American Shaman

Detective Hughes pulled his car up through the muddy trail into the deepening woods. He looked out the window to his left, eyeing the charred remains of a cabin in what was once a grassy clearing but was now blackened and dead. A few surviving beams stuck up at odd angles. Heads on pikes.

Continuing onward up the hill, he rounded a wide turn and found himself in another clearing with another cabin, splintered wooden shingles shedding the last night's rain in little rivulets that ran down. Hughes parked in front of the house and got out, taking care to make sure it was locked. An axe sat embedded in a splitting log beside the porch. Mason jars were strung along the top of the porch, tied between beams. Hughes drew closer to inspect them. They held dead fireflies.

Hughes rapped on the door with his knuckle. It was opened by a middle-aged man. Hughes had trouble placing his exact age. He could have been forty or sixty. A salt-and-pepper beard obscured much of his face. Brilliantly blue eyes. Deeply tanned, leathered skin. Blue rhinestone rings on his fingers. Hughes thought he looked like an American shaman.

"Morning, sir. I'm Detective Hughes with the Beavercreek Police Department. Do you have a moment to talk? I just have a few questions about the incident at your neighbor's cabin last night. I believe my secretary let you know to expect me?"

The shaman opened the door wider and stepped aside. "Of course, come in. Can I get you anything to drink?"

"No, thank you."

Hughes entered the dark cabin. The curtains had been opened, but it was early enough in the day that the wan morning light only dusted through the panes, leaving most in shadow. Incense burned on the coffee table. The shaman stooped and extinguished each wick with a practiced pinch. Hughes noticed the man did not wince, nor was any ash left on his fingers.

"Have a seat, Detective," the shaman said, motioning to a wooden chair with a gingham cushion. Hughes lowered himself into it, and the shaman sat on the sofa across from him.

"So," Hughes began, then trailed off. He struggled to start interviews after events like last night's. "Let's start with the basics. Your name is Solomon Avery, correct?"

"Correct," the shaman said.

"How long have you lived here in this cabin?"

"Better part of twenty years."

"Got it. And your neighbor--"

"He was my cousin."

"Sorry, what?"

"Richard Chase. He was my cousin. We share this land. Or, shared, I should say."

Hughes was surprised that hadn't already come up in the police report. "Got it. So were you two close?"

The shaman shrugged. "We had a common history, that much is sure. I'd known him, and Gwen too, my whole life."

"So would you know anything about Richard's mental state recently?"

The shaman cast his eyes down to the floor and nodded slowly. "He and Gwen had been struggling a lot the last few years. Richard was always ruminating, always striving and asking questions. Gwen was more passive. She was a mirror of sorts, reflecting whatever it was that was occupying his mind." He then leaned back on the sofa, spreading his arms across the back and looking out the window. "'Course, they told me things were better than ever."

"What were they struggling about?"

"Infertility, mostly. Both of 'em always wanted a kid. Never happened. This was particularly hard on Richard, you understand. He has always had this incredible force of will. What Richard wants, Richard gets."

"Did Richard ever say anything to indicate that he would go down this path?" Hughes asked.

The shaman laughed. "What path? You mean burning down their cabin, killing his wife, and then offing himself?"

"Yes."

The shaman shrugged. "I don't think this sort of thing can be predicted, really. They just happen. Spur of the moment."

"Mr. Avery, did you talk to Richard regularly?"

"No. You have to understand, this cabin is where I live all the time. Their cabin was just for getaways. They lived down in the city. I'd look after their half of the property while they were away. Outside of when they came up here for an escape, I'd scarcely talk to either of 'em."

Hughes sat back and considered this, then decided to keep pressing. "But surely, he must have opened up to you when you did talk. You grew up together. Do you think their fertility struggles played into this?"

Now the shaman was quiet. "I couldn't tell you," he finally said. "They tried for almost ten years. Assisted techniques didn't take. Adoption fees weren't workable, either. Eventually, they gave up. Gwen started volunteering at the elementary school. Richard found religion--pretty recently, at that. I suppose they found their own ways of coping."

"What was the last thing Richard spoke with you about?"

The shaman looked at Hughes, his expression inscrutable. Still blue pools. "Like I said, he found religion. Buddhism, specifically. Said the idea of nirvana and all of creation being one really assuaged him." He reached into his back pocket and pulled out a carton of cigarettes, tapping one out into his hand. "Hope you don't mind, officer," the shaman said, producing a metal lighter from his other pocket and flicking the little chrome wheel. 

"Please, whatever makes you comfortable," Hughes said. The shaman nodded. "Appreciate that. Now. Where was I? Ah, yeah. Richard called me up a few months ago. Starts asking what I know about Tibetan mythology. Tulpas, specifically."

"What is a tulpa?"

The shaman breathed out smoke, and it washed away in the dark. "A manifested being. Created by the cosmic. Buddhists believe they can be created through intense meditation and become your companion."

"And why did he ask you about this?"

"I've always had a certain sensitivity."

"Meaning what, exactly?"

"I pick up on things unseen. Little patterns, pushes and pulls, the gravity wells of reality. I think anyone can do this, really, but most aren't aware." He took another puff of the cigarette. "At any rate, it's led me to be a student of all the world's religions. But I don't claim fealty to any particular one."

Hughes was unsure of what to do with this information. "Okay, so Richard is asking you about tulpas. Is that the last you spoke to him?"

The shaman shook his head. "Not quite. Few nights ago, he rings me. Says he and Gwen are coming up to the cabin for the weekend. Now I was surprised by this. Usually they only come up in the summer, not late October. But I say okay, I'll have the cabin ready, and he thanks me and hangs up." The shaman finished his cigarette, grinding out the flame in a little crystalline ashtray on the coffee table. "Now that night, I had a dream."

"Oh?" Hughes said.

"It opened in Richard and Gwen's cabin. In my dream, everything was exactly as it is in reality. But there's this sense of foreboding." Hughes noticed the shaman was no longer making eye contact; he had withdrawn into himself, pulling something out. "I'm standing in the living room. The lights are all off, doors closed. Suddenly their bedroom door opens. I turn around, and I see a massive spider -- legs at least five feet long, bristled hairs all across them -- it was walking out of the room. Still obscured mostly by shadow." The shaman stared out the window behind Hughes.

"And then what?" Hughes asked.

"Well," the shaman said with a heavy sigh. "The spider crawls up the wall, onto the ceiling, and comes into the living room. As it comes closer to the light, I see that it has the face of a human child. The instant it crawls directly into the sunbeam, its legs burst into flames. The face is screaming, and its skin is melting. It sees me and hurls itself toward me as if to attack. That's when I woke up."

The room was quiet. The shaman continued smoking the cigarette, almost casually. He gazed thoughtfully up at the ceiling.

"That's a disturbing dream," Hughes said. The shaman shrugged. "But what does that have to do with speaking to Richard?"

"Well, the next morning I called him and Gwen," the shaman responded. "Told them about the dream. Like I said, I have a sensitivity. I was willing to bet that my dream was a warning of sorts. I told them not to come to the cabin. He got upset, said I needed to shut up and stop scaring Gwen. They had important plans this weekend. And then he hung up." He stubbed out this cigarette. "And that was the last we spoke."

"Richard said they had 'important plans'? What does that mean?" Hughes asked.

The shaman raised his eyebrows. "I told you about the tulpas. Created through meditation. You need a quiet, isolated place to reach that depth of spiritual connection. Why do you think I live in this cabin all year round?"

"Hang on. You're saying that Richard was going to try psychically manifesting a tulpa? What? Why?"

"He did always want a kid."

"He believed in that stuff literally? Not as just a mythology, some idea meant to show a moral truth?"

"Moral truth as opposed to what?" the shaman asked. "Truth is truth. Everything that is true is real."

"Do you believe in that stuff?"

"I believe in truth, and I believe my dreams have truth."

"So, what? Richard and Gwen tried to conjure up some kid in their psyche, they got a flaming human spider instead, and that's what killed them and burned down the cabin?"

The shaman shrugged. "That's your job to deduce, detective. All I can tell you is what I know."

Hughes shook his head. This interview was going nowhere. He'd ask the criminal psychologist to come speak to the shaman next. "Thank you for your time, Mr. Avery," he said, standing up. "I'm afraid I'll have to be on my way. You can expect to hear from us again sometime later in the week."

The shaman stood and shook Hughes's hand. "I hope I was helpful. And detective?"

"Yes?"

"Just be careful driving out of here."