Doc on Call

My name is Ellen R. O'Neill, old country spelling. You think you know weird? No, you don't. Not unless you meet certain criteria. And my bona fides are as follows: I have been dead, twice. Because of this, I know weird.
If you have a smidgen of what I simply call, The Gift, and this is different from knowing weird, The Gift can allow you to know when weird is getting ready to happen.
I guess my favorite and most direct warning system for weird is Clive. That would be Clive, King of the Crows. Where o' where do I start?
My newest waring from Clive: "You are getting ready to be picked through. Be mindful. He is a charmer and he likes older, plump women."
That is when the searing pain went through my side.
I woke up in the hospital and sitting by my side was the doc-on-call. My chart in his hands, his eyes reading through the notes left behind by others. "Perforated bowel," he nodded.
Lifting my hand to his lips, I heard him sniff then lick the veins.
"That's a bit odd," my eyes fixated on him. "You do not see that type of behavior in most docs. And especially on-call-docs. I am missing a lot of blood. Running tests, they say. Ha! Are you the vampire they keep in the basement?"
"Well yes, I am," he replied, kissing my hand and then I felt a small prick. I watched as the blood welled up from the vein and with a delicate flick of his tongue, it was gone. "I understand you have been asking to meet me."
"Have you a name?" I asked.
"Jon Irving."
"Jon Irving," I nodded. "That is not a pretty boy name, at all. And you are a pretty boy."
His eyes, held me down and kissed me in the most intimate of places. those two orbs, they looked like the moon rising though the mist filled trees, dark and shadowy and brilliantly lit as the light filtered through the limbs. For a moment, I thought I could get lost there. And maybe I did because it does not help that he looks exactly like my dead husband.

Dettagli