Cleanse your soul (standard:horror, 2634 words)
Author: Lev821	Added: Oct 07 2022	Views/Reads: 705/428	Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
If you ever get a spiritual cleansing, never upset the shaman.

Click here to read the first 75 lines of the story

nothing more. Fleecing tourists”. 

“Why don't you have a go”, Mike said, smiling, but Sheila looked
genuinely insulted. 

“Clean your soul,” she said, sarcastically. “We don't have souls, or
spirits, and these con artists are robbing people”. 

It was safe to say Sheila didn't believe in anything outside of science.
If she couldn't see it, taste it, touch it, then it pretty much wasn't 
real. She was a kind of hard-line atheist. There was ‘nothing' outside 
of reality. Didn't even believe that there could be life on other 
planets. Life was an accidental ‘side-effect' of a universe that itself 
tripped and fell into existence. 

No God. No life after death. No reincarnation. Nothing. 

Many atheists called themselves ‘spiritual', so they were not atheistic
to 100%, but Sheila, she would probably be looked at by other atheists 
who could think: ‘Well she's rather closed minded'. Twice she had been 
called that in her life, and twice she had berated the person who had 
called her that. Sheila was the type you did not argue with. If she 
said one plus one equals three, then she was absolutely right. Other 
opinions were of no concern to her. Even Mikes. He had learned his 
place in their relationship, because Sheila had put him there. 

Like fervent religious believers and hard-line atheists like Sheila,
they both had one thing in common. They ‘knew' the truth. Their belief 
was correct, and that was that. It made Sheila look at the soul 
cleansing shamans with her skeptical eye, because she ‘knew' they 
weren't cleaning anything. Yet the shaman ‘knew' they were cleaning 
souls. They came together in belief. 

In one corner of the square was a large fruit market, with healers
spiritually cleansing people. They were mostly elderly women, dressed 
similar, rubbing them with eggs and herbs. Close by there was a man who 
was clearly a shaman, not as elaborately dressed as some of the others. 
He wore a bandana with a white jacket, bracelets and necklaces, but was 
not cleaning anybody. He was sitting scrolling through a mobile phone. 
There was a young girl near him, and she seemed to be looking out for 
potential customers. 

She caught Sheila's eye. 

“Clean...your...soul”, the girl said in broken English. The shaman put
down his phone, stood up and grabbed a handful of herbs. 

“Erm...no”, but the shaman, the girl, and Mike said nothing but simply
looked at her. Sheila made eye-contact with them all, then sighed, 
giving in to the invisible pressure. 

“Alright then, go on. Clean my soul”, she said sarcastically, looking at
Mike and rolling her eyes. 

The shaman gestured to a small stool where Sheila sat, then began his
ritual by rubbing her with the herbs. 

It took almost all her willpower to not get up and say: ‘What do you
think you're doing?' and storm away, even when he prodded and spat 
water spray at her, but she went with it, her face betraying her real 
thoughts though. Throughout, she had a smirk on her face, and even 
issued a laugh a few times, certainly when he brought out an egg and 
began rubbing her with it. 

After a few moments, he cracked the egg into a half-pint glass and
showed her it and began talking in Spanish. 

The little girl interpreted: 

“You are a...naturally...determined person...firm in your beliefs...now
is a good time...to feel empowered...express yourself freely...you can 
be...trusted, ambitious, committed...you are always...well-meaning, 
enthusiastic...moving forward with...opportunities you are...motivated 
and...well-connected, supported...but your knowledge...may not 
be...directed in ways...that are more open...people today...enjoyed 
your lecture...but not your husband”. 

She looked slightly confused for second, but then gave another burst of
laughter. ‘Anyone's horoscope', she muttered. 

The shaman just ignored her, continuing with the cleansing by gesturing
for her to stand and hold out her arms. He rubbed her again with herbs 
and blew smoke around, then pointed to her stomach, talking in Spanish 
to the girl. 

“Clean...your baby's...soul”. The smirk on her face grew more intense
and she looked at Mike who was standing passive nearby. 

“Wants to clean my baby's soul”. 

“Well,” said Mike, “you might as well”. She looked back at the shaman
and nodded. 

“My baby will have a nice clean soul,” she said, sarcastically. 

The shaman lit a cigar and drew heavily on it, knelt down and placed
both his hands on her stomach and blew smoke. He took another drag and 
did the same, this time muttering words that even the little girl found 
hard to make out. 

After a few moments, he stood up and nodded. It was clear he had
finished. 

She had to admit, although not to the shaman, that she did feel better,
but she put it down to her mind telling her that, and not that her 
spirit was cleansed. 

Nodding a thanks to the shaman she reluctantly handed him some small
change, then spoke to the girl who just looked up at her, squinting 
against the sun which had emerged from behind clouds. 

“Get yourself a good education, and don't get led astray believing in
spiritual nonsense like this”. Then she turned and walked away with 
Mike. 

The shaman and the girl watched them walk amongst the crowds. He looked
genuinely annoyed. 

In Spanish, she asked: 

“What did you do?” The shaman genuinely couldn't understand or speak a
word of English, so his reply translated: 

“I don't mind non-believers. They come, they go. I heal their soul and
that's it, but some are just so arrogant. Think they have all the 
answers, and laughing because she's so convinced we are wrong. I hate 
that”. 

“You didn't clean her soul?” the girl asked. 

The man smiled slightly and shook his head. 

“Very soon she will feel how powerful shaman magic can be”. 

Sheila and Mike continued on around the square, and found a café to sip
on cappuccinos. They had bought tourist-trap goods. Ornaments, sandals, 
bracelets. 

“Strange isn't it,” said Mike, “how when a stranger touches us or
invades our personal space, we clam up and freeze or just feel very 
uncomfortable, but when these healers do it, they prod, grab, spit 
water in the face, and people are like, okay, do what you like. Grab 
and poke me all you want, and then I will pay money and thank you”. 
Sheila smiled and nodded, sipping her drink. 

After a while, they slowly wound their way back to the hotel, where in
the foyer Sheila said her goodbyes to many of those from the 
conference. 

‘...amazing...' ‘loved your talk...' ‘...you must come again', then
found themselves in the back of the taxi on the way to the airport. 

Things ran fairly smoothly. The plane to London was on time, and
everything was present and correct, Sheila satisfied, even not 
regretful about the shaman. They're just trying to earn money, she 
thought. Nothing wrong with that. 

By fleecing gullible tourists, she added. Still, though, the aeroplane
settled into its flight, and after about half an hour she remembered 
something the shaman had said, about Mike not enjoying her talk. 

“Mike,” she asked casually. He was fixated on an article in an old
magazine he had brought about horse racing, reading about a famous 
jockey from the 1930s and his odd training methods. 

“Mike you remember when that shaman spoke a load of nonsense, he
mentioned that you didn't enjoy my talk. I mean I don't know how he 
knew. Might have seen a brochure with my picture in or on the net. Was 
he right?” Mike's silence for a few moments told her what she wanted to 
know. 

“Of course, I loved it...everyone loved it”, but by then it was too
late. It seemed like Sheila could read his mind. 

“Mike you're a terrible liar. You didn't enjoy it did you?” 

“It's not that, it's just...” It didn't matter what Mike said then. He
was frozen out. Sheila folded her arms and looked away from him, and 
refused to speak for the rest of the flight. 

It had happened plenty of times before in their marriage. It was always
her falling out with him, followed by the silent treatment, and that 
was when it seemed like her very aura was icy. It could last hours, or 
days, but she always began speaking to him again at some point. 

She only began to talk to him again when they landed and were heading
through customs in the London airport. Night had fallen and all lights 
were on. 

“Get the passports”. So they eventually headed through and out to the
taxi stands. 

An elderly flat-capped driver, who looked like he did taxi driving for a
hobby, helped them get their luggage in the boot, and when they got in 
the back, Sheila said: 

“Take me to the nearest park”. 

“What?” said Mike, with a little courage that rarely surfaced. “We're
going home. I'm tired I need rest. We've just had a long flight. What 
do you want to go to a park for? Could you take us to Buxton Heath 
please?”. 

The taxi didn't move, the driver was unsure, but Sheila repeated what
she wanted, a little louder, a little more firm. 

“Take me to the nearest park”. The driver relented, and the taxi moved
away. 

“Are you okay Sheila? is it something to do with the baby?” He looked
concerned, but she was silent, placed one hand on her distended 
stomach, and glared at Mike which made him sit back in his seat. It 
didn't stop him asking questions. 

He even tried asking the taxi driver again to take them home, but even
he was sub-ordinate to Sheila, and he'd only been in her company five 
minutes. 

“Sheila what's wrong?” but he wasn't answered. She closed her eyes and
rested back. 

After ten minutes they pulled up outside the entrance to a park, two
street-lights bathing them in white light. 

“Here we are”, said the driver. Sheila looked at Mike again and simply
said: 

“Pay him”, then she opened the door, got out and headed for the park
entrance. 

Mike paid up, simply handing him a note, telling him to keep the change,
then left the vehicle. 

“Will you stay?” he asked the driver who had the window halfway down,
“I'll just go and see what she wants and we'll be back. Drive us home”. 
The man just shook his head. “Sorry I'm not getting involved”, and 
drove away. 

He saw Sheila just beyond the entrance in the middle of the gravel path,
facing him. The black painted iron gates were imposing, one of them 
permanently closed, the other permanently open, which they had been for 
years. 

“Sheila, come on what are you doing? I'm shattered and I want to go to
bed”. 

He cautiously approached. As he did, she dropped to her knees. 

She looked up at him, tears in her eyes. 

“Mike...help me”. He could see she was herself again, her hand on her
stomach, but as he was about to dash forward, he stopped as he saw her 
stomach undulate. 

She clasped with both hands over her thin T-shirt under her open jacket.
“The baby!” she cried, and Mike could only watch as the undulations 
grew more intense. 

“Mike, the baby's coming...up”. Then she screamed. The foetus made its
way through her innards, grasping its way towards her throat, her eyes 
wide, but then her shrieking stopped as the baby tore away her lungs 
and ripped through her heart. Sheila's eyes glazed over as she fell 
back. Mike panicked and dashed forward, only to stop, as her neck 
bulged and jaw moved unnaturally. 

It had ripped its way through her neck and into her mouth. 

Little hands appeared and grasped her lips. 

They were not human hands. 

Mike stared as a snout appeared, followed by a rodent's head, then body.
Sheila was dead. The red-sleeked rat sat there looking at Mike. The 
blood-matted fur glistening in the street-light. It then leapt onto the 
ground, its long tail leaving her mouth. Then ran away into the 
darkness of the park.


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