Finding a Fortuneteller
Funnily enough, it turned out there were 38 Madam Twilges listed in the phone book, all of them fortunetellers except one who installed tile. I breathed a heavy breath and began dialing numbers. If you know anything about me, it’s that I hate making phone calls, and also that I’m banned from the Portillo’s on Lien Road.
Of course, every Madam Twilge I called said she’d been expecting me and had been waiting for my call, including the one who installed tile. Several even knew that I would die tragically in a bowling alley. But every time I mentioned “Ghost Consultations,” they’d hang up the phone. It was as if they wanted nothing to do with the damned.
After hours of awkward phone conversations and no luck, I made it to the final Twilge on the page: Madam Esther Twilge, Fortuneteller Extraordinaire.
The phone rang for what seemed like an eternity — then, a raspy voice.
“Is this Madam Esther Twilge, Fortuneteller Extraordinaire?” I said.
“How did you get this number?”
“From the phonebook.”
“Phonebook? Who the hell still uses a phonebook? What’s wrong with you?”
I hesitated and began chewing my phone cord.
“Madam Twilge, I’m looking for someone to — ”
“I’m retired,” the phone snapped. “You work long enough in that business and you wind up seeing too much. Do you know what it is to meet the love of your life and know when and how he’ll break your heart? To look at a bran muffin and know exactly what it’s gonna do to you?”
“No,” I admitted, despite my distain for admitting things. “But I’m not looking for you to tell me my future, Madam Twilge — I’m looking for you to help me change it. I’m calling for a ghost consultation.”
There was a long silence on the other end, followed by the unmistakable sound of a Fruit Roll-Up being unwrapped. It seemed to last an eternity — no, longer than an eternity: like waiting for your dog to finish peeing in your neighbor’s yard.
“It’s been a long time since anyone called me for that,” Madam Twilge finally croaked. “People stopped worrying about the creatures of the netherworld after garlic powder was invented. They thought it scared them. Little do they know demons love garlic powder — makes them horny as hell.”
“So…you’ll help me?” I nudged.
“I didn’t say that!” she snapped again. “But I’ll meet with you to see if you’re a good candidate. And you’ll have to sign up for my e-newsletter.”
Reluctantly, I agreed. It was a tough break for me — particularly because she’d already foreseen that I was going to give her a fake email and made me give the real one. But I knew I’d have to make sacrifices if I was going to purge the hellhounds from my home and avenge my parents. And this was the only lead I had. What was there to lose but the extraordinary amount of cash I’d stolen from an abandoned law firm?
I slept like a baby that night — crying and wetting myself until dawn. As the sun glared over the horizon like a hawk spotting its prey, I trudged across the dew-covered grass of the hotel I’d purchased for the night and opened the door to my Rolls.
The haunting continues…