So where did this come from?
My living room windows blew in, less than a second after I hit the deck under my table.
Sadly, this kind of thing happens often enough that my reaction is reflexive. The howling and the light show, those were new.
I should stop reading the Tarot. I tell myself this often - almost as often as I read the damn things. The problem is, I have to wonder, if I didn't read the cards...who's to say the same crap wouldn't still happen, but without any warning?
I'm Maurice Ferland. I read the Tarot. I also listen to the dead (try and get a word in edgeways and you'll see why I put it that way), know enough about herbs to sound convincing, and can draw really cool shit with coloured chalk. Because I'm...who I am, these things are a little more effective for me than the other gris-gris totin', rum-drinkin', chicken-frightenin' types you can find taking easy money off tourists.
They say my grandmother sold her soul to the Devil, but frankly, I doubt it. A devil, maybe. The Devil has nearly as many layers of flunkies between him and the public as the President, and I doubt grand-mère would have had the patience. Still. I wish the old bastard a good morning every time I turn over his card...just in case.
Spending my formative years in a well-run boarding school ensured that I made the acquaintance of the Tarot, ouija boards, and almost anything else that was forbidden by the school rules on a regular basis, and the Tarot have always struck me as a goldmine for an author looking for trouble to get into. Pick a card, and you have the germ of a story right there.