Red Rain: Over 40 Bestselling Stories

by J. R. Rain

The photos mostly consisted of the man who was now presently huddled on the couch, and also featured an unnaturally blond wife and a naturally blond girl. The girl might have been the cutest thing I’d ever seen. Dozens of pictures lined the piano, and the nearby fireplace mantel, too. I quickly glanced at all of them. The girl sitting at this very piano, the girl in soccer and softball. The girl clowning around with her dad and mom. The girl who ripped his heart with unspeakable agony.

  One of the frames said Penny on it.

  “Was your daughter named Penny?” I finally asked.

  He quit crying immediately, gasped. “Jesus. How did you know?”

  “You called The Psychic Hotline, remember?”

  In my mind’s eye, I could see the man desperately wiping away his tears and nodding. He sat up straight.

  “You are married.” No, wait. That didn’t feel right. I got psychic ‘hits.’ Strong impulses. Strong feelings. This didn’t feel right. “You were married,” I corrected. “To the fake blond. Oops, sorry. Didn’t mean to say that. Anyway, you were married to the blond in the photographs along your piano and fireplace mantel.”

  “Jesus.”

  I waited for more information to come through. It always came through in a variety of ways. With Peter, the information was coming through in feelings, too. Sometimes it came through in symbolic images. Or, if I was getting a particularly clear remote viewing hit, I could just have a look around the tangible environment. I was doing that now, combining my seeing with feeling.

  Yeah, I was weird like that.

  But I wasn’t getting a hit on the daughter. No surprise there. Not being a medium, I couldn’t see or feel the dead. Also, I wasn’t a mind reader, so I wasn’t privy to what Peter was thinking or what he knew. I got impulses of information. Also, I could not control how much information came through, or what kind of information was revealed. I simply opened myself up to the information...and hoped for the best.

  Peter stood and wiped the tears from his face. I saw him pacing in his big living room. I even saw his footprints forming and reforming in the elegant white carpet. He ran his fingers through his hair with his free hand.

  As he did so, I began getting more hits, this time flashing images. Horrific images, and as I received them, I spoke with rising alarm. “Your daughter was killed. Strangled to death. She was found in a park nearby. Jesus. Local kids found her. The police don’t have a suspect. This was years ago. Maybe two or three years ago. Your wife has long since left you. I’m so sorry. Jesus.”

  I saw him bury his face in his hands as he sobbed even harder than before.

  “You still wear your wedding ring,” I said.

  As I sat in my cozy chair in my living room, with my protein drink next to me and my eyes closed, I saw him look down at his hand and study the diamond-encrusted band. “How...how could you possibly know that?”

  “My strength lies in remote viewing,” I said.

  “I’m not following...”

  “It means I’m watching you now.”

  He shivered so much he nearly dropped the phone. He began turning in circles, looking around in a panic. As he did so, which I reported seeing, he next went to the front door and looked out, which I also reported seeing.

  “That’s incredible,” he said. “You see my every move.”

  “My boyfriends all hate it,” I said.

  “Have you always been like this?”

  I thought of my vampire friend. “It’s been getting stronger lately.”

  “What am I doing now?”

  I laughed. “You just touched your nose.”

  “Are you looking into my house somehow?”

  “That’s one way of putting it, but not in the way you’re suggesting.”

  He sat heavily on the big couch. “I guess you know I just sat down.”

  “Yes.”

  “I think I called the right person to help find my daughter’s murderer.”

  “Maybe,” I said. “I can’t guarantee anything.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means I can’t control my psychic hits. You do realize, Peter, that most of my clients are lonely women wondering if they’ll ever find true love.”

  I saw him nod. “Yes. I can’t imagine you get very many calls like mine.”

  “No.”

  “So, what do we do next? I need to know who killed my daughter. I have to know. He has to be found. It’s killing me inside.”

  It wasn’t ethical for me to meet a client outside of work. I was not running my own business here. I worked for The Psychic Hotline. My bosses could be listening. Actually, I had a strong sense that they were not listening. Not this time.

  I bit my lip, thought hard about it. As I thought about it, the one-legged bird continued watching me. I believed in animal totems. My animal totem was a hawk. In some states, seagulls were called sea hawks. If a one-legged seagull could make the journey to see me, I figured the least I could do was make the journey to see Peter.

  Finally, I said, “I’m going to need to get to know your daughter a little better.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I’ll need to see her things, touch her things. That kind of stuff.”

  Now he was nodding enthusiastically, wiping his red nose. “Yes, definitely. Should I give you the address?”

  “No,” I said. “I’m good.”

  He laughed a little, even as he wiped the tears. “When can I expect you?”

  “Tonight,” I said. “Around eight.”

  “Thank you,” he said. “I’ll see you tonight at eight.” He hung up.

  He might have hung up in the physical sense, but he and I were still very much in contact in the psychic sense. I watched him toss aside his house phone, sit back on his couch and cover his face with both hands. One thing I knew above all else, Peter was not his daughter’s killer.

  I pulled back until I was outside his regal home, and noted the street name and street number. I swung further out and returned to the park I’d seen, the park where his daughter had been found dead. I noted its cross streets. Yes, I was a living, breathing Google Map App. A psychic one.

  Such a freak, I thought.

  I opened my eyes and gave myself a few seconds to fully return to my small, but cute, apartment in Beverly Hills. I wrote down the street names and address on a pad of paper next to me.

  After sipping my protein drink and clearing my thoughts, I took my next call.

  “Hi, this is Allison. Thank you for calling The Psychic Hotline. How can I help you see into the future?”

  Chapter Three

  Later, I pulled up to the park.

  Yes, the very same park I had seen in my mind’s eye when talking to Peter. I was freaky like that. Especially these days, thanks to my friend, Samantha, and before her, Victor. That they were both vampires was no coincidence.

  I sat in my car, feeling a deep sadness that I knew was not my own. It was dusk, and the park was mostly empty. A young woman watched two kids swinging. She was looking down at something glowing. It was too big to be a phone. It just might have been one of those Kindle or Nook thingies. Whatever it was, its ambient glow highlighted her lower face and eyes, touching on cheekbones, the tip of her nose, her chin. She highlighted well. The two kids swung and shouted and laughed. The woman ignored them and read, although she glanced up every few minutes.

  The park was exactly as I had seen it in my mind. Back in the day, before I had met Victor, a man I would love, a man I would eventually move in with, a man who I would watch die—a man who was, in fact, not a man at all—I had little psychic ability. I would get flashes of insight here and there. Maybe an odd picture would appear in my thoughts. Enough to believe that I certainly had some semblance of a gift. But it wasn’t until I’d met Victor—a creature of the night who had fed from me for months—that my psychic abilities had truly awakened.

  And boy, had they.

  The more that Victor had fed on me, the more my psychic abilities had de
veloped. The brief flashes had turned into longer movies. The hints of knowing had become full-blown facts. It was the most complicated relationship I had ever had, and the most addictive. When I didn’t have it anymore, with Victor, I was lost.

  And then, I’d met Samantha.

  Samantha Moon, my newest friend, was also a bona fide card-carrying member of the nocturnal blood-drinking club. With each partaking of my blood, with each vampire feeding, my psychic abilities continued to expand.

  And I was back to the exhilaration of a blood connection with a vampire, one that helped me grow my psychic powers. It was symbiotic, it was beautiful, and it was the most intensely thrilling experience of my life.

  I didn’t pretend to understand it, but I believed a sort of transference was going on. As in, a part of her transferred to me with each feeding. A part that understood the intangible mysteries of thought and emotion, but one that connected to a tangible reality.

  Now, my abilities were primarily remote viewing, with a chaser of clairsentience and clairvoyance. Both of these abilities were still in their infancy, although clairsentience—or the ability to psychically feel my way through a situation—seemed to be pulling away. There may have been—may have been—some latent pyrokinesis going on as well. That was the ability to start fires. I wasn’t sure about this last one, but there had been a moment with a candle in my bedroom that had still left me scratching my head.

  It was dusk, but not full darkness yet. I watched the kids swinging as the mom read and occasionally looked up. I waited. What I waited for could be anything. Psychics couldn’t just close their eyes and know all. Yes, we were tuned into the spirit world, and sometimes Spirit, as we called it, would divulge a little information...or a lot. Sometimes, we, as psychics, were not tuned into the right frequency, or not searching in the right places. Not open to the bigger answers. Not ready for the bigger answers. I suspected our lack of all-knowing was more of a result of not truly understanding our psychic gifts, or ourselves.

  Every day, I learned something new. Yes, it would be easier, especially in a criminal investigation, if psychics had access to all knowledge. But we didn’t. We saw what we saw. We felt what we felt. We were given what we were given. And hopefully, it all made sense.

  But nothing came to me in the park and so, before someone got nervous and called the cops, I started up my Honda Accord and continued along the quiet tree-lined street. As I drove, I was fairly certain I had seen this street somewhere else. Perhaps in a dream. Perhaps on TV.

  I didn’t know, but there was something compelling about this street.

  Something that awakened my psychic knowing.

  I thought about that as I drove out to Peter Laurie’s residence.

  Chapter Four

  Peter greeted me with a smile.

  It wasn’t a real smile. It was forced. Tight. I suspected the man hadn’t smiled a real smile in over two years. The exact moment he realized his daughter was missing had ended his ability to smile. Still, he was quite a handsome man, but I already knew that. Seeing him in person, though, was another story. I found my pulse beating a little faster, until I reminded myself that this man had been through hell—and was still going through hell. Which was why I was here. To, apparently, fetch him from the gates of hell and bring him back.

  All in a day’s work.

  He led me inside a wonderfully ornate home filled with original statues tucked in corners and in special nooks, original paintings on the wall, and a lot of old, beautiful furniture. I had a very strong hit, and, like I usually did, I voiced it without thinking: “You inherited the house from your mother.”

  “Yes, very good. She died a few years ago.”

  I went over to one of the paintings...a beautiful example of impressionism. They all were. The painter’s preferred subject matter was ballet dancers. Same with the sculptures.

  “Your mother created these as well.”

  “You’re good, Allison.”

  “I’m just being me,” I said, and walked around one such bronze sculpture that was a thing of beauty. The dancer was pirouetting on her pointed toes, arms circled overhead in mid-spin.

  “My brothers and sister have claimed some of them, but for now, they will stay here. At least, until the house sells.”

  I nodded. I wasn’t a medium and I couldn’t see the dead, not yet anyway, but I had a very strong feeling that his mother was with us now—and perhaps, even his daughter. Then again, what did I know?

  “You’re selling the house?”

  “Yes. It’s time I moved on. I don’t want to, but I guess I have to.”

  An odd choice of words, to be sure. I changed the subject and said, “You love your mother.”

  “Very much so, and I love her art, too. It’s gaining traction. More and more dealers are contacting me and my family. Luckily, she painted a lot. We have hundreds of paintings and sculptures up in her studio, too.”

  Peter led me through the beautiful home, holding his stomach oddly as we walked, and soon, we stepped under an archway and into another room full of only bronze sculptures on plinths and pedestals. It could have been a collection in a museum. I sensed a presence nearby; that is, if only my skin was any indication. Indeed, the moment I had stepped into the big house, I’d sensed spirit activity. How many there were, I didn’t know, but I could feel them, perhaps a few of them, watching me.

  Admittedly, this had never happened before. Not to me. As we crossed the sculpture room and into a less formal family room, I paused at the doorway and looked behind me. I was certain I was about to see my first ghost. Or ghosts. The hair on my neck and arms—hell, everywhere—was standing on end. But as I turned, there was nothing there. Nothing that I could see, anyway.

  Peter waited for me in the family room.

  That I was acting odd in his home didn’t seem to faze him. When I was done acting like the nut-job that I was, he gave me a sad smile and motioned for me to sit in the overstuffed couch along one wall. It was the same couch I’d seen him sitting on earlier.

  I sat as directed, and he did the same in a matching overstuffed recliner. He still held his stomach. A big fireplace was to my right. That would be fireplace number two. A thick, white, faux polar bear rug spread between us. It was probably heaven for toes. In fact, I itched to take my shoes off and let my toes revel in the fluffiness, but refrained. It wouldn’t be ladylike, and Peter Laurie was very much the gentleman.

  A TV was opposite the fireplace. I noted an Xbox on a shelf next to the TV. The Xbox was covered in dust. That hit me hard for some reason.

  Everywhere were pictures of a beautiful blond woman and a precocious little girl. Yes, something very lost haunted this home, and it wasn’t necessarily his deceased mother or their little girl. No, it was Peter himself. Still, I saw a small light in his eyes. The light of hope. Perhaps I was his last hope. No pressure there or anything.

  “Would you like something to drink, Allison?” he asked. Although his voice didn’t have much inflection, he was still quite the gentleman. I detected the hint of a New England accent. I told him no thank you, and added, “Drinking clouds my connection. So does too much caffeine.”

  “Then I won’t offer you that hot toddy today.”

  “Say that three times,” I said. “But maybe next time.” I hoped it didn’t sound too flirtatious. I quickly added, “I’ve never taken on a client outside of work. It’s frowned upon.”

  “Which is why I will make a sizable donation to the charity of your choice. If you’re not collecting the money for yourself, perhaps your employers would be forgiving.”

  “Perhaps,” I said. Truth was, I could have used the money, too, but oh well. I knew I would eventually tell my boss about meeting Peter. In essence, ratting myself out. It was a pain in the ass being me sometimes. Although honorable to a fault, I could keep a secret. Just ask my vampire friends.

  “Perhaps you should consider opening your own psychic business,” said Peter in a voice I was beginning to appreciate as
very refined and cultured.

  I laughed that off lightly. More truth: I was a big chicken. I liked the stability of working for the Psychic Hotline. I got a steady check. The money was nice. It afforded me to live the life I lived. Living in Beverly Hills was not cheap. Hell, living anywhere in southern California was not cheap. My problem was, of course, that I loved living in Beverly Hills. I loved the restaurants and shops and the people I met.

  Beverly Hills had an inimitable creative energy. On any given day, I could run across Michael Bublé or my local TV anchorman. I’d seen everyone from Brad Pitt to Cher. And it wasn’t just the stars, either. There was vitality here. Possibilities. A sense of abundance and peace, and I responded well to that. Oh, and did I mention the shopping?

  He gave me a small smile. “Just think about it. I think you would be quite good at it, and help a lot of people.”

  “Now, who is the psychic one here?” I said.

  “Certainly not me. I’m just a businessman, and you provide a service that could help a lot of people. Please, just think about it. You’d expand your opportunities and reach so many people who…need you.”

  “You’ve barely met me, Mr. Laurie.”

  “One doesn’t have to be in your presence long to know that you are...different—a good different.” And now, he really did laugh. A high sound that didn’t seem natural. I suspected it was because he hadn’t laughed much, if at all, over the past two years, almost three.

  “Okay, now that we’ve established that I’m a big weirdo,” I said, winking, “perhaps we should get down to business. But first, let me ask, is there something wrong with your stomach?”

  He’d still been holding it and rubbing it absently. The brief merriment was gone. His handsome features drew down, his smile absorbed by his pain. His short hair, I noted, was a good deal grayer now than it had been in many of these photos. He looked down, and said, “Sorry. I ate something bad recently. Stomach’s been bothering me ever since.”

  “Maybe you should take something for it.”

  “Maybe,” he said, and gave me a forced half smile. Yes, he was in some pain.