Written by Michael Landolfi – If you told me this story, I absolutely would not believe it.

…I’m supposed to be dead.

We were driving home, west on 64, when we passed the sign we always made fun of:

MOTHER THERESA
PSYCHIC
Palm Reading, Fortunes, High Colonics
next right.

“Let’s pull in, see what it’s all about,” Kelly said with a giggle.

“Naw, it’s a waste of time and money – just a bunch a crap.”

“Ah, come on, it’ll be fun. My treat. Ya know you’ve always wanted to see what it’s all about – ‘specially that high colonic.”

“Right, like I’m gonna pay some old lady for an enema.”

She tugged on the steering wheel. I stepped on the brake and pulled off the highway.

The empty gravel lot was big enough for three cars. The structure had begun as a Philips 66 gas station, the ancient, rusted sign still standing, mostly covered in kudzu. For a decade it housed a fruit stand selling apples, melons, local honey, and boiled peanuts. For the past three years, the single story building wore a sign on the roof advertising the psychic. The peeling whitewashed clapboard was given a fresh coat of pink and black paint and strings of multi-colored Christmas tree lights bordered the eves and window frames, winking at motorists as they hurried past on their way to Edneyville and beyond.

We were met at the door by an ancient pale woman.

“Welcome, welcome friends. I trust you are well. I am Mother Theresa.”

“Yes, hello,” Kelly replied as she reached for the old woman’s extended hand. “I’m…”

“No, please,” the psychic interrupted. She paused. “Your first names begin with letters from the middle of the alphabet, interrupted by your surnames.”

Kelly and I eyed each other. A clever trick I told myself, but amazing.

“Yes, how’d you know?” asked my wife.

“Ahh, and you’ve been playing a dangerous game by the lake. Something that requires strength and skill.”

My eyebrows raised, but I figured she’d seen the chalk dust on our fingernails and concluded we’d been rock climbing, which was correct. How shrewd.

Mother Theresa kept Kelly’s hand, turned it over and examined her palm. The old woman’s eyes grew wide and she smiled.

“What do ya see?”

“Ahh, for that young lady you must come into the parlor.” She turned and stepped though a thick curtain of colorful beads into a darkened room sweet with incense. A sign above the door displayed the prices of her services.

Kelly smiled, took my hand and said, “Come on, this’ll be fun.”

I hesitated, rolled my eyes, then we followed.

The dim parlor held a round table and three chairs; there was one window, no other doors, and no Mother Theresa. We studied each other’s surprise. I peeled back the heavy window curtain – not behind there, but the view almost knocked me down, I lost my breath.

“Com’ere quick, look at this!”

Kelly peeked. We both saw the top of my truck as though looking down from the third story. Her head whipped around, eyes locked onto mine, our disbelief ricocheted – impossible.

“Sit please,” Mother Theresa softly commanded.

We almost fell on the floor. Where had she come from? The beads in the doorway were undisturbed, we’d heard no noise. She’d simply appeared and unbelievably was now wearing completely different clothes and clownish make-up. Moments ago she was a pale old lady dressed for gardening; now, she looked like a sorceress.

She studied Kelly’s palm, “You are a very happy woman, strong and intelligent. You have no children now, but will soon be blessed. You’ll live a long and satisfying life.”

What a bogus, ambiguous declaration I thought, but Kelly was eight weeks pregnant.

“You are from the North and found love in the South. You have a twin brother who lives in Ohio.”

Our disbelief filled the room and threatened to suffocate us.

“How in the world could you know that?”

“It’s all here, in the lines and there’s more.”

“No. I don’t want to know any more. Read Michael’s.”

The psychic took my hands, turned them and looked puzzled.

“I scraped them up earlier, cheese-grated ‘em falling off a rock climb.”

She smiled, reached beneath the table, produced a deck of Tarot cards, shuffled them and turned one over: Poseidon and a tower.

Without looking up she said, “Disaster.”

She turned another and covered it with her palm, “The sun and moon will share the sky.”

“What does that mean?”

“Shhh!” She turned another: the grim reaper? And a black bird on his shoulder. “Your folly shall be waiting – waiting too long. Follow the ravens, fly as they do.”

What?

Kelly and I exchanged inquiring glances. Mother Theresa took the bottom card flipped it over, pondered, turned it face down then said, “Place your left hand on the card, gently – do not breathe as you do.”

I smiled, held my breath, and obeyed her command. She placed her left hand on mine, lifted it.

“You may breathe now.” She turned the card face up. It was a completely different picture – the Death card. She didn’t explain. Unnerved, we paid and left.

As we drove away we teased about the readings, about the vagueness and precision and what a great showman the old woman was. Most puzzling was how she vanished and reappeared in the parlor. What a great trick.

“I’m gonna tell some of my buddies to stop in there. I’ll even pay. I’d love to know what she tells ‘em, if she’s as clever with say…Wikoff or Ian,” I said.

“I’m totally amazed she guessed Kyle lived in Ohio. How could she do that?”

“I have absolutely no idea,” I replied.

“Whatcha think about those Tarot cards? I know it’s all some kind of trick, or something, but I’ll still worry about that death card for a while.”

“Not me. She’s good, I’ll give ya that, but I’m not gonna obsess over it. I’m still climbing and biking and …”

“Yeah, yeah, I know.” She slipped her hand into mine and turned up the music.

Two weeks later I was still alive and hadn’t had any close calls, but Kelly insisted I drive to a conference in Savannah instead of flying. We had a friendly disagreement. My point: driving takes at least five hours, flying maybe three with a stop in Atlanta. She countered that I’d save money, wouldn’t need a rental car, and would avoid challenging the death card.

“You said Mother Theresa was right on with Wikoff’s reading, even predicted he’d drive his tractor into the creek.”

“Yeah, she did guess he worked in a hospital, but he didn’t get hurt rolling the tractor and that prediction was really vague – could’ve been almost anything, ‘wheels and water and blood’ could’ve been a bike wreck, or skinned knuckles working on his car.”

“Would ya do it for me anyway? At least you’ll have control of the car, not rely on the pilot, or traffic controllers. Please?”

Next morning I jumped in my truck and headed to Savannah. On the south side of Columbia SC, I decided to take the direct route: Highway 321, the Savannah Highway. “This’ll confuse the old witch, the Death Card will be looking for me on I-95 and I’ll be way over here going 55mph and stopping at red lights in every podunk, redneck, backwater cesspool for the next 150 miles,” I said out loud and laughed.

Forty-five minutes later, just outside of Denmark SC, I had to stop at a railroad crossing. A Norfolk Southern with a zillion cars crept by whistling and squeaking. I could’ve walked faster. I dialed Kelly.

“Where ya at?”

“Up on the Parkway getting ready to run with the dog.”

“Beautiful day for that, wish I was there.”

“It is beautiful. You won’t believe what I’m looking at. The sky is so blue and I can see the moon ever so faintly just above the mountains.”

“Wow, I’m sittin’ here waitin’ for the slowest train in history to go by.”

“Across the interstate?”

“No, I decided to take a different route, confuse fate.”

“I see,” she said mockingly.

“It’s been raining and a second ago a lightning bolt hit so close I thought I was a goner. It even scared the birds on the power line, they flew like…”

“Michael! Get out of the truck! Run!”

“What?”

“Just do it. Do it now!”

It seemed stupid, but she was frantic. I couldn’t drive away anyhow, two cars in front and one behind me. I threw open my door and ran across the highway. As I jumped into the ditch I saw the Death Card coming for me. It was a speeding 18-wheeler going way too fast. He couldn’t stop in time on the rain slick road. He jammed his brakes, blew the horn, slowed to maybe 30 mph, and plowed into the line of cars. Mine and the last one burst into flames. The cars in front crumpled and twisted. The one nearest the train was forced under a boxcar and knocked sideways. The semi careened off the car behind mine and rolled into the ditch opposite me. I was still on the phone with Kelly who heard the commotion.

“Michael! What was that? Was that an explosion?”

I was breathing so hard I could barely talk, “Oh my God, yes! A semi just plowed into the truck, it’s crushed and on fire! I gotta call 911!”

“Wait!”

I hung up and called the cops.

I never made it to the conference; Kelly picked me up at the police station in Denmark and drove us home. I was totally freaked out. Two people in the car behind my truck died in the fiery crash, all the others in front were injured badly and I’d have been killed. My truck was squashed and had also burst into flames. I would’ve been trapped inside and roasted.

I thanked Kelly and asked, “Why on earth did ya think I should jump out of the truck?”

“The signs – they all came together. I saw the moon during the day and you were waiting and waiting on the train. When you said that birds flew away after the lightning, Mother Theresa’s prediction of disaster flashed in my mind. If you waited too long disaster would strike. She was right!”

Incredible, an old lady’s mumbo jumbo and Kelly’s quick thinking saved my life.

Absolutely unbelievable.

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Asheville native, Michael Landolfi survived Catholic school, the 70s and the Marine Corps. He lives an untamed life in Bent Creek, is on the trails daily and writes wild stories for those with short attention spans. His tales will tickle your funny bone, pinch your heart and twist your gut. Imagination run wild. Find out for yourself. His new book, 5-Minute Short Stories: A Bathroom Book, containing 35, 5 minute stories, is available on Amazon.