Society of Ghosts

Society of Ghosts

Johnny Strike

Bold Venture Press

Contents

Copyright

Society of Ghosts

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

About the author

About the publisher

Copyright

Copyright © 2021 Jane Bassett. All rights reserved.

Karen Asbelle, editor

Bold Venture Press edition April 2021.

Available in print and eBook editions.

www.boldventurepress.com

This is a work of fiction. The events and characters depicted are fictional. Any similarity to actual persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

This eBook is licensed for your personal use. Please purchase your own copy. Thanks for respecting the hard work of this author.

Chapter One

Mazatlán, Mexico, 1998

Over the years, I’ve wintered at this picturesque port town many times, but this time, something felt different, very different. For one, I was not feeling my old self and feared that maybe I had something wrong with me, possibly some god-awful disease. I’d never had any health problems to speak of, so I was alarmed—fretting more than I knew was healthy to. I figured I’d arrange for a checkup and a blood test, while I roosted here once again for the winter months.

What was ailing me was peculiar. I’d awoken and was taken aback at how bad I really felt. I usually awoke feeling okay, and sometimes pretty good. I’d just turned fifty the day before, and I’d celebrated with more than my usual one or two beers at the Old Mazatlán Inn. Someone at the party had given me a pot cookie in the shape of a bear; now I felt like a bear. But this was more than being hung over—my bones ached, there was a tightness in my hands, and I had unusual pains that I’d never experienced before, especially in my lower legs and feet. I got out of bed and went into my exercise routine, but I struggled to get through it. I felt worse afterward. I had some dry toast, a banana, and I got a pot of coffee going. Once I had struggled with that light fare, I coaxed myself into getting dressed then examined my face in the mirror. I looked bad, haggard. I stuck my tongue out and discovered a layer of white film. Disgusted, I brushed it.

On the street, I flagged down one of the golf cart-looking pulmonías and asked to be taken to Cinco de Mayo Street, since I knew it was populated with medical facilities and doctors of all sorts. I’d had some dental work done there one year, and another year, I’d seen an M.D. for a broken wrist. He had written me a prescription, the dear man, for morphine tablets and had arranged for the cast. Back then, I’d double-dosed repeatedly and drifted through a couple of weeks, at times feeling something like a hang glider enjoying the view from above—in and out of wondrous, druggy half-dreams. I remember popping my early evening pills and washing them down with a Bohemia Dark and feeling I was at one with the glory of the setting sun.

But now I paid the impatient driver and started to look around. I was trying to locate the same doc. After a block or so, I found the familiar sign that had guided me to him a number of years before. I remember him being quite old, and I was pleased to see that he was still in practice. I entered the building’s cool, dark lobby (like stepping into a large, empty aquarium) and located his office. It was all the same, except for a different receptionist—a Mexican woman, bursting out of a sundress, wearing lots of makeup, and looking at me as if I had just arrived from Jupiter. However, she soon understood I’d seen the doctor before, told me to have a seat, and indicated he would see me next. I love Mexico.

I looked at magazines for a while and then just closed my eyes and relaxed. A little later, a nervous little man with a short, white beard and short, white hair, wearing a scarf, came out of the doctor’s office and left quickly. The receptionist caught my eye and nodded toward the open door.

Inside, I found Dr. Sánchez looking about the same—only a tad older. He was wearing a white lab coat and his glasses had slipped down his nose. I thanked him for seeing me and he gestured toward a seat. I stepped forward and shook his hand before sitting in the fairly comfortable chair. He looked at me, likely trying to place me. I reminded him of my previous visit, which sparked a bit of recognition in his old brown eyes. I began to tell him about my symptoms, and how they seemed to have come out of nowhere. He made some notes and then, after shuffling over to me, began to examine me. With his stethoscope pressed against my back, he had me taking deep breaths. He looked into my eyes, into my mouth, and he took my blood pressure, which he said was fine. He would arrange a comprehensive physical, including blood tests, at the hospital. He also told me to set up another appointment with his receptionist. He didn’t know what was wrong. Perhaps then remembering the pain medication he’d written for me a few years back, he asked if I needed anything else. What a difference, I thought, from the uptight States, but I told him I was okay at the moment. He phoned the hospital and secured my appointment. I paid the ridiculously low fee to the receptionist and booked a follow-up.

I went about my business, putting the physical exam out of my mind for now. I joined a Canuck couple from Toronto at a new, fancy Italian restaurant in the Golden Zone—I’d met them at Café El Faro one morning and we hit it off. We had some similar interests, especially in books, music, and travel. I was fifteen years older than they, and they seemed fascinated to hear some of my stories that I’d gone out of character to tell. I’d even gone further out of character and claimed that I might type up those stories, polish them, and publish them one day. I wanted them to like me, which was unusual, since I was mostly content being a loner. The man’s name was Stanton Comings and his attractive girlfriend was Laura. At dinner, they mentioned they’d never been to Mexico City. I couldn’t help but go on a bit to praise the capitol city, since I’d loved my time there, and I hoped to visit again.

Maybe we could go together? lovely Laura offered, with what appeared pure sincerity. I looked at Stanton and he had an agreeable expression, too.

He said, Let’s look at next month, cuz I have business here until then.

Stanton was looking for a house to buy—not for them, but for a wealthy friend who owned a string of homes in Toronto and lived in New Orleans in one of those mansions in the Garden District. Laura thought he’d found a good prospect overlooking Playa Norte, but Stanton had decided against it for some reason that he didn’t want to discuss.

Oh well, the search continues, said Laura filling in, finishing her glass of wine. But we can have mucho fun right here. Right, John?

Sure, I said, "in fact, tomorrow night, there are lucha libre matches at the school stadium out near the Pacifico Brewery."

Neither knew what I was talking about, so I explained the wild mask-wearing wrestlers, told them some history and of the bouts I’d been to, especially the ones in an old bull ring in Mexico City, featuring some of the more famous and notorious. A friend—a local—had taken me there originally. I told them about seeing the young boy fans (many wearing masks, too) so thrilled to see their heroes and to be able to touch them, pat their arms, and offer praise as the wrestlers walked out the wide back corridors into the waiting area.

Sounds crazy and fun, the effervescent Laura said.

Yeah, count us in. I’ll drive, said Stanton, who grabbed the check and refused to let me pay or even leave a tip.

Then I pay for the tickets, I said, and I got no resistance.

What are you doing tomorrow, John? Laura asked. I said I had no definite plans, other than sunbathing, swimming, and reading a book. Then you must come with us to Stone Island. You can do all that over there and we can have lunch at Lety’s.

I looked at Stanton and he, too, looked eager to have me come along. I was still feeling poorly, though being with them did take my attention away from my discomfort, and the dread of the medical tests and results, and so I agreed to meet them before we parted.

I was staying in Old Town at the budget traveler’s choice, Hotel Belmar, across from the town beach. The two of them were staying at the high-end El Cid in the Golden Zone, about twenty minutes away, in a room Stanton called The James Bond Room—all paid for by their benefactor, the man wanting the house.

The following morning, we boarded the rowboat that would take us over to the peninsula called Isla de la Piedra—Stone Island. There were no other passengers, except for an elderly Indian woman with a lazy eye, who carried a basket of items she was selling: an assortment of native jewelry mostly, the early sun glinting off some pieces. Laura picked out a pair of earrings she liked and the woman made her first sale. We passed the forlorn sight of a battered ferry—ancient, almost—anchored and awaiting better days. Once on shore, we walked the length of the beach to the end, and went about the business of getting comfortable, talking with the owner of the palapa-styled restaurant.

It had a dozen tables under palapas, in the sand, and hammocks to use for free, as well as lockers to rent and dressing rooms in the back. I understood the owner also had a couple of rooms that she rented out, too. Stanton picked out a hammock and said that he had to take a nap. As Laura and I were arranging our beach towels, she explained that Stanton had been up half the night on his laptop researching local property for sale and on the phone with the potential house buyer.

I was doing my best not to reveal my attraction to Laura, but I swear she was giving me signals that she liked me more than she probably should. Stanton seemed oblivious to this, or at least he acted that way, and honestly, he didn’t seem very into her. They acted more like brother and sister than lovers, but that was fairly natural in a lot of longer relationships.

As we lay on our towels, we heard voices and looked up to see some people on horseback galloping by. After more than an hour of sunbathing, Laura and I went off into the shallow water, and walked out through the waves until we could swim. For a minute, I forgot all my worries about my health and discomfort. I didn’t seem to be getting any worse, though I was easily fatigued. Still, I wasn’t my old self. It must have been noticeable, because when we stopped swimming and were treading water, Laura showed some concern and asked if I was alright. I went ahead and told her the story.

Gosh, John, I sure hope everything’s okay.

Probably just old age tapping me on the shoulder...or do you think it’s psychological? A mid-life crisis rearing its head?

You’re still a young man, Laura said with a laugh. I would have guessed you were ten years younger. I’m very inspired by you—Stanton, too, although he probably wouldn’t admit it.

Later, Stanton woke up and we had a lunch of shrimp, vegetable kabobs with rice, and a salad. I avoided alcohol, as did Laura, but Stanton, claiming hair-of-the-dog, drank a couple of cold Dos Equis. As the day moved on, more and more tourists showed up, including a wagon-full pulled by a tractor that approached from a back road, straight from a cruise ship. And the peddlers were multiplying and starting to get annoying. The three of us walked back along the beach and caught another launch to the mainland. They then dropped me off at the Belmar.

Stepping into the cool, windy hotel entrance, like a kind of tunnel, I had to admit the outing had, in reality, done me no good. I was feeling worse than ever and couldn’t wait to get to my bed. I hoped the jazz aficionado in the apartment next to me wasn’t blasting Miles Davis again in the middle of the day. Sometimes I didn’t mind. Usually, though, he was out hiking, or visiting the families of the Mexican boys he hung out with, teaching English.

Past the entryway, I walked through the hotel patio, past the pool and down a few steps, heading over to a building the regulars had dubbed the compound. On the ground floor, there was an empty garage and a workroom with storage area for the hotel’s handyman and his meager crew. Up a stairway, on the second-floor landing, there were six apartments. Getting to the stairway required walking through a ruined courtyard. It was barren, nothing but dirt, brush, and weeds, not used for much except dumping some junk here and there, like the two broken toilets with a dead computer balanced on top of one, and a lone cord wrapped around one corner. This inadvertent exhibit of Dadaist art was sitting against the light-blue, peeling wall of the enormous garage. The courtyard in its heyday, I was told, featured a fine set of tennis courts. It occurred to me that I wouldn’t want to hear that ball being whacked back and forth all day long, no matter how elegant the courts were. Glad that’s gone, I thought, glancing at the commodes-and-computer again and reminding myself to get a photo before they were moved. Closer to the building were some plants, potted cacti in the shade of a couple of skimpy trees, fenced in, though, and cared for.

On the opposite side, the street side of the apartments, four of these stripped-down-to-the-basics abodes had French doors that opened onto their own small balcony, and below was Calle Sixto Osuna. With my chair facing out, I could see a piece of the ocean. However, today, my romantic notions about the place were out of mind. I stepped out of my sandals and fell onto the bed and, after moaning to myself for a while and enduring some chills, I fell into a disturbed sleep.

Later, I pulled myself together and called the Canucks and Laura answered. I begged out of attending the lucha libre bouts later that night. I told her that I had an early hospital visit and I was still feeling poorly, so I’d lie low till then.

Oh sweetie, I’m sure everything will be fine, once you get to the bottom of it and get the proper meds.

She went on to tell me about Stanton’s thyroid problem, his misdiagnosis, his medical trials and tribulations. I wasn’t really listening, and just wanted her to stop talking. I decided during that conversation to keep some distance from them for a while, and pay attention to what the hell was going on with me.

The next day, the physical exam was standard and ended with me having some blood drawn by Pedro, not the friendliest phlebotomist I’d ever come across. After accusing me of being dehydrated, he poked around some more in both arms, cursing under his breath until he found a vein. He dutifully filled his vials, and gave me a surly look when I stood and said, "Adiós, muchacho." The black-and-blue from his assault would last for the rest of the week.

I walked back to the hotel in something of a daze, but feeling a tad better, too, since I’d elevated myself psychologically to deal with the exam and so I was still a bit up. I stopped in at the Panamá Restaurant and had one of the specials. The place was busy, bustling, and I was lucky to grab a small table before they started to tell people they had to wait. Afterward, I walked over to the Plazuela Machado, stopping first at Café El Faro for a takeaway coffee.

I sat on a bench in the Machado in the shade of an overhanging tree. It wasn’t long before someone I knew came along—Paul, an Australian free spirit who’d traveled a bit on the Pacific coast of Mexico and decided to stay on here in Old Town. He was a robust yet easygoing fellow with a lively sense of humor. He worked as a handyman for a gringo B&B owner who didn’t want to hire Mexicans. He painted vibrantly colored birds, iguanas, boats, and seascapes. He showed at a local gallery and talked about selling prints to the tourists in the Zone, but he’d never followed up. He enjoyed the beaches, the sexual liaisons with female tourists looking for a summer fling, the parties, and the drinking. We talked some local gossip. He wanted me to join him at Edgar's, an authentic Mexican cantina favored by longtime expats, but I bowed out, not really in the mood. I said it was a little early. He laughed, and said it was five o’clock somewhere in the world.

I walked back to the hotel. My follow-up appointment with Dr. Sánchez was for tomorrow and already I was feeling the first level of anxiety, fretting about waiting even that long. I fought off the urge to call him sooner.

The following morning, I’d not heard back from Laura or Stanton, and that was fine, because I wasn’t in the mood to socialize. I took stock of my symptoms. I felt vaguely like I could throw up. My head throbbed and my body felt as though drained of blood. Pain and aches moved through me and were most intense in my lower legs and feet, which made me get up and walk around, although it hurt to do so. In more pain than I cared to endure, I walked across the room, realizing that I needed a cane. I turned the shower on and limped over to the one chair and collapsed.

The chair was so old, I’d purchased a Mexican blanket to cover it, for fear of any microbes that lived in the upholstery, and because just the idea of old skin scales made me shudder. In fifteen minutes or so, there would likely (though not always) be some warm water coming out of the showerhead, never reaching hot but only remotely tepid. It wouldn’t last long either—five minutes or so—so one had to be vigilant to monitor the water temperature if they wanted anything that resembled a warm shower.

Everything I loved about Mexico, and especially Old Town, was lost on me as I painfully made my way to Dr. Sánchez’s for my appointment later that morning. For some reason, there wasn’t a pulmonía in sight. When I arrived, the doctor saw me right away. Once again, I took the semi-comfortable chair.

Well, Mr. Johnson, I have the results, good in a way, yes—

Yes?

Well, here’s the thing: there’s nothing. At least nothing they could find. Your test results are all normal.

Then why do I feel this way? I’m about to buy a cane, it’s so difficult walking. I complained about other symptoms, too, and the doctor listened, looking down at the report, then back at me and nodding. Once I began to trail off, repeating my litany of woes and fears, he stopped me.

The causes of certain mysterious illnesses are not known to medical science, and science in some cases does not have the answers—let alone the cures or treatments, which are often worse than the disease itself. And in your case, we’re dealing with the unknown.

This sounded weak to me and, in spite of my earlier appreciation for their lack of red tape, I had immediate misgivings about the backward, antiquated Mexican health care system. I thought, now I must fly back to the States for real tests to get to the bottom of this and hopefully get treatment. The doctor looked at me like a mind reader might.

Some maladies cannot be cured by modern medicine, my boy, but luckily, you have come to the right man to steer you to a group who may be able to cure you: The Society.

I was thinking, wow, he’s off his rocker, but another part of me said to listen, explore it—what’s there to lose?

Of course, I want you to think about it, the doctor continued. You would have to travel to Durango and you would spend three days there.

So, some kind of a shamanistic ritual? I ventured.

"You could say that. Partly, but really much more. I can tell you this: I have seen amazing results, and I was a hard-line skeptic at