Taking a deep breath, Madam Divine fluffs her wig, checks her caked-on makeup, and then takes her seat in front of the crystal ball. For twenty years the ball had been nothing more than a prop at the table in her “Room of the Psychic Realm,” but two days ago that all changed. While her client sat through her well-practiced routine, an image – a somewhat foggy one – appeared in the ball. In it she saw a plane fall from the sky, an explosion of flames as it crashed into a parking garage. She gasped at the horrid sight, surprising the man across from her. It was stunning enough to see the destruction, but the fact that something, anything had appeared within the ball sent cold chills down her spine.
“What is it?” the man had asked.
“Are...are you planning to fly somewhere?”
“Why yes...a business trip to Chicago tomorrow morning, as a matter of fact.”
“Don’t go. You must cancel. It does not bode well.”
The man stood, pushing himself away from the table. “Enough of this nonsense. I should have known better. I can’t just cancel a meeting with my director because some psychic...or maybe, psycho, warned me off.”
He turned and left, the door slamming behind him.
The next morning she stood in shock as the breaking news flashed on her television. A Chicago bound plane lost power on takeoff, crashing into the nearby parking lot, killing all aboard.
Later that day, when a young women had come to see her, worried about her husband’s fidelity, she sat again at the ball, this time in dreaded anticipation. The ball quickly came to life showing a fuzzy scene of a busy intersection at the bottom of a hill. Several cars were stuck out in the middle when a gas truck – its brakes not working – came barreling down the grade.
She turned away.
“What did you see? There’s another woman, right?”
“Do you drive a black BMW?” Madam Divine asked.
“Yes, why?”
“Stay away from Elm and 30th Streets tomorrow.”
“Wait...is that where they’ll meet? It is, isn’t it?”
“No, no, that’s not it...you can’t go there...”
But it was too late, the woman had shot out the door.
With this morning’s news of the fiery accident, killing ten as the truck’s load of gas exploded, still fresh on her mind, she rubs the ball, this time all alone. It wastes no time with its response, the scene obviously one from her television. The announcer is reporting tomorrow’s headline story: a tragic killing at 1577 Juniper Street.
Her heart stops. That’s her address.
It’s then the front entry bell rings. Panicked, she reaches under the table and grabs her small pistol. As she does, there are footsteps in her lobby. Someone is coming.
Taking no chances, she throws open the door and fires the gun at the intruder, emptying the chambers.
The mailman drops in a heap to the floor, several envelopes falling from his now limp hand.
“What is it?” the man had asked.
“Are...are you planning to fly somewhere?”
“Why yes...a business trip to Chicago tomorrow morning, as a matter of fact.”
“Don’t go. You must cancel. It does not bode well.”
The man stood, pushing himself away from the table. “Enough of this nonsense. I should have known better. I can’t just cancel a meeting with my director because some psychic...or maybe, psycho, warned me off.”
He turned and left, the door slamming behind him.
The next morning she stood in shock as the breaking news flashed on her television. A Chicago bound plane lost power on takeoff, crashing into the nearby parking lot, killing all aboard.
Later that day, when a young women had come to see her, worried about her husband’s fidelity, she sat again at the ball, this time in dreaded anticipation. The ball quickly came to life showing a fuzzy scene of a busy intersection at the bottom of a hill. Several cars were stuck out in the middle when a gas truck – its brakes not working – came barreling down the grade.
She turned away.
“What did you see? There’s another woman, right?”
“Do you drive a black BMW?” Madam Divine asked.
“Yes, why?”
“Stay away from Elm and 30th Streets tomorrow.”
“Wait...is that where they’ll meet? It is, isn’t it?”
“No, no, that’s not it...you can’t go there...”
But it was too late, the woman had shot out the door.
With this morning’s news of the fiery accident, killing ten as the truck’s load of gas exploded, still fresh on her mind, she rubs the ball, this time all alone. It wastes no time with its response, the scene obviously one from her television. The announcer is reporting tomorrow’s headline story: a tragic killing at 1577 Juniper Street.
Her heart stops. That’s her address.
It’s then the front entry bell rings. Panicked, she reaches under the table and grabs her small pistol. As she does, there are footsteps in her lobby. Someone is coming.
Taking no chances, she throws open the door and fires the gun at the intruder, emptying the chambers.
The mailman drops in a heap to the floor, several envelopes falling from his now limp hand.
