A lot of people in homeless encampments don’t spend their entire day there. Many of them sleep in shelters but are forced to leave at 8am and can’t enter the shelter again until 6pm. These encampments are a place for them to spend the day when they have nowhere else to go. The nylon tents and blankets are a momentary break from society for them. But, for many more these encampments are home. They have friends and family here; this is where they eat their meals and relax.
Shelters can be a breathing ground for all kinds of abuse both financial and sexual. I’ve seen the inside of a few different shelters in my time, and I can’t say I was fond of any of them. If it wasn’t staff or other residents being too handsy, someone was trying pray for you in the few hours you were given to sleep. I wasn’t brave enough to choose the streets over the shelters. The people who choose to live here in these encampments are brave souls in my eyes. They chose the freedom of living under I-65 over jumping through the hoops required to receive decent care in a shelter. It’s something to be admired, not despised. Despite all of the anti-homeless measures cities go through to shun or punish them, these are still people. Most of them are good people who wouldn’t repay the pain they’ve been given with more pain.
I try to make the trip to this encampment at least once a month. It’s been a little longer since my last visit due to my time being spent in rehab. I made sure to put together a larger than usual care package this time around. Ziplock bags with toothpaste, toothbrushes, soap and deodorant, probably the only thing I take time to make sure is correct. I’ve also got socks, underwear, and a few first aid kits. This is the stuff they really need, not another miniature Bible to remind them that this is all a test of their faith.
I’m welcomed by some people that already know me, they’re happy to receive the gifts, glad to know I haven’t forgotten them. They’re even happier to know that I’m not in some kind of trouble. Good people, more worried about me than themselves. A few people who don’t recognize me watch with untrusting eyes. I can’t blame them, anyone who ends up here has been done wrong by more than one person in society. There’s no reason for them to view me any different. I’d love to change their opinions, but I’m not here for a hearts and minds campaign. I leave the box and let them grab what they need; I’m here looking for someone special.
I find him, neatly dressed in a three-piece suit warming his hands near a fire in back. Atu was an older elf, I’m not even sure he’s actually homeless. He always dresses in a three-piece suit, keeps his hair neatly trimmed and never seemed to lack money. Still, this is where I always found him, surrounded by homeless people. He’s been here since I was a teenager and never seems to age. I met him when I was a teenager, and now my face seems to be rapidly catching up to his never aging face. I started bringing things by for him when I was older, and he would always have me give them to someone else. That’s how I became known as the guy who gives away things. From there, I just had to start bringing more because people would expect it from me.
“Long time no see Atu,” I greet him with a handshake and a smile.
“Same to you,” he offers me a sip from his flask.
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“No thanks. I’ve never been much of a drinker.”
“Because you were always a thinker.”
I try not chuckle, Atu has a way of rhyming all of his sentences with whatever you say. Well, he tries, but sometimes the rhymes aren’t there and I’ll try to throw a few words in there to stump him. It’s amusing most of the time. During serious conversations it can be a little frustrating. I’ve learned that no matter how silly I might sound, he always took me seriously when I needed him to. Right now is no different.
I explain the murders to him in detail, show him some of my research documents and photos I’ve taken. He takes in the information but doesn’t seem to digest it. Even the more gruesome phots don’t seem to bother him, almost as if he’s seen it all before. Once I’ve finished everything, he offers me the flask again. I refuse and he shrugs.
“So, have you heard anyone speak about the killings,” I ask after he’s pondered for a while.
“Whoever did it, is into some dark dealings.”
“I hadn’t considered that it might be dark magic.”
“That stuff is tragic.”
“Any idea on where I should start to look?”
“Find someone familiar with the dark book.”
“Dark book? Singular,” I ask with a smile. I broke his rhymes. “I’m just messing with you.”
“Keep looking and answers will come into your view, for you are one of the generous few.”
I catch up with Atu a little longer and tell him about where I’ve been and why I haven’t been able to visit. He doesn’t judge me and compares me to a man he supposedly knew in the 1800s. Considering he doesn’t seem to age, I wouldn’t put it past him. I refuse the flask a final time before offering to buy him more of whatever he’s drinking, but he promises me offering to buy him a drink is enough.
I didn’t get any major lead but talking to Atu is always nice. An old lady seems to be struggling with a bag that’s almost as big as her hunched over body. Everyone else in the camp seems to be avoiding her for some reason. I make my way over and the smell near her is putrid, not filth but something worse, vile. I lack the words to describe the scent. I’ve reported on a lot of different things, I’ve smelled burning garbage, sex dungeons, a ton of feces and even rotting flesh. None of those things smelled worse than this, but more than that the smell seems like to be filling me with different emotions. Rage and sadness seem to be rising to the top, battling for the main spot in my heart at the moment.
“The angel of death is claiming souls, but he is mistaken. He is misled,” the woman’s cloudy eyes look directly at me.
“I’m sorry, I think you have me confused with someone else,” I quickly move past her.
Her hand grips my arm with surprising strength and she continues to look up into my eyes. I try to pull away but she’s strong, and only strengthens her grip. The brown and yellow fingernails dig into my arm, nearly going through my shirt. The smell is stronger, emotions of rage and sadness have been overwhelmed by panic.
“The angel of death is not who he thinks he is. He will come for you. The two of you will be linked. You must be yourself or you will die.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Align with the Champion Cambion of Cleveland he will provide you with salvation.”
“Okay, I get it.”
“The woman bathed in blood will protect you but she cannot save you she has her own path.”
“I don’t know any woman bathed in blood,” I continue trying to pull away.
“Listen or you will die.”
“I’m listening,” I’ll say anything to get her off me.
“Heed my warning.”
As quick as she had grabbed me she lets me go and wanders off. I look around for confirmation of what had just happened. Nobody else seems bothered, almost as if they hadn’t witnessed it. The scent still lingers in my nose. I can’t shake it any more than I can shake her ramblings. On the surface they sound nonsensical, but I’ve seen stranger thangs than fortune tellers in my life.