Of the Occult

The Psychiatrist

"I am a psychiatrist, primarily."
John didn't know why he had to sit through this, but his agent had told him numerous times about the importance of interaction with fans. "books don't sell themselves, Mr. Daye, and you are living in a time where competition is higher than quality." John hated his agent, but found himself agreeing to him on more occasions than just this. With a heavy sigh, he had taken his seat next to a massive poster of his new book "of the occult" which despite John Daye's efforts, remained "a slightly queer book, but likeable nonetheless" in the few reviews he had bothered to read. Other critics called his book "whacky", and frankly, that was quite alright with John. He had meant his book to be whacky.
Sitting on the green cushions of the wooden chair that had been provided to him, John scratched his balding head.
"Yeah, I wouldn't call myself a writer. A psychiatrist. A nutter, if you prefer". An off smile appeared on his wrinkly face.
"But this is the third book you have authored. People like reading about the weird things you write. Maybe you should consider becoming a full-time writer. I hate waiting years for your next book."
"I am flattered" John Daye didn't look it. He looked tired, if anything.
"So tell me," the fan continued. John Daye looked at the dwindling line behind the young man, and noticed how people were leaving already. He focused on the one who still stood, with a light in his eyes.
"Is any of it true?"
John looked at the boy, a twenty something. He didn't answer just yet, taking the front page of the book the fan offered, signing it with little courtesy and adding "enjoy the book, Pete" when he offered his name. Then John's blue eyes looked up.
"Of course it is true."
Pete seemed satisfied as he walked out.
Is any of it true? The amount of research John had put into his book was never appreciated, hardwork rarely was; yet, John hated every bit of it. He hated writing, for it was just entertainment at this point. Pete would never know how much John had given up, how much he had bled and sweated, quite literally. Why? Not for sitting here, talking to people who don't believe what he had written. They couldn't imagine the possibility of urban cults, living right next door, practicing the kind of sinister beliefs that would make your skin crawl hearing about it.
Pete wouldn't believe, if John told him, that chapter 23 in "of the occult" was actually true. He wouldn't believe that John had been there, driving at breakneck speed in his jeep at the very heart of London. He wouldn't believe how precious a second could be, when there was a family of cultist who preached and prayed only to fire, ready to set their newborn girl in fire in the hopes of pleasing the gods. He wouldn't believe that John had been only a second behind the police, when his jeep rolled and swayed to a stop next to a burning house, a carcass of a baby lying on the floor, black and charred.
Pete wouldn't believe the words that came out of the rescued mother; words that John needn't even think to recall. "The world hadn't ended today for our sacrifice!" the ashen face of the mother cried over her burning baby.
The power of belief could make people do unspeakable things, and Pete wasn't a believer, John thought. The idea that the world might have ended had she not prevented it from ending by her evil practice still fueled the arrogance of the fire cultist, as she sat high above the others in the warded asylum provided for her. Her husband, dead. Her child, dead. And still she believed she was the hero the world should be celebrating.
John spat the sandwich he was munching on in a nearby dustbin, while walking away from the building, as he chucked the remaining sandwich the same place his spit went. John was done with the world.