Death Prophets (Strange Gravities Book 3)

by Steve Armstrong

Sharon Thomas crossed her arms, which were wrapped in a gray half-sweater. “It’s so nice of you to pay your respects. How did you know Thomas?”

  Grace exchanged glances with Amy, who took the lead. “We knew him from work,” she said. Neither Amy nor Grace knew where Thomas Wilson worked, so the conversation threatened to abruptly turn awkward.

  “At the Pharmaceutical company?” Sharon asked.

  Amy smiled. “Yes. At the pharmaceutical company. Neither one of us worked directly with Thomas, but we still saw him every day.”

  Grace nodded nervously, bracing herself for some follow-up question they wouldn’t be able to answer. Even while she conversed with Sharon, her eyes gravitated toward the printed out photos of Thomas Wilson and his soulless body, lying in the dark, cherry casket.

  “I know Thomas was a quiet kind of person, very serious. I think that’s why not many people came—he was never good at making connections,” Sharon said as if trying to explain the low turnout. “Some of the soldiers he served with came out earlier, but a lot of them are still deployed in Iraq or Afghanistan. Some other people from Stevenson Industries came, so that was nice. Thomas always was a good worker.”

  “Oh, yeah. Definitely,” Amy said without hesitation. “You could always count on Thomas. I think that’s why we respected him so much. The place isn’t the same without him.”

  “That’s very kind of you to say,” Sharon said, fresh tears forming in her eyes. Amy placed a reassuring hand on the woman’s shoulder. Grace’s eyes continued to roam back to the open casket, as images of the man across the street staring into the light circulated through her mind. “Well, I can tell you’d like to pay your respects,” Sharon said, tracing the object of Grace’s gaze.

  “Thank you,” Amy said, hooking her arm through Grace’s. “You ready for this?” she asked after they had taken a few steps away from Sharon Wilson.

  Grace nodded but her steps lacked conviction. What would she see when she peered into the lifeless face of Thomas Wilson? Would she see the man who visited her in her dreams or would her dreams go unexplained? She found herself fearing either outcome, though for different reasons.

  Grace swallowed hard as they neared the casket. She could see the rigid jawline of Thomas Wilson, hardened by rigor mortise. She examined his high cheekbones and proportional forehead. Everything about him resembled the man in the dreams, but she couldn’t be sure unless she looked into his eyes, the ones that were now closed in death. It was the eyes that had defined him—not just the color but the way they searched the space behind him. Grace inhaled deeply again as she slowly swiveled her head to a large blown up photo of Thomas Wilson in his service uniform. Once she gazed into his green eyes, she began crying, sobbing uncontrollably.

  “What’s wrong, Grace? Is it him?” Amy asked, massaging her companion’s shoulders. Sharon Wilson, alerted by Grace’s dramatic reaction, made her way to the casket. She seemed perplexed; this was not the way people reacted to the death of a casual work acquaintance. At the same time, Sharon appeared pleased her son had elicited such a reaction from someone.

  “What’s the matter, dear?” Sharon asked, standing on Grace’s other side. But Grace couldn’t answer and refused to look the bereaved mother in the eyes.

  Without blinking, Amy said, “I’m sorry, ma’am. It’s been really hard for Grace since Thomas passed. You see, ever since Thomas worked at Stevenson Industries, she had a really big crush on him. But she was too shy to actually talk to him. So Thomas’ death hit her really hard.”

  Still buffeted by the strong waves of emotion, Grace didn’t even look up as Amy lied. Sharon placed her hand on her heart. “Oh, honey, come here.” She opened her arms to embrace Grace. The sobbing young woman received the embrace, even if it came under false pretenses. “You’re a lovely girl, and I wish Thomas and you did have the chance to spend more time together. I can’t even remember the last time Thomas was in love with someone. Maybe during high school.”

  Amy pursed her lips and laid a hand on Grace’s shoulder while Wilson’s mother hugged the redhead. “Ma’am, if you don’t want to answer this question, you don’t have to, but we were wondering how Thomas died. It was so sudden. And we haven’t been able to get a straight answer from anyone at work.”

  “Oh, it was a car accident, dear. Thomas was walking on the street and a van flipped over and crushed him.”

  Amy nodded. “He was taken far too young.”

  Sharon started crying again. “Yes, he was.” She wiped the new tears from her eyes. “I always worried that I’d lose him in Afghanistan, but he made it through that, only to…” She never finished the thought, and, instead, held onto Grace.

  The embrace next to the remains of Thomas Wilson persisted for a few more moments. Sharon seemed to find comfort in Grace’s alleged feelings toward Thomas. Eventually, she relinquished Grace from her grasp and sent the young woman away with her blessing. Amy and Grace said their goodbyes and departed.

  “What was that all about? Was he the one?” Amy asked once they were safely in the car.

  Grace, whose emotions were now mostly under control, nodded.

  “So why did you cry like that?”

  “I just can’t shake the feeling that I was supposed to warn Thomas Wilson somehow, but I didn’t. And it’s my fault that he’s dead.”

  “Grace, come on. How can you believe that? It doesn’t make any sense. You didn’t even know him. So if this was some kind of warning, how would you have even told him?”

  “Maybe I was supposed to find a way. I didn’t even try-”

  “Where is this coming from? Who told you it was a warning?”

  Grace watched the houses pass as they drove. “The pastor from my church. I asked what the dream could mean, and he said it could have been a warning, that maybe the person in the dream had something that they were supposed to change about their life.” Of course, that wasn’t all Wesley had told Grace, but it was the portion of his counsel that dominated her thoughts at the moment.

  Amy frowned. “I think the key word there was maybe. Maybe it was a warning. I’m not a very religious person, but I don’t think God would do something like that to you.”

  Grace met Amy’s gaze once more. “If it wasn’t a warning, then what was it? Some kind of prophecy? It had to mean something.”

  “Who knows? Did you try googling it?”

  “Googling it?”

  “Why not? Find out if this has happened to other people. I know it’s a long shot, but it’s worth a try.”

  Grace hadn’t googled her problem. Perhaps it was worth trying. After deciding to carry out Amy’s suggestion, Grace turned her attention to the exchange inside the funeral home with Sharon Wilson.

  “Why’d you tell Mrs. Wilson that I had a crush on Thomas?”

  “Had to think of something to say to her, and I thought my explanation seemed realistic. Besides, there’s no way she can check it. It’s not like I claimed that you guys had some secret love affair going on.”

  Grace smiled, just a bit. “You’re a pretty good liar.”

  “Thanks!” Amy expression became effervescent, again. “I prefer to call it thinking on my feet. In fact, I told Jason a lie when he asked me what we were doing tonight. I told him we were going to ladies’ night at the bar and I’m pretty sure going to a wake doesn’t qualify as ladies’ night.” Grace almost smiled. “Of course, we could make me not a liar to my boyfriend and your brother if we actually went and got a drink right now. Want to?”

  “Yeah, sure.”

  The torrent of guilt and self-loathing had ceased for the moment. But that didn’t mean Grace had absolved herself of any blame, yet. And even as she shared a shot with Amy, she dreaded trying to go sleep that night. She feared seeing Thomas Wilson’s green eyes, this time while she was still awake. He had fully emerged from her visions. But would someone else take his place in her dreams? That possibility frightened her even more.

  13

  Like so many nights before, Gr
ace found herself pushing her bedtime further and further back. Of course, doing so didn’t change the equation of things much: either way, she wouldn’t be sleeping. But choosing to scroll through the various Google results from her search—“dreams of someone dying who actually died”— gave her the illusion of control over her sleep life.

  Grace had been poring over her research for the last few hours, sitting at the small desk in her room, dressed in an oversized sleepshirt that terminated just above her knees. Her search results were predictable: a mixture of new-age speculation, psychological analysis, charismatic Christian interpretation, and pseudo-scientific mumbo-jumbo. None of these viewpoints satisfied her. The new age, spiritual perspective felt too ungrounded. The charismatic Christian point of view seemed too restrictive. The psychological approach seemed to suck all of the mystery out of her dreams and explain them away via various mental disturbances. And the pseudo-scientific evidence seemed more like specious reasoning.

  What Grace really wanted was someone to talk to, someone who would understand. Amy was doing a remarkable job of supporting Grace given the two had just met a few days ago. But Amy couldn’t understand what Grace was really going through. She had never experienced these dreams herself. She hadn’t looked into the eyes of Thomas Wilson as the chord of his life was about to be severed.

  As Grace waded through page after page of search hits, she stumbled upon a website where people discussed paranormal experiences. One poster told nearly the exact story Grace had experienced. This person—it wasn’t clear whether the poster was male or female—had reached out to others in order to better understand his or her ability to see people’s deaths before they happened. A few others had responded, encouraging the poster to learn about his or her ‘gift’ in the hopes of helping others.

  After reading the thread, Grace decided to do two things: She sent a message to the original poster of the thread explaining her own situation and her need for someone to talk to. Then she did something that pushed her even more outside of her comfort zone: Grace posted her own thread about her dreams of Thomas Wilson. Now, whoever read her post could reach out to her. Perhaps the post would attract a multitude of crazies who would introduce even more madness into her life. But maybe she’d find someone who understood exactly what was happening to her and why it was happening.

  By the time Grace finished, it was after midnight. She glanced at her bed as though it was an open pit that would drop her into a deep, dark abyss. Though now her eyes struggled to remain open, once she laid down, she wouldn’t sleep. Shutting off the light in her room seemed to impact her the same as the sun rising or a rooster crowing. Without the Google search results to occupy her mind, the photos of Thomas Wilson started creeping back into her consciousness. Even so, she could put off the charade of sleep no longer. Grace slid under her down blanket and pulled the covers tight around her. She stared up at the ceiling.

  “Please don’t come to me anymore, Thomas. I can’t help you. But I’m sorry. I’m really sorry you died. And if it’s my fault, please forgive me,” she said out loud, as if the spirit of Thomas Wilson hid somewhere in the shadows of the room, waiting for the light to be extinguished before he visited.

  Grace reached over to the lamp next her to bed and flicked off the switch. She braced herself to be haunted. Maybe she deserved it.

  Later that night, a man did appear to Grace. But not Thomas Wilson. This face was older, more weathered. His hair was thinning on top but still somewhat long and white. Though shrouded in shadows, she could make out the vague form of what looked like glasses on his face. But that was all. She could discern no further context of his existence. Whether the man was inside, outside, near or far away, Grace couldn’t tell. She tried to scream at him, to warn him. But the formless void that separated them swallowed her words whole, choking the sound of her cries.

  And then Grace awoke. It was happening again. But this time she’d do something about it. That was night number one. If the dreams followed the same pattern as before, she had about seven days to identify the man in her dreams.

  But who would help her? She couldn’t find the man on her own. Would the police listen? No, they’d likely dismiss her as a lunatic. She needed someone who could investigate, who could find the needle in a haystack, but also someone who would pursue the case for ulterior motives, financial reasons, even. A private detective, perhaps?

  For the second time that night, Grace jumped onto her computer. This time she searched for local private detectives. There was one in her hometown of Lincoln, New York: the Acumen Detective Agency, run by a Matt Harrison. She clicked on the website. God, he was young, she thought as she looked at the man with the sandy brown hair and a slight smile. He looked Thomas Wilson’s age, maybe younger. In fact, Matt Harrison resembled Wilson to a fair degree: not his eyes, which were brown, but the strength of his features, the definition of his cheekbones. His online reviews were solid. At any rate, Grace didn’t have time to be choosy; she needed to move on this latest dream before time ran out.

  She grabbed the sketch pad from her nightstand and started drawing. This time would be different, she told herself.

  14

  Matt Harrison sat at his second-hand desk in the small second-floor office where he ran his PI business. The modest office located in the heart of the commercial district in Lincoln, New York gave him a modicum of professionalism without cutting too much into his meager profits. Though he kept very little in the way of physical records, opting instead for the convenience of digital storage, a pile of papers was strewn across his desk. The temperature inside felt unnaturally warm, a few degrees too high for his liking. But the temperature ignored the thermostat on the wall, so Matt just undid the top two buttons on his oxford shirt and dealt with the heat. He didn’t pay extra for utilities, anyway.

  He stared at the name written on the post-it note stuck to his computer monitor: Josh Williams. So far, his online background search had uncovered Williams’ last known address—an apartment in Woodside—and his website design business. Williams had seemingly vacated those two parts of his life around the same time John had been shot. At least upon an initial glance, Williams had subsequently dropped off the face of the earth.

  As Matt considered his next move, someone knocked on his office door. He checked his watch: 12:15 p.m. He wasn’t expecting any clients, though occasionally people dropped by without an appointment.

  “Come in,” he said.

  The hollow wood door opened, allowing a redheaded woman to enter his office. Her hair was straight and fine. Though her brown eyes looked right at him, she seemed to be fighting the urge to stare at the floor. Matt sat up straight. Most of his clients weren’t this attractive.

  “Can I help you?” he asked.

  “You’re a Private Investigator, right?” She brushed her hair away from her eyes and tucked it behind her ear.

  He nodded and smiled. “That’s right. Was there something you needed help with?”

  She stepped forward tentatively, stopping a few feet from his desk. She looked back at the door for a moment as it closed on its own.

  “I’m Matt Harrison. Would you like to have a seat?” He motioned to the chair in front of the desk.

  She nodded and accepted his invitation, dropping down into the padded chair. Now that she was nearer, Matt noticed the dark circles under her eyes.

  “What’s your name?” he asked.

  “Grace Murphy.”

  He extended his hand toward her. “Nice to meet you, Grace.” She shook his hand with a delicate grip. “What can I do for you?”

  “I need help finding someone,” she said, reaching into her purse. She pulled out a folded piece of paper and handed it to him. He unfolded it to find the basic outline of a man’s face—a man with thinning hair and glasses.

  “This is nice. You do it yourself?”

  She nodded.

  “Unfortunately, I’m going to need something a little more concrete to go on than this. Do you have
any photos?”

  Grace shook her head.

  “What’s his name?”

  Grace broke eye contact and looked at the ground. “I don’t know.”

  “How do you know him?”

  “I don’t think I do.”

  Matt handed back the piece of paper and frowned. “Then why do you want to find someone you’ve never met?”

  Grace looked back up at him, her eyes full of dread. “Because I think he’s going to die.”

  Matt leaned back in his chair, sizing up the woman before him. Unless she was a great actor, this wasn’t a prank. But then what was it?

  “I’m sorry, Grace; I don’t understand what this is about.”

  The young woman reached back into her purse and produced another folded sheet of paper similar to the first one. She gave it to Matt, who opened and examined it. This sketch featured the chiseled jawline of a young man. He looked serious. His eyes were shaded in green. Grace watched Matt appraise the paper, though appeared hesitant to disclose why she had given it to him.

  “Over a week ago, I saw this man in my dreams,” she finally said. “I dreamed that he was going to die. Last Saturday, I saw his obituary in the newspaper.”

  Grace reached back into the purse and handed Matt a clipping from the newspaper. He compared the face in the obituary to the sketch.

  “Did you know him?” Matt asked.

  Grace shook her head.

  “So what, you had a dream about the man in the first sketch you showed me?”

  “Yes. Last night. And if it happens again like it happened before, he’ll die soon.”

  Matt scanned the obituary. Thomas Wilson: thirty-one years old, no wife, no children, did a few tours in Afghanistan, died suddenly. A resident of Woodside, where Matt’s family lived. He looked back at Grace, who was moving her necklace between her fingers. Many of his clients came in paranoid, believing their spouses were cheating on them or that someone had stolen their identities. But no one had ever come to him scared by a dream.