Psychomental Complex Pt. 02

Psychomental Complex pt. 2

Maybe you're the one who was taken over by a spirit.

My thanks to Mormon Jack for his review and comments on the parts 1 & 2 of this story. He made it more coherent and credible. All errors and absurdities are my responsibility.

This story will be meaningless unless you've read pt. 1

++++++

The TV weather ratings were down. It didn't matter how gorgeous the broadcaster, or how little she wore. Everyone had the weather at their fingertips simply by asking Google, Siri or Alexa. Any simple smartphone could deliver the same information from the same sources as the professional weather babes. I was fortunate to get out, or rather I should say 'let go' before the cuts came. Boris' mother was effective, leveraging the station and Angelo's setting me up with those iffy swimsuits and revealing fashion. Peter's deposition made me sound like a slut; I thought he was a friend. Tara was pissed that my presentation downplayed the climate crisis; she was a true believer and wanted revenge. It didn't work out well for her.

The negotiations, the court hearings and testimony were a kind of therapy for me. All my actions, all my emotions leading up to and during the retreat were put on display and picked apart. I didn't realize it back then, but Oliver had been right not to trust me. Now I questioned whether I could trust myself to behave properly.

If I invested wisely and lived frugally, the settlement was large enough that I wouldn't have to work again. That wasn't me. Two years after I got the check, it was time to move on. I let the restraining orders against Ivan and Joey expire and went back to school to update my social work credentials.

I pressed on with my search for Oliver, though the police said there was nothing they could do. There was no sign of him once he drove the car into a ravine, and judging from the footprints, walked back up to the street. It was near the bus station, but there were no traceable records of him traveling. A couple of Private Investigators took a first look, then advised me not to waste my money on them. Boris' mom tried to involve the Russian consulate. They laughed at the Siberian connection, saying they wouldn't give me a visa to go look for him.

Kyle missed his father but got on with his life. He was almost finished his engineering degree. His girlfriend was polite but restrained when I saw them. He still wanted the answers to the questions I couldn't answer.

Ivan tried to get me to sleep with his friend the day after I returned from the retreat. He flashed a roll of money, saying these were the deposits from his classmates who wanted a piece of me. That was the first time I used Lara, Boris' mom. She got temporary restraining orders against Joey and Ivan within a couple of hours. Two days later the orders were extended by a year.

I got a job with SADU, a para-governmental organization as an intake worker for a network of shelters and psychiatric facilities for the homeless. Every homeless person was different: some were druggies or alcoholics. Some were victims of trauma, whether from war or from family. Many had systemic chemical imbalances. And quite a few were simply stupid, unable to make good decisions for themselves. I had to make sure each person was directed to the facility that would most likely be able to help them.

I spent about a day with each person. They were tested for drugs before coming to me. In the morning, I would interview them and run psychological tests. There was always a security guard nearby in case a subject became violent, and I had a taser under my desk. I only had to use it once. The scratches my subject gave me took a couple of weeks to fade.

If I thought a person was a good candidate for restoring to a self-sufficient life, we would clean them up and then buy them new clothes at the Walmart next door. They would get a private room with a door that locked at their treatment facility. Most of my clients were women. There were four guys handling the men. Sometimes four wasn't enough, and I got the overflow.

The pay wasn't great, but it was emotionally rewarding. I loved when former clients thanked me for having faith in them. I hated hearing the occasions when my faith had been misplaced, and clients were back on the streets, jailed or dead. Sometimes it was better not to have faith: such as when Oliver didn't have faith in me participating in that damned retreat. Almost five years had passed, and it still weighed heavily on me.

I had lost touch with everyone involved. Boris had completed his degree and moved to Tennessee where he worked as a research chemist. Angel Fashion had gone under because of the bad publicity. Joey left town, trying to escape his local reputation as a pervert. The TV station was bought out by an investment company, who valued it only for its license. Tara, Peter, and most of the others were gone. Ivan and I exchanged text messages every few months, but that was as far as it went. I didn't know whether he still lived in our city or had moved to another state or country. The farther the better, as far as I was concerned.

Boris' mother called me occasionally. Her husband Alex said he could feel when someone with aboriginal Siberian blood came into the region. He couldn't define the 'region,' whether the person was two or two hundred miles away. Nor could he tell whether they had a trace of Siberian ancestry or were full blooded. Most were transient, detectable for a few days and then gone.

It was nice to hear from her when she called about these detections, but the information was so vague as to be useless in the search for my husband. Besides which, I didn't take these 'detections' seriously. They were most likely the product of a rich imagination, or to use the words of the author of Oliver's book, reflections of a bizarre "psychomental complex." It increased my respect for Boris, that he hadn't fallen victim to his father's oddities. I didn't get particularly excited when the father reported that not only had someone come to the area, but he wasn't transient, having already been there a few weeks.

It was nice of him to advise me. Lara's call came while I had a real estate agent appraise my house.

"I'll need you and your husband to sign the mandate to market the house." That threw me off. I explained that my husband has been missing for five years.

"You have a closetful of men's clothes. Are they your husband's or someone else's? I don't mean to pry, but there are certain legal exigencies for selling. Are you divorced or separated?"

I shook my head. "I'll ask my lawyer what we can do. I- I'm waiting for him to come home." I could see the agent's attitude change from eager listing to 'kook to avoid.' She gathered up her papers and told me call when my husband returned.

If my husband returned, I wouldn't sell the house. I was succumbing to pressure from Kyle and Lara to move on with my life. I wasn't enthusiastic about the idea.

Nor was I enthusiastic about my work anymore. I had helped and I had lost a lot of people. Our organization's funding had been reduced, rather than expanded to deal with the growing need. More and more of our clients were foreigners, and I had to deal with different languages and strange cultures. It made the task more stressful, and I no longer looked forward to going in to work each day. I kept at it though, week after week, month after month.

The eyes of the woman in front of me looked familiar. It was hard to tell, because they were focused on the top of my desk. She wore a long, dirty skirt, a baggy sweater and a kerchief that could better be described as a rag tightly covering her hair. It was when she opened her mouth that I recognized her voice. She was the woman who propelled me out of social work years earlier, by killing her daughter that I had allowed her to keep. She recounted that she was released from jail four months ago, but no one wanted anything to do with her. Penniless and shunned, she lived on the street. This was punishment, she averred, for allowing herself to be jailed. She had no remorse for her crime. I immediately pegged her as a danger to society, summoning a guard to take her for processing the high-risk homeless.

This left me with an empty day ahead of me. I buzzed my director, offering to take on another candidate. It was a man, a hunched-over gaunt man with a week's stubble on his face. His skin had a leathery, burned look to it. Not sunburned, but rather ice burned. I had never heard of ice-burns and had no idea what they looked like, but was certain that was it. If the client stood straight, he would probably be about six feet tall. His hair was a tangle of white, black and dirt, his clothes were rumpled and torn. His eyes didn't stay still long enough for me to determine their color. He coughed sporadically, and I hoped whatever caused it wasn't contagious.

His name was Mark according to the intake form, but there was a question mark next to it. I started with that. "What's your name?"

He shrugged, crossing and then uncrossing his legs.

"It says on this form that your name is Mark. Is that right?"

He shifted his weight, scratched his head and sniffled. "I suppose. Sort of."

I waited for him to expand on that. It didn't take long.

"Mother. My name is mother."

"That's an unusual name. Mother is usually what you call the person who gives birth to you."

He grimaced. "Modder, Modder. Not mother."

I didn't want to get stalled on this topic. "Where were you before you came to our city?"

Another shrug. "It was cold, very cold there."

"Did this place have a name?"

"Probably."

I waited, but wasn't going to play his game by asking.

"Why did you come here?"

He coughed but was silent otherwise.

"Listen, do you want to be part of our program? I can't help you if you won't work with me."

"Don't put it that way, Carla." He smiled for the first time. "I have to trust you."

At least he was literate enough to read the name badge on my jacket. Something about the way he said it made me shiver.

He stared at me, coughed, and then repeated "I have to trust you."

It made me shiver again. "I need to ask some questions to figure--"

"Hold on a second." He held up a finger to interrupt me, then stared into space, nodding occasionally. "No, no, I'm not home. I don't know where it is." It was like he was having a phone conversation without using any communication device.

"Who were you talking to?"

"My great-uncle. He lost his wife a few years ago and he's lonely."

"How did you talk with him? I didn't see a phone. Do you have some kind of implant?"

He smiled for the first time and shook his head. "We were communicating soul-to-soul."

Another nutcase, I told myself. Then I froze. Oliver communicated 'soul-to-soul' with his great uncle. I looked carefully at him. He looked more relaxed now, more in his comfort zone. I pulled out my cell phone.

"Lara, is Alex available? I have someone I need him to talk to." I told her that my client made me think of her husband, and I wanted his opinion. She put Alex on the line, and I handed Modder my phone. His end of the conversation was truncated; he uttered some things that weren't in any language I recognized. Mostly, he listened. After five minutes he put the phone on my desk and coughed again. I put some hand sanitizer on a tissue and wiped it down before putting the phone back to my ear.

"It's my feeling that your client has been invaded by a powerful spirit," Alex said. "At least that's what he believes. He wants to drive it out but doesn't know how. That bothers him more than the invading spirit itself.

"Invading spirit?"

Alex sighed. "Listen: some people, some cultures are very different. Our psychomental paradigm, the way we understand the world to work is not how you understand it. Your client--"

"He says his name is Modder."

"Don't use that name! Don't even think it. If you give the name credibility, that strengthens its hold on him, whether it's real or imaginary. Does he have any ID, anything that would give a hint who he is? Unless, of course, you believe he's that spirit. If that's the case, you're in deep trouble."

"I'm okay. You said 'psychomental.' That's an unusual word."

Mod-- oops, the client had seated himself on the floor, wiggling himself as best he could into the corner of the room. His eyes were tightly shut and his lips moving. Except for a few coughs, no sound came from him.

"Well, there's a book that describes it, titled--"

"Psychomental Complex of the Tungus. Yeah, my husband started reading it. I don't know how far he got. It's very dry and complicated."

There was silence at the other end. The client lifted his head and glared at me. There was such venom that I took a couple of steps back.

"Ideally your client needs a shaman to free him of the spirit. The closest one is probably thousands of miles away."

"I thought Boris said..."

"He's not a shaman, I'm not a shaman, though I can do a few tricks. You need to find someone who has a deep longtime connection to your client. That person should read the book and do the shamanic ritual for expelling unwanted spirits."

"You're kidding me. Why can't you expel the spirit?"

"It must be someone he trusts, someone he's known for a long time. Finding that person is your biggest challenge, since nobody knows who the guy is."

I looked at the man on the floor. In my imagination I shaved and filled his gaunt cheeks, brushed his hair, and stood him upright and proud. I pictured him in a pinstriped grey Brooks Brothers suit. His glare gave way to a cough, which gave way to a wistful smile that brought tears to my eyes. "I know him, Alex, I know him. I'm pretty sure it's my husband; the man who disappeared years ago, while I was at the TV station's retreat." My client- Oliver- my husband closed his eyes again.

"Well, it's up to you, then," Alex said.

"I don't think he trusts me."

"How bad is it? Boris showed me the video of you coming out of the pool."

"Ask Boris... I'm too embarrassed."

There was a minute's silence on the line, till Alex finally whispered "Know when to stay silent. Good luck."

My education, my training, my experience, none of them gave me a clue how to respond to a malevolent Siberian spirit occupying my husband's mind and body. There was nothing in the job protocols, nothing in marriage protocols. I had to wing it. He eyed me suspiciously as I sat down on the floor beside him. When I tried to take his hand he pulled it fiercely away.

"Oliver." I tried again to take his hand.

He shuddered and pulled it back again, though not so quickly.

"Oliver, my husband."

He was silent, as if digesting my words. Then he fell sideways to the floor and began to bawl.

My supervisor didn't want to let me bring him home, despite my explanation. I turned once again to Lara, who convinced her that SADU had no legal grounds to detain him. When my supervisor asked Oliver if he wanted to go with me, he nodded. She gave him a release form to sign. I took it, tore it up and threw it in her face. I briefly wondered if I had just torn up my new career.

Alex called me as we were driving home. I alerted him that he was on speaker and Oliver was listening.

"That's great. Now listen carefully, because this is important. A Shaman and spirits have a Master/Servant relationship, if the Shaman is a good and strong person. Otherwise, it can be reversed, and the Spirit becomes the Master, the Shaman his servant. Oliver..."

I was surprised that he spoke to Oliver with his voice, using a telephone, rather than 'soul-to-soul.'

"Oliver: is that what happened?"

There was heavy, fast-moving traffic on our route. I had to concentrate on the road, rather than my husband's response. There was no response.

"Oliver!" When he still didn't respond, Alex started singing to him. At first I couldn't make out the words but then recognized 'Mary Had a Little Lamb.' Oliver's head drooped as Alex sang.

"Carla, when you get home you have to make a sacrifice to appease the spirit."

"What do you mean, sacrifice?"

"Ideally, kill and eat an animal. A lamb would be best."

"Are you insane?"

"Carla, do you remember what I said about 'psychomental complex'?"

"Where am I going to get a lamb to kill, and how could I do it without going to jail? Never mind that last part. How could I kill a lamb, period?"

"Killing a real lamb would best for helping your husband. Killing a fake lamb would be okay. At the very least, burn the price of a lamb."

"Huh?" I glanced over at Oliver, whose head continued to droop.

"If it costs two hundred dollars to buy a live lamb, burn two hundred dollars cash."

"What about the fake lamb?"

"A stuffed lamb from a toy store, or a porcelain lamb from a gift shop. Whichever lamb you do, make sure to serve him a lamb meal the same day."

"Alex, I'm not Siberian, I'm not a real shaman. This is way beyond me."

"Is there such a thing as a real shaman? Are there spirits that can take over a person, that can become his master? You have to fit yourself into your husband's psychomental complex to help him. Boris says you're a smart, strong lady who lost control of herself one weekend. Maybe you're the one who was taken over by a spirit."

I pulled into our driveway. "This is insane."

"Do it, Carla. For both of you." He hung up.

I went over to the passenger side, reached for Oliver's hand, and led him into his home. It was eleven in the morning, and I was already exhausted. He followed me to the kitchen. "Coffee?" I showed him a cup, to clarify.

"Not that one." He walked over to the cupboard and pulled out the South Park souvenir mug that he preferred.

I tried to temper my joy that he recognized it. "Milk and Splenda?" That was his usual formulation.

"Chocolate."

Whenever Oliver celebrated something, no matter how minor, he put a few drops of chocolate syrup in his coffee, calling it a 'mocha celebration.' I put his flavored coffee at his place on the table. We drank silently as I rejoiced, punctuated by his occasional cough.

"I have nice clothes that should fit you. Would you like to change out of... what you're wearing?" It was possible that Oliver felt some attachment to his current outfit, so I didn't refer to them as rags, which is what they were. He nodded.

"After you finish your coffee you can take a shower, and then we'll get you dressed. Again he nodded.

Half an hour later Oliver was clean, dressed in his tent-like long brown shirt. He didn't smile but looked happy. I had called a friend while he was showering and asked her to bring a stuffed lamb and a couple of lamb chops. Thankfully I didn't have to explain.

I took Oliver's hand as I led him on a tour of the house, going from room to room. It was largely unchanged since he had last been there, and I hoped the familiarity would jar his memory. He yawned. Nothing seemed to stir his interest: not his clothes closet, not his books, not the artwork or even his baseball pennants on the wall. I showed him framed photographs of our wedding, of our family. He stiffened when I mentioned Ivan's name, but other than that, no reaction.

"Where's his car?"

It took me a moment to realize that Oliver was talking about himself in the third person. Or perhaps it was Modd-- the spirit, asking about Oliver's Camry. "In the garage." I didn't need to direct him there or show him where the car key was hanging.

He stopped himself before opening the car door. "Did you charge the battery?" When I didn't answer he added "Batteries die if they're not charged periodically. Is he still a member of Triple-A?"

I had let that lapse. "No."

"I need a nap. Please wake me when it's time to continue."

Continue what? Whoever this guy was, he seemed to be comfortable in this house. He went to the ensuite washroom to relieve himself, climbed into bed, then turned his back to me. I took the hint, and, as much as I wanted to, didn't lie down beside him.

My friend showed up with the toy and meat while my husband slept. She was kind enough not to ask any questions about my weird request. I handed her fifty dollars; she said "If there's anything else I can help with..." as she left. It's nice to have real friends.

I looked at the fluffy stuffed lamb. It had blue marble eyes, and a peaceful, happy expression sewn onto its face. I reprimanded myself for wanting to sacrifice it, regardless of it being a toy. I stiffened my resolve and looked up the procedure in 'Psychomental Complex...'. I couldn't find anything I could use, so I went online to learn about biblical animal sacrifice. I wanted to do this right.

I draped the dining room table with our nicest tablecloth. It was a little dusty, not having been used in years. A large decorative stainless steel serving bow turned upside down was re-purposed as an altar, a small bowl at the ready to catch the blood, AKA tomato sauce. I set the table with the fine china dishes and silverware I had inherited from my grandmother and lit a decorative scented candle. With side dishes of salad and rice, dinner was ready except for the meat. Cooking that would have to wait. It would be cruel to cook a toy lamb while it was still alive.

I had become someone else during retreat, letting myself be exposed to and violated by many people. Who was I now, preparing to sacrifice a toy animal, gather and then sprinkle its blood so I could control a malevolent Siberian spirit? A spirit so powerful that I'm not even supposed to say its name. Maybe I should have just sent Oliver for psychiatric treatment, rather than go crazy along with him. If I go through with this, I also need to see a shrink. I went back to the kitchen to find an appropriate knife; something sharp, decorative, suitable for a spiritual encounter. I lowered myself to the floor, in the spot that my husband preferred when getting weird. I closed my eyes, trying to pick up spirit vibes or whatever it was that inspired Oliver's bizarre transformation. I shivered, not knowing if it was from sensing the chill of a Siberian winter or the fear of being a gullible fool. Snow filled my thoughts, overflowing into the room, covering the floor. It told me that the spirit was real, that Modder was real. I refused to believe it, desperately clutching any vestige of my rational mind. The storm filled the room and was now up to my armpits. I wanted to stand up, shake everything off, but Modder soundlessly insisted I remain seated, and obey.

"Get up!" the voice ordered. I was confused. "Get up" the voice repeated, along with hands under my arms trying to get me off the floor. Oliver was trying to lift me, but in his weakened condition was unable to do so on his own. I quickly pushed myself off the warm, dry floor, shaking away the remnants of the dream. He led me to the dining room table, handed me the sacrificial knife, and asked "Are you strong enough?"

I wasn't sure who was asking the question: my husband or Mo-- the malevolent spirit. I held the lamb on the alter, my thumb lifting its head to expose its throat. I tried to clear my mind of all extraneous thoughts, to concentrate on the task at hand. I wasn't successful; my mind was racing in a million different directions.

I proceeded anyway, and slowly drew the knife over the lamb's neck, severing the fabric that held the stuffing inside. I heard Oliver take a sharp breath. I dug some of the stuffing out, placed it in the smaller bowl and then covered it with tomato sauce. There was one step left to this ritual. I took the marinated lamb chops and put them in the oven. We sat together on the floor until the oven's timer dinged; I put the chops on a silver serving plate plate and placed that on the altar. I served dinner and we ate, neither of us contaminating the ritual with words.

When we were both finished Oliver blew out the candle and took his hand drum from inside a small cabinet. I joined him on the floor as he began to beat a simple rhythm and hum. I had to pee but didn't want to interrupt the mood. It got to the point where I was about to pee my pants when Oliver put down the drum and pointed at the bathroom. He was sitting on the armchair when I returned.

"My wife was going to do terrible things," he said, coughing to clear his throat.

I was about to deny it but recalled Alex's admonition to remain silent.

"She was in a battle with herself over her true nature. She had to be sexy for her career, but modest for her sense of self. It was the perfect opportunity for a malevolent spirit to invade, confuse, and take over. I tried to stop her; I tried to stop it but couldn't." Oliver sighed. "The spirit showed its control by parading her naked in front of the whole world, igniting an uncontrollable lust for her. Even our son was taken in." He coughed again, his shoulders rising as he took a deep breath.

"I don't know about these things. I've never connected to my Siberian side. The whole thing was like a fantasy tale, or rather a nightmare. I did some research and concluded that the only hope to save my wife was to get the spirit to move into me. The book, you know which one I mean... Well, it gave me the knowledge to do that. The spirit latched on to me, devouring my sense of order, chewing up my memories and connections to people and things." He coughed again, deeply. His face flushed as he seemed to struggle for air. He made a wheezing sound, then broke into more coughing. I ran and brought him a glass of water. It seemed to help.

"I didn't have the skill to control or expel it. The only thing I could do was leave and take it with me. Eventually it got bored; I had no one to interact with, and I was no longer entertaining. I wanted to go home but didn't know what or where it was. Maybe it was instinct, or just a vestige of my mind that brought me here." He started coughing again. Water didn't help. Was the malevolent spirit showing its power? Sweat beaded on his body as he started trembling.

I felt his forehead; definitely a fever. SADU had a contract with a medical clinic that had full-service branch near our house. Blood tests, a Covid test, chest x-ray, a full check-up and five hours later we left with a prescription of Zithromax to treat his pneumonia. The doctor said that considering how gaunt and malnourished Oliver appeared, it was fortunate that pneumonia was the only thing needing treatment. "Keep him in bed, give him Tylenol, keep him hydrated, and fatten him up" was the doctor's conclusion.

The malevolent spirit had a hard time overpowering two Tylenol. Oliver managed a smile as we drove home, touching my shoulder to say "Thanks." I tried to climb into bed with him but he stopped me. "I might still be contagious. I don't want you to catch this."

I put his phone on the nightstand. "Call me if you need anything."

"Stay, please." He pointed to a recliner in the corner of the room. "I don't want... it... coming when I'm alone."

"I'll be right back." I retrieved the book on Tungus shamanism from the den, turned on a small table lamp, kissed Oliver goodnight, and sat down to read. I didn't expect Mod... it to make any more appearances but figured studying the book would be my best night-time protection.

I had skimmed through parts of the book before. I dove deeper as Oliver snored, appreciating the richness, the depth of the culture of aboriginal Siberian peoples, the concepts that they passed on from one to another. They differentiated between ailments caused by infection and those caused by spirits; the latter could also cause the former. Was that what troubled my husband?

No. Modder was not the problem. That name is a mispronunciation of 'Mudurkan,' who's in charge of blocked toilets and other water stuff. If a spirit would have been responsible for how Oliver and I fucked up, it would have been Garlu, and his name was long forgotten. Oliver got confused about the spirits, among other things. There were no mystical forces at play. I was the slut, not the spirits. No shaman was needed to cure us.

Viewed from our own 'psychomental complex,' shamans are mere pagan sorcerers. We dismiss as magic any of their medical practices for which we can't find a scientific basis. It's a condescending and ethnocentric approach to people and cultures we don't really understand.

It's the correct approach. I don't believe in cultural relativity, that all cultures are equal in value. I don't believe my heritage is one of colonizing and exploiting other peoples. My culture, my world view is what produced the Zithromax curing my husband. It's the culture that took us to the moon and back, that abolished slavery (it's still practiced in much of the third world), that created the technology that gives food and water to those without it. Even those cultures that declare their hate for us depend on us.

Fuck Modder. It may take a week until my husband's pneumonia isn't contagious, but the infestation of malevolent spirits- that's gone. It was never here. I'm not falling into that bullshit. I'm American, not Siberian. Same goes for Oliver.

This leaves me with a problem. My husband has given me a pass for my obscene, slutty behavior at the retreat by blaming it on spirits. If they aren't to blame though, I am. In truth, I knew I was responsible the moment I agreed to that ridiculous bathing suit; I knew it when I let all those men touch me, when I let Joey in me. Oliver tried to warn me, but I was too proud to listen. I'll apologize when he's recovered from the pneumonia. Of all those spirits being tossed around, I have to pray that the spirit of forgiveness will be with Oliver.