Seeing Darkness

by Heather Graham

  “You bastard,” she said quietly. “You...absolute bastard. I’m thinking I’m the most demented person in the world, seeing someone else as they’re being murdered, wondering just how far my grip on reality has slipped. And all the while, you’re the...weird one! Seeing ghosts, talking to them, getting your mysterious help from the dead! You said not one word about your ‘special skill.’ You practically accused me of horrible things the night we met, when all the while, you... You could have said something!”

  He was so startled, he didn’t answer for a moment.

  That was long enough for her to grab the pillow he’d been using and slam it down over his head.

  “Hey!” He jerked up, grabbing the pillow and then catching her arm when she would have stormed away. He didn’t use force, but the way she had been turning sent her spinning back around so she landed on the couch next to him. They both looked at each other with surprise.

  Flashes of heat seemed to arise—attraction. Anger.

  Neither of them moved for a minute; they stared at each other.

  She started to rise. He caught her arm again, but gently. Her skin was soft and slightly cool in the night air.

  “Please,” he said.

  She looked at him but didn’t relax her posture.

  “It’s not something you bring up in casual conversation when you just meet someone,” he began.

  “We didn’t meet casually!”

  “No, you were passing out. And talking about a murderer.”

  “That was...that was just at first. You dragged us all down to your office and put us through an interrogation. I felt like a victim, and a criminal...and an idiot! And all the while—”

  He sighed when she broke off, looking out into the room, so aware of her warmth, her eyes, the feel of her by him.

  “I’m sorry,” he said softly. “I needed your help. I still need your help. I just didn’t find the time in there with everything else to mention that... I have dead friends. Who still talk to me.”

  She stared a moment longer and he realized she was trembling. She lowered her head. “Dead people,” she said. She shook her head. “Even then, it doesn’t explain what happened to me during that hypnotism. Jon, I know you believe you saw Matt about to stab me, but he’s not the one who killed Annie Hampton.”

  “I know. I believe you.”

  She looked up. “How can any of this be? I mean, I saw that ghost today—”

  “Obadiah Jones.”

  “I saw him. He wasn’t a dark shadow, he wasn’t a blast of cold on my arm. I thought he was real. Well, I mean I thought he was flesh and blood sitting there.”

  “I’ll tell you the story,” Jon said quietly. “Years and years ago, I saw Obadiah for the first time. I think we were both surprised. I thought he was flesh and blood, too. He’d never had anyone see or hear him before then. But because of him, someone didn’t die. I don’t have all the answers—none of us do. I think Obadiah just lived a very, very bad life, and so he stays to try to make life better for others. He died in jail during the trials—the executed weren’t the only ones to die or have their lives ruined, but you know that. He...tries to help.”

  She nodded, still shivering. Jon wanted to put an arm around her. It really wouldn’t be appropriate. Of course, he was still holding on to her. That wasn’t really appropriate, either.

  “I’m sorry,” he said again.

  “I still just can’t believe any of it,” she whispered.

  “It’s never easy. I think it is easier for those of us who had experiences when we were very young. Before logic and the learned order of things and real life set in. But I know it will get easier for you. Um, acceptable at least. You just learn to live with it.”

  “So walking down the street on any day at any time, a dead person might pop up and decide to talk to you?”

  “Not that often. No. Not that many spirits stay. And if they do, they may choose not to communicate.”

  “And when the dead do try talking to you on the street, what do you do?”

  He smiled. “You can ignore them. Or you can engage with them. Maybe learn something. If you’re worried about seeming strange in public, pretend you’re on the phone. That’s easy these days. People are always walking around and talking.”

  She cracked a small, weak smile at last. She seemed to settle back into the couch; her shivering was easing. “I’m telling you, Matt didn’t kill Annie,” she said. “There was no reason for you to have him taken in. Why did you insist on that?”

  “He had a knife over you.”

  “But—”

  “Kylie, I do believe you that Michael Westerly killed Annie. But he knows he’s a suspect. And many people, including Matt, saw what happened with you in the restaurant. I heard you from several seats away. It’s possible Westerly might try to get someone to—”

  “Murder me? He might hire someone to murder me?”

  “I’m badly hoping Matt’s as innocent as can be. But he had a knife. He was standing over you. And he was in every city where a murder from this case took place. That proves nothing, but it is something that has to be checked out.”

  She nodded. “He seems decent. I don’t want to believe it.”

  “Like I said, I don’t even want to believe it. There’s no evidence against him, unless you file charges for assault.”

  “I honestly don’t think he meant to assault me.”

  “He will be back out on the streets tomorrow night, so we’ll hope you’re right.”

  “I won’t spend time with him in a cemetery again,” Kylie said.

  “Good call. You won’t be alone again. As strange as you find us, please, put some faith in us,” he said. “Don’t go off on your own. Let one of us be with you.” He hesitated. “Just believe in us. I’m begging you.”

  She nodded, lightly biting on her lower lip. “You believed in me. I’ll believe in you. And I’ll try not to fall to the ground screaming if a ghost decides to join in when I’m having a conversation with someone else. Or just walks up to me. Or...” Her voice trailed. “Or tomorrow. Seeing Sayers again. Trying to relive what happened.” She shook her head. “I don’t really understand. If I just see and feel the same thing again—”

  “You may see and feel more. There may be something you see him drop, something he says, something about his clothing... We need evidence. We can’t arrest the man because of what you saw under hypnotism. But being hypnotized again just might give us something we desperately need.”

  “I’m going to try very hard to accept that I can inhabit another person’s thoughts, but also accept that I am still perfectly sane.” She was almost relaxed then, sitting at his side. No longer trembling.

  “You are sane,” he assured her. “Well, as sane as you ever were.”

  His joke was weak. She accepted it and looked at him with what was almost a smile. “And I’m going to try to think of you as perfectly sane, too. Well, as sane as you ever were, I assume.”

  He smiled. A real smile. He thought she might be about to smile as well, but instead she stood quickly. His hand trailed over her arm, and she stood there a moment.

  “Well...good night.”

  “Good night,” he said.

  She started toward the little hallway to the two bedrooms, but paused. “You will get him, right? Somehow, some way?”

  “We will get him,” he promised, and prayed they would.

  She went into the bedroom.

  Jon stayed awake a long, long time, staring at the ceiling. Yes, they would get Michael Westerly.

  They had to.

  Eleven

  “When we go in—” Jon began.

  “Don’t mention anything about Michael Westerly,” Kylie finished. “I know. I’ll be careful. I mean, I’ll try. Jon, I’ve never felt anything like what I felt when he hypnotized me the first time. I
don’t think I have a lot of control over my reactions.”

  He had just shifted his car into a space on the street near the Salem Witch Museum, an easy walking distance to Dr. Sayers’s office. They left the car and started walking.

  Kylie couldn’t help but notice people on the street. With a bit of dry wonder, she tried to determine if they were all living. She still had a bad time accepting that Obadiah Jones was a dead man.

  They passed the magnificent and sweeping life-size statue of Roger Conant, founder of Salem, in his flowing cape. A group of young women were laughing nearby and talking about heading to one of the stores for love potions later.

  Definitely alive.

  Obadiah wasn’t around, and to the best of her knowledge, they passed no one dead. Thankfully, she had yet to meet Aunt Mina, Devin’s personal haunt. And yet, despite Kylie’s unease and fear, she was growing curious.

  Jon seemed introspective. He was frowning. “You’re going to be all right. I’m going to be right there. And Sayers will be able to get you out if I ask him to.”

  She nodded. She knew Jon was worried, too. She also knew that without actual evidence, Michael Westerly was going to get away with murder. She couldn’t let that happen.

  It seemed to her that Jon’s footsteps slowed slightly as they neared the office. She looked at him.

  “I’m second-guessing our decision to do this,” he told her.

  “Hey, I’m the one who is supposed to be protesting. You’re supposed to be telling me about getting justice and stopping a killer.”

  He nodded. “I know. I still don’t like it.”

  “Neither do I. But I’m fully committed to trying for something more,” she added softly.

  “All right, here we are,” he said, walking up the few steps to the door and opening it for her.

  Kylie thought about making some kind of joke regarding the spider and the fly. She didn’t.

  They were greeted by Dr. Sayers’s cordial receptionist and quickly sent on in to his office.

  Sayers was waiting for them. He stood from behind his desk, enthusiastically shaking their hands. “Welcome, both of you. Kylie, I’m honored that you’ve come back. I’ve never had anyone react the way you did, and frankly, we were all worried about you. But I think this is a fascinating opportunity. We’ll take it very slow and carefully.”

  “That’s good to hear, Dr. Sayers,” Jon said. “Because if I say she has to come out of it, she has to come out of it. Right then. Not in a few minutes. That second.”

  “Well, of course,” Sayers said, as if the very suggestion he would do otherwise was insulting.

  “Thank you,” Kylie murmured.

  Sayers brightened again. “Tea? I always find it so relaxing to start with the tea. Chat a few minutes, relax. Sure, it has some caffeine, but millions of Irish throughout history can’t be all wrong, huh?”

  “Or the Chinese,” Jon murmured.

  “Pardon?” Sayers asked.

  Jon shook his head. “Never mind.”

  “I’m sorry. I really don’t feel like tea,” Kylie told him.

  “Well, then, there’s the sofa. Lie down and get comfortable.”

  She glanced at Jon, who nodded, extending a hand toward the sofa as he went to bring one of the upholstered chairs right up beside it.

  “You’re going to be right by her?” Sayers asked. He didn’t seem to mind; in fact, he wanted Jon there. That was encouraging.

  Kylie lay on the sofa, one of the throw pillows behind her head; she realized she had been keyed up so long that she was tired. Lying down felt good.

  Jon was by her side, sitting near her head. He held her hand between his.

  “All right,” Dr. Sayers began, “just lie there and breathe and think about nothing, nothing at all, Kylie. Think about the breeze and the blue of the sky. Ah, the air is so soft and sweet, gentle, just touching you. Count with me, we’ll go backward from a hundred...”

  He began to count; she counted with him.

  “One hundred, ninety-nine, ninety-eight...”

  She couldn’t really feel a breeze; the day had been somewhat overcast. But then it seemed she was relaxed, that reality was slipping away.

  “Ninety-two, ninety-one...”

  She was somewhere else; she could still hear Dr. Sayers talking to her, guiding her, as he would continue to do even after the countdown, but she felt as if she was floating through the sky, moving to a different place.

  “Eighty-seven, eighty-six...”

  She was back at the old cemetery, a place natural to her. And her mind was racing—she was thinking about some of the tests that were coming up, and one of the teenagers, who was really a great kid, just torn down by the fact his parents were both out of work. She planned to help him all she could.

  The man she was meeting would help her, too. When they were together at last, really together, she could tell him unreservedly about what was needed in the school system, what was needed to help children who were in problem situations, how to help those children become responsible, successful adults.

  He was wonderful. She smiled, glancing around, knowing he would be there soon. She remembered the times they had been together before, sweet if secretive. Even the way she ran into him in the historic district after a special performance by one of the local theater groups at the memorial. The way he looked at her, even in public, even with his wife—the monster, clinging to him, horrible, always trying to ruin his career and destroy his dreams—there with him. She thought about the feel of his fingers on her flesh, and the way they had dreamed about the day they could be together without hiding.

  Then she saw him.

  She was excited, and she raced to him. But he wanted to get in deep, deep into the old cemetery where they wouldn’t be seen. She went along. She understood, she loved him, she knew what he needed to do.

  Then the fear set in. There was something different about him. His hold on her was harsh—cruel. And he wasn’t leading her, he was dragging her.

  She drew back, confused at first, hurt.

  She saw his face and...knew.

  He wasn’t the same man he had been; he was the monster, and she had been a fool all along.

  All that had been love turned to ice. She despised him.

  She turned to flee.

  He caught hold of her and spun her around. And despite her hatred for him, she wanted to live. She begged, she pleaded, she cried. She would do anything, say anything, to stop him. And yet she knew, even as he held her there among the tombstones, there was no chance for her.

  The knife fell, and she looked into the rage in his dark eyes. As he brought that blade down, ripping into her flesh again and again, she knew he would want her to suffer even past death...

  Yes, she felt it, again and again!

  First, the terror. Then, a strange numbness, the pain lessening, fading, like the light before her eyes...

  “Kylie!”

  She heard her name called out.

  She was no longer lying on the sofa. She was in Jon’s arms. He’d pulled her from the sofa and on to his lap and he was holding her, rocking with her slightly, as if she was a child.

  She blinked, realizing her position, and drew back a bit.

  Yes, it had been terrifying.

  But now she was fine. This time, reality came back to her like a gigantic cool wave. What had happened hadn’t happened to her.

  “You’re all right?” Dr. Sayers asked anxiously.

  She nodded. Jon was easing his hold on her. She looked at him a little awkwardly and managed to stand up without the least wobble. He came to his feet beside her.

  “Thank you, Dr. Sayers,” Jon told him.

  “I told you I’d bring her right out when you wanted,” Dr. Sayers said. “I have to say again, this is the strangest thing I’ve ever seen. Kylie, y
ou are the only person I’ve ever had anything even remotely like this happen to. But are you really all right? Last time we did this, you were terribly shaken.”

  “I believe I’m fine, thank you. This time, it was as if stepped through a door. From the darkness to the light, kind of. I’m really fine.”

  “Scary again, though,” Dr. Sayers said. He looked at Jon. “Can this help you? I mean, I can’t imagine anyone accepting a regression as evidence in a court of law.”

  “No, our courts today don’t put stock in any kind of paranormal activity,” Jon said.

  “But you’re here and you asked me to do this...and you are FBI,” Dr. Sayers said. “Do you really believe in this? Do you have a suspect?”

  Kylie shook her head, surprised at her own ability to purse her lips sorrowfully and appear lost.

  “But this may just help us,” Jon said. “With a murder so horrible, we have to try anything.”

  “Of course,” Dr. Sayers said. He smiled at them both, and Kylie had the feeling he didn’t believe them. He thought they had a suspect. And that pleased him.

  Why not? He would naturally be glad if he helped to bring a murderer in. She couldn’t blame him. And it validated his work. Something like this was far more than just showing tourists what fun they could have with past-life regressions.

  “You’ve been great, Dr. Sayers,” Jon assured him. “We’re truly appreciative and we’ll let you know if we’re able to discover anything from here.”

  “Thank you—I’ll be anxious for updates,” Dr. Sayers said.

  They both thanked him again and headed out. In the reception area, Jon paused to pay for the session. The receptionist didn’t accept his credit card, but rather smoothed back a strand of gray hair and smiled warmly. “No charge,” she said.

  “Oh no, really, we must—”

  “No, no, sir, you really can’t. Dr. Sayers would have me by the throat!” she said. “He said this appointment was important and that it was, frankly, a fascinating study for him, too. I’m just thanking you for coming.”

  “Well, thank you,” Jon said. “And Dr. Sayers.”