, scented candles. She remembered Darren saying that he liked the scent; she would have to find them. And the music—how could she ever forget the music? She’d play some Van Morrison. She decided to mull it over in the shower.

  Shirley took her purple bathrobe and hung it on the bathroom door. She let her silk nightgown fall from her body and let it lie on the floor. She looked over her body in the mirror. She had lost some weight during the past few years. Her shoulders had always been wide; now they seemed to show more bone in them. Her neck seemed longer as she noticed her shoulders. Her breasts had not changed; still they clung to her, large and ivory. Her torso slimmed to her waist, then blossomed again into her large, fertile hips before gliding down to her small feet. She wasn’t entirely satisfied with her figure, but it was tolerable.

  She turned on the water in the shower and then brushed her long, silky, auburn hair to remove the tangles of sleep. In the shower, she nurtured her body with many aromatic shampoos and body washes. After her shower, she sat at her black iron vanity, staring into its mirror, trying to decide what to do with her hair.

  Her peace was interrupted by the steady ring of the doorbell. She let it ring, but then decided she must answer it. She slowly made her way to the front door. She looked out the peephole, but no one was there. When she unlocked the door and stuck her head out, she immediately spied a brown delivery truck pulling away from the curb. A small package lay on her front stoop. Shirley bent down to retrieve the heavy box addressed to her. She noticed that the return address was in North Dakota. The name of the sender was a Mr. Daniel Ghostwolf. Shirley had no idea who that could be, so she brought the box inside and put it on the kitchen table.

  The phone rang, startling Shirley out of her self-induced hypnotic gaze toward the box.

  “Hello?” Shirley answered.

  “Hello. Shirley Cohen?” a masculine voice on the other end of the line questioned. “This is the lieutenant who handled the case of your missing fiancé. Do you remember me?”

  “Certainly. Good morning, Mr. O’Toole. How are you?” Shirley asked.

  “Fine. I’d like to stop by and ask you some questions. Do you have time this morning?”

  “I have a speaking engagement this afternoon, so it will have to be now,” Shirley announced. “I’ll be here until 1:00 pm.”

  “Great. I’ll be there in about half an hour, okay?” O’Toole queried.

  “That will be fine,” Shirley said.

  Suddenly, she began to panic. Her heart raced, and she could feel it pounding through her chest. She found it hard to breathe, hyperventilating as she gasped for air. Her vision blurred, and she felt dizzy. Tears poured out of her eyes as she sobbed uncontrollably. She crawled into the bathroom and rummaged through the top drawer for her medication. The overwhelming urge to scream and cry took over. She searched frantically for the bottle. It has to be here, she told herself. Finally, she held the bottle in her hands. She struggled with the childproof top until it finally popped off, scattering the pills all over the bathroom floor. She popped a couple in her mouth, ducked her head under the faucet, and turned on the cold water. She swallowed the pills and slumped into the corner of the bathroom, by the oval tub. She sat there, clenching her fists and shaking.

  “You gotta get a hold of yourself, Shirley girl.” She stood up straight, combed her hair, and proceeded to wash her face with cold water. Drenched, she sat by the sink until she remembered that she had to speak that afternoon. She suddenly ran around in a rush, trying to tie up loose ends. She then spied the box on the kitchen table—it would have to wait. She brought the box upstairs to her bedroom and tossed it on her dresser.

  The doorbell rang; Shirley was as ready as she was ever going to be. She answered the door. There stood Lieutenant O’Toole with another detective.

  “Come in, Officer O’Toole,” said Shirley. “I went to the morgue yesterday—”

  “Yes, Miss Cohen. That is why I am here,” the lieutenant said. “You didn’t recognize that man, did you?”

  “Not at all. I was very relieved it wasn’t my Darren,” Shirley mused. “That guy looked like a Native American to me.”

  “Yes, well, his real name was Daniel George Ghostwolf. He was from North Dakota.”

  “Well, he had Darren’s wallet on him; the doctor told me that much,” Shirley confided.

  “Did Darren ever mention this man to you?” O’Toole queried.

  “No, never. And I think I would have remembered him if I had met him; he had quite a prominent nose,” Shirley offered.

  “Well, we will have to find out why this man had Darren’s wallet on him. Seems he was a prospector. We tried to notify his next of kin, but we could only find his grandfather. His mother, wife, and children seemed to have fallen off the face of the earth,” O’Toole commented. “Maybe Darren did business with him. His home was filled with dinosaur bones—”

  “Dinosaur bones? That’s the business Darren was involved in; he went all over buying old bones from the Pleistocene era for his clientele,” Shirley mused.

  “Well, if you remember anything—anything at all—please do not hesitate to call me.” O’Toole handed his card to Shirley.

  “You betcha. I’d like to know myself,” Shirley confided.

  “Have a good day; see you soon.” With that, O’Toole and his partner left Shirley’s house.

  As soon as the men drove off, Shirley zoomed up the steps to her bedroom. Where the hell had she left that box? She ripped the room apart in search of the damn thing before spying it on her dresser.

  Shirley held the box in her hands. It was addressed to her from a Mr. Daniel Ghostwolf! What the hell was going on? Shirley was half afraid to open the box. What if he had seen something? Well, it didn’t matter, because he was dead, she rationalized.

  Shirley Cohen sat on her bed and opened the brown-papered box. She had a hard time, as it was glued and stapled shut. Under all of that was a wax seal, Shirley observed incredulously. She finally pried the box open. Inside was a very large, but plain-looking piece of quartz. It was white with a thin, gray line running through it. There was a small note attached.

  Please keep this in a very safe place. You must take it out and feed it every full moon; failure to do so will put you in imminen
t danger.

  Shirley laughed; this had to be some sick prank. The more Shirley laughed, the more the quartz seemed to glow. Startled, she picked up the quartz; burning hot to the touch, it seared her finger. Shirley ran to the sink to run cold water on the burn. She eyed the quartz suspiciously. She went over and picked up the note to continue reading it.

  As the owner, you must keep it wrapped in deerskin, inside an earthen jar, hidden away in a secret cubbyhole or in a hidden wall.

  Every few days, you must feed it with small, fresh game—something you have trapped yourself—rubbing the blood all over the crystal as soon as the animal has been killed.

  Once a year, it must have the blood of a deer or other large animal.

  Should you forget to feed it at the proper time, it will come out of its earthen jar in the shape of fire and fly through the air to slake its thirst with your life’s blood, so don’t forget to feed it.

  You may save yourself from danger by telling it, when you put it away, that you will not need it again for a very long time. It will then go quietly to sleep and feel no hunger until it is again brought forth to be consulted. Then it must be fed again with blood before it is used.

  Shirley didn’t know what to think. A large piece of quartz to be fed blood? She needed to find someone to find out what this was really all about. Who was Daniel Ghostwolf, and why would he send this thing to her?