Doubull Indemnity

1

Isla, Conduit for ̶ ̶t̶h̶e̶ ̶S̶p̶i̶r̶i̶t̶u̶a̶l̶i̶s̶t̶ ̶A̶r̶t̶s̶ ̶Sexting

Oh, yeah, that day started like any other. Slow and cold. Until about, oh, like, noon-ish, or so? A decidedly after church hour but still early enough to be considered unholy by most in the Society of Other, Worldly, and Otherworldly Creatures. I had only just begun to sip my morning coffee when the first of the widows came knocking.

Not that I had any right to complain about having clients, for a change. A few, ah, noteworthy customers aside, January was relatively dry for the kitschy Psychic Readings industry. But Valentine's Day? Oh honey. Valentine's Day was your baby girl's most bumping day of the year.

"Yes, yes," moaned seventy-seven-year-old Myrna Felgren, a regular of mine with cataracts and a silvery blue wig. Oh, and a dead husband. "What else does my Wallace say? What—what does he do next?"

"Tell Myrna I touch her, ahem," the ghost of the aforementioned expired spouse, Wallace Felgren, three years deceased next month, rasped into my ear. He gestured toward his wife's bosom. "Here. Softly, at first. But more, ah, firm, as she melts like pudding under my touch."

For Gritty's sake.

"He squeezes your tits."

"Oh!" Myrna yelped like her beau did manage to land a nipple pinch from the great beyond. My chaise wobbled as she threw her head back, pawing at her own breasts over that mink coat.

"Pudding," said Wallace, nudging my elbow. "You forgot to say pudding."

I swatted Wally's hand away. Just as Myrna peeled one eye open to check in on me, I guess. Shifting the gesture from a weird twitch into a flourish, I flicked my wrist toward my crystal ball (still cracked, but nothing some clear tape and glitter couldn't fix). My fingers skimmed across the surface, fresh manicure clicking against the crystal. The ruby gem of my ring glinted in the light of my candles.

"Wait, Myrna, there's more— I hear him— it's faint, but yes, your Wallace is saying you melt like ice cream—No. Like pudding beneath his touch!"

"Didn't you just say you wanted a bit more melting ice cream?" A certain vampire had whispered in my ear once.

"Good gracious! Tell him I like that! I've always—it's been so long since anyone's touched me like this. Tell Wallace, oh, how I've missed his hands on me, just, roving the length of my pliant body! Say roving."

"Once again, Myrna, he can still hear you. Every word."

"Please, please, tell him." She panted, eyes squeezed shut and trembling as if she were about to let go and peak right there on my chaise.

I resisted the urge to lay down a newspaper for the mess, instead merely wrinkling my nose. Eck. Stupid, gross, sickeningly romantic, loving, devoted couple. I should be the stupid hoe sullying my stupid chaise like that, not one of my stupid regulars. A monthly one at that. Not even a weekly!

Get real, it's not like you've had any opportunities for furniture sullying as of late, girlfriend.

"Wallace, Myrna says she likes it when you," I sighed, "touch her like that. Like your hands are, you know, roving."

Good ole Wally nodded vigorously. If it hadn't already killed him, I'd be worried the horny bastard's heart would give out from watching the scene. He licked his eternally chapped lips and admired his enthralled widow.