The Haunting of the Gemini Read Online Free PDF

also fascinated her. In the end, the dark proved too tempting and too powerful. My mother trapped a very strong demon, but rather than damning it back to hell, she tried to set it forth to work for her. Instead, it consumed her, and even an exorcism could not defeat it. It took me years to accept that my own mother had succumbed while in an abandoned hotel on Coney Island, where even two priests and a nun could not overcome the demon inside her.
    The exorcism had been going on for days when I got there, just in time to see my mother floating in the middle of a blood-spattered room. Her empty eyes showed the empty space where her soul had been, forever eaten by the devil. She had lost. In her work—her communications with the dead, her ridding others of demons—she had lost. And ever since, I have lived in fear that the same thing would happen to me.
    * * *
    The woman who had been haunting me finally introduced herself one night at the movies. I walked into the theater restroom, and the fluorescent lights began to dim. The row of toilets began to flush all at once, and the faucets ran to overflowing. I started breathing heavily, and saw the frost of my exhale come from my mouth like Arctic air. I went into a stall and sat down, praying that I could just go to the bathroom in peace. Then an invisible hand scratched letters into the back of the door, right in front of my face.
    P-A-T-R-I-C-I-A.
    I felt faint. My heart thudded in my chest, and my breath froze my lips. I had to get out of there. I pushed open the stall door and ran toward the exit as the toilets started to overflow. Water spilled everywhere. I felt like I was going to pass out. I reached the exit, and although I barely had the strength, I peeked behind me. Nothing was out of place. All I saw was a silent, clean, dry bathroom. I stood still for a moment, shaking, and then looked in the mirror. It cracked, splitting my reflection in two.

THREE

    I had coffee in my hand and headphones in my ears as I descended into the subway. My music blocked out the chitchat around me as I waited for the R train. I was on my way to one of my favorite little cafés down on the Lower East Side to meet an artist friend of mine for a late breakfast so we could talk about his upcoming project.
    Many artists run their ideas by me so I can give them the vibe I get about their concepts, enlightening them about what will come. I always meet these clients in person. They need to look into my eyes and sit with me to create the spark of inspiration. We go into a meditative state together. This allows them to let go of any physical pain. Any emotional pain, of course, goes into their creation. What is art without tears of the heart? To the public, it might just seem like a beautiful piece, but to the artists, it is nothing less than a slice of their soul.
    This wonderful friend of mine had just yesterday come to my office, which is one of the best places to do a ritual circle. My black mirror and altar are surrounded by antiques and illuminated by a red crystal chandelier. The light bathes the purple walls, red-leather couch, and leopard-print rug. The two of us sat on the couch and held hands to exchange creative energy. We stared into each other’s eyes, and his hands became electric. It was as if every one of his unanswered questions fell into place at that very moment. This is a must with artists—visualizing every step as the process begins.
    The energy was so intense that the two of us started dancing. We blasted music and recordings I have of war drums, and we painted our faces with Native American markings. We danced around the office as he opened up his spirit, which was exactly my intent. I know very well that the spirit moves the body and feeds the mind. Now my toes tapped to the music on my iPod as I waited for my train and remembered the day before. We had really rocked it out, and I’d felt great about helping him continue his increasingly successful