One-Eyed Jack Read Free Page B

unpleasant the conversation might be,
it would be comforting, in a way, to talk to the one friend I had
who totally accepted the reality of my dreams, and who was
accustomed to dealing with things that didn’t belong in the natural
world.
    Of course, in other ways it wouldn’t
be comforting at all. Talking to Mel was not fun. That wasn't her
fault, but it was true. Quite aside from the hours Mel kept, if I
ever called before work there were likely to be after-effects that
would not help me keep my job. Trembling hands are not good when
stocking shelves, and customers don’t like people who jump at the
slightest surprise.
    Instead of calling her I shut down the
computer, went downstairs, and caught the bus to work. That meant
not talking to anyone about the kid, or doing any more research,
for an eight-hour shift. Selling hardware and building supplies is
about as far from dealing with psychic phenomena as it’s possible
to get, which is one reason I liked the job there; I’d never told
anyone at the store about my little involuntary hobby.
    That was another reason I didn’t have
much of a social life, on top of not going out after dark; I had to
constantly watch what I said if I didn’t want people thinking I was
completely insane. Most of the people I’d known as a kid had
drifted out of my life because I’d stopped talking openly with
them. Most of my neighbors in the apartment building kept to
themselves, and a lot of them didn’t want to hang around with a
white guy in any case – I think they considered me creepy, and I
didn’t blame them. I was friendly enough with some of my
co-workers, but none of them were exactly close.
    Some education Mrs. Reinholt gave me.
Some gift.
    I didn’t nap during my break this
time. I didn’t lose any customers, either – in fact, I had a pretty
good day, moved a lot of merchandise, did a little harmless
flirting with a cute brunette. The only bad moment was when I was
showing someone a power saw, and my imagination made an unwelcome
connection with the sight of Jack’s left hand.
    Not that I really thought a power saw
was involved; the gash on his ring finger didn’t look right for
that. Still, I had to stop talking for a few seconds and regroup. I
told the customer I’d rushed my lunch and probably ate something I
shouldn’t have, when I hadn’t actually eaten lunch yet at that
point.
    I gave Mr. Sanchez another heads-up
about my imaginary family problems, said something about my Dad’s
health getting bad, before I left.
    I didn’t like doing that; so far as I
knew, Dad’s health was fine, and I didn’t want to jinx that, but it
was the only thing I could think of at the time.
    When I was a kid I didn’t worry about
jinxes. Hell, I felt superior to the other kids about that – I knew
better, I knew that stuff was all crap. When they were worrying
about stepping on cracks or walking under ladders, I laughed at
them and did whatever I wanted.
    Now I don’t know one way
or the other. Maybe there really are jinxes. There are sure as hell
actual curses. Mel was living proof of that. Some people might say
I am, too.
    I wished I knew the rules
– not just the bits I thought I’d figured out about how my dreams
worked, but about all of it. I wished I knew there actually were rules; the more I
dealt with the dreams and portents and visions and monsters, the
more I believed that there weren’t. In all the stories I’d ever
read as a kid, or seen on TV, the monsters followed rules –
werewolves change on the full moon and can be killed with silver,
vampires suck blood and fear the sun, magic takes careful
preparation and specific rituals. From what I’d seen, it didn’t
work that way. The things that went bump in the night generally
didn’t have tidy little labels like “werewolf” and “vampire,” so
far as I could see. Each one was different. And magic, when it
worked at all, could happen spontaneously, and couldn’t always be
controlled. I don’t think