Life, death, and burying the hatchet

“I turned 19 behind a machine gun”, the old man croaked, “February 27, 1945.”

The old marine’s hands fidgeted in his lap, his head bowed as he slouched uncomfortably in my office chair. I couldn’t see his face, only the gold lettering on his hat.

“WWII VETERAN — IWO JIMA”.

He went on and on, ancient pain pouring from his lips. He talked about the plagues of flies. Seeing friends and bunkmates turned to paste by artillery. Burning out the Japanese from their tunnels. Of death — not the sterile, gentle kind. The kind you can hear and touch and smell.

As the old marine relived the horrors of his youth, I made a few perfunctory notes for his file.

After all, this was part of the job.

As far back as I can remember, I’ve been able to commune with the dead. A psychopomp. A spiritual conduit. As I grew older, I realized I could make a living with my gift. People were willing to pay dearly for closure. A clean conscience. A last goodbye. I’d invite clients into my office, welcoming the spirits into myself. The dead would then speak through my mouth. Most souls seek peace. They pass along messages of love and forgiveness.

Things clients like the old marine were desperate for.

The old man paused before the climax of his story. The real reason he was here.

“We’d been repelling bayonet charges all night. I was exhausted. Terrified. Around dawn, I saw an enemy soldier come stumbling out of the treeline, waving something at me.”

His crooked trigger finger quivered with memory.

“So I shot him”, he said, choking back a sob.

“When the sun came up, I saw — it was a white flag. Just a boy. He didn’t even have a gun. He wanted to surrender.”

Silent tears shook his thin shoulders as he finally met my eyes.

“Can you tell him I’m sorry?”

I nodded, taking his wrinkled hand in mine. I dampened the lights, the air thickening as the veil thinned. I could feel the dead boy’s spirit reaching out to me, desperate to make contact. I opened my mind, letting it in as I had a thousand times before.

I immediately knew something was wrong.

Most times, being possessed feels like sinking into a warm bath.

This felt like falling through ice.

As if in a trance, I heard a voice.

“Hello, John”, it said.

“You…know my name?”, the old marine stammered.

I felt myself smile.

“I’ve been watching you for eighty years.”

I rose from my desk, dimly sensing something slip into my pocket as the old man began to weep.

“I’m so sorry”, he cried. “I was a scared kid!”

I felt my hand caress his weathered face

“So was I.”

I felt a hatred unlike I’ve ever felt as I pulled the scissors from my pocket, plunging them into the man’s chest.

“May God forgive you”, the voice said.

“Because I don’t.”