Moon in Our Eyes

A thrilling occult detective yarn by Otis Johnson

Initiation of two members into the Process Church of Final Judgement. Image via ReCollections.

Monday, February 12, 1979: Venice, California

August had his eye on the subject. He took a drag off his Winston cigarette, and the orange coal cherry flared brightly off of his mirrored sunglasses. He exhaled the smoke out the open window and flicked the stub onto the street to free up his hands. As he keyed the ignition, the immaculate black Dodge van ignited with a low rumble.

Red, August’s partner, had his flaming red afro tucked into a watch cap. He unlocked the van’s side door.

The subject was Timothy Eckers, a 21-year-old white male, scrawny; couldn’t have been more than 170 pounds, with a shaved head. He was currently walking down Abbott Kinney Boulevard, in a pack of young men and women with similarly shaved heads, all wearing simple, undyed linen clothes. As August and Red watched, Timothy fumbled through the pockets of his loose trousers as if he forgot something and excused himself from the rest of his group.

“Here we go,” said August in his gravelly voice.

Timothy was in a world of his own. Had he been paying attention, he’d have noticed the two black men in the vehicle rolling up on him. Still, the beachfront community was a slice of heaven. The last thing anyone here expected was to be abducted.

August made a right turn at the corner, directly in front of Timothy, as Red slid the van door open and hopped out.

“Get in the fucking van!” Red commanded Timothy.

“What?!” cried Timothy, confused and terrified.

“I ain’t playing with you!” yelled Red, slapping the young man on the side of his head, as if to knock some sense to him.

Instead, Timothy froze, his hands half-raised to protect himself. Red took the opportunity to grab the stunned man by the shirt and shoved him into the van, aggressively sliding the door and slamming it shut behind them.

“What’s happening!?” yelled Timothy.

“That Mister August,” said Red, indicating the driver. “You keep your mouth shut until he talk to you, boy.”

“Uh, okay!”, said Timothy, earning another slap, this time to the back of his head.

Timothy was terrified of August. Honestly, most people were, based on appearances alone. August was an imposing six-foot-six, 250 pounds of solid muscle, and his dark skin gave him the appearance of being chiseled from onyx. His bald head was smooth and shiny, and he always wore reflective sunglasses, even indoors. His outfit was classic, designed to be forgotten, and his age was completely inscrutable — though his black, wooly, beard was shot through with white hairs, which could mean he was anywhere over forty. August radiated stoic menace, his gravity as serious as a black hole. He sat entirely too close to Timothy on the sofa, forcing the younger man to lean his upper body awkwardly over the arm of the couch in a futile attempt to put space between them.

Red was seated in an easy chair, blocking the motel door, where he smoked cigarettes and read a paperback called Dune. He looked to be paying little attention, but only a fool would think they could get past him.

“Do you know why you’re here?” asked August gravely.

“No, sir,” said Timothy, his eyes pleading for release.

“Your mother and father sent me to get you. They love you very much.”

“They don’t even know me!” shouted Timothy, earning a hard slap across the face, which stunned him back into silence.

“Your mother don’t know you? Bullshit. Your mother struggled for nine months to have you. She fought to have you. She went through untold hours of pain to have you, you ungrateful little punk.”

“Bhamini Disha says that he’s the father of my spirit.” Timothy rushed out the statement and braced for another slap.

“Bhamini Disha loves you?” asked August, his gravelly tone gentle now.

“Yes! Bhamini Disha is my true father!”

“Bhamini Disha is god made flesh to walk upon the earth?”

“Yes, yes!” shouted Timothy.

“Then where in the fuck is Bhamini Disha?”

Timothy stammered helplessly.

“He sure the hell isn’t here. Red, do you see Bhamini Disha?” asked August.

“Naw, man,” said Red, not even looking up from his novel.

“Ask him to help you!” commanded August.

“Help me, Bhamini!”

“That’s right.” said August. He held his hand to his ear. “I think I hear him flying in. But seriously, I want you to look at something.”

August took two photos out of a manila envelope. He set down the first; a bearded man in a white robe and a turban.

“Who is this?” asked August.

“The Bhamini Disha!” proclaimed Timothy.

August set down another picture. It was the same man, without the beard and turban. A middle-aged Caucasian.

“Uh,” said Timothy, stupidly.

“That’s Lester Thurgood Sconhible of Elgin, Wisconsin. Before he founded ‘The Brotherhood of Beautiful Direction,’ he sold vacuum cleaners, by all accounts bad ones. I guess crummy religion is more profitable than crummy home goods, but the scam is the same. He’s not a god; he’s a con man. Living on your money and slave labor.”

August rose, picked up a rotary phone on the motel nightstand and dialed it, holding the headset to his ear with his shoulder. He waited a moment, then handed the phone to Timothy. Timothy wept when he recognized the voice in his ear.

“Mom,” he said, a child now, begging for his mother.

Wednesday, February 14, 1979: Altadena, California

After a grueling couple of days working with Timothy, the kid was back with his parents where he was supposed to be. Deprogramming was exhausting work, but the contracts were lucrative, and August’s time was his own when he was off the clock. He cruised down Woodbury Road with Earth, Wind, and Fire playing on 1580 K-DAY.

August rolled up to his two-story Altadena home. He opened the door, and Emma, his wife, tackled him with a hug. The smell of a steak hung in the air, and his mouth started watering. She made the best steaks.

“Happy Valentine’s Day, my love,” she said, squeezing him tightly.

“I’m sorry, baby,” August was embarrassed. “I was working on the Eckers boy, and I forgot.”

“I expect a dozen roses by noon, tomorrow. You can take me to that place on Lake Street, with the good waffles.” Her blue eyes sparkled at him and let him know he wasn’t really in trouble, yet. Her eyes always reminded him of the Pacific Ocean under the bright California sun.

When he wasn’t working a case, August got to spend all of his time with Emma, his own little ray of sunshine. They met at the Ramstein Base in Germany, where he was stationed after the war. August used to go to the NCO club where she worked, just to flirt with her. She warmed up to him eventually, and they became a thing. Then they got married, and when he quit the Air Force, they moved to August’s home in California. In the late ‘70s, interracial couples in the Los Angeles area were uncommon, but not unheard of.

Back home, August got his PI license, and his first case involved rescuing a teenage girl from a transient, pseudo-religious leader. Before long, saving people from cults became his specialty. He knew how to find people; it was his whole job with Security Police — hunting down AWOL GIs and dragging them back to base.

After August worked a few choice gigs, he bought and rented out a couple properties. He and Emma were doing okay for themselves. Eventually, August would leave the deprogramming behind and just manage his properties. He and Emma could relax and travel, and Emma could stop worrying about his risky work.

That night, August and Emma drank a bottle of good wine and made love slowly and indulgently. It’s always a little extra rough when a man has to leave for work a few days at a time. Both of them looked forward to August retiring from the business he created.

Thursday, February 15, 1979: Altadena, California

August was always hungry. Fox’s Restaurant had great breakfast food. He stacked a piece of egg and a sausage patty on top of a section of waffle. He pushed the waffle along the plate to mop up syrup before shoving the whole thing into his mouth.

“Don’t give yourself a heart attack,” said Emma. “I didn’t want to bring this up last night, but we are here for business.”

“Oh shit,” said August. “Are we having a meeting? I should have worn a button down.”

“Language, honey,” Emma said chuckling, “We’re meeting Gretchen from church.”

Church was a thing Emma did on Sundays. August went with her when he was free. Growing up Pentecostal, August hated religion with a fiery passion, but Emma was Lutheran, which seemed more like a social club than any sort of faith. He smiled at her church, and tried to get along with the people.

August felt that the Lutheran Jesus was loving, and as harmless as the butter he slathered on his waffle. The Pentecostal God was a hateful, jealous God. August turned his back on that crippling faith when he went to war. He learned in Vietnam that right and wrong were relative values, and that humans could become savage with only a little prompting.

A brunette woman in her thirties approached the table.

“Honey,” said Emma, “this is my friend Gretchen, from church.”

“Hello, Gretchen.” August rose and shook hands.

“I take it we’ve had breakfast.” said Gretchen, “Emma, are we ready to meet everyone?”

“Everyone?” asked August.

“Yes,” said Emma.

“Good,” said Gretchen, “We’re all gathered at the Lutheran Chapel next door.”

Figures, thought August. The one way Emma could lure me into a church is with waffles.

August was happy they met in a meeting room, and not in front of the altar. The nave of the church gave him Pentecostal flashbacks, even though the two middle-aged couples before him seemed far too timid to roll on the floor speaking in tongues. Gretchen moved to introduce them all.

“Emma,” said Gretchen, “you know everyone. August, this is Bill and Sarah Grindle; this is Jonnathan and Ann Janssen.”

“Right,” said August, “I’ve seen you all here on Sunday. Glad to meet everyone formally.” August was struggling to get his bearings, unsure of the whole situation, but he was determined to be polite to his wife’s friends.

Gretchen, thankfully, cut to the chase.

“A few of us were talking about our situation, and I suggested that Emma and her husband might be able to help us out,” said Gretchen, nervously clutching her hands together.

“Our boy, James,” said Bill; a short, stout, blonde man; “has moved in with with a group I don’t approve of. I believe they have brainwashed him against us.”

“Us too,” said Ann, “My Jeanie hasn’t been home in months.”

“As well as my Brandon,” said Gretchen. “They were all so close. It only makes sense that they all went off together.

“So we have three kids that went off with the same group?” asked August. “Is this local?”

“Yes,” said Ann. “It’s called Cosmic Wisdom.”

“And this is a group extraction for three youths.”

“Yes,” said Gretchen. “Please, we need your expertise.”

“Give me a moment with Emma, please.” August pulled his wife just out of the small meeting room and shut the door.

“Thank you for getting us a gig, honey,” August whispered, “But this sounds like a nightmare.”

“What? This is what you do best. Knock their asses around and send them home.”

“Yeah, but if I catch one, the whole group could go on alert.”

“Mister-Badass, War-Veteran, John Shaft can’t catch three children.” Emma taunted him good-naturedly, grinning.

“Fine,” August sighed. “I’ll go back to them.”

August went back in to address the whole group. He held a hand up to get their attention.

“Folks. This job is highly unusual. A multiple extraction like this has never been done, and it’s going to take some time and expenses to get it right. Some of your kids might be returned earlier than others. We rely on surveillance, strategy, and a little luck to pull off a job like this.”

“I need to ask,” said August. “Has anyone looked into the traditional route of going to the police for kidnapping?”

“We looked into it,” said Gretchen, the others nodding in agreement. “The District Attorney isn’t interested in pursuing this as a kidnapping. James, Jeanie, and Brandon are all over eighteen, and in the eyes of the law, they are adults who are with Cosmic Wisdom by choice. The group actually operates a successful restaurant and bookstore, and believe it or not, they have a positive relationship with the city.”

“We’ve pooled our resources and have come up with an offer to handle both pay and expenses. A portion of the total can be disbursed immediately for your needs.” Gretchen handed August a piece of paper.

August took what he realized was a check as he unfolded it and exercised every ounce of professionalism and training to suppress his shock at the amount — one million dollars.

6.

Tuesday, February 24, 1979: Pasadena, California

The Cosmic Wisdom organization was embedded into the city like a tick. The group operated a temple, a bookstore, a restaurant, and a small health food store all out of the same shopping complex, on the corner of Lake Street and California Avenue. August supposed it was easy to make a business work when you didn’t have to pay your employees. They also maintained several large group homes adjacent to their commercial setup, for their members. Cosmic Wisdom followers freely roamed between their living quarters and workplaces, creating an odd nexus of linen slacks and tunics, and lots of shaved heads, over a couple Pasadena blocks.

Around dusk, August and Red sat in the black van, smoking, around the corner from Cosmic Wisdom Books. Photographs of James, Brandon, and Jeannie were clipped to the van’s sun visor.

A few Cosmic Wisdom members, distinctive in their matching clothes, headed down the street. The group stopped under a jacaranda tree that was just starting to bud, and joked around a while. Most started to walk toward the communal housing, while one member split off to head for the Cosmic Wisdom temple instead.

Red tapped on the picture of Brandon, a stocky, blonde kid around twenty. August thought the picture looked off, but he started the van and cruised up slowly to the lone man, who did indeed have blonde hair. August cruised up a little ahead of the pedestrian, and Red leaned out the passenger window.

“Hey!” yelled Red. “Brandon!”

The man on answered to his name, so Red slid the side door open and jumped out.

Brandon stood in the street, confused. Red ran up on him, shoving the poor man halfway into the van before he knew what was happening. Brandon fell back on the floor, protecting his face with his arms. Red grabbed his legs, and easily lifted him fully inside the vehicle. As Red hopped in to subdue the screaming man, he slammed the door shut behind him.

“Please!” begged the blonde, “I don’t have any money!”

“Shut up!” Red slapped him across the head. “That Mr. August right there. He the boss of you now. Nod if you understand.”

“What?”

Red slapped him again, and this time, Brandon quietly nodded.

“Oh, you understand, now.”

August pulled the van into a safe house on Los Robles that he kept for deprogramming sessions. He picked the house because it had a soundproof garage. Gloria and The Fantastics recorded Moon in Our Eyes there in the ‘50s. If the neighbors hadn’t complained about the doo-wop music back then, they wouldn’t hear Brandon’s protests now, no matter how loud he got.

Red dragged Brandon into the garage side door by his collar and shoved him into the dark room. August hit the light switch, and the lights flickered on.

“That fool ain’t Brandon,” said August to Red, indicating the disheveled man now sitting on the carpeted floor. The light reflected the tears streaming down his face, a face that looked much thinner and raggeder than the one in the photo.

“What the fuck is happening?” the man begged.

“I ask the goddamn questions, motherfucker.” said August. “That ain’t Brandon. He’s what, twenty? This fool is thirty, at least.”

“Please, I’m Brandon.”

“He Brandon,” said Red, holding up the picture from the van and comparing it. “Blue eyes, blonde hair, buck teeth. Not so chubby now, tho.”

“You look like shit, Brandon,” said August, “What the fuck happened to you?”

“What do you mean?”

“Have you looked in the mirror, Brandon? You’re not well. Do they feed you? Do they let you sleep?” August asked, not entirely unkindly.

“I traded some of my Life, for Wisdom.”

“What the fuck do you mean?”

“The Interstice takes our Life to grant us Wisdom — Visions of a better world.” Brandon’s head was upturned, and his gaze was rapturous.

“The In-ter-stice,” said August, sounding out each syllable with disdain, “has got you strung out on drugs.”

Brandon looked to the floor. The silence that stretched between them was an admission.

“Your ‘visions’ are bullshit hallucinations. The Interstice got you seeing shit, because he got you on acid. He got you on junk, too, to keep you prisoner. I see them tracks on your arms.”

Brandon anxiously pulled his sleeves down, trying to hide the evidence, his shame evident.

“The Interstice was using you up. This motherfucker took years off your life. For what?”

“It doesn’t matter!” yelled Brandon, sitting up again. “Our Lives are just a Moment. The Beautiful Ones are coming. The Interstice will Open for Them when the stars are right. We will give our Lives.”

August, pissed, wound up to backhand Brandon for his outburst, and the blonde shrunk back into himself.

“You stupid, stupid child. You out messing around with ‘the Interstice,’ and the people that love you are crying. Your mom sent me to pick you up. You seen this girl?”

“That’s Jeanie,” said Brandon, to the picture August held in his face.

“Is she at your little ‘temple’?”

Brandon nodded.

“Is James?” asked August.

“Yes. I haven’t seen him… he’s been ill.”

“What will happen when the stars are right?”

Brandon took a deep breath, and stared off into space. August knew the look. He could tell Brandon was about to deliver an ordained, sacred prophesy; precisely memorized and regurgitated on command.

“The Music of the Spheres,” said Brandon. “The Moon will enter the Eye of the Sun, and We will surrender Ourselves to the Interstice and the Beautiful Ones.”

“We who?” asked August.

“All of the followers.”

“Shit.”

With Brandon handcuffed in the studio, August and Red went into the moonlit yard to smoke. After awhile, August spoke, his sandpaper voice low.

“The Interstice is about to pull a Jim Jones. All they gonna find in Cosmic Wisdom is bodies.”

“We should call the police,” said Red.

“Yeah, the police don’t love me. Besides, this is my gig. You like this house, Red?”

“I love this house. I could sing in this studio.”

“This house is yours, Red, along with the money I promised. We gotta finish this thing.”

“I don’t have a good feeling about this.”

“Red. This is everything. We get to save lives right now. You got this monster, ‘the Interstice.’ He’s got these kids all drugged up and he’s using them. He’s probably touching them too, you know how they do. We can make a difference. The cops will be too late. Do you want to see this on the news? Bodies being carted from the place on California?”

“No, August.”

“Then get your shit together. We gonna save some lives.”

7.

Monday, February 26, 1979: Pasadena, California

If the Los Angeles Police Department wants to fuck you up, thought August, they do it at six in the morning. You’re probably not fully awake, and there aren’t any bystanders. The streets were quiet; most of the city was still sleeping.

The moon was scheduled to cross the sky soon, and the early morning light was off. The sky was lightening into a wan, sickly grayish-green.

August and Red parked the van close to the Cosmic Wisdom Bookstore. They jumped out, and August went at the back double-door with a crowbar. He made short work of the lock, and they bounded down a hall and entered a room set up like a small theater, with a stage, following directions they had gotten from Brandon.

A dozen followers in off-white robes turned to the rear of the room, toward the invaders. On the stage, standing in a stone archway covered in blasphemous runes, a gaunt, pale white man with black sunglasses and curled, yellowed fingernails also took notice of the entering men.

“Negroes” said The Interstice, waving his knobby fingers, twisted talons writhing. “Remove these negroes.”

“All of you!” shouted August. “The Interstice is a false prophet! He intends to harm you today. You all know he’s wrong. Get out! Before he takes your lives, get out!”

A mother and her children, some young women, and a young man took the opportunity to flee.

The stronger followers stepped up to fight. Two men went for August, and two for Red. A skylight in the ceiling showed the moon creeping closer to the sun.

Red dropped into a boxer’s crouch as the Cosmic Wisdom members approached. August swung his crowbar as the cultists circled them. Red stepped out and did a left-right combo to one man’s head, knocking him down. The man to his left kicked Red in the leg, bringing him down on one knee.

August stepped over Red to protect him from his attacker, swinging the crowbar. The cultist raised his arm to punch him, and August shattered his radius and ulna. The man fell into a fetal position, wailing and cradling his broken limb.

August threw down the crowbar. It rang loudly against the linoleum floor as he drew a snub-nosed revolver from a holster on the middle of his back. He waved the pistol in the faces of his remaining two attackers and they backed away, growling.

“Get out! Everybody get the fuck out!” shouted August as he fired his revolver in the air.

Glass rained down from shattered skylight, as followers in white fled the building. Through the broken window, the sky darkened, as the eclipse began.

Pale light beamed down from above and flowed into the runes inscribed on the stone arch, illuminated them. The Interstice chanted in tongues, as the eclipse above was reflected in his glasses. Pale lightning was arching between the glasses, the runes, and the column stretching into the sky. The archway expanded and darkened as the space inside ripped open, revealing a brilliant night sky and stars.

The few remaining cultists collapsed, their energies absorbed into the moons on The Interstice’s glasses. Translucent life forms drifted through the open cosmic gate. Toad-like, they squatted on the collapsed followers, settled in, and assumed control of their vessels. The controlled bodies rose to stand stupidly, heads slack, limbs dangling.

Madness. Hell on Earth. To August, it was the jungle again, but so much worse. Red yelled from beside him as he was beset by writhing, possessed bodies, grasping and biting.

The Interstice grinned, clearly gloating. The moons in his eyes shone bright with power.

August aimed his .38 at the moon in the Interstice’s left lens and fired.

The bullet seemed to hang in the air for an eternity, but August knew it was only a moment. The reflected moon bloomed, then shattered into an impossibly huge cloud of black glass. The tiny pieces hummed shrilly, like an swarm of angry insects, and enveloped The Interstice, consuming him. Almost as quickly as it had appeared, the dark cloud vanished into a point at The Interstice’s former eye level, leaving behind no trace of the glasses or their wearer.

Sirens sounded nearby. There were lots of them, getting closer, and the cacophony was becoming deafening.

Los Angeles police charged in to find an injured Red, and August with his hands on his head, his empty pistol on the ground. A half dozen cultists were found dead of cardiac arrest, their faces twisted in horror. One of them was identified as James Grindle. Jeannie Janssen was found down California Boulevard, talking to herself. She was among those who fled the temple when Red and August charged in.

Red and August were arrested, and let go within a week. The press exposure of the group, and the testimony of the survivors, helped their case.

8.

Sunday, March 4, 1979: Los Angeles, California

August retired from the cult deprogrammer game. Red got busy in the studio, just as he had said. He eventually put out a disco cover of Moon in Our Eyes, which peaked at number four on the Billboard Chart in December 1980. After his hit, Red helped a lot of young kids make rap records.

After the Cosmic Wisdom case, August looked about ten years older. Still, grey at the temples suited him, and Emma seemed to like it. He bought a few more houses, and dedicated his time to Emma, who became pregnant with his child. The case shaved a few years off his life, but his time was well spent.

Otis Johnson is a Black-Asian writer from the mean streets of Los Angeles. When not spinning Afrofuturist and Horror stories, he spins records under the DJ name "Grindhaus Selektor".