She bookmarked the page, sent two pages to the printer, and closed the laptop. Had she sat on the kitchen stool and stared at the photo of her house for over an hour? A moan escaped her lips when she stood and tried to stretch. A sharp pain in her side stopped her. She held still until it resolved to a dull ache. The printer ended its chunka-chunka sound, and she limped down the hall to retrieve her printouts.
She looked at the map and the photo of her house and shook her head in amazement.
Dr. Phelps is going to think I’m nuts.
But she didn't care. What happened to her had been real. He could scoff if he liked, or add another chapter to his research.
She froze as a crazy idea took hold. Butterflies fluttered in her stomach, and her pulse raced. With a grin on her face, she opened her laptop and began another search.
Chapter 3
Courtney Veau
“Courtney Veau?” the nurse called into the waiting area as she examined the patients. Her search halted at Courtney's battered face.
Courtney stood and pulled her backpack over her shoulder. She smiled at the young nurse who directed her to Dr. Phelps's office instead of an examination room.
“Dr. Phelps will be with you in a moment. There is one patient ahead of you,” the nurse informed her as she hurried from the room.
On the wall across from the door, numerous certifications surrounded a large framed medical diploma. To the left, behind a wide mahogany desk, long windows faced a wooded area lush with foliage. Courtney took a seat in one of the leather guest chairs and set her backpack on the other. The place smelled of potpourri and furniture polish; both clean and impersonal. Soothing classical music played through a hidden music system, while doors in the hall open and close. Ticking close at hand caught her attention. The hands on the decorative clock above a low credenza showed 10:45. The doctor was running late.
At 11:20, the doctor opened the door then closed it firmly behind him. He stepped around the guest chairs and took a seat at the desk. “I’m sorry I'm late. It's been a busy morning, and I'm afraid our interview will need to be brief.” He pulled the keyboard tray forward, and with a few keystrokes, brought the computer to life. His eyes moved back and forth as the monitor reflected small squares on his glasses. He reached up and flicked off the monitor, then turned his attention to Courtney. “How are you feeling today?”
“Better. My leg's still sore.” Courtney gave him a slight smile. “The eye looks worse than it feels.”
“You do have quite a shiner. The bruise will fade in a few days. The leg will take longer to heal. However, what I meant was, how do you feel about your near-death experience? You were distraught at the hospital. Have you had time to consider your incident, and view it in a more positive light?” Dr. Phelps folded his hands on his desk and waited for Courtney's response.
“I have. I decided to look for a place I remember from my ... journey. I found the house.” Courtney unzipped her backpack and took out two sheets of paper—a printout photo of the house and the street map of Denver. She sat them on his desk.
The doctor's brow creased as he studied her documents. “This is where you believe you were?” He looked at Courtney over the rim of his glasses.
“That is where I was. That house. This is the road we took from the ranch. We were in a wagon.” Courtney indicated the path on the map, following the road east, ending at the house location notated with a graphic pin.
Dr. Phelps nodded and looked from her fingertip on the map to her face. “What does this mean to you—a photo of an old house and a street map?”
“I was there! It proves what happened to me was real.
“Do you believe the people you encountered are still at this house?”
“Of course not,” Courtney scoffed in irritation. She scooped up her papers, returning them to her backpack. “I was inside that house during the summer of 1875.”
“Miss Veau... Courtney...” Dr. Phelps hesitated, then pulled off his glasses and polished the lenses with a white cloth from his desk drawer. When he finished, he replaced the glasses and gave Courtney a somber look. “I'd hoped you would put your NDE episode into perspective relative to your current life. Your persistent focus on past events, real or imagined, is not conducive to a healthy frame of mind.”
“Dr. Phelps, it's all I have. It proves they existed—that he existed. Merril wasn't imaginary. He was real. They were all real. I know I can find more evidence, I just need to do more research.”
“To what end?”
“What do you mean?”
“How would proof of their existence help you? How does your quest regarding the past allow you to better value your life today? Most NDE patients find a greater appreciation for their life and loved ones.” Dr. Phelps paused, then turned back to his keyboard and brought the monitor to life. “I would like you to make a list of things you value in your life. Your current life.” His eyes flicked to hers, then returned to the monitor. “Try to see how their significance has been enhanced by your recent ordeal. Bring the list with you when you come to your next appointment.”
“I'm not most patients, Dr. Phelps, and my experience was not like theirs.” Courtney heaved a sigh as she stood and pulled her backpack over her shoulder.
Dr. Phelps updated his notes, typing furiously on his keyboard. “You can arrange your appointment with Marcia at the front desk. Tell her I want to see you in two weeks. I'm pleased with your progress and your frame of mind, although I would like you to work on your perspective.”
Courtney stopped at the door, her hand on the knob, and looked back at Dr. Phelps. “I'm surprised you didn't ask if this had something to do with my father.”
Dr. Phelps looked up from the keyboard with a genuine smile on his face. “And I'm surprised you didn't tell me it had something to do with him.”
“You knew who he was?”
He never said a thing.
“Of course. However, you never mentioned your father or suggested an encounter with him, even though seeing a loved one is not unusual during a near-death experience. A father like Russell Veau might evoke a strong sense of the occult in a child. Perhaps his absence from your experience is what's noteworthy.”
“I don't remember my parents,” Courtney chuckled at the irony and shook her head. “I don't remember Nichole's parents either, although she would have known them. Just like now, all I had were other people's memories of them.”
“Now, that is interesting.” Dr. Phelps sat back in his chair and regarded Courtney's battered face. “Let's discuss that aspect of your experience more thoroughly next time we visit.”
Courtney allowed Marcia to make a follow-up appointment, although she planned to cancel. She hadn't told Dr. Phelps about the boarding pass in her backpack. She was determined to find her house and stand in the yard, just as Nichole had with Amy. If she accomplished nothing more than to look up at the second floor, she would consider her time well spent. She also planned to search historical records while in Denver. She was certain she'd find her cattle ranch existed east of Denver in 1875.
Her departure time was mid-afternoon, and her large suitcase was already in the trunk. She drove from Dr. Phelps’s office to the airport and returned the car to the rental agency. She checked the baggage at the counter but kept her backpack with her as she moved through security and boarded the plane.
At thirty thousand feet, she decided she would take a cab to the house as soon as she landed. She couldn't bear to wait. The snow-capped mountains were beautiful and stretched as far as she could see. Her gaze remained fixed on the scenery during the bumpy landing.
When she disembarked, she followed the signs and rode the crowded underground train toward the terminal and baggage claim. After a short wait, a buzzer sounded, and the carousel began to rotate. Her bag was second on the conveyor belt and down the slide. “Excuse me,” she said several times as she edged through the crowd toward her bag. She wrestled her luggage from the carousel, and then stopped for a momen
t to get her bearings. A sign directed her outside to taxi, shuttle and bus transportation.
She left the terminal and tugged her luggage to the taxi line at the second island. The air was sharp and cool, so different from the soft, humid air in Texas. Even the sky was a darker shade of blue. She took a deep breath, remembering the feel of dry air on Nichole's skin.
A woman in an orange vest caught her attention and directed her to a cab. After a quick glance at Courtney's messed up face, the woman offered to take her bag. The cabdriver took the suitcase from the woman and loaded it into the cab's trunk. Courtney slid into the back seat and pulled out her notes on the house.
“Where to?” the black-skinned cabbie asked in a heavy accent as he pulled his door closed.
“Five Points.” Courtney shuffled her paperwork in search of the address, too anxious to depend on her memory.
The driver swung around and stared at her. “I need the street address.”
“Let me find it. 2433 Pence Street.”
The driver typed the address into the small GPS unit on the dashboard then pulled into traffic. The long drive down the airport road was a step back in time, alongside the sharp reality of today. Built east of Denver's suburbs, the ride from the airport toward the city afforded Courtney a view of the wide-open, undeveloped prairie. Much of the landscape was just as she remembered. The metal framing of new hotel construction at each side road exit served as a pointed reminder of the present day.
Courtney focused on the mountains in the distance. They were beautiful, dappled blue and gray with winter white still adorning their peaks. She had never seen them before yet remembered them clearly. She couldn't take her eyes from the majestic view.
The traffic from the airport was light as they merged onto I-70 West. They picked up speed on the interstate then exited onto I-25 South where traffic slowed to a crawl. The cabbie took the Park Avenue exit and turned onto Pence Street. He drove slowly through the residential neighborhood, and then came to a stop at the curb.
Courtney peered out the cab window at the house, mesmerized. She could feel the dopey grin spread across her face as butterflies bounced around in her stomach.
“Fifty-two eighty.” The cab driver met her eyes in the mirror.
“Can you wait for me here for a few minutes? I want to go over to that house.” She pointed through the window. “Then I'll need to find a hotel.”
The driver nodded and picked up his cell phone. “Okay, but the meter stays running.”
Courtney shouldered her backpack and pulled herself out of the cab. She limped across the street to the red brick house with white trim and a white picket fence. Her eyes drank in every detail. The trim was different, and the yard was smaller than she remembered. The covered porch had been rebuilt.
An elderly black woman in a blue cotton day dress and apron swept the front steps. She paused when she noticed Courtney, and the two looked at each other.
“You here to see the room, girlie?” the woman called to Courtney across the yard.
Courtney stifled the urge to look around. It was obvious the woman spoke to her, but Courtney couldn't find an answer to her simple question. Instead, she stared speechless at the woman while the surreal sense of déjà vu played havoc with her mind and froze her tongue.
The thin, gray-haired woman leaned her broom against the porch rail and made her way down the step toward Courtney. “The room's 'round back. It's a one bedroom upstairs. Did you call?” The woman stopped at the fence and looked at the cab. “That yours?”
“Yes.” Courtney looked from the woman to the cab and back again.
The woman studied Courtney's damaged face for a moment, then said, “Pay up and get your things. If you don't want the apartment, you can call another. Them cabbies will steal ya blind.”
Courtney returned to the cab and paid the driver. He retrieved her luggage from the trunk and set it on the pavement. He drove away as she rolled her suitcase across the street and wrestled it up the curb. The old woman held the gate open, and Courtney maneuvered her case into the yard.
“My name's Dessa. I manage the property for the Hawthorns. And you are?”
“Courtney Veau.”
Dessa tipped her head and waved her hand for Courtney to follow her. “It's only a short-term lease, mind ya—month-to-month. The Hawthorns are trying to sell.” Dessa pointed to a FOR SALE sign in the yard as they stepped past and turned onto a narrow sidewalk that ran along the side of the house. A flowering vine, fragrant with white blossoms and green leaves, clung to the wall they passed, trailing up to the roof. As she looked up, the vapor trail of a jet cut the sky overhead.
The small back yard had a weed-filled garden and a detached garage. On the back of the house were two doors. Dessa dug in her apron and pulled out a key ring with several keys on it. Finding the one she wanted, she thrust it in the lock and opened the door.
“One bedroom, one bath. There's an attic access up there too, but that stays locked. Leave your travel case here and go on up, have a look-see.”
Courtney stepped past Dessa onto the landing at the foot of the stairs. Her gaze followed the risers into the darkness at the top. This access was new, probably added during a renovation of the single-family home into small apartments. The stairs she remembered were in the center of the house, between the kitchen and the front parlor.
Dessa reached in and flipped a switch, but nothing happened. “Darned bulb. There's another door at the top, but it's unlocked. Go on, now, and mind your step.”
Courtney's hand trembled as she gripped the railing. Each step stretched the bruises on her left side, and she grimaced with pain. At the midway point, she slipped her backpack off her shoulder and set it down. Then she continued up the stairs.
The upper door hid in darkness across the small landing. The handle turned, but the warped wood refused to budge. Without hesitation, she threw her shoulder against the barrier. The door popped open, and she stumbled inside.
What used to be two bedrooms on the front side of the house was now a tiny apartment. Through the small entry and to the right, a narrow hallway extended past the kitchen. She flipped the switch on the wall, but the corridor remained dark. By the meager light of the dirty the kitchen window, she recognized the attic door at the far end of the hall.
“Unreal,” Courtney murmured.
Everything has changed, but this could be the same hallway.
She crossed the hall and walked into the main room, anxious to examine the front window. In her mind's eye, she saw Amy push the curtain aside to study the frame.
To the right, the bathroom caught her attention. She peeked into the tiny area and found the sink, tub and toilet were old and discolored. Back in the hallway, she moved past the kitchen and faced the attic door.
It has to be locked.
She wrapped her fingers around the tarnished handle. The metal stung like ice in her grip. A chill reached through her and ran down her spine.
“Girlie, you all right up there?”
Courtney gasped and released the handle at the sound of Dessa's voice. She took a step back and stared at the attic door.
How did I stand here, caught in a web of memories?
She ran a cold hand across her forehead and considered the door for another moment before she returned to the landing. She closed the warped door as best she could and took the rail in a firm hold. Going down the stairs hurt much more than it had on her way up. She retrieved her backpack at the halfway point, slung it over her shoulder, and eased her way to the bottom.
“I'll take it.”
Dessa smiled. “I thought you might.”
Courtney left both bags at the base of the stairs and followed Dessa to the front of the house.
The old woman stopped on the porch and turned to Courtney with a chuckle. “I just remembered, I'm plumb out of rent agreements.” She cocked her curly gray head and held up a single shining key for Courtney to see. “Why don't you take this now and we can settle up later?�
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“Sure. Whatever works.” Sunlight flashed off the key as Courtney held out her hand. It dropped into her open palm, and she closed her fist tight. The metal was cold and hard. A slow grin spread across her face as she looked at the silver key.
Unbelievable.
Dessa turned away and picked up her broom. “We've had some utility problems. Nothin' serious, but you might pick up a couple of jugs of water for the commode. The electric comes and goes. If you have gadgets, you'll want to power 'em up good at the coffee shop. It's just two blocks down, along with some eateries. You can walk there, but don't go after dark.” Dessa returned to her sweeping.
“Thank you,” Courtney breathed. The surreal sensation of déjà vu still surrounded her. She backed from the porch to the center of the yard and gazed up at the front of the old home with the eerie sense that Amy was beside her. Her last clear memory as Nichole was Amy opening the curtains and looking out the upstairs window. The curtain in her apartment moved slightly, and she stared hard at the glass. After a moment, she scoffed at her overactive imagination. She smiled at Dessa, held up the key, and followed the walkway to the back of the house.
Pulling her suitcase up the steps was torture. Her leg and hip ached along with the rest of her battered body. Once in the apartment, she laid the case on its side, unpacked a few shirts, hanging them on old wire hangers she found in the closet.
Finished with her clothes, she pulled the laptop from her backpack and looked up bus stops and routes. She found shopping nearby, even a megastore that sold everything she needed.
She took a pain pill and swallowed the last of her bottled water. Since none of the light switches worked, she added a flashlight to her list of things to buy.
On a whim, she phoned Dr. Phelps. No answer. She left an excited voicemail about the house and hung up with a happy “Buh-bye.” She pulled her empty shoulder purse from her backpack and put her phone, debit card, and shiny new key inside.
Passage (Soul of the Witch Book 1) Page 3