by Erin Hayes
Kyra slipped on her sunglasses and watched discreetly as the woman raised her arms and pulled her hair into a makeshift ponytail. Her left wrist was in a brace, and she struggled to feed her hair into the ponytail holder. The same, thick, black hair as the kid inside! So that’s why his brown, wide-set eyes looked familiar. She must be his mother. Kyra looked away as the woman finished fussing with her hair and locked her car. Maybe her kid had beaten her up. That would explain the brace.
The whole package was pitiful, from the rusted-up can of peeling paint she had arrived in, to her scowling offspring, likely headed for a stint in juvenile hall. Kyra sighed. Not that her own life had been enviable of late. She drew her lips back in a tight grimace as she started up the car. She’d take a belligerent adolescent over a stalking specter any day. Her celestial bodyguard had saved her once, but there was no guarantee he’d swoop in to rescue her the next time the Soul Stalkers came calling.
Ten minutes later, Kyra pulled into Buffington’s parking lot and hurried up to her office. She slammed the door shut, threw her keys on the counter, and dialed her dad’s number. Please, pick up. She exhaled her relief when he answered on the second ring. “Hi honey, how are you?”
“I’m fine. Listen, I just got back from the station and the accident report confirms what I’ve been telling you all along. There was an angel. I don’t know what all this means yet, but I’m working on it. Call it a close encounter of a strange kind if you want, but I wasn’t hallucinating.”
She sucked in a breath and waited for his response. The sound of a chair scraping across ceramic tiles echoed into the receiver. “Dad? Are you there?”
“Yeah. Look, Kyra, the accident report confirms what you want it to. You blacked out. You can’t take anything you said at face value.”
“But it’s my statement, the official police report. Objective evidence.”
“You were severely concussed. You said yourself you’ve been feeling weird—moody, upset, mishearing things, fearful all the time. All symptoms of post-traumatic stress syndrome, like the doctor said.” He let out a heavy sigh. “Honey, the angel wasn’t real.”
Kyra tightened her jaw. If he didn’t believe an angel had saved her, she’d never convince him there were Soul Stalkers hunting her either. She braced herself against the counter and massaged her brow.
It was true she’d felt different lately, maybe weird was the right word, but it wasn’t physical. It was more disturbing than that. As crazy as it sounded, she could sense the spirits in her space now, and they weren’t all giving her the feel good kind of goose bumps.
“Listen,” said her dad, a harried edge to his voice. “Bridget told me what happened the other night. She’s putting a brave face on things, but she’s worried sick about you driving erratically at night like that. We both are. We want to help. I talked to a buddy of mine. His brother-in-law is a topnotch psychiatrist from New York, practiced there for years. He specializes in these kinds of cases, near death experiences, stuff like that.” He paused and cleared his throat. “He’s intrigued by what you went through, and he’s willing to see you on his lunch hour Wednesday.”
Kyra rapped on the counter with the tips of her squared nails, willing herself not to snap. “I don’t need therapy. I’m not crazy.”
“I’m only asking you to talk to him.”
She folded her arms and addressed the speakerphone. “I can’t believe you set this up without asking me first.”
“He offered.”
“All right,” she said, with a heavy sigh. “But if your golfing buddy’s hot shot brother-in-law can’t convince me this was all some kind of trauma-induced hallucination, then you need to back off while I get to the bottom of what’s really going on, whether that involves reading tealeaves, or divining entrails, or worse.”
Kyra hung up the phone and traced her finger over the small pieces of colored glass arranged in an intricate design of dragonfly wings on her Tiffany lampshade. The angel’s words swirled in her head again. Beware the Soul Stalkers. Winged or not, there were avatars of evil out there who wanted her dead.
Kyra spent most of Tuesday wrapping up a print project for Chevron Oil. Shortly before five o’clock, she emailed the final proofs, shut down her computer, and locked her office. The Chevron board would be blown away with the final results, and this was one of a handful of substantial accounts Don kept a close eye on. She was still well on her way to accomplishing her goals, despite everything the Grim Reaper and his band of demonic gypsies had thrown at her. She crammed her wool beret onto her head and fished around in her purse for her car keys.
Pulling up in her driveway, she was relieved to see that Bridget’s car was gone. At least her sister wasn’t handling the stay at her house like a suicide watch. Kyra went inside and flipped through her mail while she ate a turkey sandwich. Nothing spine-tingling. Five-digit zip codes on every envelope. She filled the teapot and switched on the television, surfing the channels aimlessly for several hours and downing two cups of chamomile tea. By midnight she was more wide awake than ever. Tossing the remote onto the couch, she headed to her bathroom and ran the tub. She lit an aromatherapy candle and soaked in the salted water, leafing mindlessly through a pile of fashion magazines.
Half an hour later she climbed out, and wrapped herself up in her bathrobe and turban. She combed out the lank bangs clinging to her temples, sat down at her antique, cherry vanity and fiddled around in her makeup drawer.
Just as her eyelids began to feel blissfully drowsy, a faint puff of air moved across her damp head. The tiny hairs on the back of her neck swept back and forth. Her fingers stiffened. She looked up slowly, every cell a receptor to her unwanted company.
Swiveling around on her stool, she stared across the room into the fogged mirror above the pedestal sink, not knowing exactly what she expected to see. A sulfur-breathing image, wielding the scales of justice, beckoning her with a bony finger? Just what did Soul Stalkers look like? She wasn’t even sure if they could materialize. She turned and slowly panned the room. On the corner of the shelf above the tub, the candle flame wavered, disturbed by something. Her heart rose into her throat. The flame hissed, flickered, and snuffed out, the charred wick exhaling burnt remains in a thin stream of smoke that writhed upward. A cremation of sorts.
She froze, barely breathing as she searched the room for shadows, mindful of every resounding beat inside her ribcage. Whatever it was had put out her candle and departed. A cold chill passed over her shoulders. How long had it watched her?
She parted her lips and forced herself to suck in some air. It was the same game they always played. Now you sense me, now you don’t. Tightening her bathrobe around her, she stood and hurried out of the bathroom.
Crawling under the down duvet on her bed, she pulled a sheet over her eyes to block the chink of light from her bedside lamp. A glaring reminder of her newly acquired hang-ups. She tossed around, debating whether to kill the yellow glow and try sleeping without it. She stretched out her hand to the switch and paused midair. It was back!
A scream lodged in her throat, as an immaterial presence filled the space around her bed. She threw off the covers in a panic. The air compressed, making it difficult to breathe. Stumbling out of bed, she ran to the bedroom door and went rigid. Someone was in the hallway. She inched backward, her spine a rod of panic as she groped around for her phone. She frantically punched in 9-1-1 and crammed the phone to her ear. The line went dead.
Fear exploded like a white light in her skull. She dropped the phone onto the rumpled bed, backed toward the window, and fumbled with the vintage latch, sliding the sash up as quietly as she could.
The cold air nuzzled her damp hair. She put one pajama-clad leg out the window and braced to swing the other one over the frame, when footsteps scraped down the hallway. She froze, dread mounting inside.
“Kyra! What are you doing?”
She swung around at her sister’s familiar voice, her muscles limp with relief. Pulling her leg back
in, she sank down on the carpet and drew her knees to her chin.
Bridget dropped to the floor and cradled her. “Hey, it’s okay. It’s me.”
They clung to each other, breathing comfort in a healing circle of two. When Bridget finally unwound her, Kyra leaned back and shook her head. “I thought there was someone in the house. I’m such an idiot!”
“I just got home. I was trying not to wake you, but your creaky floorboards ratted me out.”
Kyra wrinkled her brow. “Maybe it was just you, but it felt so ... ominous.”
Bridget grinned. “Can’t say I usually have that effect on people. Want me to make some tea?”
Kyra shook her head. “I drank a gallon already this evening.” She got up slowly, her limbs attached like dead weights to her shaken frame. “Now that I’ve made a complete fool of myself, I’m going back to bed.”
“Wake me if you need a Tai Chi sidekick for any apparitions.” Bridget winked and squeezed her tight before heading down the hallway to the guest room.
Kyra flopped back down on her bed and winced when something jabbed her in the spine. Rolling over, she saw her phone lying between the sheets. She grabbed it and held it to her ear. Just as she suspected, the battery was full. Who was she kidding? She was in dire need of therapy. Tomorrow she would call and confirm the appointment.
She squirreled back under the covers, unable to shake the lingering suspicion that Bridget’s return had disturbed a different kind of visitor.
Chapter Seventeen
The following morning, Kyra called Dr. Brenner’s office to confirm her lunchtime appointment. She hung up the phone and glanced at her watch before opening the presentation folder on her desk. The enigma of the unseen world would have to wait. She still had time to review her notes for her meeting with Chevron’s executive board. Technically, Don should have signed off on her proofs, but with everything he had on his plate right now, he’d be relieved she’d taken the initiative and handled it without involving him. At twelve-thirty, the barking alarm on her iPhone jolted her from her work. She slapped the portfolio shut and grabbed her purse.
Twenty minutes later, she strolled into Dr. Brenner’s reception foyer on the fifth floor of an upscale office suite in downtown Livonia. She glanced around at the sophisticated decor, pristine potted palms, custom glass reception counter, and gleaming chrome and white leather seating. She was definitely in the wrong business. Psychiatrists made some serious money, and they charged for overtime. No unpaid all-nighters, like herself. She approached the glass counter, engineered to float on an intricately etched pedestal, and introduced herself to a spiky-haired receptionist, who gave her a form to fill out.
After scribbling down her personal information, she handed back the clipboard and strolled over to a magazine rack where a framed photograph of Dr. Brenner hung on the wall. Good-looking man, in an aloof kind of way, with his dark, tailored stubble and olive skin. His full lips lent a peculiar slant to his smile, dragging the corners of his mouth downward. Sort of mysterious, but powerful. A shiver flitted down her back.
“Ms. Williams?”
Kyra turned around and smiled at the tall, suited man who had addressed her. “Yes,” she said, extending her hand. “Nice to meet you.”
“Doctor Brenner. It’s a pleasure,” he replied, giving her a quick, firm handshake.
She followed him into his office and seated herself on the couch he gestured toward. An eerie quiet filled the room and the light-filtering shades on the windows lent an otherworldly atmosphere to the space. Each sculpted piece of designer furniture was a monochromatic variation of one color. A considerable upgrade on her office. But not for much longer. She would have her own suite on the executive third-floor level when she took over as VP of Marketing.
Dr. Brenner positioned an embossed notebook on a glass cube table to his left and looked expectantly at her. “Why don’t you share with me the reason for your visit?”
Where was she supposed to go with that? Hi, my name is Kyra and I talk to spirits.
The doctor leaned forward and flashed a grin that framed his perfect, white teeth. Another ripple of unease ran down Kyra’s spine. She shifted in her seat, caught between an unexpected wave of panic and an insane desire to laugh hysterically to cover the inexplicable fear that gripped her. Something didn’t feel right.
“Do you think the trauma of the accident reignited some of the insecurity you felt when your mother left?” Dr. Brenner asked.
She glanced away, masking her irritation. How dare Dad divulge that. She had better things to do than rehash her parents’ divorce with a stranger.
True, she had never forgiven her mother for the pain she’d caused—you could lose yourself in pain that deep, and Dad had. A mistake she would never make. She had worked hard to keep her distance in all of her relationships so that she would never hurt like that again. She had moved on with her life, and her mother had faded to an unfortunate memory.
She crossed her legs and fixed an emotionless gaze on Dr. Brenner. “Frankly, I don’t think my mother walking out on our family twenty years ago has anything to do with what I’ve experienced since the accident.”
He locked eyes with her. The ominous feeling fluttered again in the pit of her stomach. A quick glance around the room revealed no one, but she couldn’t shake her misgivings. She sensed her invisible stalkers closing in.
Dr. Brenner jiggled his pen between his fingers for a moment. “The human brain is an amazingly complex organ, molded by life experiences. Childhood trauma, in particular, can leave one susceptible to psychiatric problems later in life.” He set down his pen and continued with a glazed-over look in his eyes. “Separation from a parent can alter the chemistry of a child’s brain.”
She arched a brow at him. “Sounds very Jekyll and Hyde.”
His dark eyes betrayed no reaction. He relaxed his posture and interlaced his fingers. “Why don’t you tell me about what’s been happening lately?”
Kyra silently exhaled her relief. “Well, it began with what you might call a near-death experience.” She settled back in her chair and took a deep breath. Dr. Brenner listened intently while she recounted the circumstances surrounding the accident and the string of inexplicable incidents that had followed. When she finished, he drummed his fingers pensively on his desk.
“I’d like to try something at our next session, some imaginative role enactment to help you revisit your memories. It’s plausible that the trauma of the accident triggered post-traumatic stress disorder, perhaps even a seizure. That would explain the memory lapses and anxiety, the sense of constant danger. But it sounds as if there was more to it than that. There’s a strong possibility I can get a clearer picture of what happened if I hypnotize you.”
“So, you’re saying hypnosis might reveal I’m crazy?” Kyra let a nervous laugh escape her lips.
“Certainly not. Insomnia, racing heartbeat, nightmares—they’re all legitimate symptoms of trauma. You’re also exhibiting fairly common emotional symptoms—disconnecting with people around you, anger, and reluctance to maintain close, satisfying connections. You shared the recent shift in your feelings about Brian, for example.”
She averted her eyes. It was hardly proof of psychological trauma.
“It’s important to stay grounded through all of this. If you’re feeling disoriented or anxious, I want you to try a couple of exercises. Sit on a chair and raise ...”
Kyra planted her eyes on a piece of geometric artwork on the wall behind him, aware only of the dull thud of her heart inside her chest. He thinks I’ve lost it. Bridget thinks I’ve lost it. Dad thinks I’ve lost it—
“ ... so set up the appointment for hypnosis with Andrea on your way out. In the meantime, I’ll give you a stronger prescription to help you sleep better.”
She reached for her purse, her mind racing. She didn’t relish the idea of autopsying her childhood any further. Nevertheless, the possibility of reliving the accident through hypnosis intrigued her. What if
Deborah was right and there was some kind of reincarnation processing plant out there in the wild blue yonder? Maybe she’d offended some of these crackhead Soul Stalkers in a previous existence and she was paying the price for it now. If hypnosis could help her reconnect with her memories, she might get some answers. It was worth a try, anything to get her life back.
Chapter Eighteen
Hoping to get an early start on her stack of paperwork at the office, Kyra was showered and dressed by five the next morning. She threw on her heavy wool coat and took the long route through the side streets into Detroit, driving slowly between rows of once-beautiful, turn-of-the-century houses, now abandoned except for the bundled bodies sleeping on the porches. Joggers and dog-walkers dotted the sidewalk, their breath threading like cotton candy into the cold, morning air as they pounded out their routes.
On the steps of one decrepit pink Victorian with boarded windows, an old man sat hunched into himself, swaying back and forth, a bottle wrapped in a brown paper bag clutched in one gloved fist. As Kyra crawled past, he lifted his doddery head and fixed a penetrating gaze on her—as if he knew she was living in his booze-infused world of seeing and hearing things other people didn’t.
She quickly averted her eyes. Her fingers shook as she unscrewed the top from her water bottle and took a few panicked gulps. Soul Stalkers had infected her world like a creeper virus, overwriting her memory, disabling her ability to function, embedding fear, and replicating the same ticking time bomb they had planted in the drunk on the steps.
Madness!
She had to get back in control of her life before she lost it completely. Squaring her shoulders, she accelerated and started looking for a coffee shop in the unfamiliar neighborhood. Store front shutters rolled up as she cruised by. Eventually, she spotted a bagel store squeezed between a Laundromat and an Asian nail salon in a dingy strip mall.