At seeing the brownish stain above beaded with water, Jessica pounded her fist against the mattress in sheer frustration, realizing that the water was leaking from the ceiling onto the bed.
Having awakened from one nightmare only to enter another, she stared at a piece of damaged plaster that precariously dangled above her head. “Like I have the money for a new roof,” she muttered. While she’d managed to tuck away some of the proceeds from the sale of Gideon’s gold coins, it wasn’t nearly enough money to have an entire roof replaced.
As she considered her options, another drop of water fell from the ceiling, singling her out. With a muttered oath, she rolled over to the dry side of the bed, trying her utmost to ignore the steady plop plop of water.
Having suffered through another night filled with tormented dreams, Jessica slung an arm over her eyes, utterly exhausted. Over the nearly four weeks since Gideon had left for Shepherdstown, she’d been hounded nightly by the same recurring nightmare. And though she knew it was Sarah MacAllister who was trapped in the burning barn, it was Jessica who felt those scorching flames, who choked on the smoke-filled air, who heard the crashing roar of falling beams and timbers as the fire raged all around her.
It was Jessica who always awoke terrified, a silent scream lodged in her throat, her body quaking with fear.
Because of the recurring nightmare, she’d been averaging only 4-5 hours of real sleep per night. Desperate to get a good night’s rest, she’d tried any number of natural sleep aids—chamomile tea, melatonin, and the time-honored glass of warm milk—all of which conked her out. Invariably, however, her sleep was interrupted by the hideous dream.
Unable to ignore the dripping ceiling, Jessica threw back the sheet and got out of bed, grimacing when she caught sight of her soggy pillow. Suffering a sudden surge of nausea, she opened her nightstand drawer and reached for the bottle of Tums. Lately her stomach hadn’t been agreeing with her—the weeks of sleep deprivation were taking a toll on her body. After popping two peppermint-flavored tablets, she quickly pulled on an old sweater and a pair of yoga pants.
As she reached for her hairbrush, Jessica glanced at the bureau mirror, instantly wishing she hadn’t. The dark circles that rimmed her eyes and the gaunt cast to her features gave her a haggard appearance. Not only did she feel sleep-ravaged, she looked it as well.
Just as she was about to fetch a plastic bucket to collect the dripping water, her cell phone rang. Removing the phone from its charger, Jessica glanced at the display.
“Another blocked call,” she grumbled, refusing to answer it.
Ever since her first Draygan piece had run in The Greenbrier Dispatch, she’d been the recipient of a slew of hang-up calls. Even though the article made no claim as to whether or not the mysterious creature actually existed, numerous readers had sent their personal testimonials to the newspaper office via snail mail and e-mail. That first story had also attracted its fair share of criticism, and several outraged readers had vented their disbelief by writing some very harsh words. Unfortunately, a few of those readers had crossed the line with nasty, anonymous phone calls.
Her editor, Hoyt Jamison, was delighted with the response—“irate readers sell newspapers”—and he had assigned Jessica a weekly column he’d dubbed The Draygan Chronicles. While she still wasn’t completely convinced the beast was real, she did believe that something otherworldly, something that had to do with that murky realm of the sixth sense, was occurring throughout the county. Those people who were familiar with the old legend, and who did believe in Draygan’s existence, were bracing themselves for a catastrophic “Reckoning”—something along the lines of a flood, an earthquake, or a tornado—that could bring death and destruction to the good folks of the Greenbrier Valley.
In no mood to deal with a home maintenance emergency, Jessica swung open the door that led to the attic. When she’d first bought Highland House, she’d made only one ill-fated attempt to explore the upper regions of the house. That exploration had lasted all of thirty seconds, since after hearing what sounded like an army of rodents scampering in the eaves, she’d hightailed it to safer environs on the double-quick. Hopefully, the attic vermin had gone south for the winter.
With bucket in hand, Jessica ascended the rickety flight of steps. She hacked loudly as her lungs filling with a toxic combination of dust and mold. Reaching the top of the stairs, she flipped on the flashlight that she’d brought with her, then directed its beam across the accumulated junk that had been stored in the attic—out of sight, out of mind—a veritable menagerie of lamps, chests of drawers, ancient fans, metal bed frames, and old hat boxes.
Trying her best to ignore the scratchy pitter-patter of unseen animals scurrying for safe cover, Jessica headed for the area of the attic that was directly above her bedroom. There she discovered a puddle of water on the rough-planked flooring.
Dismayed by the sight, she aimed the flashlight toward the heavy support beams directly overhead, able to see that the dark-stained wood was beaded with droplets. Since it appeared to be the only place where rainwater was coming into the attic, it meant that she could possibly have just that one section of the roof repaired. That would be a slapdash Band-Aid until she had enough money to replace the entire roof. For now, the bucket, placed to catch the raindrops, would have to do
As she turned to leave, Jessica’s eye fell upon a large, old-fashioned trunk that was wedged into one nearby eave. Curious, she shined the flashlight across it, able to discern the initials “G.M.” engraved on a tarnished metal plate affixed to the top of the trunk.
Gideon MacAllister!
Stuffing the flashlight under her arm, Jessica grabbed hold of the trunk by one of its ancient leather straps and hauled it down the staircase to the second floor. From there, she dragged it to the first floor. Then she immediately took it to the library.
Keen to explore the contents of the trunk, she plopped into her office chair, throwing aside her reservations about opening something that didn’t belong to her. The trunk had, after all, come with the house, she told herself. Ergo, she owned it along with all the other junk that was stored in the attic.
With building excitement, Jessica undid the antique latches and threw open the lid. Wrinkling her nose at the not-so-pleasant scent of mildew, she could see at a glance that the trunk contained half a dozen ornately designed cases, an assortment of leather-bound books, numerous envelopes, and sundry documents, all of which appeared to be from the mid-nineteenth century.
The butterflies in her stomach were beating fast and furious as she grabbed several of the cases. Unlatching the first one, which measured approximately five by six inches, she was delighted to discover that it contained a gray-toned image of Highland House, inscribed “1859.”
“It’s lovely,” she murmured, marveling at what a beautiful, stately home Highland House had once been.
After setting the first case aside, she opened the next one, stunned to realize that she was peering at a daguerreotype of Gideon in full-dress uniform. Because he’d been clean-shaven in all of her dreams, she was surprised to see him with a swooping mustache. Furthermore, the beautifully tailored tunic was a far cry from the ragtag uniform that he’d worn when he arrived at her house one dark, rainy night.
“I think I like you better without the mustache,” she said after a moment’s consideration.
As Jessica glanced at the third case, which was far more elaborate in design than the first two, her hands began to tremble. Taking a deep breath, she unlatched the small metal eye-hook that held the two hinged halves together and slowly opened the case. On the left side was a crimson velvet insert; on the right side, housed beneath a brass frame with an ornately patterned design, was a portrait of Gideon and Sarah. As was customary for the period, he was seated in a chair with Sarah standing beside him, one hand resting upon his shoulder. Also, as was typical of nineteenth-century portraiture, both of them stared directly at the camera, unsmiling.
Gasping softly, Jessica co
uldn’t pull her gaze from the image of the woman who’d been haunting her dreams. Sarah MacAllister’s heart-shaped face had been captured for posterity on the framed copper plate. Dressed in a light-colored gown, with all the frills and flounces of the period’s fashion, Sarah’s solemn, sad-eyed visage seemed at odds with her almost frivolous attire.
Carefully returning the framed pictures to the trunk, Jessica next reached for a pile of old documents. As she set them on her desk, one piece of paper fluttered to the floor. She immediately bent over to retrieve it, handling the aged document with great care.
“I don’t believe it… it’s Gideon and Sarah’s marriage certificate.”
As she stared at the signatures affixed to the yellowed document, Jessica suddenly gasped, shocked to the core.
I’ve seen that signature before. Unwillingly, her eyes darted to the recycling bin beside her desk.
Pushing her chair back, Jessica reached for the bin and turned it upside down, emptying its contents onto the floor. One by one, she methodically examined each item, searching for the particular piece of paper she’d tossed into the bin nearly four weeks ago.
Midway through the collection of article drafts, grocery lists, junk mail, and other bits and pieces of her life that she was willing to recycle, she found what she was searching for: the sheet on which she’d scrawled “Sarah MacAllister.”
Taking hold of the marriage certificate in her left hand and the piece of scrap paper in her right, Jessica compared the two signatures.
“No… it can’t be.”
To her utter disbelief, Sarah MacAllister’s signature from 1860 exactly matched the signature she’d subconsciously written several weeks ago. Feeling the sting of tears, Jessica rubbed the back of her hand against her eyelids.
Am I losing my freakin’ mind? How could I have duplicated Sarah MacAllister’s signature?
The only rationale that seemed halfway plausible was that she’d seen Sarah’s signature in one of her dreams. She’d once read in a scientific journal that everything perceived by the ocular nerve was encoded and stored in the brain. Every sunset, every license plate number on every automobile, every face in the crowd. If that was true, then it stood to reason that—
What in God’s name am I thinking? There wasn’t anything reasonable about any of this, or anything else that had happened in the last five or six weeks, for that matter. Gideon traveling through time, then a fire-breathing dragon appearing on the scene, and now this… this whatever.
Worried that she might be possessed by some type of ghostly spirit—how else to explain the duplicated signature?—Jessica snatched her cell phone and hurriedly scrolled through her contacts. When she found the name of the person she hoped could solve the mystery, she pressed the call button.
* * *
Glancing at the New Age artwork and astrology charts that adorned the back room of A Cut Above, Jessica immediately began to have second thoughts about consulting with the local “conjure woman.”
“Honey, when was the last time you got some decent shut-eye?” Hands set firmly on her hips, Darlene gave Jessica a critical once-over. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but you look like hell.”
Aware of how bad she looked, Jessica shrugged and said, “As I told you on the phone, I haven’t gotten a decent night’s sleep in weeks.”
“And you actually think that’s happening because you’re possessed by a ghostly spirit?” Darlene shot her a dubious glance, clearly not on board.
Prepared to make her case, Jessica opened her canvas tote and retrieved a file folder. “If you don’t believe me, maybe this will convince you.” Opening the folder, she extracted two pieces of paper. “That’s my handwriting,” she said as she gave Darlene the first slip of paper. Then, handing her the 1860 marriage certificate, she said, “And that’s the signature of a woman who died during the Civil War. Who, by the way, also happened to live at Highland House.”
Darlene held both pieces of paper at arm’s length as she carefully scrutinized them. “I’m no handwriting expert, but these signatures look identical to me.” As she glanced away from the two pieces of paper, her brow furrowed. “And do you mind telling me what Gideon’s name is doing on this old marriage certificate?”
“Well, um…” Jessica self-consciously cleared her throat several times before she said, “He used to be married to the woman that I’ve been dreaming about.”
“I knew it!” Darlene’s frown instantly morphed into a dimpled smile. “That man had time wanderer written all over him. Now don’t that beat all?”
“You don’t seem too surprised,” Jessica remarked, taken aback by Darlene’s ready acceptance of what could only be called a mind-blowing fact.
“Mother Maebelle often spoke about the time wanderer who showed up in ’39 during the last Reckoning,” Darlene said in a nonchalant tone of voice. “As I recall, he was a surveyor for George Washington, back before the Revolutionary War. According to Mother Maebelle, time wandering happens more often than people realize.”
Trying to stay on topic, Jessica said, “I’m not here to discuss Gideon’s time wandering. My problem has to do with his dead wife, Sarah. Ever since he showed up at Highland House, I’ve been seeing her—” Jessica tapped the signature on the marriage certificate for added emphasis—“in my nightly dreams. Which wasn’t so bad in the beginning. But for nearly the last four weeks, I’ve been having this recurring nightmare in which Sarah is trapped in a fire.”
Darlene placed the two pieces of paper back in the folder. Then, folding her arms over her chest, she gnawed on her lower lip for several seconds before she said, “As far as dreams go, there’s a lot of mystical symbolism attached to fire. Since ancient times—”
“No, you don’t understand. Sarah MacAllister died in 1863. In a fire,” Jessica clarified. “But I didn’t discover that fact until after I started having the nightmares.”
Striking a thoughtful pose, Darlene tapped a manicured finger against her chin. “Hmm. That certainly adds spice to the stew. Have you talked to Gideon about this?”
“I’ve tried, but he refuses to discuss Sarah’s death with me.”
“Typical male response.” Darlene punctuated the dig with a headshake and a theatrical roll of the eyes. Then, with her expression sobering considerably, she said, “From everything that you’ve told me, it sounds like you’ve hit up against an unresolved problem from a previous incarnation. It’s what’s known as a past life scar.”
Shocked, Jessica’s jaw dropped. “A past life! You’re not actually suggesting that Sarah and I… that the two of us are—”
“One and the same,” Darlene confirmed with a vigorous nod. “This is a case of reincarnation, pure and simple.”
Hearing that, Jessica’s natural skepticism immediately kicked into high gear. “Come on. Everyone knows that reincarnation doesn’t happen to real people. It only happens to vegetarian gurus in India.”
“For your information, reincarnation happens to garbage men, gurus, you, me. Everyone,” Darlene said succinctly. “To put it in layman’s terms, you once lived a life as a woman named Sarah MacAllister. She died, and now you’re reincarnated as Jessica Reardon.”
Stubbornly shaking her head, Jessica said, “Nope, I’m not buying it. I happen to know from my dreams that Sarah and I are nothing alike.”
“I never said anything about the two of you being carbon copies of one another,” Darlene retorted. “Reincarnation doesn’t work like that. You need to remember that what we’re talking about is two different bodies, two different minds, two different hearts. But only one soul. In your present incarnation, you’ve had a whole different set of life experiences which have made you the unique woman that you are today. However, if you scratch beneath the surface, I’d wager that you and Sarah are more alike than you realize.”
As Jessica pondered the ways in which she and Sarah were similar, she suddenly realized that Sarah had gone against convention when she broke off her engagement to Oren Tolliver,
enabling her to marry Gideon. This was comparable to how she’d walked out on Richard so that she could have her own life. An act of defiance that eventually led to her relationship with Gideon.
“Let’s suppose for argument’s sake that reincarnation does take place,” Jessica said hesitantly, not entirely convinced. “What then is a past life scar?”
As Darlene motioned for her to have a seat on the nearby sofa, she said, “Simply put, a past life scar is an unresolved traumatic event that gets carried over into another lifetime. There’s a lot of karmic energy attached to a tragic or violent death that can emotionally scar a person in their next incarnation. In fact, most phobias are nothing more than carryovers from a past life.”
The explanation gave Jessica food for thought. Like a lot of people, she had her share of inexplicable fears. Nonetheless, it was still a mind-boggling concept. “So what you’re saying is that I’m not losing my mind. I’m just a little karmically battered.”
“In a nutshell. Which is nothing that you and Gideon can’t work out between the two of you,” Darlene added with a knowing glance.
Thinking that the other woman was too perceptive for her good, Jessica said, “You’ve known all along about me and Gideon having a thing for each other, haven’t you?”
One perfectly plucked eyebrow noticeably raised. “Just who did you think you were fooling with that cockamamie story about being platonic housemates? Even J.W., as dense as he is, noticed that you and Gideon seemed kind of tight.”
“Without spending a fortune in therapy bills, how do I go about healing my past life scar?” Jessica inquired, trying to steer the conversation back on track.
“You do that by first healing the past,” Darlene answered matter-of-factly. “And that can easily be done through a past life regression.”
Jessica’s eyes opened wide. “Come again?”
“Since Gideon refuses to discuss Sarah’s death, you need to go back in time to 1863 and find out what caused the fire. Once you’ve done that, your recurring nightmare should cease and desist,” Darlene stated in a professional, almost clinical, tone of voice.
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