Page 4 of Power of the Mind

“Oh, well, if she has a website, it must be real.”

Memphis smacked my arm. “Shut up.”

“Memph, anyone can have a website. It doesn’t make her legit.”

Memphis wouldn’t hear my arguments. He resumed lying on the couch with his feet wedged under my leg as he waited, arms crossed in defiance, for me to scan the reviews.

I pinched the bridge of my nose. It was too late for this shit. “This nonsense is giving me a headache.”

“It’s not nonsense. Did you know your migraines are probably due to the soul of a dead person whose spirit has attached itself to you and is drawing your energy? Madame Rowena could help. You could be officially migraine-free for the rest of your life.”

“Stop talking.”

To humor him, I skimmed the reviews. Of course, the five-star ones sang Madame Rowena’s praises, claiming she was the real deal. She’d apparently predicted windfalls and assisted in the finding of soulmates. She’d sensed illnesses in babies and guided people to better employment. She’d helped cure arthritis, chronic back pain, psoriasis, eczema, and acne. She contacted spirits from beyond the grave and gave grief-ridden people peace of mind that their loved ones had moved on to better places.

It took effort not to roll my eyes.

The woman was a palm reader, an aura cleanser, and a decipherer of tarot cards. She used runes, astrology, and analyzed your chakras, all for the low, low price of ninety-five bucks. You got stuck paying the heftier fees if she discovered something truly troublesome or concerning.

I flicked through dozens of reviews, reading a few but mostly skimming for Memphis’s benefit. Madame Rowena seemed to be a jack-of-all-trades in the psychic world. When I came across a write-up that said,This chick is dope, man. She said someone I loved dearly was gonna croak, and wouldn’t you know, my great gran died two weeks later,I snorted before slapping a hand over my mouth.

“What?” Memphis glared.

I turned the phone, displaying the review. “This is oh-so impressive. She apparently predicted the passing of this guy’sgreat gran.Great. Do you hear the emphasis I’m putting on the word?Great. Great Gran.”

Memphis gave me a dirty look, which made me laugh.

I continued to scroll. “Anyone could do that. Old people die. Shocking, I know, but it’s true. These psychics tell you vague bullshit so when something happens, you’re able to contort their words and convince yourself they saw into your future.”

“Explain the people who had chronic illnesses who were helped by this woman. There are all kinds. Are you calling them liars?”

“You know what? If we want to know the truth about this woman, we should read the negative reviews.”

I changed the display to show me the one-star reviews first and waited for the screen to refresh. “Ah. Here we go.”

“Why do you insist on ruining my fun?”

“I’m doing my due diligence as your best friend and saving you money. Want a true-to-life prediction about your future? Here you go. If you keep your appointment with this woman, you’ll be ninety-five bucks farther away from owning the sexy silk shirt you want.” I tapped my temple. “How’s that for psychic?”

I had officially upset my best friend if the look on his face was anything to go by. When he didn’t tear the phone from my hand and tell me to shut up, I scrolled Madame Rowena’s negativereviews, reading them closely. They were as I suspected, a compilation of skeptics who claimed she blew hot air out her ass and wasted their time and money, every one of them parroting my thoughts.

Memphis didn’t want to hear it and looked ready to drop the subject and leave, but as I was about to toss him the phone, a word in one of the reviews caught my eye. I read it, brows rising higher with each paragraph. The reviewer, a guy calling himself Mac, was long-winded and thorough.

“What?” Memphis asked.

“Listen to this. ‘Don’t go see this bitch, yo. I swear to god, she brainwashed my sister or some shit, and now Amber’s dead. This is no joke. Heed my warning. Read this review. My sister was trying everything to alleviate her chronic migraines. The meds her doctor put her on did shit, so she tried some outside-the-box natural cures. Saw a naturopath or herbalist or some shit. Tried meditation, yoga, and whatever. Then one day, some chick told her about this crazy fucking psycho bitch, and Amber made an appointment.

Madame Rowena got inside Amber’s head all right. Too fucking far. She told Amber some spirit or outside force had leeched onto her brain and was controlling her, causing the migraines. She said she’d help her get rid of it for a fee. A fucking huge ass fee. Amber was desperate and went along with it. She saw this woman a few times fortreatment, but my sister got progressively worse. I’m telling you, this woman mind-fucked her.Shewas the one inside Amber’s head, not some spirit. She was controlling her brain. Amber got weirdly paranoid and started seeing things. Sometimes, she would talk funny and not make sense like she was possessed. When I confronted her, she told me not to worry because whatever Madame Fuckwits was doing was working, and her migraines were better. Bullshit to that. I had a bad feeling, but Amber wouldn’t listen.

One day last week, I came home from class, and there was a swarm of ambulances around our apartment. Amber had thrown herself off the fucking balcony! My sister is dead, yo. Dead because Madame Rowena is a mind-controlling sorcerer witch or something. She’s the devil, and no one will listen. I told the police, but they thinkI’mfucking nuts. Well, I’m warning anyone who sees this woman to heed caution. She’s dangerous.’”

I glanced at Memphis, who wore a smirk. “Are you serious?That’syour defense? Some whacked-out kid who believes a psychic killed his sister through mind control?”

“I’m not the one who called her legit. If you believe she has magic powers, then be careful you don’t end up dead like Amber… yo,” I added for effect.

Memphis laughed and rolled his eyes before shoving himself upright and taking back his phone. “You know what? Screw you. I’m going home.”

“Have fun tomorrow,” I singsonged.

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