Through the open concept living space, I honed in on the statue of the elephant in the front window. Though it wasn’t actually moving, it vibrated with the energy of memories. My skin crawled as I listened for Albert’s voice. I didn’t have to wait long.
Don’t fight it. Embrace your gift and come find me.
Albert did seek him out. George had to be cursed too. My excitement dampened as reality reminded me the only thing George was, was dead.
I straightened my shoulders and headed to the right down the hallway where his bedroom had to be.
Someone had left the lamp on beside the bed. I took a deep breath, concentrating on the in and out, trying desperately to forget the creepy smile on the dead man’s face. I didn’t get the smell until I came into the enclosed space. It wasn’t nearly as overwhelming as in Albert’s condo, but I would never again mistake the stench of human blood to that of old food. I was grateful George had been taken away, but the stains on the mattress assured me I hadn’t imagined it.
To work my way up to touching the bed, my focus fell on the nightstand and the light as I tried to control my reactions. I couldn’t get over how clean it was amidst a scene of such violence. The white lamp shade didn’t have a drop of blood. A yellow post-it was clearly legible: 7pm Friday Tracy Gee.
The true horror hit me and I covered my face. He’d never make that date. He’d never get up from this bed again. I was so worried about myself and finding answers, I hadn’t considered the price the victims paid. I had spoken about justice, but really just wanted to learn more about myself. Seeing another savaged body of another innocent victim morphed my curiosity—and my fear—to anger.
Maybe my curse was a gift. Maybe it was time for me to use it.
I moved to the foot of the bed with my hands held behind my back. Every nerve in my body vibrated. I wondered if I looked like the statue with the emotions radiating from it. I had to know if it was the same killer. And if it was, was he targeting cursed people or did he just hate the Collector and his art?
Did that put me on the list?
I couldn’t feel the killer in the room. I would’ve thought the act of murder would be so emotionally charged that he’d have to leave a bit of himself somewhere. Then again, I hadn’t felt him in Albert’s condo until I touched the victim. My only chance might be to see him through his victim’s remnant. In slow casual movements, I slipped a hand out of a glove. Time to get this over with.
As soon as I touched the blood near the headboard, the room darkened, and I screamed. No, not me, George. I stopped myself from removing my hand. I sang my mom’s hymn to keep my mind centered. I needed to see what George could show me without losing myself in the process. If I wallowed in the pain of the memory, I’d be no help to him or the next victim. Somehow, I knew there would be a next victim.
George screamed again at searing pain in his right arm. Please, George, look at the murderer. Help me catch him. Of course, I couldn’t control anything George did. He was dead and this was only a memory.
The killer leaned over my—I mean, George’s—body and made a slit below his left nipple. Blood gushed out, and the pain sliced through the hymn. Warmth dripped down George’s sides as the same feeling spread along mine. George yanked at his restraints.
The deep voice I’d never forget spoke to his victim, “Don’t worry, George. Use your gift and you will feel much better. The Collector did.”
It was the same guy. Definitely the same one. I begged George to quit staring at the ceiling and look at the killer.
The killer put a hand flat on George’s chest. The perfectly manicured nails were smeared with blood. He didn’t wear gloves? Talk about arrogantly confident that he couldn’t be caught. My toes tingled, sending waves of pleasure all the way up my body. All pain disappeared, replaced with true happiness. How could George have felt happy on top of all that agony?
George took advantage of the momentary reprieve. “Please. Tell me what you want. You haven’t made any demands.”
“Oh, but you are giving me what I want.”
That was when the pieces fell into place. That wasn’t George’s joy. The killer’s happiness was so strong, it usurped George’s own pain and fear.
The murderer loved what he was doing. George’s head relaxed on the pillow as the alien emotion offered him respite from the attack. He didn’t even try to shield himself as anything was better than the agony of the blade.
The dim light from the lamp hit only the side of the killer’s face, and all I could see was that he was white with a dark full head of hair. I didn’t sneak into a crime scene to learn something I already knew. Come on, asshole. Show yourself.
“And that’s enough.” He pulled his hand from his victim’s chest.
As if he’d dunked George in acid, every nerve shrieked in renewed pain.
The onslaught was so sudden, I couldn’t separate my own body from the remnant. I lost my mother’s singing voice as my nerves matched his level of torture. I was being drug in. I was dying. George and I melded into one. Even as my logical mind screamed it was only a memory, that it couldn’t hurt me, my curse refused to separate.
As strength fled my body, gravity took over and I fell backward, disconnecting me from the impression. I rolled in remembered agony. I flexed one muscle at a time, checking for injuries I knew couldn’t be there, but the pain was so real.
“What are you doing in here, Ms. Young?” Detective Flores stood in the door, a mix of confusion and anger played across his features. He grabbed the glove I’d dropped off the floor. “What were you thinking?”
His words were very loud in my ears. He had to be angry with me, at the very least, agitated, but I couldn’t feel anything beyond relief that I was alive.
By the time, I came to my senses, Flores had already hauled me out the front door. “Why in God’s name would you contaminate another crime scene? What are you hiding?”
It was awkward seeing Flores’s face plastered with anger but being unable to feel any of it.
I had to think of something fast. The transition from pain to joy back to pain was such a huge anomaly, I had to share. “He likes it. The killer. It makes him really happy.” Please believe me. Please believe me.
Flores rubbed his face, like if he touched every muscle, he’d regain his composure. “How do you know that?”
“I just do.” Even I wasn’t satisfied with that answer. I needed to prove it to him. I had to tell him what I couldn’t tell my friends. But how?
“I’m searching for one good reason not to arrest you right now. If you didn’t remind me of…” he trailed off and looked down.
I touched his hand with my ungloved one. My curse felt blown out—like hearing after a rock concert—weaker, but not broken. Heartburn mixed with muscle spasms in my legs pointed to guilt with sprinkles of fear.
I didn’t know enough about him to decipher what it meant. I retrieved my glove from his grasp, like that was why I had touched him to begin with, and slipped it on. I thought of the first day I’d met Flores and sat at his desk. It was piled with cases. He must care about them, or he’d hide them away. Out of sight, out of mind.
I knew what I could do. “I can help you solve the diary case.”
Flores swung around, now fully angry as my tightened gut proved. “You did look in the diary. How did you get it open without—”
“I didn’t.” I held up my hands, pleading with him to give me a chance. I had to give him something. Maybe it was time to come clean. “I can sense things sometimes.”
Flores crossed his arms over his badge around his neck. “That’s ridiculous.” Though something in the way he said the word made me believe he didn’t think it was ridiculous at all.
“Let me show you. The boyfriend didn’t do it.” At least, I really didn’t think the boyfriend did it.
He tilted his head and met my eyes again. “We were certain he did. But his alibi checks out. It’s solid.”
I flexed my fingers like warming up bef
ore exposing myself to more horrible things that I didn’t want to see. “Take me to the scene and I will find your killer.”
Chapter Fourteen
After moving Walter to the wall by the TV, farthest away from my bedroom, and covering him with all the blankets I owned, the impressions quieted to a soft murmur I could only hear within touching distance. The insulation from the remnants along with my recent nights of restlessness allowed me the best sleep I’d had all week. I was grateful Flores had insisted on a nap and shower before he took me anywhere. I tried not to be offended by the uniformed officer in front of my house. Flores wanted to believe me. But he wouldn’t turn off his cop brain long enough to let it make sense. I was ready to prove it to him.
I woke up recharged and starving. Disappointment overtook my moment of excitement as my empty cabinets reminded me I hadn’t had time to hit the store yet.
In the middle of my shower, my phone beeped. I toweled my face and hands dry and wrapped my hair out of the way. Flores promised to take me to the crime scene of the diary case so I could prove my claim, but hadn’t set a time. No growling stomach or eye full of soap would make me miss it.
Flores: I’m here.
Me: I’ll be right out.
I’d never gotten dry so fast in my life. It was weird to run out the door with wet hair and no makeup.
As I slid into the passenger seat of his dark-colored Ford Fusion, I noticed Flores’s fresh suit fit him perfectly. As I pondered the inaccuracies of detectives on TV, I pulled a foot onto my lap to properly buckle the sandals I slipped on as I rushed out the door.
For some reason, he eyed me suspiciously. “You didn’t have enough time to get ready? Didn’t you know when I’d be here?”
My wet hair hung heavy on my back as I shook my head. “You didn’t give me a time.”
“But I thought…” he trailed off, but hesitated as he went to put the car in gear.
Oh, I get it. “I can’t tell the future. I can just sense things.”
Without a glance in my direction, he merged into early morning traffic. His doubt frustrated me, but what kind of idiot would believe this nonsense, right? I’d prove what I could do soon enough. Then he’d have to let me help with the investigation.
My confidence waned as Flores pulled into a dingy motel. What if there were no impressions? I’d never gone to a place to search for emotional baggage left behind. Well, never before this morning. Usually, I found things on accident. Would I have to touch everything in the room for the chance of encountering something useful? Maybe I should have thought this through better.
The two-story brick building with rusted railings and doors facing the parking lot sent shivers down my spine before I sensed a single thing. It didn’t look brand new. There could be decades of remnants in these rooms and who knew how many random events I’d have to experience before I found anything about the teenage girl. Those specials where the reporter took a black light into the room and grossed out the audience never impressed me.
The real terrors of these rooms were the strong memories people left behind in the “dens of sin,” as my mother called them. When we’d go on family road trips—which thankfully wasn’t often—my mother and I would sleep in the car rather than crash with my brothers inside. Not for the first time, I wondered if Mom had this curse. Every time I’d try to bring it up, she’d walk away and lock herself in her room. She acted that way whenever my brothers asked anything she didn’t approve of, so I’d never thought of her reaction as more than denial of my curse.
Leaning against the second story railing, a shirtless white guy with ripped jeans and a wild beard sucked on his cigarette. His stare made me feel dirty even though I still smelled like soap. Come to think of it, it probably wasn’t so safe for a woman and a little girl to sleep outside one of these places either. But the terrors inside the room frightened Mom way more.
Mom had a point. A part of me hoped I didn’t find anything. Some of these remnants were so violent or emotionally draining, they were hard to shake off. I’d already experienced too many horrid imprints this week, and here I was voluntarily exposing myself to more. If I just turned around now, I could go back to normal life with my store and my girlfriends.
And never, ever be my authentic self.
And continue to suffer under this curse—alone.
When Flores stepped from the driver’s side, the dude stomped on his cigarette and slunk behind the stairwell.
Nope. I wasn’t backing out now. I had to find others with this curse. After a lifetime alone with this curse, I’d found two like me in less than a week. They didn’t have families or significant others, but they weren’t alone either. To talk to someone else about how to handle this curse without going mad myself was worth the risk of sensing more tormented experiences.
As I tied my hair up, I racked my brain for a backup plan, just in case I didn’t find any evidence. “I guess there’s something to be said about driving around with a cop.”
“It’s an unmarked car. It’s not a big help.” Flores scanned the parking lot. I wasn’t sure if he did that consciously or out of habit.
More doors closed on the second floor, and I swear the volume of the hip-hop music that blared a moment ago grew much quieter. “It’s not the car.”
To his credit, Flores held up the badge around his neck. “I guess this is a dead giveaway.”
“If you include the haircut and underarm holster.” I sensed a bit of anxiety kind of floating in the air, just enough to make my scalp crawl like some just mentioned lice. I felt like yelling into the ether that we weren’t there for them, and they could calm down. I didn’t need my own emotions to feed off theirs. If this was going to work, I needed to find some sort of quiet Zen to listen for the teenager.
I walked to the door with a “14” scrawled in sharpie and a swath of police tape over the frame.
Flores reached for the handle and inserted an old-fashioned key. “Well, you chose the right door.”
I pulled up the bit of police tape still stuck to the jamb. “Not really impressive work on my part.”
He smiled at me. I felt the kindness in his words and some pain. This case must mean something to him. He ushered me in first and flipped the light.
I almost reached back and flipped it back off. The drab yellow light from the greasy fixture threw the room into a time warp. The sheets of the unmade full-sized bed looked bleached, but smelled like stale sex. The shabby bedspread lay on the ground, curled up like a used tissue.
Man, whoever brought her to this place spent a lot of money on their quality time. Not. Maybe I was wrong. Who else but another teenager would think this was a romantic spot to meet? Plus, it was probably all he could afford.
The carpet crunched as I circled around the comforter on the floor. I said a prayer of thanks that I didn’t see any blood. I wasn’t sure I could handle another mutilation scene.
As I tucked my leather gloves into a pocket, I searched for a place to start. “It’s not the boyfriend,” I said it out loud as much to convince myself as to tell Flores that I could help him.
His body tensed and he crossed his arms. “Family can’t always be trusted when it comes to alibis.”
I tentatively touched the headboard. Nothing. “When he found the diary, he left behind nothing but despair and pain. No anger or revenge lingered on the book itself. No guilt.”
Unwilling to look up and see Flores staring at me like I was insane, I concentrated on the bed. Something called to me. Oh, dear God, please don’t be something gross. I flipped the pillow over and put both hands on its uncovered surface. My mind slipped into the memory.
Panic. I can’t breathe. He’s so strong. I clawed his arms trying to get him off me. The pillow comes up a bit. I, no she—it wasn’t me—took a deep breath and pleaded, “I won’t tell. I promise. I love you.” The soft pillow turned unrelenting as it smothered her completely.
Chapter Fifteen
I couldn’t bear to experience her last
moments of betrayal and confusion. With a jump backward, I rammed into the side table. I clawed at the memory of his muscled arms. I needed to separate myself, but I couldn’t breathe.
A calm voice broke through the trauma, “Fauna, you’re safe.”
Flores’s touch flowed with emotional fortitude, as warmth calmed my tense muscles. I soaked it up like a thirsty traveler in the desert. When I regained my normal breathing, I shrugged to get him to let go, which he did immediately. How did he know to do that?
He looked at me with those doe-like eyes, and my voice stuck in my throat, preventing any words from escaping. Instead, I pointed at the pillow. He shook his head and raised his eyebrows. Well, good for him, he wasn’t going to risk telling me anything.
A flash of anger helped me find my voice again. “He smothered her with the pillow.”
“Her cause of death was not mentioned to the press. You couldn’t know that.” With a step backward to lean on the dresser with a missing drawer, Flores stared at the fallen pillow like it was a ghost. Somehow, he still managed to appear in control though I could feel the turmoil he struggled with. “I’ll call crime scene to come pick it up.”
So, I pulled one rabbit out of a hat. Could I actually find her killer? I chickened out on full disclosure with my girlfriends, because I couldn’t bear losing them. With Flores, I had nothing but possibilities. If he thought I was a loon, then I’d be no worse off than I was right now. If he believed me, I might actually find some answers to the deaths of the cursed.
“I experienced the moment of her death when I touched the pillow. That’s how I know.” There. I’d said it.
He did that head down-eyes up pose he seemed to favor. “So, you read minds?”
Does it look like that pillow has a mind? “No.” My shoulders rolled, and my neck cracked as I tried to relieve tension and remain calm. “Sometimes, when someone experiences a life altering event, the strong emotions—positive or negative—produce enough energy to leave behind a remnant.” I rubbed my forehead and paced as much as I could in the limited space. “At least, that’s how I think it works. I’ve never explained this to anyone before.”
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