14: House Call (Witch Doctor)

Dr. Randolph Turay had been napping on the couch when the phone rang.

“Hello?” An excited voice came from the other end.

“Good evening, Mrs. Swan. How may I help you?”

“I see. He hasn't been bothering that old Romani woman with one ear again, has he?”

Randolph rolled to his feet, his middle-aged joints complaining all the while, and cradled the phone between his head and shoulder while he went to the closet.

“And this...'goo'...”--he scowled at using such an unscientific term--“...coming from his eyes, what color is it? Please be specific.”

He opened the door and grabbed a few things, setting them aside as he did so. A black garment bag, a hat box, a black medical bag, and an album sleeve.

“No blue streaks? Good. Normally, I'd have you bring your son down to the clinic for this, Mrs. Swan, but circumstances being what they are, I think I'll just come to see you directly.”

“I should be there within the hour. In the meantime, if you could acquire a live chicken, I would be very grateful. Do you or any of your neighbors have a black cat?”

“It's all right, I can make do. I'll see you soon. Goodbye.”

Randolph hung up the phone. He sent a quick text to his partner--making a house call, will be late for dinner, taking Mr. Sparks--and then began his preparations.

He removed a record from its sleeve and placed it on the turntable. Soon, the house was filled with horns and screaming. Randolph secretly preferred the Creedence Clearwater Revival version, but it wasn't right for the situation. In his line of work, appearances were important and rituals even more so.

“I put a spell on you...”

He sat down in front of a mirror and opened a small jar of makeup, and started applying it to his face, the white coloring contrasting his dark skin. Before long, it would start to take the shape of a skull.

“Because you're mine...”