The God Makers

Irene did not bother with niceties, for which Dick was pleased. There usually was an offer of tea or coffee before people got around to talking. “Some strange things have been happening, and I need to fill you in from back at the beginning.” Without hesitation, she continued: “We used to live in a trailer, about two miles out of town, off of highway 52.” Dick nodded. “I know the place.” It was a shabby area, no street lights, a junk yard not too far away. Rows of trees hid the fields and most of the junk yard. The road into the trailer park was unpaved. Irene continued. “It was lonely out there, and Danny had an imaginary playmate, or at least I thought so at the time. He would talk with her and tell me about her. She was an older woman.” Dick knew Danny was her young son, about five years old now. Diane had taught him at Head Start a year or so ago. Dick just nodded. There was no need to interrupt with questions or comments. Irene was going to tell her story: Her entire story. “It usually happened when I was pregnant.” She hastily explained. “I’ve had many miscarriages. Walter was hardly ever around. He spends most evenings with his men friends.” Dick pictured Walter: a classic redneck if ever there was one. They never looked like they went together. He looked like a typical high school dropout who spent his spare time hunting, fishing, drinking beer and bowling, while Irene presented herself as someone who could have - and should have - done much better. She appeared somewhat ordinary: average height, nice average appearing face, but her eyes carried a sense of intelligence and she had a pleasant smile. Young love! Dick thought. There’s no accounting for what it does to people. Irene was still talking so he quickly refocused upon what she was trying to explain to him. “It’s hard to explain, but there just seemed to be something strange happening in that trailer.” She paused and looked at Dick carefully, as though to appraise how he was receiving this vague information. Dick tried to appear sensitive and sympathetic, but his mind was racing to explain Irene’s assumption that a poltergeist was somehow involved in her life. Alone and pregnant - with an imaginative little son. It wouldn’t take too much to push her into letting her imagination run wild. He was already beginning to write off whatever it was that had upset Irene enough for her to call him. Irene seemed to sense that she had best leave out vague events and jump to the specific details. “We moved here recently, and I had the space to put up all my pictures and family photos.” She pointed to a knick knack shelf filled with small, family photos. “I brought out the photograph of my mother and set it here. When Danny saw it he said, ’That’s the lady I’ve been talking to, Mommy.’ I couldn’t believe it.” she said. “My mother died before Danny was born. He never saw her or her picture.” This hit Dick unexpectedly and he felt a chill pass through him, but only for a moment. He reasoned A lot of old women look alike to little kids. The clothing might have done it. Dick thought that, but said nothing, letting Irene continue her tale. There obviously had to be something more. So far she was hinting at a ghost. A poltergeist had to be doing something more than talk with her son. Dick believed that neither was likely, but his curiosity was whetted. “That evening, Walter came home and saw my mother’s picture. ‘What’s that doing here?’ he yelled. ‘You know I don’t want pictures of dead people hanging around my house!’ We argued, but Walter insisted, so I put mother’s picture away.” She paused, looked around as though she wanted to be certain no one else was listening. Then in a quiet, confidential tone, as though telling a secret, she said, “The next morning all the pictures in the house had been knocked over . . . and some chairs had been tipped over, as well.” Okay, Dick thought, what have we got here? Kinetic energy? Danny playing games? Could Irene be a sleep walker? He said nothing. He merely nodded, waiting for Irene to continue. And she did. “That was just the start of it.” She led Dick into the living room, and pointed at the sofa. “Every evening, when I’m here alone, when Danny is in bed and there is only Minnie and I here -” She hastened to explain. “Minnie is our indoor dog.” She pointed to a small, mongrel lying quietly (possibly sleeping) on the floor. “Minnie will suddenly sit up and act like she’s watching someone. Her hair bristles and she stands very still - rigid, really - her back arches - and she just turns her head slowly as though she sees someone moving across the room. And at the same time, I can hear footsteps and feel a presence. It’s frightening! She shuddered as she spoke those final words. “How often does this happen?” “Every night now.” Finally! This was something he could sink his teeth into! A nightly visitor. There had to be some logical explanation. Find it. Ease this lady’s fears. Go home. “What time does this usually occur?” “Sometime after 11:00.” “I’ll come back tonight just before 11:00. You will go to bed and leave me alone here in the living room. I’ll find out what this is. Okay?” She smiled a smile of relief. “Please . . . please do.” Dick went to the door. Opened it. Waited until he heard the barking, went directly to the car and drove home. As he drove, he reviewed the details of the brief meeting. Damn! he thought. Am I dealing with a neurotic, a nut, or What? He was soon to discover it was the What.