Demon girl spoke her first words in nearly three years, she said, with a fast-paced whisper, "They will never believe me. No one will ever believe me."
Immediately after speaking, the upper half of demon girl's body collapsed onto the couch. What looked like a hellish possession wasn't.
Demon girl was a mentally ill teenager with a perverse personality construct, which made all of her emotions enmeshed into her unconscious mind. She wasn't possessed by a demon. The demon was her paternal grandfather who tied her to a bed and molested her numerous times as a young child. The memory was filtered, and her defenses were too strong to breach, even for God's gunslinger that enabled her illusion. The psychotropic medications that were dumped into her bloodstream by the psychiatrists only locked her psychological energy inside of her unconscious mind, not allowing demon girl to shift her emotions in the opposite direction, and ultimately healing herself.
Patrick's objective of sharing demon girl's story was to inform Joy that most explanations can be found by simply understanding the psychology of the mind. Spiritual activity won't be and can't be solved unless all psychological factors are crippled.
Patrick said to Joy with all sincerity, "Although the psychological world and the spiritual world function on different planes, sometimes, and only sometimes, they collide."
*
Instantly, after Patrick finished his story about demon girl, the bedroom lights flickered. Not once, not twice, but three times.
Then, a sound began to emanate from the upstairs bathroom.
"Did you hear that?" Joy asked Patrick, just to make sure she wasn't hearing things.
"Yeah, I heard it baby." Patrick replied without hesitation.
Both followed the sound into the bathroom. The sound increased with intensity and volume. At first, Patrick and Joy believed they heard the echoing vibrations of a fan, but they soon realized their initial thought was a shot in the dark.
The sound Patrick and Joy heard was of a child drowning.
In fact, it was me drowning, at my pool party.
As unsettling as it was, Patrick and Joy had the confirmation that they weren’t alone.
Ladies and gentleman, life is full of misdirection, and I'm everywhere you aren't looking. Whichever side of the mirror you’re looking from it doesn’t matter, because you can call me Shawn Walters, either way, that's not who I am. However, I am your narrator, and the spiritual energy haunting both Patrick and Joy.
Chapter 5
THE DREAM
Allow me to tell you a quick story, before I fill you in on why I am haunting Patrick and Joy. It's important for Patrick to have you understand why people develop fantasies, whatever the nature may be. A fantasy is a defence mechanism created by the conscious mind. A fantasy provides one's consciousness with something else to think about besides the truth. Fantasies are extremely difficult to take away from someone, because their false existence hangs in the balance, disguising their reality. The reality is one who possesses a fantasy realizes it; therefore, he or she can make a distinction between illusion and truth. Fantasies don't grant a mental illness, but a delusion does. Delusions are fantasies that spiral over the course of time, developing an outward ripple, which can encompass great distances, enabling an individual not to decipher what's real or make believe.
For example, Patrick had a thirteen-year-old patient who believed he was Jesus Christ. Of course, his patient wasn't Jesus Christ, but isn't the line of division always thin? Patrick's patient had a fantasy that he was Jesus Christ, but deep down, he realized he wasn't.
Four years before Patrick met his patient, the little nine year old boy experienced a set back. At age nine, when life was suppose to be full of toys and French fries, his grandmother, whom he loved more than anyone, lost her battle with cancer.
While on her death bed, she said to her grandson, "You are powerless. Only Jesus can save me now."
A few seconds later she was dead. The powerless child created a fantasy that he was Jesus Christ to regain the control he lost, when his grandmother died.
*
Why am I with Patrick and Joy?
First of all, although it may seem I am living a fantasy, considering my body is housed in a psychiatric hospital, I'm not. I'm as real as the age spots on your face. I know every thought, patient, story, and secret Patrick has.
I don't want Patrick or Joy; I need them.
My vantage point only sees the truth, and with Patrick and Joy, I like what I see. Joy is a bit weak, but I am going to make her stronger. Patrick is brilliant, but he must reveal his gosh darn secret, or my body will never leave Mountain Springs Psychiatric Hospital.
I have devised the most beautiful and poetic plan that I fully blueprinted on Patrick's knowledge; however, communicating my needs will be a gigantic obstacle.
*
2:30 a.m…
Patrick was awake, and waiting for the paranormal activity to begin.
This time, Joy was subjected to the incongruity of my communication in the form of a dream.
Patrick noticed Joy was weeping and muttering words that weren’t making sense. Joy’s hands were clinched, while every force in her body was pulsating. Patrick wasn’t sure of the content of Joy’s dream, but it was conclusive, it wasn’t pleasant. He inched closer, hoping to comprehend something of value, and all of a sudden the dream was over.
Joy came to her senses and immediately climbed out of bed and turned on the light. Patrick didn’t speak until Joy’s physiological symptoms decreased. When Joy was calm, Patrick asked, “Are you alright?”
“Holy shit, I just had the most vivid dream ever.” Joy replied, as she swiped sweat from her forehead.
*
Although Patrick’s theory of mind incorporates five dream activators, I’ll spare you the time, and get strait down to business. The fifth dream activator which you must understand for my story is labeled, psycho spiritual. Psycho spiritual dreams either get excused or insensitively ignored. These dreams occur when a spirit transgresses, or when someone astral projects, which is something we’ll discuss later, into the unconscious mind of the dreamer. Often the dreamer will dream about the thoughts and experiences of a spirit. An important note, the participating spirit is in control of these dreams. A spirit has the ability to dominate one’s mind and manipulate their host. Most often, a spirit will do this for communication purposes, and not harm their host.
My intentions weren’t any different.
Before I entered the lives of Patrick and Joy, I understood that Patrick would be able to interpret dreams.
*
“Take a deep breath and tell me what you saw.” Patrick said, as he held Joy’s hand.
“I was at a pool party with a bunch of kids, but none of them saw me.”
“That does sound terrible.” Patrick replied, without being serious. “For real though baby, what happened next?”
“I was standing next to a picnic table, and I saw several children eating. But my attention was drawn to only one of them.”
“Can you explain what the child looked like?” Patrick asked.
“I don’t know, like a normal boy, probably twelve years old or so.”
“Did he have any identifying characteristics?”
“Not really, except for his sunglasses. He actually looked a little goofy, because the style didn’t fit his face.”
“Alright, so we got a goofy twelve year old. What else?” Patrick asked, as he chuckled a bit.
“This isn’t funny, Patrick.”
“I’m not saying it is sweetheart, continue, please.” Patrick replied.
“The child said something disrespectful to his mother, and then ran into the house. He seemed pissed off or something. I followed him upstairs, and observed an argument.”
“Who was the argument with?”
“I don’t know. Probably his sister, but I’m not sure. I’d say she was fifteen years old or so. She was tall and beautiful. To me, she seemed like she was his sister bas
ed on her demeanor towards him.”
“What were they arguing about?”
“I’m not sure of all the details, but the girl didn’t like the boy’s attitude. After they argued for a bit, the girl suggested he should go swimming. The boy went outside, as I followed. He went directly into the pool.”
“What happened next?”
“I watched him. He was lying on the raft, minding his own business, when my attention drifted away from the boy and into the yard. It was strange. No one was in the yard, but I didn’t see anyone leave. When I looked back at the boy, he held his chest in pain. His raft flipped, and he sunk toward the bottom of the pool. I wanted to help him, but I couldn’t move my feet. It was like I was stuck in cement. As I was stuck, the boy wasn’t coming up for air, and I knew he was dying. When I was finally able to run to his rescue, his dead body surfaced on top of the water. I was so scared. It seemed so real. I looked in the water, and the boy who went into the water, wasn’t the boy floating on top. I looked at his face and his eyes were closed, and just when I thought I couldn’t take anymore, his eyes opened. He made eye contact with me, and said, help me! My fear must have snapped me back to reality, because the dream ended, and I woke up.”
“Wow… That’s some intense stuff!” Patrick responded.
“Well, what’s it mean?” Joy asked, in search of significance.
“To be honest, I don’t know. But I know one thing for sure; this spirit isn’t going to leave us alone anytime soon.”
Patrick was right. I wasn’t going anywhere.
Chapter 6
THE INTAKE
Mountain Springs Psychiatric Hospital
I arrived at Mountain Springs when the reality of the situation smacked me across the face. I was minutes away, officially, from becoming an institutionalized psychiatric patient. I didn't say much in the ambulance, because I didn't want to discuss what happened back at the house. My mother tried to originate small talk, but I blatantly ignored her. I contemplated running away as soon as the ambulance stopped, but they had me strapped down on a stretcher. I didn't feel like causing a stir this early during my stay, because I would have plenty of time for that later. I wasn't enthusiastic about being placed in a nut-house, but I was a very troubled young man.
The crisis unit agreed to unfasten me from the stretcher if I promised to walk safely into the building with my mother. I thought, sure why not. My mother and I walked through the front doors, as all the white coats were standing there waiting for me. I felt like a movie star waltzing into the premier of a Blockbuster movie. They were probably thinking, here comes the new lunatic. With eighteen different eyes gawking at me, I felt like pulling down my pants to give them something to look at, but I didn't.
My mother introduced herself to the receptionist, "Hello, my name is Rebecca Walters. I am here with my son Shawn."
The response from the receptionist was phony. She replied in a valley girl voice, "Oh, hi and welcome. Please have a seat and the Doctor will be right with you."
She gave my mother a mountain of paperwork to fill out while we waited. I honestly cannot stomach phony people like the receptionist; they make me want to barf. I knew for a fact she wasn't happy. She was getting paid ten dollars an hour to answer phone calls with crazy people on the other end. I shared my opinion about the receptionist with my mother, but she didn't want to hear what I had to say.
"Shawn, it is her job to make us feel welcome. Please don't start your crap right now."
I wasn't starting anything, especially a crap. I just wanted to share my thoughts.
I felt like I was waiting all day for my intake session to start, but realistically, it was only fifteen minutes. I wasn't speaking to my mother because she puts up a wall and discontinues any communication that doesn't involve a cozy fairytale, so I sat in silence. It would have been nice if the rest of my family was there to support me. A little support can go a long way. I was a crumb in between seat cushions, either I got ignored, or I was seen, but no one put forth an effort to clean me up. My self-loathing was getting worse, and I felt like trying to kill myself, again. Until, I saw him.
He was a relatively tall and thin man, but out of shape. He was roughly fifty years old, arrogant, and to be honest, moronic. He had one of those faces that screamed I'm hiding something!
Take my word for it, I know all about secrets.
He was walking towards me with a conceited strut when I figured out that he was the one who was going to conduct my intake. He rounded the corner, past the tall fake tree, and introduced himself.
"Hello, my name is Doctor Clarkston."
My mother and I followed Clarkston to his office where the intake would take place. His office was nice. Clarkston had brand new furniture, and the room smelled like a tropical blend of fruits. The smell of the office fit Clarkston well, because he was a fruit; more on that in a bit. Clarkston didn't waste any time getting to the point. You could tell Clarkston had done these intakes a time or two. I was glad he wasn't pissing around, because I wanted to get the intake over with as soon as possible. Clarkston told my mother, "Most of my questions will be formalities."
Clarkston could have told my mother, he'd be firing off road flares inside my ass, and my mother wouldn't have challenged him. Before Clarkston started his million question march, I asked him, "How long am I going to be at this hospital?"
"That depends on your progress." Clarkston replied.
That wasn't the answer I wanted.
Clarkston's questions were asinine, and had nothing to do with everything. Allow me to summarize the intake for you. Today's date is September 23rd, 2010. My name is Shawn Allen Walters, and I was born September 11th, 1998. I am currently thirteen years old, and live with my biological mother, Rebecca Walters. My other family members are my sister, Elizabeth Walters, my brother Adam Walters, and my biological father, Jeremy Walters, who doesn't live in our home.
Meanwhile, I don't take any medications, and I'm not an alcoholic. My past psychological treatment was provided by Doctor Sholvin. The reasons why I am at the hospital are suicidal tendencies, hallucinations, violent behavior, and gender identity issues. In my leisure time I enjoy singing, listening to music, cooking, and animals. I don't have any religious affiliations. And, I probably never will. I'm unsure if my family history includes mental illness, but they certainly act like they do.
After the snooze festival of questions, Doctor Clarkston took an interest in my previous treatment with Doctor Sholvin.
"What were your treatment goals?"
He wanted to know what worked, and what didn't work.
I told Clarkston the truth, "Sholvin didn't help me with anything. She told me to make better choices, when she couldn't do it herself."
"Shawn, what do you mean by that?" Clarkston asked.
"Sholvin is a whore." I boldly stated.
Clarkston was bewildered that I said such a naughty thing. A good therapist wouldn't engage my distraction, but Clarkston continued.
"Why is Sholvin a whore?"
"If you must know, Sholvin is a whore because she steps out on her husband."
I knew a great deal about Sholvin, just like I know very much about Clarkston. I didn't want to tell him my secret yet, well; actually, I would never tell Clarkston my secret. However, I'll be telling everyone his dirty little cover-up in due time.
I didn't like Clarkston one bit, but I had to entertain him for a while. He went onto his next topic of conversation, which was my suicide attempt. I swear to God Clarkston was retarded, because he couldn't get it through his thick skull that I saw my sister's bloody face in the mirror. He kept hinting around I was making up the entire story. Clarkston couldn't comprehend that if I hadn't hallucinated, I wouldn't have passed out, and if I hadn't passed out, I'd be dead. The hallucination actually saved my life. What part of this couldn't he figure out? Hell, the more I think about it, if I hadn't hallucinated, I wouldn't be able to tell you my story. Actually, my hallucination was a gift.
&
nbsp; Clarkston was on my last nerve, because I knew the severity of what he was hiding.
I leveled with Clarkston, "I understand I need help, but you are not the right guy for the job. If you transfer me right now, I will leave you in peace."
"I'm not transferring you anywhere." Clarkston replied.
He was convinced I was a danger to myself, and he was correct, but I was also a danger to others.
I said to Clarkston, as my eyes pierced directly through him, "I'm not scared to die; I've been there and done that."
Clarkston's how-to guide didn't have a chapter on how to respond to that one. He sat in silence, so I decided to say more.
"I do have a fear. Do you want to know what it is?"
"Yes, that would be helpful." Clarkston replied with a gritty smirk across his face.
I looked Clarkston deep in the eyes and said with fire in my stomach, "I fear that I can't control my murderous ways. I'm going to kill you Doctor Clarkston."
With a straight-up speech impediment, Clarkston stuttered, "We don’t don't make terroristic threats in this hospital."
"It's not a threat, it’s a promise.”
I continued to explain my circumstances to my numb-nut Doctor.
"I have killed before, and I am going to kill again if someone doesn't cure me. And Clarkston, you are going to be my next victim."
Clarkston had enough of my fantastical and threatening behavior; therefore, he paged his cronies, also known as orderlies, to escort me into the reflection room. The reflection room had four walls, all of which were thickly padded, and a door that had a rectangular plexiglass opening for someone to observe the crazy patient imprisoned inside, and in this case, it was me. I thought it was unfair I was sent to the reflection room, because I was only trying to warn Clarkston of his fate. Did he honestly know for a fact that I didn't kill someone prior to coming to Mountain Springs? Just because I wasn't caught killing someone, doesn't mean I didn't.
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