Dybbuk
Chapter Five

For the last twenty minutes or so, Lina sat against her Vespa with her helmet dangling off the handle. She’d bundled deep into her red knitted scarf, staving off the late autumn crisp. Most of the leaves in Clarion had fallen, still the golden and russet remnants fluttered on a few stubborn branches. Lina took a deep breath, flexing her fingers in her coat pocket, snuffing out her breath.

She never liked this shop.

Lina could never really pin down why.

Monica’s Monocle was the go-to shop for any vintage or antique enthusiast who knew their craft. People came from all over the States to peruse Emmet Weisman’s wares. Lina didn’t even want to step inside. Something about the whole shop set her soft-fuzzies a-crawling. Her mother wrote it off as Lina being too sensitive. Lina was almost inclined to agree.

Almost.

Everything in that shop had a history. Lives and tears and hopes impressed and ingrained so deeply on those wares they may as well have been stained in blood; and still there was something more. Something underlying all those borrowed and sold lives.

She almost didn’t make it here.

There had been an accident, suicide? Witnesses said a collage kid stepped off the sidewalk and right into traffic. The kid was hit by truck. They whispered theories of drugs, stress, and mental illness. Maybe drugs, since the friend of the deceased raved about a stalking shadow with two leashes. He’d promptly been given a sedative and sent to Clear Water.

Lina tucked away the information as she navigated the accident and its voyeurs. It was one more thing she’d have to check into at a later time. She couldn’t do anything about drug addiction, but a stalking shadow with two leashes? That she could do something about, just not now.

Lina rubbed her face.

Maybe she could stop by Haven for a warm foamy latte after this. The thought of a caffeinated reward for a job well done was motivating. Well, besides helping Victor, and putting to rest whatever was in that music box, the two may not be exclusive to each other, but they were linked. Until last night, Victor had been a reasonable, conversational and opinionated ghost. Now he was only an echo, trapped in the worse part of being corporeally challenged and earth bound.

Normally, she’d show Ben or Jeri the inscription on the music box, if anyone could read Hebrew it should be two of the Seraphim. But Ben was out of town and Jeri was left running the café. No need to add to his burden.

Lina pushed off the Vespa and made her way across the street.

The birch-stained doors and camel-colored awing was a step towards comfort. A little golden bell chimed as she pushed the door open. A glint caught Lina’s eye as she crossed the threshold. It was a mezuzah. Huh, funny she’d only seen those on home door posts, not shops. Knowing Mr. Weisman, the scrollwork in side was authentic, and from the buzz across her skin, powerful.

It was a cluttered little shop.

The one thing Lina prided herself on was the organization of her store. Yes, they had lots of dried herbs, dried skins and other dried unmentionables, but at least everything had its place. Not so much at the Monocle. The aisles, if they could even be called that, were narrow. It was a maze of china cabinets, writing desks, table lamps and old-timey rocking horses. And dolls. And clowns. And jewelry. All things that could house something old. Something sad. Something, angry.

“You Espiridions were always such a superstitious bunch.”

Lina turned, but there was no one behind her.

“Back here,” said the masculine voice again, “make a left past the African oak desk and then a quarter of a right at the bronze ballerina in third position.”

Lina turned, but all she saw was more clutter. She leaned slightly to her left and spotted a dark ivory tusk. Taking a step, she saw it was attached to a carved elephant. There were four more like it, trunks up and holding a secretary’s hutch. Walking towards it, Lina could sense the fear of a close death at the end of a rifle and desperate run. It was from the ivory. It was real.

She turned left.

Maybe Mr. Weisman would let her cleanse it after this music box business. Nothing deserved to suffer like that. A few more steps and Lina saw the serene ballerina. A stack of stools teetered and drooped into it, making a bridge of sorts. She eyed it for a second, questioning its stability, when she saw the polished toe of a well-worn Oxford.

“Mr. Weisman?” Lina called out.

“Mr. Weisman, was my father.” The foot disappeared, “Please call me Emmet.”

Lina walked under the stools, making a slight quarter right turn, and saw a man sitting at a workbench, not at all unlike the one at her shop. The bench, like his shop, was cluttered with tools, magnifying glasses and lamps. Oils and polishes and cloths gave the shop a slight chemical, but not unpleasant smell. The whole setup stuffed in a corner, surrounded by other pieces of furniture and knickknacks. Like a small space carved out of the junk heap.

Emmet hunched over a large wooden box that looked at least twelve by sixteen inches in length and width, maybe even seven inches deep. It had two doors and a little gold handle at the bottom. With gloved hands, Emmet pulled and pushed it, and every time he did so the two large doors would open, revealing the empty space inside.

It was actually quite clever.

“It’s a little beat-up now,” Emmet said softly, “but a little varnish and sanding will fix it right up. It is a gift I would’ve given my mother, if she were still with us. She would have loved the ironwork grapes the most. A perfect place for her Torah, she would have said.”

Emmet looked up, and smiled.

It was a little disarming.

“Ah.” Emmet’s dark eyes appraised Lina from her red knitted scarf to her leather soled boots. “You look nothing like your gran-mother, but you have your gran-dad’s eyes. Peter was a good man, I’m sorry when he passed.”

“Thank you. I heard lots of stories, but hardly knew him.”

“Pity.” Emmet turned to focus on the Torah box again. “It is always important to know where you come from. To give thanks to those who came before you, because you will never know what they sacrificed for you.”

Lina raised an eyebrow.

Emmet was strange man. She knew he was about the same age as her gran-mother, but he felt older. Not that he looked his age. He still had a full head of hair, black and cropped close. There was a slight peppering at the temples, but other than a few crowsfeet at his eyes and mouth, Lina never would have guessed this man a day over forty-five. It shouldn’t surprise her, not with that mezuzah at the door and the help he offered her gran-mother all those years ago. She only hoped that now, he could do the same for her.

“Mr. Weisman—” Lina began.

“Emmet.”

“Having worked with my gran-mother, I’m sure you know why I’m here.”

“Has the museum not learned their lesson yet?” Emmet sounded amused. “Perhaps they have brought to life another golem?”

“No.” Lina pulled out her phone. “They actually come by the shop for consultations very often. It’s something else, actually.”

Emmet hadn’t turned from his Torah box; in fact, he drifted closer to it, oiling the hinges.

“Something was left in our drop box last night, it invaded my dreams.”

“Sounds like you need a stronger ward,” Emmet mumbled, his long beard brushing against the box. It trailed oil. “I have a few if you are in need.”

“What I need is some advice.” Lina stood closer, unlocking her phone, “Someone left a music box, there’s an inscription under the lid.” On the screen was the golden underside of the mirror.

Emmet looked up and squinted, focusing on the screen.

“It’s a prayer. It refers to the seventy-two expressions of the Divine Name.” He peered closer. “This is the fourteenth.”

“What does it say?”

Emmet looked at Lina dubiously.

“I need to know. I could help.”

“I cannot. The Divine Name is too holy for the likes of you.”

“Excuse me?”

“It’s forbidden to say out loud, unless in actual prayer.” Emmet carefully explained, “As a tzaddik, as a spiritual pillar; it’s my responsibility to keep the sacred things secret. I want to help you, but I can’t.”

Lina chewed her lip for a second. She needed his help, but she wasn’t about to make Emmet compromise his faith. If he was right about what was engraved on the bottom of that mirror, it meant that anywhere she went she’d come across the same hesitation.

“Okay, if you can’t tell me what the inscription says, then maybe you can at least tell me what this is.” Lina swept to a photo of the music box.

The silence ticked by, and his eyes never left the screen.

“Where did you get that?”

“You know what it is?”

“You must give it to me right away.” Emmet’s words were urgent.

“What is it?” Lina repeated.

He shook his head. “No. It is too sacred. Too dangerous. You must bring it to me now.”

“Mr. Weisman, it’s not going to leave my shop. I need to dispel whatever is inside and destroy it.”

“It cannot be destroyed.”

“Everything can.” Lina swiped at her phone. “You just need to know how, which is exactly why I’m here. I need advice. It’s why I need to know what’s written under the mirror.”

Emmet stood. “I told you I cannot say.”

Lina didn’t move.

Neither did Emmet.

“Bring me the music box and I will tell you what it is. Just so that you and your family will know how to identify one and bring it to me right away, the next time one darkens your door-step.”

Now it was Lina’s turn to shake her head. “That thing penetrated two wards. It’s not leaving my workshop. Mr. Weisman, I can help. I’ve cleansed many objects before. This won’t be any different.”

“One does not simply cleanse an item such as this, and as I said before, perhaps you need stronger wards.”

“My wards are fine.” Lina shoved her phone into her coat pocket, “Even if it’s housing something, I can handle it. Remember the sith that ate all the locals at Beer Fest? That was me that stopped it, with a little help from a Hunter, although at first he was more of a nuisance than anything. Point is, with his help things got handled.”

Mr. Weisman tsk’d.

“Don’t tsk at me.” Lina wagged a finger. “I came to you hoping you could help me dispel whatever’s in the music box and sunder it. I suppose I was wrong.” Lina turned to walk out of the Monocle. About time too, her skin hadn’t stopped trying to crawl away since she stepped into the damned shop.

There was a subtle sigh, “You can’t destroy a Dybbuk Box.”

Lina stopped under the stool bridge. “A what?”

“Dybbuk Box.” Emmet sat back down heavily on his stool, looking a little older.

Lina rifled through the Rolodex of terms in her brain.

“It’s just a ghost?” She finally said.

“Not just a ghost.” Emmet looked at the wooden Torah holder, then back at Lina. “There are many schools of thought within Judaism, just as any religion. There are many ways that people use that faith and school of thought. To some, it is only a form of comfort. To others, it is a strict way of life that must be followed. Then there is the way that only a few know; one in which you and your family are fully aware. That is the way of truth.”

Lina nodded.

“A dybbuk is much like your poltergeist,” Emmet began. “However, there are major differences. You see, it’s believed that the body had not one, but three souls. Three strata that transmigrate after death. One that rejoins our Lord, one that moves on to relearn any lessons we did not understand in this life and a third that remains here.

“If all our business has been concluded, then the spirit can be at peace, however, this last soul, if not at peace or evil or wronged will enact its wrongness amongst those who need punishing. Who in turn are evil, or worse, innocent. They feed and feed until there is nothing left. They are jealous and a parasite. A dybbuk cannot be destroyed. Only contained, buried and forgotten. That is why you must bring me the box. So I may bury it. Only I know the rite that could confine it and keep all others safe.”

Lina opened her mouth.

“Only I know the rite. Nor will I teach it to you.”

The tone had that heavy drop of finally. One that wasn’t about to budge.

Lina didn’t care.

“Giving you the box isn’t an option,” she said. “Nor is burying that thing where someone can find it. It calls out to you. It tempts and tricks you. I can’t chance that.”

Emmet opened his mouth, but Lina cut him off.

“It doesn’t matter how far or how deep you bury this secret. All secrets and wrong-doings are brought to light sooner or later. What if some innocent person a week, a year, thirty or even fifty years from now finds it? Opens it? Would you have that on your conscience? Because I won’t.”

“I have a place,” he said comfortingly. “No one will find it and I would keep watch.”

“No,” Lina shook her head, she didn’t know why she was arguing so hard. Her family had plenty of items kept hidden and safe because there really were times when an object couldn’t be cleansed or destroyed. Not for this. Burying it just wasn’t… it’s just… “Not good enough, it has to be destroyed.”

“It cannot be destroyed by the likes of you or me.”

“Why not?”

“Only one of the Seraphim can.”

“An angel?” Lina’s tone was hopeful, “Only an angel can sunder a dybbuk?”

“Yes, but—”

Lina turned from Emmet, making a slight left under the bridge of stools and ballerina.

“Thank you, Mr. Weis—Emmet,” Lina said as she got closer to the exit. “This has been… well uh, if you ever need anything come on over to Espiridion.” She was yelling now. “Oh, and your African oak is haunted by the way. I’d take care of it before you sell it.”

Lina left the Monocle with a push of the door and a chime of the bell. She took a deep slow breath and made her way to the Vespa, grateful for the open space and crisp air. That place had been stuffy and oppressive. Much like its owner.

Throwing a leg over the seat and clipping her helmet on, Lina wanted to make good on that promise to herself earlier. That warm foamy soy latte was well-deserved, if not so much for hard work but for stubbornness endured and patients exercised. Lina started her Vespa with a turn of her keys and a kick of the stand.

Now what she really needed to do, after that latte, was see an angel about an exorcism.

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