American Bruja: The Los Angeles Cauldron

Chapter 3. Dr. Betty Morton

Thursday, November 1, 2007, 4:00 p.m., Seattle, Washington, U.S.A.

The Day of the Dead is an occasion to reunite with departed loved ones. The observant gather the day after Halloween for 24 hours of reminiscing. Prayers to Santa Muerte are offered. The most fervent are answered personally.

For Saint Death devotees and many Indigenous peoples, the appearance of a deceased relation is natural. No cause for alarm.

Since 1997, I clear my calendar for the Day of the Dead. As Santa Muerte extends her reach beyond the faithful, psychological breakdown results. Just last year I placed a patient on an emergency psychiatric hold after his wife returned. A follower of Saint Death would rejoice in such blessing and savor the time. He swallowed a bottle of pills.

On any other Day of the Dead, I'd be in Los Angeles waiting for the inevitable crisis call. In 2007? A colleague is covering my patients.

I'm in front of the Emerald City's famed Underground Seattle. Flooding in the late 1800's forced the city toraise the street level by one story, leaving a subterranean rabbit warren of storefronts, hotel lobbies, and apartments. The scene is exactly as revealed in last night's vision. The attraction should be open, but a "Temporarily closed" sign says otherwise.

In less than a minute, I pick the lock. A grin creeps across my face at such petty criminality. Imagine the shock if the folks at home knew the truth about Dr. Betty Morton?

I slip through the door and enter an empty check-in area. A lone light bulb dangles from the ceiling to cast weak light upon a concrete stairwell to the right of the registration desk. A cool draft carries an earthen smell. Pausing, I retrieve a small flashlight from my crossbody purse.

A child's sobs echo from the underground. Taking a deep breath, I descend with the taste of mold on my tongue. Dust motes float in the flashlight's dim beam as I reach the labyrinth. Cast-off light from the admission room fades as I step onto a dirt-covered street lined with abandoned businesses.

As I walk, I listen for the whimpering of the little redheaded girl revealed in last night's vision. Her name is Amber McBride. She's ten-years-old, a thin, quiet child. My heart hurts for her pain. The abomination she seeks is the reason I'm called to this ghost town.

I angle the flashlight's beam through a rotting doorway to find an old timey curio store. Glass jars on wooden shelves contain misshapen, twisted things suspended in a murky liquid.

A baby's squeal brings my attention back to the street. Pivoting, I put my back to the array of creepy creatures and exit the shop. Cries sound from the darkness.

I jog past yawning storefronts pockmarked by broken windows and sagging doorways. After half a block, my flashlight's beam finds the redheaded girl cradling a mewling bundle.

She sees me, scowls, and darts into the nearest building, an abandoned theatre. The brick façade swallows her into inky darkness. A marquee dangles above the opening.

I sprint under black letters reading, "Repent Sinner!"

My chest tightens and my heart pounds. The flashlight illuminates wood paneled walls dingy from neglect, and a grand staircase ascending to nowhere. A stained glass ceiling depicts a fiery hell writhing with tormented souls.

No sign of the girl. I force myself to remain still and consciously slow my breathing. Stop myself from screaming, "I saved your life!"

Blasphemy. I lower my head in shame. Not me. Creator spared her. I am merely an instrument. The glory is Thine, not mine.

The back of my neck prickles, a telltale sign of something otherworldly. I raise my chin to find Amber McBride standing in the middle of the staircase. A naked, redheaded baby floats from her arms, suspended halfway between the ceiling and floor. An angel's face frames brilliant blue orbs.

He laughs in a deep, masculine baritone. His face twists into a wicked grin.

I meet his unblinking eyes. "Who is behind this sorcery? Reveal yourself!"

The redheaded girl snatches the baby and clutches his tiny body to her chest. "Conlan, don't leave!"

Footfalls pound as she races down the stairs. Amber runs past me and disappears into the gloom.

I follow as she runs the dusty street toward Underground Seattle's entrance.

When she reaches the bottom of the concrete stairs, the baby thrashes and screams.

She stops running and cradles the infant. Sniffling, she bends to kiss his head. "No baby smell. I want my brother back!"

Hurried footsteps thud above our heads. Two redheaded women appear atop the stairwell.

It's been over a decade, but I recognize the tall, pin-thin woman as Rose O'Donnell. She gasps, "Good God in Heaven!" Her face is chalk as she clutches the railing.

The second woman, Aislinn McBride, shakes a fist at me. "Get away from my daughter! That night in the woods, when I was pregnant, you tried to kill me!"

The thing masquerading as Conlan floats upward from Amber's arms. She wails as her hands grasp the open air.

Shadows gather round as it drifts up the stairs toward Aislinn. Her fist unclenches, mouth open in a silent moan, eyes glistening with tears.

The creature's ghostly white skin and curly red hair stand in contrast to the darkness. As it reaches eye-level, the entrance room light and my flashlight blink off. We're plunged into darkness.

Aislinn shrieks. With a deep inhale, I force my breathing to slow. In Sanskrit, I call on Creator. "Parabrahma." Supreme being in your absolute aspect.

My flashlight flicks on. The infant hovers at Aislinn's chest, suckling with squelchy breast-feeding noises.

Color drains from her face as she sways atop the stairs. Braced against the railing, Rose O'Donnell grabs Aislinn's forearm. With unnatural speed, Amber races up the steps to throw her arms around her mother's waist. As Aislinn slumps in her sister's arms, the thing pretending to be baby Conlan disappears.

AUTHOR NOTES:

Character illustration of Dr. Betty Morton

Playlist "By Thy Grace" by Snatam Kaur