by J. R. Rain
Although I felt an elder and younger presence in the house, neither Peter’s mother nor daughter had come through. Not the way Isabelle, his wife, had.
Peter led me down the hallway and past a few generations of family portraits. I had a sense of old money. A sense of his family doing some great things...and not so great things, too. Someone in his family tree had been a shyster who’d ripped people off. Or maybe I was misinterpreting my feelings. It was easy to do sometimes.
Either way, I got good vibes from Peter himself. I hadn’t asked what he did for a living, and I didn’t look into it, but I saw money around him. I saw stacks of money, and I suspected he was in banking. Very high up in banking, too. My guess would be a vice president of a big bank. The family business, I suspected, was banking.
As I walked past a particularly old portrait, of a man who stared down with snake-like eyes at the camera, and wearing a bowler hat, I knew that not all of the Lauries were good people. I shivered as I walked past the picture.
Down the long hallway—and past an enormous study with a leather-tooled surfaced desk and a chair fit for a king—or at least a vice president of a bank—we soon came upon a row of bedrooms. Six to be exact. Damn big house, although not as big as that island resort I’d had the displeasure of nearly dying in. Or, rather, of being possessed in.
But that was another story.
At one such door, Peter stopped, looked at the handle for a heartbeat or two, then reached for it, turned it and pushed open the door. It swung open silently enough, only squeaking when it reached the end of its arc.
“This was Penny’s room,” he said, stepping aside and allowing me to enter ahead of him.
As I did so, I got a psychic hit, or a knowing, as I called it. “You don’t come in here very often.”
“Only a few times, and not for a long time,” he said behind me. Peter no longer seemed surprised by my knowings; at least, he didn’t question them anymore.
The room was enormous, and dusty. I suspected that Peter had instructed even the maids to stay away. As I stepped into the dark room, he flipped on the lights. Dust motes swirled. I left actual footprints along what had would have been a beautifully polished hickory floor.
The room was a typical girl’s room...a little rich girl’s room, actually. There were posters on the wall: cartoon characters, Justin Bieber looking quite young and intense, and horses. Lots of horses. The poster closest to me was slightly faded along its edges. Rust from the thumbtacks had stained the corners a little. In the center of the room was a small bed for a small girl, with lots and lots of floor space around it. A big rug covered some of it and I had an image of a little girl playing with her dolls and reading and even talking on a cell phone, right here on the floor, on the rug. I even had an image of her sleeping on the rug...with her mom. A sort of campout in upscale sleeping bags that had never been used for outdoor camping, only slumber parties. I kept these impressions to myself.
After all, Peter didn’t seem to be holding up very well and, as I stood in the center of the room, soaking it in, absorbing the energies, reading the energies, and, in essence, tuning into another world, another place, hell, even another time, Peter stayed back by the door, looking away, looking down the hallway. Mostly, he looked miserable and like he wished he had never opened her bedroom door and looked inside.
The daughter could have been here, or not. I did sense a younger energy nearby, but it was vague. It could be what some psychics called residual energy. In effect, I could be sensing her past energy, not her present energy. Not all spirits came back. Not all spirits hung around. Many moved on, and if some of my psychic friends were correct, many were re-born as well, into other bodies, other places, perhaps even other times.
It was, of course, all a big mystery to me. And yet, the mysteries were trickling down to me in dribs and drabs. The more Samantha Moon drank from me, the keener I got as a psychic.
I was becoming quite adept at remote viewing. In fact, I was scarily adept at it, so good that I might as well have been in the room with the other person. But that was only if I was “tuned into” them, like I had been when I had Peter on the phone.
I’d never tuned in to the dead. Hell, I’d never even tried. I didn’t know where to begin, truth be known, but I had some ideas.
As Peter continued standing near the doorway, dealing with his hurt and loss as best as he could, I moved through the big room. A busy room, too. Stuffed animals crowded under the window, a dollhouse that was as big as my bathroom stood in one corner, and dressers overflowing with trinkets collected from a short life. But in the corner closest to the bed was something different. A painter’s easel.
“Your daughter painted?” I asked.
Peter didn’t look into the room, instead he continued looking down the hall. He said, “She...she wanted to be an artist.”
I nodded, although he didn’t see me nod, and headed over to the corner of the room with the easel. Next to the easel was a stack of her paintings. The girl had been good, and seemed to prefer watercolor. She was talented like her grandmother. I knelt down and flipped through the paintings. They were of dogs, all of them. There was Goofy, Pluto, Doug the talking dog from Up, Snoopy, Marmaduke, Astro from The Jetsons, and one of Dino from The Flintstones, although Dino didn’t technically count as a dog. Who was I to argue with the logic of a ten year old?
“I take it you have a dog,” I said.
Peter shook his head, still looking away. “Sparky went missing on the same day as Penny.”
I didn’t know what to say, so I didn’t say anything. I doubted words would help, anyway. Peter was long gone, and simple platitudes would have fallen on deaf ears. He needed answers, real answers. Not sympathy.
I continued flipping through the paintings until I found a picture of a small, brown-haired little pooch, with the word “Sparky” on his collar. As I looked at it, I got a flash of the little dog barking hysterically, angrily.
A flash of a little girl getting into a car, and of a man’s voice telling her it would be okay. A pleasant voice. A soothing voice.
A flash of the dog jumping in as well.
I got another flash, one that was so horrible that I gasped. Sweet Jesus, I thought.
When I had gotten some control of myself, I said, “Would you mind if I took the painting of Sparky home with me?”
“Will it help you find my daughter’s killer?”
I looked at the painting again as I heard the pleasant voice telling the girl over and over again that it would be okay, to come on in, it’ll be okay.
“Yes,” I said. “I think it will.”
“Then take it,” said Peter. “It’s yours.”
I nodded and carefully pulled it out from behind the others. The paper canvas was thick, and had probably been her grandmother’s art supplies. With the painting now tucked under one arm, Peter showed me out of the room. As he led me back down the carpeted hallway, we came across something unexpected.
It was a book sitting in the middle of the hallway.
Right there on the cushioned carpet, in a spot that both Peter and I had recently walked over. There had, of course, been no book lying there, just minutes earlier.
“How odd,” said Peter, reaching down. He picked it up and examined it, holding it for me to see. It was an old book but not ancient. My guess, from the 60s or 70s. Maybe earlier. The tattered dust jacket read: Wiccan: A Way of Life. “Did you see this book here before?” he asked.
“No.”
“It was my mother’s.”
“She was a witch?” I asked.
“And proud of it.” He held up the book, eyebrows raised. “But this has been in storage in the garage. I’m sure of it, with her other books. Truth is, they give me the damn creeps.”
And as he said this, more goose bumps appeared on my skin. and not just on my arms, but over my entire body. I was suddenly certain, without a doubt, that this book was meant for me. Whether I wanted it or not remained to be seen. As Peter scratched his head
and bit his lip, I came to a decision...a decision that would change my life forever.
“Peter, I think your grandmother wanted me to have this book.”
He tore his eyes off the book and placed them on me. “What?”
“I know, it sounds crazy, but I think your mom wants me to have this book.”
Peter shook his head. “When it comes to Mother, nothing is crazy. Trust me.” He looked at the book again, looked at me, then shrugged. “Knock yourself out—but I would caution you to be careful. This is nothing to take lightly. I’ve seen...things.”
He handed me the book, and as soon as I took the book from him, two things happened simultaneously: one, I shivered nearly uncontrollably, and, two, the ghostly image of a tall and regal woman appeared behind Peter.
She smiled at me, nodded, and disappeared.
Chapter Seven
Morning couldn’t have come soon enough. I’d had a rather strange night, filled with dreams of ghosts and girls, of witches and murder.
Now I was sitting on my couch sipping a cup of coffee, with my laptop where it belonged: on my lap.
On the screen before me was simply a local phone call. The Psychic Hotline portal that I logged onto each day only provided me with the caller’s city. Never a name or full phone number. This call, I saw, had originated in nearby Santa Monica.
“Hi, this is Allison. Thank you for calling The Psychic Hotline. How can I help you see into the future?”
“Oh, thank God,” said a familiar voice.
“So, how long did it take this time?” I asked.
So, when I heard the familiar voice, it was a pleasant surprise...and a bit of a break. I’d just dealt with a longwinded woman who would rather hear herself talk, than me. Which was fine. I wasn’t getting a good read on her, anyway, and was questioning what I was telling her. I hated when that happened.
“Took me nine tries this time,” he said. “And cost me fifty bucks to finally get you.”
“I’m an expensive date,” I said.
“Well, it’s as close to a date as I can get. For now.”
“Forever,” I said, laughing, although I admired his persistence. “You know my rules.”
“You don’t date clients. Plus, you have to say that because they might be listening.”
“Well, they might fire me. And I happen to like this job.”
“You have to say that, too, because they might still be listening.”
I laughed at that. I was sitting on my couch with my legs crossed under me, sipping on a decaf Americano. If I wasn’t drinking a protein drink, I often drank decaf before and during sessions. Caffeinated drinks made my mind race just enough that I couldn’t tune into the spiritual. In fact, it was a rare day that I actually did have caffeinated coffee. And when I did, I almost always regretted it. I’d become used to connecting to what I thought of as my higher self. This connection was deeply spiritual, and it allowed for some fantastic results, especially when I was tuning into another person. I suspected that it was my higher self that tuned into others, and then reported its findings to me. Caffeine cut off that connection. Not good.
My sliding glass door was open. A bee had found its way inside and came right over to me. I said howdy, then ignored it completely. When it was done checking out the crazy lady in the headset, it found its way out again.
“They’re not listening now,” I said.
“You’re sure?” he asked.
I checked again how I felt about that, and a certain knowing came over me. “I’m pretty sure.”
“That’s good enough for me. So, what are you wearing, baby?”
I laughed. “Nothing you would be interested in.”
“Don’t be too sure about that.”
“Don’t be creepy,” I said.
I liked Conn. In fact, I was very intrigued by Conn. I got a very good feeling from him. A warm feeling that I couldn’t deny. Conn was also a Scorpio, and I knew that you had to keep Scorpios in check. It was easy—very, very easy—for them to turn something fun and light into something steamy and sexual. It was in their natures. God bless their natures.
“Sorry,” he said. “You know I didn’t mean anything by it.”
I know Conn liked to present small openings, always hoping I would jump into them. I never did, although I admired his persistence. And, again, God bless those randy Scorpios. They kept things interesting.
“Forgiven,” I said. “Now, to what do I owe the pleasure of this phone call?”
“Do I have to have a reason to call?” he said. “Perhaps I just need to hear your voice.”
“Perhaps you need to get a life.”
“I do have a life,” said Conn. “I’m just missing one thing.”
“A cat?” I asked.
“You,” he said after a moment.
I snorted at that. “You are such a goofball, Conn. You’ve never even met me.”
“We can change that, you know. I could meet you tonight for drinks.”
“That’s not gonna happen.”
“Yes, I know,” he said.
“I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay,” he said. “If this is the only way I can spend time with my dream girl, then I will accept my lot in life. Better a few minutes a week with you, Allison, than no time at all.”
I was touched again by his words. “It’s your money,” I said after a moment, although my tone was now much softer. “Do what you want with it.”
“I am,” he said, “and I can think of no greater way to spend it than by spending time with you.”
“Geez, Conn, have you always been such a romantic fool?”
He thought about that. Little did he know that I could see him thinking about it, that I could see him now sitting in his rather lavish home overlooking the Pacific. That I could see that he was, in fact, everything he claimed to be, and perhaps even more. Never did he mention his money, of which he clearly had a lot. I knew his address, too, and I knew his home inside and out. Yes, I’d even checked out his attic and under his floorboards. No bodies. He wasn’t a creep. He wasn’t a sicko. He was just lonely.
Or perhaps, as he claimed, in love with me.
That he was also somewhat handsome made things all the more interesting. Of course, he knew none of this, knew nothing of the snooping I’d performed. And, thank God, he mostly wore clothes when he called me.
We chatted some more, about my day, about me, about anything that came to his mind. He paid, of course, for every minute of it. I suspected he could have talked to me all day, and, for some reason, I didn’t mind that. Not one bit.
He was halfway through a story about his dog—a dog I could see sitting by his feet now—when I felt a disturbance. Someone had picked up. One of them.
“Thank you for the call, Conn,” I said, cutting him off. “I hope I was of service to you today.”
After two months, Conn knew the routine. “You were incredibly accurate, Allison. Never in all my life have I ever come across a psychic more accurate than you.”
Oh, brother, I thought. One thing Conn was good at doing was pouring it on.
He clicked off and I sat back on my couch, decaf Americano in hand, and smiled.
Chapter Eight
It was early afternoon, and I was at The Whisper Lounge at The Grove with my friend, Bernice.
And, no, we weren’t whispering. Truth was, we rarely whispered. I didn’t think we knew how to whisper. On second thought, I didn’t think they much liked us here at The Whisper Lounge.
Anyway, Bernice Jepson was a fairly new friend of mine. I called her Bernie because it suited her better. She had been my trainer at The Psychic Hotline. As in, I sat in on some of her phone calls and made notes. As I made notes and listened in on a few days of her taking calls from clients, one thing had become rather apparent: Bernie was not a very good psychic.
As in, she rarely, if ever, got anything right. She had made an art out of backing out of her statements, re-wording and charging along by distracting
the clients with some new “revelation.”
While it was true that Bernie was a bad psychic, she was a great friend. That she was slightly delusional and lived with her head in the clouds made her all the more endearing to me. That she thought she was a good psychic would be a nice case study in human psychology, one that I would leave to the experts. Perhaps even a team of experts.
Truth was, I found her hilarious. But not in a way that mocked her. She was genuinely caring. And certainly believed she had special powers.
Maybe I was enabling her, but I didn’t have the heart to tell her what I really thought of her psychic powers. Anyway, while the waitress brought over our mango margaritas, or mangoritas, Bernie was just wrapping up a story.
“...so I told him that I saw him living in Florida at the beach.”
“He must have liked that,” I said.
“He said he burns easily and has to do all he can to stay out of the sun.”
“But you saw him living at the beach,” I said, “in Florida?”
“Right. Working as a, you know, one of those smartly dressed young men who serve you drinks on the sand...”
“A cabana boy?” I laughed. Loudly. I might have even snorted. Some at The Whisper Lounge looked at us and frowned. On second thought, maybe coming to The Whisper Lounge, with its dark mahogany walls and high back booths, wasn’t a good idea.
“Right. A cabana boy. Serving drinks on the beach. Not a care in the world. Living in paradise.”
“What does he do now?” I asked, sipping from my drink, and enjoying the hell out of this conversation. Perhaps too much. Yes, I thought I enabled her. Did that make me a bad person?
“He works in radio. Has a nice voice. Sounded familiar, actually.”
I nodded and tried not to smile. “Would you say he works his dream job now, maybe?”
“Well, maybe,” said Bernie, shrugging her rounded shoulders. “But he’s obviously not happy. Why else did he call me?”
“True,” I said. “Why did he call you?”
“He said he had a question about his love life, wondering if he would ever find ‘the one.’”