The Dead Detective by J.R. Rain & Rod Kierkegaard Jr

Author:J.R. Rain & Rod Kierkegaard Jr [Rain, J.R.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781620077948
Publisher: Curiosity Quills Press
Published: 2014-10-27T00:00:00+00:00

hings get way weirder after that.

Sometime in the night, at a guess about three A.M., I slowly wake up. No, maybe a better description would be half-awake. Think a couple Ambiens on top of a dozen Starbucks Double Grandes. Bull McGuinness and Lorna are hovering over me staring down as if I’m on the operating table. Or coroner’s slab.

“Hey, toots! We gotta talk.” Bull looks anxious.

“She can’t,” Lorna says to him in a slightly pleading tone. “Can’t you see she’s stuck? Me, too―that rabbi dame poured a circle of salt around the bed and mumbled some prayers at us or something. Now you can’t get in and I can’t get out. And Richie can’t move.”

“Why are her eyes open?”

“Because she forgot to close them, I guess. And there’s no call to take that mean bullying tone with me, mister―this isn’t my fault!”

“Yeah, yeah, okay.” He hangs his head sheepishly. “Sorry about that, doll. We need to bust you out is all. Hey, Detective Dadd, I want you to try something. Sounds a little kooky, I guess, but you gotta trust me on this. Remember when that poor dumb shyster lawyer got himself bumped off? Remember how confused he was inside that closet until we talked him round? Well, the same deal’s going on with you. Half of you’s dead, see, just like him. And now that half’s gotta just let go of your meat and bones and float. Pretend you’re in a swimming pool, okay?”

And incredibly, the moment he says these words, my consciousness starts drifting towards the ceiling. The sensation is exactly as Bull has described it; as if I’m floating up through the warm waters of a dark, tranquil pool.

“Hey, hold it right there―don’t go through the ceiling! Now I want you to turn over and look down at us. Can you do that for me, kiddo?” Very slowly I rotate, feeling like a harpooned whale. Their ghostly faces stare up at me from below; Bull from outside a glowing greenish circle on the carpet, Lorna from the bed inside it. But it’s the object lying beside her that draws my horrified attention. It’s me. My own waxy lifeless body lying under the bedclothes like a really realistic store window dummy, mouth slightly open and eyes straining mutely and imploringly straight back up at me.

“Try blinking,” says Lorna.

“What’s happening to me? Am I dead?” I find I can blink my eyes―and talk―but my voice is as insubstantial as the rustling of dead leaves. All my senses feel weirdly different, too; I’ve got a bad case of tunnel-vision, my nose is on fire, and my ears are filled with a rushing sound, as if I’m swimming underwater. Everything looks glowing and translucent.

“Nah, not exactly,” says Bull. “You’re just stuck inside your own shade now. All them spiritualists and yogi flim-flam artists have a lot of fancy names for it like ‘astral envelope’, that kind of mumbo-jumbo, but I guess it just boils down to being your eternal soul. Like where you visit when you’re dreaming.

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