Séance video

This is me, reading the first part of my most recent story, Séance.

Séance

A college séance years ago summoned a demon—one that's now killing off a group of friends one by one. Can Tom Jurgen stop it in its tracks before the next victim dies?

Séance, Part One

“This all happened four years ago.” Marcus Keene was in his 20s, African American, with a short beard and a small gold ring in his left ear. “In college. The U of C.”

I nodded. We were talking via Skype, in the office I share with my girlfriend Rachel in our apartment. I was doing a lot of that these days, with social distancing and all. A lot of people did, even private detectives like me. “What can I do for you?”

“It was this party. Late at night, lots of wine and weed. Just a few of us friends, five or six, in Charmaine’s apartment. Midnight, one or so? We, uh . . .” He hesitated. “Figured a séance would be fun. You know about that stuff, right?”

All too well. My work as a P.I., like my former job as a reporter, has brought me into contact with all kinds of supernatural occurrences and beings. I’d gotten a reputation for it—and clients to match. “Go ahead.”

“Anyway, it was just a goof at first. We talked to Warren’s grandmother. She told him—it was Natalie talking—that he was embarrassing the family by studying English. We laughed, but Warren got mad. But there was no way—I mean, his grandparents really wanted him to go into law, like his mother. But there was no way Nat could have known about that.” 

Marcus shook his head. “Anyway, we went on. It got a little silly. They were just pretending to talk to the dead, making stuff up. Like Anis was being Abraham Lincoln and talking about killing vampires, like in that movie?” He laughed. “But then something—the candle flickered, and it went out and then it started burning again. And Charmaine was . . . crazy.”

He rubbed his forehead and took a gulp of water from a nearby bottle. “She said her name was Azar, and she came from hell. And now that she was out, she was going to kill all of us.”

Marcus shuddered. “We freaked. Warren blew out the candle and turned on the lights, and Natalie slapped Charmaine’s face. Hard. Then she started having a seizure. We were all set to call 911 when she snapped out of it. She didn’t remember anything. It was—weird.”

“I’m sure it was.” I’d encountered my share of demons from hell and other dimensions. I sipped some water myself.

“We all went home and forgot about it.” Marcus sighed. “I didn’t even think about it at all. Until the other day.”

“Did something happen?”

“Yeah.” He took a deep breath. “Warren sent me an email. Charmaine—she killed her boyfriend. And then she killed herself. But before that, she wrote the word ‘Azar’ on the wall. In blood.”

Séance, Part Two

So, not your standard cheating spouse case. More your standard “Tom Jurgen, detective of the supernatural” case. We discussed fees, and he promised to send a retainer to my PayPal account. Yes, I actually have a PayPal account. It seemed safer than handling checks these days.

“So what’s the case?” Rachel carried a mug of coffee to her workstation on the far side of the office. She’s my girlfriend. Red hair, hazelnut eyes, long legs, and slightly psychic powers, which come in handy when she helps me with my cases.

“Possible demonic possession. You know. The same old thing.”

“Better than vampires.” She sat down and fired up her computer.

I turned back to my computer. Marcus had already paid the retainer into my account, and emailed me a list of names from their séance:

Warren Pierce. He’d apparently listened to his grandmother and become a lawyer. His phone number and email address went to one of Chicago’s biggest law firms.

Frank Starrett. He’d studied economics. No phone number or email.

Anis Welch. Art history major. No contact information.

Natalie McGinnis. She worked at a PR agency.

Joseph Busch. No information.

Charmaine Attlee. Dead.

I went on the internet to check out Charmaine. The Chicago Tribune website had a short article three days ago: “Murder-suicide in Evanston.”

Charmaine Attlee, 26, had apparently stabbed her boyfriend, Brian Anderson, 27, to death, then stabbed herself. No forced entry, no note, and no history of conflict, according to the story. They’d been discovered by Charmaine’s sister Neva after not hearing from either of them for three days. Which meant the killings were almost a week old.

No mention of “Azar” scrawled on the wall in blood. Maybe the cops had left that out—just in case some psycho tried to confess to the killings. It happened.

Still, I wondered how Warren Pierce had gotten word of it. Since I had his number, I called him first.

“Warren Pierce, how may I help you?” Marcus had given me a direct line.

I introduced myself. “Marcus Keene is . . . concerned that Charmaine’s death is connected to a séance he and your friends were part of in college—“

“Yeah. That’s why I called him. Weird night. I mean, my grandma told me to become a lawyer, and, well, here I am.”

“Do you remember Azar?”

“Oh, yeah. That was wild.”

“Do you remember what Charmaine said as Azar?”

He hesitated. “Something about coming from hell. It wasn’t her voice, it was like the voice from The Exorcist. She—it—was pretty scary, I don’t mind saying that. Then Charmaine was—rolling her head, jerking around, puking. We tried to hold her down, and Joe was going to call an ambulance, but then she was all right. A little groggy. We helped clean up, and Nat helped her into bed, and then we went home. Natalie called her the next day to make sure she was all right, and Charmaine didn’t remember anything. So we figured she’d just gotten too drunk. We were drinking a lot in those days.”

I remembered a certain amount of drinking at DePaul when I was studying journalism there. No séances or demons, though. Apparently I didn’t get invited to the best parties. “So you called Marcus when you heard about Charmaine?”

“I sent him an email.”

“How did you know about the word ‘Azar’ on the wall? It wasn’t in the story online.”

“Neva called me. Charmaine’s sister. She was pretty shaken up, but not hysterical or anything. But she saw it, and asked me what it meant. I told her, uh, I didn’t know.” He hesitated. “But I remembered. That’s why I emailed Marcus.”

“Have you heard anything from Azar since that night?”

“No. Thank god.”

I read him the list of names. He didn’t have any contact information for most of them—just Natalie McGinnis, like Marcus. I thanked him for his time and asked him to call me if he remembered anything else.

Then I called the PR agency and got through to Natalie. I’d searched Facebook and found her profile. Young and blond, with a tight smile and smooth shoulders in a blue tank top. Her photos showed her with family and friends at the Taste of Chicago, a national park somewhere out west, eating in restaurants and drinking in bars—all the usual stuff you post when you’re young and carefree.

She’d read about Charmaine, and still sounded shocked. When I told her about Azar, though, she gasped and didn’t speak for so long I wondered if she’d passed out and dropped the phone.

“Hello? Are you all right?”

She caught her breath. “I just—I dreamed about Azar last night.”

Oh hell. “What happened?”

Her voice trembled. “I was in Charmaine’s room, and we were doing the séance, and then she started talking like Azar. Then she turned into Azar. Big and green, with three horns and two forked tongues. Like, seven feet tall. It kind of roared, like, ‘I have come from hell! I will own you! All of you!” Another pause, breathing hard. “Then I woke up.”

“This is the first time you’ve had that dream?”

“Y-yes. What do I do? Is it going to come for me next?”

I wished I knew what to tell her. Find an exorcist? Throw out all her knives? Drink lots of coffee? “I . . . don’t know. Let me run down a list of names with you.”

Natalie knew the bank where Frank Starrett worked. No idea about Joe Busch or Anis Welch. I calmed her down as best I could. Which wasn’t much. Sometimes I do more harm than good. 

I started a search on the internet while I called Marcus and Pierce back. Neither one of them had dreamed of Azar, and both wanted to know why I was asking. I stayed vague, not wanting to spread more panic.

The only “Azar” I could find was some politician. There were variants—Azaroth, Aezorith—but nothing that seemed helpful. 

So I called the bank where Frank Starrett worked as a mortgage VP, up in Rockford. Yes, he remembered the seance, and he’d read about Charmaine’s death. No, he hadn’t dreamed about Azar. No, he didn’t know how to contact Joe Busch, the last name on my list. Yes, he was suddenly very nervous.

Starrett did remember that Busch had been a philosophy major, and that his hometown was Western Springs. And his middle name was Quinn. That wasn’t much to go on, but maybe it was a start.

Time for lunch. I made myself a sandwich and read the news on my laptop at the kitchen table. The COVID-19 lockdown was still on. You couldn’t go to the store without face masks and gloves. Idiots were protesting the restrictions, demanding “liberty.” The president was still trying to reopen the economy. The death count was flattening out in some states, rising in others. But the Brookfield Zoo had a nice webcast of penguins wandering out of their habitat.

Rachel made her own lunch—cheese and crackers. She’s a vegetarian. “It’s my turn to make dinner, isn’t it?” She groaned.

“We’ve got that split pea soup from last week. All you have to do is take it out of the freezer.” We take turns making dinner. I’d actually made the soup, but this didn’t feel the right time to remind her.

“That’s about as much cooking as I can handle right now.” She shoved a cracker into her mouth and crunched loudly.

“Tough gig today?” Rachel’s a graphic designer. She can work from home even when we’re not sheltering in place.

“Just this whole quarantine thing. You want to go for a walk later? We can stay six feet away. I’ll wear my cutoffs.” She grinned and licked her lower lip.

I smiled. “It’s a date.”

“What’s with your case?” She made a cracker sandwich.

“It’s . . . interesting. And a little scary." I gave her the story. "Hey, have you ever held a séance?”

She snorted. “Are you kidding? You know the kind of people I hang around with.”

“Are they for real? Séances, I mean.”

“Of course. Maybe. Sometimes.” She shrugged. “I had this one, uh, friend who really liked them. This is before I met you. Sometimes I think she was joking with us. Other times?” She shrugged. “We did really talk to the dead. It got creepy.”

“Like grandmothers? Or Abraham Lincoln?”

Rachel shook her head. “It was all just random. Whatever spirit happened to be close. Some of them didn’t even speak English.”

“No demons?”

“Not while I was there. After the first few times I got bored, and a little nervous. Too close to necromancy for my delicate tastes.”

“Hah.” I’ve seen Rachel stare down vampires. Nothing delicate about her. I took a shot in the dark. “Ever heard of a demon called Azar?”

“Yeah, I used to date him.” Rachel sounded like she wanted to punch me if the table wasn’t in her way. “What, just because I’ve been possessed once or twice—not to mention kicking one in the crotch that one time—I’ve got every demon in hell on my speed dial?”

I shook my head. “I have to find a guy named Joseph Q. Busch and find out if he’s having dreams about Azar—that demon I asked you about? And warn him. And Anis Welch. She was an art history major, so unless she’s with a museum or teaching at Podunk University, I’ve got no idea what she’s doing now. At least it’s not a very common name, like Joseph Q. After that, I don’t know. Figure out some way to protect Natalie McGinniss?” I shook my head. 

Rachel squeezed my hand. “You can’t save everyone.”

I knew that all too well. “But I have to try.”

Séance, Part Three

So after lunch I looked for Joseph Busch online. I figured with a middle initial “Q” and a starting point in Western Springs, a Chicago suburb, I might have some luck.

I was wrong. I found a lot of “Joes” and “Josephs” with a “Q” and even with “Quinn” as a middle name. Too many of them were from genealogy sites, dead for years. Others were scattered across the country. I tried calling or emailing as many as I could, but by 3 p.m. I’d gotten nowhere. I managed to talk to a handful of people who had no idea what or who I was talking about, but nothing panned out.

I had similar luck, or the lack thereof, with Anis Welch. Maybe she’d gotten married and changed her name. I’m used to striking out dozens of times or more, but it was never fun.

With nothing else to do, Rachel and I went for a walk. As promised, she wore her cutoffs. I tried not to stare at her legs.

We wore masks and gloves, and although we didn’t stay six feet away from each other, we kept a decent distance from other people. Shoppers carrying grocery bags, joggers huffing and puffing, cyclists in the street, and the homeless guy in front of our local grocery store. I gave him a dollar, and we stopped in to buy vegetables, fruit, rice, and pasta. Also beer.

The sun was bright, with a few clouds in the sky. A warmer day than usual, although the weather report said it would cool off tomorrow, with rain. Welcome to springtime in Chicago.

We rounded the block and started heading back home, paper shopping bags in our hands. Rachel breathed in as much fresh air as she could through her mask. “This is nice.”

“Yeah.” I wanted to hold her hand, but that would have crowded the sidewalk too much. She held back, letting me walk ahead. “I’d go first, but you’d just be staring at my butt.”

“You know me too well.” I laughed, and Rachel laughed, and for a moment things were all right, even in the Coronavirus-infested world.

Then my phone buzzed. Unknown number. Maybe spam? But I had to answer, just in case. “Sorry. —Tom Jurgen speaking.”

“Jurgen? This is Joe Busch. What are you looking for me for?”

What the—? I perched on the edge of a short iron fence. “Is this Joseph Quinn Busch? You were at the University of Chicago  four years ago?”

            “Uh, yeah. That’s me. What’s going on?”

He didn’t sound hostile. Mostly puzzled. “How did you get my number?”

“Your email went to my cousin. It sounded kind of weird.”

            “Sorry. Here’s the thing—” A woman walking a labradoodle glared at me through her wide sunglasses as I sat forward. “Uh, there was a séance a couple of years ago? Do you remember that?”

“Yeah.” Busch paused. “I remember that. Weird night. So what?”

“Can I ask where you are right now?”

“Uh, I live in La Grange.” Another western suburb. “With Anis. I’m a contractor. Not much work these days, so I’m home most of the time.”

Wait a minute—“Anis Welch?”

“Yeah. We live together.”

Okay. “Great. Uh, congratulations. Anyway, here’s the thing . . .”

Halfway through my explanation, Busch shouted: “Anis! Come here!”

Rachel leaned next to me on the fence. A little too close for social distancing, but what the hell. 

            I held the phone next our ears—I didn’t want to put it on speaker on a public sidewalk—as a sharp female voice came on the line. “Yeah? What? What’s going on?”

            “Ms. uh, Anis? I’m a private detective, working for Marcus Keene—”

“Yeah, Joe just told me. What is this? I read about Charmaine. We weren’t great friends or anything, but I remember that night, and—well, that’s when Joe and me—anyway, what are you talking about?”

Rachel smirked. I tried to focus. “I’m worried that somehow Azar is back. That demon? Do you—”

“What? I dreamed about him last night. Or something. I don’t know. I’ve been having nightmares for a week. Joe can tell you—”

            “She wakes up all the time.” Busch’s voice was shaky. “All sweaty. Shouting. Words—I can’t even understand it. I thought she was just babbling, but sometimes it’s she’s like speaking in tongues, you know? And she doesn’t remember any of it when she wakes up.”

“I just did that one time.” A long, long pause. “Sorry for what I said, Joe.”

            My skin felt cold. “Okay. I don’t know what’s going on. Natalie McGinnis told me she’s also had dreams about Azar. This is—I don’t know.”

            Busch asked, “What do we do? What the hell’s going on?”

“I don’t know.” I closed my eyes. Maybe sleep in separate rooms? With the doors locked? “Joe, have you been having nightmares too?”

“Uh, no. I sleep fine. Except when Anis wakes me up.”

So was the demon targeting only females? But why now? After— “All right. I’m sorry, I don’t know what else to tell you. Just–—be careful.”

Busch groaned. “Thanks. I guess.”

“I’ll be in touch.”

Rachel and I stood up. I grabbed my bag of groceries. “Something’s wrong.”

“You think?” She lifted a hand to punch my shoulder, but lowered it as a jogger ran past us. “Wear a mask, asshole!” she shouted. The jogger flipped his middle finger at us.

Rachel laughed. “Let’s go home.”

Séance, Part Four

So back in the apartment I grabbed a Coke and sat down at my computer. And tried to think of what to do. When Rachel came into the office in sweats, I turned. “Hey, who was your friend who had séances?”

“Uh . . .” She rolled her eyes. “Jasmine.”

“Any chance you could find her? Or someone else who knows about séances?”

Rachel groaned. “I have work to do!” 

“I’m sorry!” I managed not to pound my fist on my desk. “I’m just trying to save people’s lives!”

We were both under a bit of stress from the lockdown.

“Okay.” She glared. “Give me a few minutes. But you’re heating up dinner. I’ll make sandwiches.”

I nodded. “Fine.”

In the meantime I started calling everyone on Marcus’s list. Marcus first. “Look, Natalie’s had a dream about Azar, and so did Anis. I don’t know what’s going on. I’m just trying to contact everybody before something bad happens.”

“Uh, okay.” Marcus sounded puzzled. And nervous. “I don’t think I’ve had any nightmares lately. I’ll ask my girlfriend. Is Anis all right?”

“She’s living with Joe Busch. So far she’s fine.”

“Really? I always though they didn’t . . .” He laughed. “That’s good, I guess. Glad they’re okay.”

I called Warren Pierce after that. “What do you mean, it’s back? I thought it was just a goof, just that one night. But . . .” He took a deep sniff. “I don’t know what to do.”

            “Let me know if you have any nightmares about the thing. Any time, day or night. Right now it only seems to be coming to the women in the group.” That could change, but I didn’t want to panic him. 

“Oh-okay.” He caught his breath. “Thanks for calling.”

Frank Starrett next. He was leaving for the day, and he thanked me for my warning. But he didn’t sound very concerned. 

Natalie McGinnis after that. She was working late. “Anis? Oh my god! Is she all right? We were—well, not best friends, but—wait, nightmares about Azar? Like me?”

“Apparently. Look, I’m concerned that the demon seems to be targeting women in their dreams. You, Anis, Charmaine.” I bit my lip. “I don’t know what to tell you. I’m sorry. I’m looking into this—”

“How do you know so much about demons and séances?” Natalie was sobbing softly. “I’m scared. Who are you?”

“This is what I do.” Sometimes I even save people. “I’ve got some experience. Stay safe, and I’ll be in touch.”

“Okay.” She gulped. “I though this virus was the only thing I had to worry about.”

“Yeah.” I wiped my forehead. “Me, too.”

During dinner—my split pea soup and Rachel’s sandwiches with cheese, avocado and tomato—Rachel’s phone buzzed. “Hello? Oh. Hi, Jasmine! How you doing?” 

I set down my sandwich as Rachel put us on speaker. “Just great! Hiding in my bunker under my pillows, fighting with my cats, binge-watching everything I can find. Have you watched Normal People yet? It’s great.” 

“Yeah, it’s on our list.” Rachel grinned. “Look, sorry to bother you. I know it’s been a long time—”

“Yeah, you kind of dumped me years ago. That’s okay. Sometimes things get too intense. What are you up to these days?”

“Oh, I’m just doing graphic design and websites, and stuff like that, you know? Boring.” She rolled her eyes. “But my boyfriend’s a private detective, and that keeps things interesting. Which, by the way—”

“Boyfriend? I thought—well, that was a while ago, huh?”

I lifted my eyebrows. Rachel glared and mouthed Shut up! “It’s about séances. We used to do them, remember?”

“Sure. You up for one tonight? I’ve got a Zoom session set up. I’ll send you an invite.”

You can do séances on Zoom? Of course. You can do everything on Zoom. 

“Wait.” I leaned closer to Rachel’s phone. “Jasmine, this is Tom. Rachel’s boyfriend. Can I ask you a question?”

            “Tom?” She laughed. “Of course. Nice to meet you. We’ll have to have coffee some time, after all this is over. All three of us.”

“Nice to meet you too.” I avoided Rachel’s eyes. “So, uh, is it possible—have you ever  . . . accidentally or otherwise . . . summoned a demon in a seánce?”

“Huh.” Jasmine paused. “I’ve never heard of that. But I suppose it’s possible. Anything could be floating around in the ether.”

That’s what I was afraid of. We hung up.

“Okay, here’s the thing.” Rachel sighed and picked up her spoon. “Yeah, we were girlfriends for a couple of months. It was fine at first, but then it got—like she said, too intense for me. We’re still friends, obviously, I just haven’t talked to her in a long time. And yeah, by the way, I’m bi.”

“I know.” I took a bite of my sandwich. “It kind of turns me on.”

She glared. “I knew you were going to say that. Jerk.”

I held up my hands, ready to duck if she threw her spoon at me. “Sorry!”

“But you knew?” She wiped her lips with a napkin. “I mean, I don’t care. But how?”

“I’m a detective, remember?” I finished my share of the soup and picked up a sandwich. “Mostly just the way you talk about friends. Like Carrie, no. But—who was that girl? Naomi? Felt like it.”

Rachel sighed. “Yeah, Naomi was nice. Right out of college. But I had boyfriends too.”

“I know.” Rachel was still somewhat secretive about her past, even after living together for several years. “I’m just glad I’m here with you. Uh, good sandwiches, by the way.”

She took a deep breath. “Thanks. I think there’s ice cream before the séance.”

Séance, Part Five

We sat in front of my laptop in the living room at 8:30, lights off and a few candles glowing. I wasn’t sure they were necessary, but it seemed like the right atmosphere for a séance.

We logged on and said hello to Jasmine. She was Black, slender, in a tie-dyed T-shirt with her hair pulled back in a red kerchief. Other people logged in, until we had a group of eight, including Jasmine. She introduced everyone, we all said hello, and then Jasmine leaned back and closed her eyes. 

“Empty your minds.” Her voice was a little above a whisper. “Breathe deep. Focus on nothing and everything. It’s like meditation. Let your mind roam without controlling it or thinking about anything. Just . . . go with the flow.”

Rachel and I looked at each other. Then we closed our eyes and held hands. 

Jasmine turned on some soft new age music. Lots of harps. I tried to concentrate on my breathing and nothing else. My thoughts drifted. I wondered what would happen if I fell asleep.

Then Jasmine’s voice again, soft and delicate. “Is there a spirit nearby?”

We waited. Two minutes, three. Jasmine repeated the question. Then Edwin, a young Asian man, said, “It’s me. Suzanne.”

I opened my eyes. Edwin bent forward until I could only see the top of his head. “Suzanne. I died in 1987. I miss my husband, Cezar. I can’t find him here. Can anybody find him?”

Jasmine spoke: “Cezar? Are you there?”

Silence. Edwin’s head came back up. He wiped his eyes. “She’s gone.”

Then Kristen spoke, a middle-aged white woman. Her eyes were closed. “I’m George. I don’t know when I died. It was a long time ago. I just want to talk to someone.”

“Talk to me, George.” Jasmine’s voice was soothing. “Tell me anything you want.”

They talked for ten minutes. George was apparently a farmer who’d died in the 19^th century. He told us about his life growing up in Missouri, his wife, his crops, his children . . . Then abruptly he just said, “I’m done. Thanks.” And Kristen blinked, as if waking up.

The session went on. No demons. The creepiest part was when Gregory, an African-American man in his seventies, lifted his head up. “Mommy? Mommy, are you there?” No one answered.

After an hour and a half, Jasmine rubbed her eyes, looking tired. “I think that’s it, friends. Thank you for coming. Let me know if you want to attend another gathering. Good night.”

One by one, they clicked off. Jasmine stayed. “So, Rachel. And Tom. How was that?”

“Was that pretty typical?” I asked. 

“Yes. You rarely get the great historical figures. Just spirits of ordinary people. They’re lonely. Sometimes they just want to talk. Like George.” She pulled her kerchief off. “Oh, I should mention. You were guests tonight. If you want to attend another session, it’s $35. Per person.”

“Uh, thanks. How often do you do these?”

            “Every night. Unless I’m too tired. Sleep well. Rachel, we have to get together soon! I want to hear everything.” Her eyes flicked toward me. Then she blinked away.

Rachel blew out the candles while I turned on the lights and got us some beer. “So what do you think?”

She shrugged. “It’s real. I felt lots of psychic energy, even through the computer screen. Nothing here, though, thank god.”

“That’s good.” I sipped my beer. “It was . . . interesting.”

I’m in my 40s, and I’ve faced enough dangerous situations that I’ve been forced to confront my own mortality more than I wanted to. Was this what I had to look forward to? Wandering alone in the ether for eternity? As much as I never want to die, this didn’t seem much better.

Rachel turned on the TV. “What do you want to watch?”

“Anything.” I scooted next to her and put a hand on her knee.

She kissed my cheek. “Real Housewives it is.” 

I stifled a groan.

My phone buzzed at 6:30 the next morning. I rolled over and sat up before it could wake Rachel. “Tom Jurgen speaking.”

Marcus. “Natalie’s dead.”

Oh hell. “How do you know?”

“Warren called me. He saw it on the news.”

Warren Pierce. “He’s up early.”

“I guess he has to get to his office early. I don’t know. What’s going on, man? I’m scared.”

“Me too. I’ll get back to you.”

I pulled on a T-shirt and staggered to the office, leaving Rachel sound asleep. On the internet I found a brief news story: Natalie McGinnis, 28, had jumped off the balcony of her Lincoln Park high-rise condo, landing with a splat on top of a parked cab. 

Damn it.

I’d talked to her. She was scared. Could I have stopped this? Maybe not. But it didn’t make me feel any better.

I went back to her Facebook wall to scroll down her posts. The first one made my fingers freeze.

On a black background, one word: AZAR.

Goddamn it. I slammed my fist on the desk. 

“Tom?” Rachel was at the door. “What’s the matter?”

“Natalie McGinnis is dead.” My head sank. “Azar got her.”

“Oh, no.” She knelt next to my chair and held me as I cried.