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Violetby Elaine R. SnyderCopyright @ 2017 Write Freely All characters in this work are fictional. Any resemblance to actual individuals is accidental and unintentional.Published by Write Freely in 2017Ownership of all written material composed in this work resides with the author, Elaine R. Snyder.AcknowledgementsFirst, I need to thank my wonderful husband for his monumental support of my writing career. From the outset of my choice to work on getting published, he has been my voice of reason and loving encourager, always insisting that regardless of how long it took to get here, he was behind me all the way. I really needed that consistent message of support, as I was often stricken with guilt about spending so much time bent over my keyboard with absolutely no income to show for it. Perhaps over time I will get over that guilt, but guilt did not stop me from continuing to work on what I know I am made to do: write. Let this work be a lesson to all those who live to write, rather than write to live. You can dedicate yourself to a few minutes of writing every day and have a novel to show for it at the end of a year, even if the novel needs lots of work. You will have the words, and that is an accomplishment all on its own.Next, I must express my profound gratitude to my editor, Rich Gardner, who tirelessly read and edited my raw material to help me prepare it for publish. He deserves a great deal of credit for his willingness to be honest in order to help my work become its best, while also being kind and thoughtful in his delivery of criticism or praise. Rich, you really saved my bacon. Thank you for being such an overwhelming boon to my work, and a wonderful supporter as well. I look forward to working with you again. Also a large credit as an influencer of my writing must go out to Scott Waehner, who used to be my partner in crime back in high school where we met, and from the very earliest days of my writing terrible poetry he encouraged my efforts. More recently, Scott completed a challenge which he documented online to write every day for a year. He did that, and at the end of it I felt so inspired I decided to bolster his challenge with one of my own. I completed my year of writing, also keeping track every day online (you may look me up on Facebook if you wish to follow me) and now have six novels to show for it, by keeping my schedule of writing one thousand words Monday through Friday every week. This novel is my second (the first was a bomb and a test run to see what would happen, under a pen name) as a self-publish. I have published a few other things in small arts journals and publications, but I am proud to finally put out a full novel. Thank you, Scott, for your friendship, love, and dedication to the craft. You have been a force of good in my life for as long as I have known you.And now, I shall offer credit to those who had a hand in making the little things work. Little things make the world go ‘round. Marcia Gallineaux-Hubert, thank you for your honest and sharp artistic eye with regard to my cover art. I needed the feedback, and you gave it freely and kindly. Christian Lane, thank you for your expert advice on marketing. Even if I were published by a publishing house, I would have needed the advice you gave, and I am certain that as I charge into the battle of being recognized I will be ever more grateful for the knowledge you imparted. For the consistent encouragement online, and in person at times, thanks to Jen Wolbert, Paul Psathas, Cassidi Huggler-Firth, and Katie Kruppenbach. You all followed my progress and offered enthusiastic encouragement when I deeply needed it. Because you took the time to consistently be there and to remind me of my purpose, I felt buoyed by your support. I am here because of you, in part. Of course, lots of other people went into the fabric of my work here, and so many that it really would be impossible to thank them all. Instead, I shall send out a thank you to all the teachers, friends, and family who ever embraced my writing and went out of your way to tell me you saw good things in it. I love you all for the help, the pushes, the consideration, and the collaboration over the years. It’s been fabulous, and my journey is only beginning.This book is dedicated to Michael Reynolds, my husband, my staunch supporter, and my most trusted advisor in life. It is because of my husband’s incredible encouragement and love that I now call myself a writer. I have always been a writer, but it took love to help me get on the path toward publishing and to remember to use such a title for myself, even in my head.PrologueMy hand reaches for my bear, but I do not recognize my own fingers, palm, or wrist. It looks wrong to me, but I cannot understand why. I grasp my bear with that wrong hand, pulling it close to my chin, the smell of its matted fur familiar and safe. A crashing near my bedroom door makes me jump and then hide under the covers of my bed. While I try to ignore the loud sounds in the hallway, whispering to my bear that everything will be alright, I feel strange. I am not in my own bed. These are not my own sheets. My worry about where I am becomes secondary as soon as I realize the noise in the hall is getting closer to my door. I stop whispering and instead lie as still as possible, hoping my stillness might make me invisible. Suddenly my door crashes open, flooding my room with the thin light from the hall, and bringing with it the keening of my mother who is not my mother.Rather than coming out to see what entered my room, I burrow deeper under the covers and begin to rock my bear, remaining silent. My not-mother cries out sharply after a thudding sound, followed by a snap. I hear her begging, “Please, please, please, no…” over and over while I rock and rock. I want to pull the blankets off my head, but my body will not do it. The sickening cries of my not-mother make me cry, too, even though my eyes are shut tight and I make no noise. A shifting of the floorboards and my not-mother crying out the single word, “No!” is my only warning before the blankets are torn from my bed, and I am grasped by my leg. In the partial light, my eyes do not adjust quickly enough to see what is happening. All I know is the sudden pain in my head and a hot rushing of fluid down my scalp. In my mind I feel strangely as if I am two people at once, as terror engulfs both sides of me. How can I be myself but be someone else? The pain charges through my body, causing me to drop my bear, which strangely disturbs me more than the pain, and I do not understand why. More than anything in the world, I want not to be here. I want to be in my own bed, under my own sheets, holding my own bear. Another shock of pain shoots down my leg, and then I am sailing through the air. I close my eyes against the sound of my not-mother’s raw and broken voice, wishing with all my heart to be anywhere but here. Please, God, anywhere but here. Please. Please. Please. While I pray, I realize I am hearing myself screaming to God to help me, and then my mother is hugging me close and rocking me and telling me everything is okay. I cry and cry, scared beyond anything I can imagine, my body shaking uncontrollably. “Violet, it’s okay, honey. You’re safe. It was only a dream,” my mother says, and I can hear she is crying, too. After the tears finally drain me and my shaking stops, my mother asks me to tell her what I dreamed. I told her what I saw and felt, and that I was scared about feeling like I wasn’t myself. My mother assured me it was only a dream, and that I would be safe now. Though I believed her at the time, she was wrong. It wasn’t a dream. It was real.Chapter !I hate it when I wake up in the middle of the night for no good reason. Darn night sweats. I roll onto my side so I can sit up and go to the bathroom, and then I freeze. A figure stands at the end of my bed, and my insides fill with a cold thrill of fear. At first I am stunned into motionlessness, paralyzed. Then I realize I should do something. I remember my husband lies sleeping next to me, a fact forgotten in my astonishment, so I reach over to prod him, barely breathing. Greg stirs groggily, and I prod him again, more forcefully this time.“What is it?” he says, sitting up straight as a rod.“Somebody’s here, in the room!” I say, half whispering, and look back to the end of the bed where I saw the figure. As I am noticing the figure has gone, Greg reaches under his side of the bed for his pistol. Before I can say anything, Greg turns on the light, gun in hand, and begins looking around the room. “Where is this person, Vi?”“I don’t know. There was someone standing over the bed, but now they’re gone.” Greg goes out into the hall in his boxers, wanders around the house checking the obvious entry points for a break-in, but I know he won’t find anything. I feel foolish suddenly, knowing I didn’t actually see a person here. More visions. Again. Greg returns to the bedroom and throws his hands in the air, then snapping the safety back on the gun.“Nobody here now. Are you sure you saw a person in here?” I hang my head in response to Greg’s question.“Sorry, babe. Pretty sure it was just a vision.”“Oh, well that’s better than having some creeper in the bedroom.”“Yeah, but I’m sorry I didn’t realize it until after I woke you.”“I’m used to it. I can go back to sleep,” he says, shoving the gun back under the mattress. Greg falls heavily back down onto the bed, sighing deeply, and pulls the blankets up to his waist. It never ceases to amaze me that my lumber jack husband can sleep with so little covering, no matter how much chest hair he has. I sit with the blankets pulled up under my neck, still feeling cold from the vision, especially with damp pajamas from the night sweats. Greg shuts off the light and pulls me down into the crook of his arm.“Tell me what you saw,” he says, kissing my hair.“It was a figure standing over the bed. That’s it. I didn’t see a face or anything, just felt scared. Honestly, I don’t even know if the fear was because I thought I saw a person here, or because it was part of the vision.”“Well, it’s over now, and you’re safe here. Go back to sleep.”“Yeah, hopefully I can sleep. I’m awake now.”“Are you, now?”“It was scary.”“Right. Well, maybe I can make you feel better,” he says, pulling me closer. He kisses me deeply, turning the cold feeling into warm desire.“Even after all these years, you still give me a gooey center,” I say, laughing. Greg laughs, too, and then he attacks me with gusto, which makes me squeal. He laughs again, and soon my vision is nothing more than a momentary upset.***In the morning I wake late, which always makes the rest of my day terrible. I have to scramble to get the kids up and out of bed so I can leave for work knowing they are ready to go to school. We used to drive together in the mornings, when my kids were both still in grade school, but then they got old enough to want to walk with friends, and now I drive alone. I feel sad about it once in a while, knowing my days of having them in the house with me are numbered, and I don’t want to rush them off to college. I just know I’ll be one of those empty nest mothers who can’t figure out what to do with herself after the kids leave.“Ow! Rat-fink curling iron! Why on earth do I bother?” I huff to my reflection. No matter how many times I’ve curled my hair over the years, I still manage to burn myself almost every day. “Katie! Daniel! You two had better be out of bed and eating a bowl of cereal!”“We are, mom! Relax!” Daniel replies for both kids from the TV room. I can see the eye roll all the way up the stairs and around the corner.“You know I don’t like it when you eat in front of the TV, Daniel. Please go sit at the table.” I hear a disgruntled sound issue from downstairs, then several thumps of unhappy feet stomping to the table. “It’s not like you can’t see the TV from the table. Jeez. How hard is it to remember that?” I say the last to myself, muttering in annoyance. Though I do get frustrated, I know I’ll miss all this one day. Once my hair looks less frightening, I throw my jacket over my blouse while shoving my feet into my dress shoes. As ever, it is in this moment that my dog, Radar, decides he needs to run past me in the hall, rubbing himself across the entire front of my black pants. Ever been furred by a mountain dog? No? Trust me, it’s one of those things in life most people can probably do without experiencing. Mountain dogs are big enough to be ponies, and they have hair that’s more like a shag carpet than a fur coat. It will take too long to clean the fur off my pants. I don’t have half an hour.Back to the closet, where I think I have another pair of black pants, but of course the pair I was wearing are my favorite. Of course. I toss them in the dirty laundry, and yank the other pair out, wrinkles and all. “Fudge nuggets!” I curse. “Well, I just have to look less than wonderful today. Katie! Daniel! I need to hear the patter of feet heading to the shower!” Daniel has been skiving off first period lately, so I have to pressure him to get ready on time.“We’re coming, Mom! Don’t have a coronary!” says Katie as she comes up the stairs. Even having rolled out of bed, she is a willowy beauty, almost a Tolkienesque elven quality about her graceful, thin frame, and creamy skin like alabaster against the dark red of her hair. I constantly beat boys away from her with a stick. Greg keeps threatening to bring home his over-sized chainsaw from work. I am almost on board with that. She saunters to the bathroom at what seems to me an agonizingly slow pace, and I can hear Daniel putting his dishes into the dishwasher downstairs.“Thank you for taking care of the dishes, Daniel!”“You’re welcome, Mom! Can we please stop yelling everything to each other?” In response, I pull out my cell phone and call his number. It rings, and once again I can envision his eye roll when he answers. “Yes, Mom?”“Trying to give you what you asked for, that’s all,” I say into the phone. “Is your bag packed for school?”“Yes, Mom, just like it is every other day you ask me.”“It’s my job to make sure…”“That I am at school on time, I know.”“Ok, well your sister is in the shower. As soon as she’s out…”“I will be ready to get in. Yes, I will, Mom. Don’t worry. I won’t miss first period today. I promise.”“Ok, I’m coming downstairs now, so I’m hanging up.”“Bye.” I hit the red “end call” button on my phone and throw it into my bag. A last check in the mirror tells me the outfit is definitely less wonderful than I want it to be, but I have no time to change. As I turn away from the mirror, a dark swish of fabric passes over the bottom corner of the reflection, which startles me into turning around. I stand in complete stillness for a moment, looking around me in the hallway, but no one is there. Looking back in the mirror, I see nothing there, either. My reflection belongs to me, a frumpy middle-aged woman with mousy brown shoulder-length hair, a pale face with pointed chin, 20 extra pounds around my middle, knock-kneed, somewhat short, and all contrasted with my one striking feature: my violet eyes.***Much later in the day, I find myself picking up the toys left out after our morning play time, a mundane task that settles my nerves after all the buzz of the busy classroom. Even though I only have 15 students, first graders are a very demanding crowd. As I reach for a puzzle piece on the floor, I feel a sensation of dread hit me, and then the puzzle piece is no longer in my reach. I watch a gnarled hand snatch it from the carpet where I sit, and my heart flutters nervously. The puzzle piece ascends with the hand, followed by a string of words I do not hear. Only the tone of voice clearly rings in my ears, angry and shrill, an older woman. Shortly the puzzle piece re-enters my sight, this time so quickly I don’t have time to fall back before it is jammed into my mouth brutally, forced so far back into my mouth that I gag. My body rebels, and I squirm, but a hand behind my head holds me in an iron grip. I cannot escape. Vomit erupts from my throat, followed by more shrill scolding, and then I am slapped into the mess of vomit on the carpet, my face smearing into the contents of my stomach, and I gag again….Breathing hard and shaking, I snap out of the vision. The offending puzzle piece still gripped in my hand, I drop it onto the wooden board where it belongs, feeling sick. The helplessness felt by the child in my vision remains like a camera flash after a picture. My hands still shaking, I stand, looking down at the puzzle piece with a frown. I know what will most likely follow this vision, and I do not relish the thought.***At dinner, we usually talk animatedly about anecdotes of our days, tell jokes we heard, or share something new we learned. Greg regales us with a practical joke he played on his partner, Donnie, but my mind wanders back to the vision I had earlier at work. I can’t get the horror off my mind, and I have struggled all day with an upset stomach. Lunch did not sit well, and now I push dinner around on my plate instead of eating. Greg startles me with his thunderous laugh, and I fall back into the present, knowing I missed the joke. Since I’m not laughing along with the kids, Greg looks at me inquisitively, noticing my plate.“Everything ok, Vi? You seem distracted today,” he says softly. The kids still chortle from Greg’s story, shaking their heads while they dig back into their meal.“I’m fine, just a tough day, that’s all.”“You sure that’s all it is, hon? You look upset.”“We can talk about it later. I think I need some dessert.” I take my plate to the kitchen, dumping the whole thing down the garbage disposal before Greg can protest and eat it for me, his usual response when I don’t want to finish a meal. Though he’s a large, fit man, he doesn’t need any extra food, a fact evident in observing his slight paunch.“Hey, I would’ve eaten that,” he says, coming into the room.“I know, but you don’t need it, and I need dessert more than I need this.” I rinse my plate and put my dishes in the dishwasher, then head for the freezer. I bought two cartons of espresso chip ice cream at the store yesterday, and a bowl of that is exactly what I need. “Anyone else want ice cream?” I yell from the kitchen to the kids in the dining room. Daniel comes into the kitchen with his empty plate.“I thought we were going to stop yelling everything,” he says as he rinses his plate.“Sorry, I forgot. Keep reminding me, and I’ll remember. Want some ice cream?”“Do we have chocolate sauce?”“I don’t know. Take a look in the fridge. I’ll get the ice cream scooped while you look. If we don’t have any, Katie can make some of her homemade sauce.”“What can I do?” Katie says as she comes into the room.“If we can’t find chocolate sauce for the ice cream, will you make some?” I ask.“There’s sauce in the cupboard. I saw it the other day,” she says. “I’ll get it heated up in the microwave.” Daniel sits on the stool by the kitchen island while Katie rustles up the chocolate sauce. Greg begins filling one side of the sink with dish water to scrub the pans from dinner, and I fill bowls with ice cream. Ah, I love these moments. My life is exactly as I want it in these inane instants of normalcy. My heart is full, and I couldn’t ask for anything more.“I love you guys,” I say. Greg and my kids turn to look at me, and they all smile back.“We love you, too,” they say, each at slightly different moments, so it feels like a chorus of responses. These times are brilliant and sweet, and make the darkness of the other aspects of my life fall away. Thank heaven for my family.***Greg and I sit next to each other in bed later, keeping our routine of reading before sleep. I look forward to this time of day, when I get to snuggle under the covers with a good novel, next to my favorite person in the world. Nothing could be better to me on most days, but I am still struggling with my vision, and I am too distracted to absorb the story. I keep reading the same passage, and have no idea what it says.“Want to talk about it now?” Greg asks softly. I put my book down on my lap.“I had a vision at work today.”“A bad one?”“One of the worst. It was a child, and it was horrible. I can’t get it out of my head.”“Any idea why you might be seeing these images?”“I don’t know. You know how this usually works; maybe I find out why I’m having the visions, and maybe they just go away. I kind of hope these just go away. I don’t want any part of what I saw.” Greg takes my hand in his, running his rough thumb over the back of my hand. “Want to tell me about it?”“I don’t know—it was awful, Greg. The child was sitting on the floor, playing with a puzzle, and then an old woman picked up a puzzle piece. She yelled at the child, then jammed the puzzle piece into the child’s mouth and made the kid gag and vomit. After this poor baby vomits, she yells again, shoving…shoving the child’s face into it. That’s where I came out of it.”“That does sound awful. I’m sorry, honey. I wish I could take this away for you.”“I know, but it’s my burden, and I’ll handle it. I just hope this doesn’t have to go on very long.” Greg kisses me, and then wraps me in his arms. I am safe here, for now.***Once again, I wake to a figure standing over the bed. This time I decide not to wake Greg, but instead wait to see what the figure does. As with last night, my belly fills with cold fear, and I sense a malevolence from the figure, a desire to do evil. It stands unmoving, appearing as a shadow with dimension, as if the color of a human body has been erased to leave only darkness behind. I decide to lie in bed to wait, unmoving, to see if it will attempt any action. The quiet of the house allows the ambient sounds within to travel, the sounds of night comforting in their normalcy: the grandfather clock ticking distantly from the dining room, Greg’s deep breaths next to me, the creaking as the house shifts and settles, the furnace kicking on in the basement. As these sounds of my home surround me, I wait, watching the figure leaning over my bed expectantly. I watch, wondering if it will do anything to me, but it waits, too. The fear in my belly begins to dissipate without any action to keep it fueled, and even with the threatening darkness over the bed, I begin to feel sleepy again. Before I know it, I am waking to NPR on my clock radio, and a note from my husband. It reads: “I love you, Violet. Have a wonderful day. Text me later—maybe we can do lunch together.”As requested, I text Greg near my lunch time, but instead of a response from my phone, I see Greg standing outside my classroom door, a bunch of flowers in his hand. I can’t help but beam at him, and all my students turn around to look at the door. As children will, several start giggling because he’s making faces through the window. He comes into the room with the flowers, and hands them to me in front of the kids. “Thank you!” I say, and some of the kids clap. Greg waves at the class.“Hi, kids! Having a good day?”“Yeees!” they say in response. “Is everyone ready for lunch?”“We have to finish our math sheets first,” says Colby, one of my more outgoing students.“Oh, well I’ll be quiet until you finish, then,” Greg says. He moves over to my desk area, which is a disaster today. I am not usually very neat, but the mess is worse than usual.“This is a nice surprise. How are you able to get out of work this afternoon?” I ask, whispering.“I had some comp time coming, and had to use it this week or lose it.”“Wow. Where do you want to go?”“Mrs. Sumner, it’s time to get ready for lunch now,” says Weston, my class leader for the day.“You’re right, Weston. Go ahead and start calling rows, please.” He heads to the front of the room and waits until the students have all put their papers away and sit with their hands folded on the desks. When everyone is ready, Weston calls the rows in order. My students know the drill by now, since we are into November, and they are a good group this year; chemistry in this class is better than the classes I had in the last two years. Once they line up, I go to the door and turn off the lights, waiting until I see all the students are quiet and ready to leave. Weston takes his place at the front of the line, and I tell him he can start walking. After taking the class to lunch, I return to Greg in my classroom. He took the liberty of putting my flowers in a vase of water on my desk.“Thank you, sweetie. So, where shall we eat?” I say.“You decide. What are you in the mood for?”“Chinese?”“Do you want to eat there, or should we call the order in?”“Let’s eat there. I have a prep after lunch today, so if I’m late it will be less disastrous.”“Very good, then. Shall we?”***At the restaurant, we are seated right away, since my lunch period is early and the usual lunch crowd hasn’t arrived yet. I order my favorite, egg foo yung with broccoli, which comes within minutes. Greg feasts on a huge platter of spicy breaded chicken covered in brown sauce and those tiny peppers that set my mouth on fire. Before he even takes a bite of the chicken, he puts one of the peppers into his mouth, making sounds of happiness as he chews. If that were me, I would have turned some awful shade of purple and then would have needed a tank of water to drink.“Is this a better day than yesterday?” he asks, still chewing.“I think so. My kids are so great this year; it feels like a gift from God. I really couldn’t ask for a better group of students.”“I’m glad you finally have a break. Those kids last year wore you out.”“I know. I don’t miss many students from that group. How about your day? Did you have to work this morning?”“I did. But because I worked some extra hours last week, Kevin told me I had to subtract this week to even it out—you know how that goes. Anyway, I worked through my usual lunch, and then knocked off the last three hours of the day. I thought you could use some distraction.”“Even on good days, I can use distraction. I’m glad you came to get me. This is nice.”“Any more visions?”“Not of the child, but I did have a strange visitor again last night.”“The same thing as when you woke me up?”“Yeah, but this time I just waited to see what it would do.”“And?”“Nothing. I felt the same fear, as if the figure wanted to do something evil, but it just stood there over the bed. I finally fell asleep.”“With the creeper standing over the bed?”“Yep. It wasn’t doing anything, and I got tired. It wasn’t on purpose, but nothing happened anyway.”“Wow, I don’t know how you do it, Vi. That stuff would make me an unhappy camper.”“Well, I don’t know how you cut down trees for a living. That would make me a nervous wreck.”“What, you don’t like the idea of being crushed by lumber falling from the sky?”“Not really.”“I think you’d make a great lumberjack. You look cute in your overalls and muck boots.”“Yes, because one only needs overalls and muck boots to be qualified for cutting down trees.”“It’s called forest management these days, and I’m pretty sure if you showed up on a job site looking ready to work, they’d give you equipment without questions.”“Are you still short-handed on your team?”“Have been for months. Can’t find anyone reliable to stick with it.”“It’s the cursed position. That’s why you can’t find anyone.”“Ain’t that the truth. Hell, we’ve had three guys hurt doing that job. It’s strange how you get a string of injuries like that. Happens more than most of us like to admit.”“I think it’s just people getting worried, and they lose focus and get hurt.”“Or we have a ghost in the machines.” Greg winks at me.“Do you think I should come down and see if I have any visions?”“Couldn’t hurt, but it would probably spook the guys. They’re superstitious.” We eat without talking for a few minutes, in my case mostly so I get to eat before having to go back to school. Whenever I leave for lunch I always feel hurried. Once my plate is nearly empty, I look up at Greg, who mops up his sauce with fried noodles.“Well, I don’t know about you, but I’m stuffed. I think we should hit the road so I can get back on time.”“Time flies when you’re having fun.”***Days go by uneventfully, no visions, no disasters, until I listen to a message left on my answering machine. “Mrs. Sumner, this is Dottie Blanchard at the Home Preservation Society. Could you please give me a call at your earliest convenience? I was given your contact information by Patty Goddard, who says you might be able to offer us a service. We will gladly pay for your time. My number is 372-6657, and you can reach me between 8am and 5pm, Monday through Friday. Thank you.”Dottie Blanchard? What service could I possibly offer her? I shake my head and dial the number before I forget it. The phone rings twice, and then I hear the same voice I heard on my machine at the end of the line.“Home Preservation Society. This is Dottie. How may I help you?”“Hi, Dottie, this is Violet Sumner. I just got the message you left me today.”“Oh, Mrs. Sumner! I am so glad you called. Yes, Patty was insistent that I call you, said you were ever so helpful finding her lost dog, thought you might be able to help us out here at the office. We seem to be having problems with a, well, I’m embarrassed to even say it out loud to a perfect stranger, but we seem to have a…poltergeist.”“Do you? Gosh, that sounds frightening, though I’m not sure I can really help you with that.”“Oh, Patty said you were definitely the person to call, said you were just wonderful at feeling things out, using your psychic powers to help people.”“Jeepers, Dottie, that’s, um, very kind of you, but I don’t really do that sort of thing purposefully. I mean, I only have those types of experiences once in a while, and they just happen to me. I don’t usually pick who I will see in a vision. And I certainly don’t have any affinity with dead people or ghosts.”“Well, to be truthful, Mrs. Sumner, I am at the end of my rope here. I understand you may be unsure about the situation, and I apologize if I made you in any way uncomfortable, but I would absolutely adore it if you could come to my office and just take a little peek anyway. I am prepared to pay you for your time.”“I don’t charge for my time, Dottie, but I really doubt I could help.”“Really, I would be so very thankful if you could give it a try. I just don’t know what else to do.” Dottie sounds desperate, wheedling almost in her last plea, and I am a pushover.“Alright, I suppose it can’t hurt to come down to your office. Like I said, though, I don’t think it will do any good. This sort of thing happens to me; I don’t pick the visions I will see.”“Oh, my dear, I am so happy you’re humoring me. Thank you so very much. I promise we will pay you handsomely, no matter how long it takes. How soon can you come?”“I have a few minutes now, before I have to cook dinner. Is this a good time?”“No time like the present. Do you know where the office is located?”“I do, and I am only a few minutes away. I can be there shortly.”“Wonderful! Ta-ta, my dear. See you soon!” Dottie hangs up so fast I have to pull my phone away from my ear to save my eardrum. “What have I just gotten myself into?” I leave a note for Greg and the kids, letting them know where I am, and head to my minivan. At some point in my life I totally hopped on the mommy bandwagon, and I didn’t even notice until this moment how I became completely stereotypical. Here I am, about to drive my beige minivan, wearing a navy blue outfit, carrying a purse full of junk for my kids, I’m an elementary school teacher, I’m on the PTA, I go to all my kids’ sports activities and concerts, and I bake. I am a stereotype. How pathetic. What happened to being a hippie who believed in sit-ins and world peace? Maybe it’s time to do something about that, but it will have to wait until I visit this Dottie Blanchard.The short car ride to the Preservation Society building reminded me that I need to stop at the store for bread on the way home, and then I find myself on the doorstep of the immense Victorian marvel that once was the home of a movie star I can’t name. The house stands on a corner of one of the designated historic neighborhoods in town, and still boasts its original wood clapboards, wrought iron fence, and gorgeous leaded-glass windows. On the door a sign posts the hours, and that visitors are welcome to enter. I open the door into the vast foyer which displays a grand staircase that winds upward in a sweep of finely carved, honey-colored oak. The ceiling rises up to the second floor here, and a large round table in the center of the room shows off a gorgeous flower arrangement. I could certainly see a movie star living here, if that rumor is even true. Not seeing anyone in the entryway, I walk farther into the room, peering into doorways that look more like time portals. All the furnishings look true to the time period of the home, mid to late 1800s, and true to the style. Lots of carved wood dripping with gingerbread, lace, velvet, and satin. Lots of curtains, lots of color, lots of wallpaper and area carpets from the orient. Though I admire the beauty of the home, I would be afraid to live in a place so nice. How could you sit on the furniture without worrying it will be ruined?As I am about to step into what looks like a sitting room, a woman appears from behind a screen standing in the corner of the foyer. She seems prim with her white hair neatly pulled into a bun atop her head, a pink dress with frilly lace and sensible pumps, costume jewelry chosen to match just so. The woman snappily walks across the foyer with the confidence of one who knows her business and takes no nonsense.“May I help you?” she asks politely, noting that I am dreadfully close to a fringed floor lamp. I step back from the lamp to answer.“Yes, I’m Violet Sumner. I’m here to see Dottie Blanchard?”“Oh, Mrs. Sumner! It’s lovely to meet you in person. I’m Dottie.” Dottie extends her hand to shake, and I am surprised by the strength in her elderly hand.“Please, call me Violet.”“Of course. Thank you for coming so quickly. I do appreciate your willingness to help.”“Sure. Can you tell me more about why you called?”“Yes, well, it all started with a bump in the night, so to speak. I occasionally work late to catch up on paperwork, and one night a few months ago I was sitting at my desk when I heard a loud thump from upstairs. Being here alone, I was anxious about going upstairs to see what it was, so I called Mr. Applewhite, one of my employees, to come take a look. It was terrible being here alone for so long, waiting for him to arrive, I tell you, but when he went upstairs to look, it was only the antique iron on the floor. No one was here, and we both thought it had just fallen because someone may have placed it too close to the edge of the table.“And then other strange things started happening. I kept finding the iron on the floor when I arrived in the morning, so often that it became a daily ritual to go upstairs to see if it had fallen again. I also began finding odd things like a sewing kit strewn about one of the bedrooms, the mop and bucket overturned in the closet, the oven open in the kitchen. We never see anyone, and it always happens at night, thus we come to work in the morning to find whatever has been disturbed. I am so upset by all this that I find I am no longer able to stay here at night anymore, for fear that whatever is doing this may become angry with me. I don’t know what to do.”“I see. Did you call the police at all?”“Of course! That was my first instinct after we had three or four things moved in the night. I thought perhaps it was young rascals breaking in to play practical jokes.”“And what did the police find?”“Nothing. They searched the house from top to bottom to find out where someone might be getting in, but this house is locked and has alarms on all the windows and doors. There isn’t any way a person can get into the house without setting off the alarms.”“But when you’re here, can’t someone just walk in the front door?”“I suppose, but I always know when a person comes in because the door opening rings a bell in my office. I also lock the door when business hours are over.”“Still, I wonder if someone could find a way to sneak into the house during business hours and stay hidden while the house is searched. That is the most likely explanation, especially if you haven’t seen anything.”“Even so, I would very much appreciate it if you could wander the house and see if you notice anything. It would set my mind at ease.”“I guess it can’t hurt, but I need to warn you that there’s a good chance I won’t have any answers for you when I’m done.”“I still appreciate your effort, nonetheless, Violet. Your eyes are stunning, by the way. Is that how your parents arrived at your lovely name?”“Thank you, and it is. I was actually named Jennifer when I was born, and then my eye color came in. When my mother saw the color turn, she wanted to name me Elizabeth, after Elizabeth Taylor, but my dad thought it would be more unique to name me after the color of my eyes.”“How fascinating! And what a story it would have made to be named after an actress with the same eye color, but your name is far more appropriate for you, I think. Your parents must be delightful people.”“They are, thank you. So, I’m going to take a look around. I won’t touch anything….”“Feel free to wander into any area of the house, and you are welcome to touch items that aren’t under glass or roped off. Anything else is less precious, and we handle those things for cleaning all the time.”“Okay, thanks. Will you be in your office?”“Yes, I will. It’s behind the screen, here. I will leave my door open, so come right in when you’re finished.”“Alright. See you in a few minutes.” Dottie smiles and walks snappily back to her office, which must be under the stairs, since there isn’t any other space available behind the screen. I suddenly think of Harry Potter and his cupboard under the stairs, and am hit with a pang of grief for the long-gone days when I read to my kids at bedtime. We read all the Harry Potter books together over a couple of years, every night on my bed before my kids went to sleep. I cherished that ritual, and miss snuggling with my little ones while we discovered stories together, or while I shared stories I treasured when I was young. Sigh. There will be grandchildren one day.I decide to start with the offending iron, apparently located in one of the bedrooms upstairs, and ascend the gorgeous glowing staircase. The handrail slides under my hand like smooth gloss, and my feet make little sound on the sturdy treads. Upstairs opens to a long slender room, from which several doors branch into larger rooms. A chandelier dripping with crystal dangles in the center of the hallway, throwing facets of light into all the corners. As I walk past the doorways, I look inside each one to spot the iron, mildly fascinated by the furnishings. Every room has its own color scheme, and only some of them are for sleeping. One room is a parlor, another an office/library, yet another has nothing more than a chaise longue in the center of the room with a tiny round table perched next to it. As I walk past this last room, a slithering sensation—not like a snake, but more like a tendril of smoke—shocks me into stopping at the open door. Over the course of my middle-aged life I have felt many odd things, considering I am a psychic of sorts, but what I felt a moment ago is new. I stand in the doorway to wait for more, but nothing more comes, so I venture into the room. For some reason, I remember suddenly that I must be in what was termed the “fainting” room, a Victorian invention for women to escape company so they could loosen their corsets for a while. I can’t imagine having to wear a corset all day; if I were subject to such torture, I would want a fainting room, too. Though I do not sense any presence here—a fact which means nothing, really, since I do not generally communicate with the dead—the aura of the room in general feels flat, empty, void of what one might usually feel in a space that has been lived in for generations, or at least I notice a sense of life in old homes, and I do not sense it in this space. I make a mental note that the fainting room seems off, and move on to search for the iron again. Walking down the hallway, I notice my feet creaking the boards beneath, the echo of the cavernous space, and my heart thumping somewhat louder than usual in my chest. Maybe because I read too many horror novels in my youth, Victorian homes often give me the creeps. They model the backdrop for too many frightening gothic stories, and walking through this house alone jumps all those lurid tales into the front of my thoughts, tainting my ability to focus on what I feel. I finally locate the iron, placed flat atop a board with a cream-colored crinoline, as if a person were here ironing. Though Dottie insisted that she repeatedly finds it on the floor, I find it exactly where it should be. The room contains a sleigh-style bed which seems incredibly short to me, even though I am not a tall person, and I am reminded by seeing it that people even a century ago were much shorter than they are now. A lovely quilt dons the mattress, quaintly sewn in blue and white shades of material and embellished with beautifully ornate snowflakes. The quilt matches the rest of the blue décor in the room: blue-striped wallpaper, a blue cushion on the wooden chair in the corner, a blue and white rag rug, and blue satin curtains hung from the two windows. The only other furniture in the room is a dark-stained oak armoire. For some reason, I am drawn to touch the quilt, just to see if the snowflakes feel as silky as they appear. As I cross the room, raising my hand to touch the fabric, the dark figure once again looms over me from the end of the bed. The sudden and unexpected appearance, the horror stories in my thoughts, wandering an unfamiliar house alone at twilight, all crashed over me in a wave of unusual fear. Normally I am not afraid of my visions, at least not stunned into paralyzing fear. I might feel unsettled or upset by what I see or feel, but never afraid. Yet I cannot help falling to my knees and crying out softly, buried in an overwhelming urge to leave. Nothing would make me happier than to leave this house and never return. So strong is the urge, I nearly succumb, but stop myself with deep breaths, closing my eyes to the figure standing so close. I know it cannot hurt me, not really. It is a projection only, even if it presses fear into my flesh, even if my body runs cold, it is only a projection, a thought. I am safe inside of myself, I must remember. This cannot touch me unless I allow it.I open my eyes to the figure bent nearly over me, as if in the midst of taking a closer look, and I once again am stricken with unsettling fear. As if I have no control over my body, I scramble backward in a crab crawl until I bump into the armoire. While I move away, the figure stands upright again, watching me. With the small distance between us, I unclench myself, attempting to relax. I am so surprised at myself that it doesn’t occur to me there is still another person in the house, and then I am startled into another yelp of fear when Dottie says my name from the doorway.“Oh, Dottie, I’m sorry. You startled me!”“I’m ever so sorry, my dear. Are you alright?”“Yes, of course. I saw something, is all.” As I say the words, I look at the spot where the figure stood only seconds ago, but it’s gone. I hustle to get to my feet again, keenly aware of this snazzily dressed woman watching me like a hawk.“Did you?! I just knew you would. What was it? A woman? I think it’s a woman.”“I’m not sure, Dottie. I only saw a figure, like a shadow. I don’t know if it has a gender.”“No gender? My goodness. I didn’t know ghosts could be genderless.”“As I said before, I don’t have any affinity with the dead, so I don’t know how that sort of thing works, usually. But I definitely saw something.”“Can you tell me anything about it?”“Not yet. I don’t know if what I saw has to do with this house, or with something completely unrelated, to be honest. I may need to come back again to find out. Would that be okay?”“Darling, you tell me when your schedule is open, and I will make certain the house is yours. If we can solve this mystery, I will be very grateful.”“Even if I can solve the mystery, you may not be grateful, Dottie. I might not be able to make it leave.”“Leave? Oh, no, my dear. I don’t want it to leave. I only want to know if the ghost used to live here, and whether or not it means us harm. It makes for great publicity to have a resident ghost!”***“Can you believe that? A ‘resident ghost,’ she says, as if I should have known all along that she expected to bank on the damn thing.” I am angrily slapping grilled cheese sandwiches over on the griddle, the dinner I quickly threw together with canned soup, since I didn’t have time to actually cook real food when I got home so late. I am probably the only person who actually cares that the dinner is what I consider crap food, but I am still angry that I wasted my time away from home for such a foolish reason. Greg sits on a stool at the island, helping to arrange fresh veggies and dip for me. At least we’ll have one thing that isn’t artery-clogging for dinner.“But she said she would pay you, right?”“Yes, and she insisted I take a check for $100 before I left, even though I told her I wouldn’t be going back.”“Why not? You said you were only there for about half an hour or 45 minutes, and you made a cool one hundred. Why not go back and make some extra money for the gift kitty?” The “gift kitty” is our fund for Christmas and birthday gifts, a tradition Greg and I started when the kids were still toddling around. It began with loose change we saved in a jar, just to be sure some money was set aside to offset the expense of presents, and then we started putting in money we made on extra projects outside of our regular work. After the kids learned about the gift kitty, they started contributing money, too, and now it gets sizable enough to take rather lavish vacations every few years, once even taking a cruise. I sigh.“I could, but it seems dirty to me, taking money for seeing visions, like I’m some sort of cheap gypsy with a crystal ball at the fair.”“Babe, you are not cheap. And lots of people take money for their psychic abilities. Look at that lady on the TV show, Medium, the woman who works with the police department in Arizona. And what about that John Edwards who talks to dead people?”“Greg, that’s not the same. I don’t have any control over what I see. I just don’t feel right taking money for it.”“I know, but if this Dottie lady wants to pay you so you can find out more about the figure that scared the crap out of you today, is that such a bad thing?”“I don’t know, Greg. I need to think about it. KIDS! DINNER!” and then I smack the countertop with my hand. “Crap, I totally forgot Daniel told me no more yelling.”Chapter @As is so typical of my life, I am sleepless the night before an important day at work: parent-teacher conferences. If ever there was a day to be on the ball, it’s that day. Parents can sniff out the littlest lapse in attention, will feel the ultimate betrayal at a tiny yawn, or call a teacher out for seeming at all unsure about something. Never mind that the conference day lasts much longer than a typical work day, or that teachers are often sacrificing dinner to meet with parents. No, our lives mean nothing, because we all know teachers have so much vacation time it’s like we don’t even work. And with that train of thought, I only feel more frustrated. There’s no point in staying in bed if I know I can’t sleep, so I go downstairs with my book and settle onto the couch under a blanket.Radar follows me from the bedroom, as he always does. I believe he senses my anxiety and feels some doggy need to protect me, so he shadows me to every room when I get up in the night. My problem sleeping has gotten much worse in the last couple of years, a sign of my hormones kicking into high gear before they kick the bucket. Such fun. Since I could use the company, I invite Radar onto the couch with me, a gesture he dearly appreciates. Any dog allowed on the bed or couch is a happy dog. I dig into my novel, and before I know it, my eyes droop closed.Katie calls for me, and I dash to the sound of her voice. She sounds hurt or scared, a sound a mother never wants to hear in the voice of her child. Again she calls, more frantically, and I speed my running to leap up the stairs so quickly I can hardly believe I did it. Momentarily I wonder where Greg is, but I can’t worry about that now. “Coming, Katie! What’s wrong?”“Mom! Please! I can’t breathe!” My feet carry me so fast they seem winged, and I reach the door to her room in record time. Katie sits upright in her bed, clutching at her chest, crying and coughing.“Katie, I’m here. Tell me how this happened.”“I…don’t…know. I woke up….and couldn’t…breathe!” She splutters and cries, and I feel terrible for her.“I know you’re scared, honey, but let me look at you.” I reach for her hand, but it seems too small to belong to Katie, as if her hand shrank down to child-size again. In alarm, I look at her face to make sure I’m not seeing things, and then she’s vomiting onto her lap. To avoid being hit, I get up, making a grab for Katie’s trash can. When I go to push the can under her face, I realize Katie looks too small, and that her hair was never so short in her life, and then I am seeing the boy from my vision, not Katie at all.“Help me, Mama,” he says, his hand outstretched, and I waken to Radar growling.“Radar, what’s wrong?” I ask the dog, stupidly. As if he could answer. Disoriented, it takes me a moment to understand that Radar feels what I missed when I was dreaming: the dark figure hunched over, leaning toward me. The sense of malevolence I felt before strengthens, and for once I worry that a creature of my visions may actually be able to hurt me. Radar never growls unless he senses a person’s ill intent toward a family member. Now I’m angry.“What do you want?! Huh? You creepy creeper! Showing up while I sleep, hanging over my bed, trying to make me scared. You should be ashamed of yourself! GET OUT OF MY HOUSE!” My voice escalated to the point of yelling at the end, which got Greg out of bed with his pistol in hand, once again running to my rescue in his boxers. Poor Greg. While I yelled at the dark figure, it stood straighter, and I noticed it looking more staticky than before, as if it had problems tuning into reality. As Greg comes running, I turn to look at him, and while my head is turned, the figure disappears. I am noticing a pattern. Yippee. As soon as Greg hits the bottom step, I hear both kids emerging from their rooms. Great, I woke the whole household.“Are you okay, Vi? Who were you yelling at down here?” asks Greg as he lumbers toward me. He makes a stop at the front door to peek through the curtain to the porch, and scans the rooms visually for threats.“I’m fine, Greg. Sorry I woke you again. It’s this stupid figure that keeps bothering me! Lately I keep seeing it, and it’s obviously trying to scare me, which is sort of working, and then I got mad. I’m sick of having this thing hanging around all the time, so I yelled at it to go away.” I end my speech with a huff and a foot stomp, and then Katie’s voice drifts down to us from the upper hallway.“Is everything ok down there?”“Yes, honey, everything is fine. Mom’s just having one of her visions again. Go back to bed,” Greg says over his shoulder, then faces me again. “Babe, is there anything I can do to help you?”“I don’t know. I couldn’t sleep earlier, so I came down here. I had another vision of the boy, and then Radar was growling, which he never does, and there was the figure. I don’t know anything other than needing sleep. I have parent-teacher conferences tomorrow, and you know how awful it is when I can’t get enough rest before those long days.”“Yes, I do. Let’s go back upstairs, and I’ll rub your shoulders to calm you down.”“Only if you let me return the favor tomorrow. You’ve been very sweet to me the last few days, and I think it’s time I gave a little back.” Greg takes my hand and leads me back up the stairs to our room.“I’m not counting favors like kids, my dear. I will be happy to have a backrub tomorrow if you’re up for it, but this is what married people do for each other. They hold each other up when shit gets crappy.”“That almost sounds like a Forrest Gump phrase. ‘…when shit gets crappy.’ I’m seeing dollar signs with a bumper sticker.”“Is that a vision, or are you being a smartass?”“You’re a smart man, you figure it out.”***At home after an interminable day of swimming through meeting after meeting, I collapse the instant I walk in the door. The bench seat by the back door seems like a perfect place to sleep for the night, and I kick off my shoes as I lean back against the wall. “Is that you, Vi?” asks Greg from the living room.“Yes, it’s me.” I hear Greg get up and walk to the kitchen, a dish rattling in his hand.“How did it go today?”“Fabulous. Emily tried to rescue me from a hellhound who calls herself a mother, but she kept us both captive for almost 45 minutes, even though I had parents waiting in the hall. Emily finally took the woman to her office after I mentioned that I was over 20 minutes late for my next appointment, and I wouldn’t be surprised if that horrid woman was still there. Poor Emily.”“Would you like any tea, or something to eat?”“I’m starving, but so tired I might fall asleep on my plate. What is there to eat?”“Daniel made spaghetti with meatballs, and there’s garlic toast. Want some?”“Sounds wonderful. I should eat. I didn’t have any dinner, no time.”“Take your coat off, and I’ll heat up a plate for you.”“I love you.”“Love you, too, babe. Have a seat.”“I really hate having conferences this time of year. I feel so frazzled right before Thanksgiving, which is supposed to be a break, but ends up being so much work that I would probably be more rested if I just taught classes.”“I know. And then Christmas makes more work. I still think we should screw the whole thing and go somewhere tropical instead.”“I’m beginning to agree with you. Lately I feel exhausted all the time. I wish public school teachers could take sabbaticals.” After I take off my coat and hang it on a hook, I sit in the booth around the kitchen table.“I thought you said the kids were good this year.”“They are, but I’ve been doing this for 15 years, and now I feel tired. Even though I learn new things all the time, I still feel like I do the same thing every year. I don’t know, I guess I feel a little bored.”“What about that children’s book you wanted to write?”“I can’t imagine adding any extra work to my life right now, even though I really want to do that.”“What if you plan to do it over the summer?”“That’s just it. By the time summer comes, I don’t want to do anything. Because I work so hard during the school year, I feel like I tell myself lies every year about all the things I want to accomplish over the summer, and then I never do any of them. Maybe after the kids go to college I’ll have more time.” Greg hands me my plate of steaming pasta, which smells delicious. I dig in immediately.“What else would help you, then? Getting regular massages, going to a spa, eating more ice cream?”“Ice cream would help my spirit, but my hips need the gym.”“Your hips are lovely, my dear. Eat the ice cream if you want it.”“Thanks, but I do need to think about it. I don’t know what will make me feel better, but I have to change something. I’m getting cranky, which isn’t like me.”“Only 20 more years until retirement! And then you’ll be free!”“That sounds like a lifetime.”***I wake early in the morning to use the bathroom, hot, sweaty, and uncomfortable. Padding back to my bedroom, the hair on the back of my neck raises, and when I turn I see why. The dark figure stands ominously in a pose ready to reach out to me, and I step back without thinking. My body pumps adrenaline through my veins in response to the unexpected visitor, but I am determined not to run away. I need to understand why this figure continues to plague me.“What do you want from me?” I ask, knowing I will probably not get an answer. Surprisingly, the figure reacts as if it can understand me, pulling back its staticky hand. The same sense of angry malevolence I felt in the figure’s presence before still washes over me, but now I feel curiosity added to my anger. I stand still, waiting. The figure looks as if it considers my question, and then I hear Daniel gasp down the hall, the appearance of the dark figure fades, and then it disappears.“Mom, what was that thing?” Daniel asks in a terrified whisper.“I don’t know yet,” I answer honestly.“What did it want?”“Again, I don’t know yet.” Daniel stays where he is, and I can sense he is confused and scared. I can’t imagine how disturbing it must be for him to see an apparition in the hallway of his home, and then I realize he has never mentioned being able to see anything like this before.“Danny, is this the first time you’ve seen something like this?” Daniel pauses before answering.“No, it’s not.”“Honey, are you having visions?”“Sometimes.”“How long have you had them?”“A couple of years, I guess.” I walk closer to him, and can see he has his arms wrapped around himself.“Why didn’t you tell me?”“I don’t know…I guess I didn’t want them to be happening.”“Oh, sweetie. I’m so sorry.” I hug him close, and rub his back. Daniel hugs me in return, and I can feel him shaking. “Don’t worry, it will be alright.”“But they scare me, Mom.”“I know. They can be upsetting, but we can talk about it tomorrow. You can tell me all about it, and we’ll work through this together. I promise.” I send Daniel back to bed, and take myself to bed as well, where Greg snores quietly, completely unaware of the excitement. At least one person in the family is grounded in reality.***Friday comes and goes in a whirl of work, and after so much spent energy over the week I fall into bed exhausted. A relaxed Saturday morning settles me somewhat, but I still feel tired. I go through the motions of the usual Saturday shopping, followed by pizza since we all feel lazy. While we sit around the kitchen table gobbling our pepperoni and sausage slices, Daniel seems rather quiet. Since he’s sitting next to me in the booth, I nudge him gently with my elbow.“Everything okay, kiddo?” I ask quietly while Katie and Greg chatter about something that happened at school yesterday. Daniel scowls at his pizza slice, and then looks up at me.“Mom, do you ever feel scared when you…when you…see stuff?” My stomach clenches, and I suddenly feel the familiar stirring of guilt. I forgot about my promise to talk to Daniel yesterday.“You mean when I have visions?”“Yeah.”“I used to get scared a lot, but my grandma had visions, too. When she found out I was getting visions, she talked to me about it and it made me feel better.”“What did she tell you?”“She said that visions are like being able to see through someone else’s eyes for a few minutes in your dreams or even while you’re awake, that it’s a very special bond you share with another person, and that not many people get to do it. She said it’s a big responsibility to share the sight with another person, and that we need to pay special attention to what we see. Sometimes we have an opportunity to help that person, so it’s important to pay attention, in case you learn things that can help them.”“Is that what you do, Mom?” “Sometimes. If I find out who the person is, and I learn something I can do to help them, I will. Sometimes the visions stop and I never find out why. I can’t always help, but I try to do that when I can.”“But why can’t you find the person every time?”“I don’t know. I don’t always understand why I see the visions I see.”“But sometimes you help people?”“Sometimes.”“Can you teach me how to pay attention and not be scared?”“I can try. It’s up to you to feel how you want to feel when you see things, though.”“What if I can’t help feeling scared?”“It’s okay to be scared.”“But I don’t like to be scared, and when I have those dreams I can’t help it.” “Then I suppose you need to find out why you feel scared so you can face it.”“How do I do that?”“What about the visions is scaring you?”“Sometimes the people seem mean, and I’m afraid they will hurt me.”“If it’s a vision, those people can’t hurt you, so you don’t have to be afraid of them.”“But it feels like they can. I feel scared when they yell or hit.”“What have you seen already?”“Lots of stuff.”“Can you remember anything more specific?” Daniel shakes his head.“No, but I just remember feeling like they could hurt me.”“Well, they can’t. What you’re feeling is probably the fear of the person through whose eyes you’re seeing. You can stop that by reminding yourself you’re separate from the person, and that you’re just watching. You don’t get hurt from watching, in dreams or awake.”“Okay. Can we talk about something else now?”“Sure. What would you like to talk about?”“Vacation. Can we go away for Christmas this year if we don’t ask for any presents?”***The week of a holiday is always tough as a teacher—no matter what the holiday—and coupled with the fact that today is a Monday, I found it cursed more than the usual holiday horridness. Two students came down with stomach bugs during the school day, one of them getting sick all over several desks; one of my students started a food fight during lunch; a parent called late in the morning to say she could not bring snack after all, so I had to use my reserve snack bin; and my student with epilepsy had a seizure which opened a cut above his eye that bled so much it looked like a murder scene in the classroom. It wasn’t the worst day ever, but it ranked in the top five.By the time I got home, I had eyes only for the couch, where I wanted nothing more than to curl up and take a nap in the fetal position. But of course, the phone had to ring, and I always feel compelled to answer it.“Sumner residence.”“Hello, this is Dottie Blanchard. May I speak with Mrs. Sumner?”“Hi, Dottie. This is Violet.” Inwardly I sigh, really not wanting to talk to Dottie right this minute. The couch sings me a lullaby from the other room.“Violet! I’m so glad I caught you. I know you said you wouldn’t be interested in coming back to us again, but I really would like to ask for your help one last time. We had another visitation last night, and this one really worried me.”“Dottie, I really don’t think….”“Please, Violet. I know you feel strange about all of this, but I simply don’t have anywhere else to turn. The ghost became violent last night—it destroyed several pieces of valuable furniture in the blue room, and I am quite concerned about visitors now. Please, won’t you come to the house and take a look around?”“As I said before, Dottie, you really should talk to the police. It’s unlikely that a ghost is causing all the strange occurrences in the house. I really believe you should be looking for a vandal.”“Violet, please. I have already called the police, they came and took pictures, and all they could tell me was to consider putting in video cameras. I plan to do that, but for now I would like to have my mind put at ease by having you look around as well. I will double what I paid you last time.”“That won’t be necessary, Dottie, and today is not a good day for me….”“Please, Violet. I won’t call you again if you will come down just this one more time.”“Fine, okay. I need a few minutes, but I’ll come.”“Take whatever time you need. I will leave the front door open like last time, and thank you so very much for agreeing to come.”“You’re welcome. See you in a little while.” Why am I such a pushover? I think to myself. I really need to stop answering the phone every time it rings. When I arrive at the Preservation Society, Dottie shows me directly to the room where I saw the dark figure, the only time I saw it outside of my home. I stand in the doorway, astonished at the amount of damage done to the furnishings of the room.“You see why I’m so worried?” says Dottie, her lips pursed together tightly, and her arms wrapped around her torso. “I closed off this room for the day, but I simply must find out who or what is causing this! I have to worry about my employees and tour groups getting injured.”“Of course, and I agree this is concerning, Dottie, but I really don’t know if I can help you.”“But you said last time that you saw something in here.”“I did, and I also told you it might have nothing to do with the activity you’ve had in the house lately. I’ll check the room one last time, but please don’t count on me to solve your mystery.” I give Dottie a stern look, but she returns my look with one of obvious anxiety. Seeing this savvy woman in such a state of fear and concern softens me against my intention to quickly look and leave. In answer, I step carefully into the room, taking in the ruined state of affairs. The bed draws my eye immediately, as the lovely quilt on the bed shows obvious slices across it, several slashes all going the same diagonal direction, and a few slashes which mark up the footboard of the bed. The ironing board lays across the floor as if tipped over with force, but the iron itself seems absent. Turning, I take in the state of the wardrobe, opened and with the drawers either hanging out or dumped on the floor, the contents strewn across the room. The only item which seems to be untouched is the chair, which oddly sits with a halo of clean floor around it, as if it were shielded from the destruction of the rest of the room. Though the state of the room has me feeling leery about entering, the clean spot around the chair draws me, so I bravely go to it, trying hard not to disturb anything on the floor as I step over bits and pieces. As soon as I stand in front of it, I feel a desire to sit, so I do.Almost immediately I feel a falling sensation, like riding a swing so high the chains relax in the air. My body tingles, and then I see a quick flash of a woman’s face, angry, teeth bared. I get a mixture of emotions, but mostly confusion, and then I am staring at the iron, which I somehow missed on my way to the chair. Impossibly, the iron sits wedged in a hole where it must have rammed through the floor with tremendous force. I can only imagine how anyone could have hammered that iron through the oak flooring, regardless of how heavy the cast iron. I look up at Dottie, who stands at the door expectantly, one arm across her middle, acting as a rest for the elbow of her other arm. Her raised hand fiddles nervously with the lacy collar of her white blouse.“I saw a woman,” I say to Dottie, feeling surprised at this second contact with the dead. “Angry, confused, but also scared. She had brown hair and green eyes, and a blouse a lot like yours with a long plaid skirt. Her hair was a mess, and her teeth were bared.”“Did she say anything to you?” asks Dottie, leaning a little toward me as if she wants to step into the room.“No, I just got feelings…like she didn’t want to be here, didn’t like it for some reason.”“And you didn’t get her name?”“No name, just impressions. She didn’t speak. Did a woman like that ever live in this house?”“I imagine any number of women who fit that description could have lived here, but I would have to look at records. Unfortunately, the women of the household were not considered important enough to record names or descriptions unless they were particularly noteworthy. If this woman you saw was a servant, we have no hope of knowing who she was. Unless we were lucky enough to discover writing they left behind—a rarity in the servant class—we would have no names without the servants being recorded in a lady’s diary.”“I don’t know what else to tell you. I’m honestly surprised I got as much as I did. She must really want to connect with someone.”“Indeed. I know I said I wouldn’t ask you to return, but is there any chance you might reconsider? Or might you be willing to stay a while to see if you learn anything else? I would be most grateful….”“Dottie, don’t worry. I’ll stay for a little while. Why don’t you go see if you can find any records that match my description, and I’ll sit here for a bit to see if she tries to contact me again?”“That sounds wonderful, thank you, Violet.” Dottie’s shoulders relax. “I really do appreciate your help.”“It’s fine, Dottie.” Dottie presses her hands together in obvious relief, and she swishes down the hallway to what I assume must be an archive room. I allow myself to relax slightly now that Dottie isn’t hovering, and try to deep breathe for a moment to clear my head. As I let my eyes wander over the detritus of the room, I wonder if perhaps the woman I saw might have felt trapped here. Could she still be trapped here? No, that’s ridiculous. I don’t believe in ghosts, really, though I do believe some people leave deep psychic imprints on places where highly-charged or emotional experiences happened. Once you’re dead, I truly believe you leave this world. I don’t believe God would allow our spirits to be trapped in a purgatorial state, but then again, if the person doesn’t believe in a next life, could they trap themselves? I sigh, not wanting to waste my energy on such thinking. Normally I have no affinity with understanding the dead or what they want. The living are who I connect with, and the living are those I would rather help. What can I do here, even if the woman reveals herself to me? She’s dead, if she even exists. What can be done for the dead?The room feels cold suddenly, as if my thinking about the woman aroused her to action. It’s cold enough to show my breath in the air, and then all the furniture in the room begins shaking. I stand, concerned about being trapped in here if the furniture starts flying around, and then the woman appears before me, as clear as if she lives and breathes. Her eyes bore into mine, wild and hungry, commanding my attention. I get a sense now that the woman might not be playing with a full deck. She stands before me with her fists tightly clenched and her hair frayed and half out of its bun. Her lips look blood-crusted, as if she bit down too hard on them, and a bruise blooms darkly across the bone of her right cheek. When I look down at her hands, she raises her wrists up to me, showing me red marks like rope burns across the pale white flesh. I note, too, that her skirt has leaves and pine needles stuck to it, as if she fell on the ground and didn’t brush off the dirt. Once again, I look into her eyes.“Who are you, and what do you want?” I ask, my voice quaking with fear, hoping she has the ability to answer, but she only disappears as Dottie’s footsteps hurriedly snap across the floor in the hall. She swishes back into the door frame, a little out of breath, waving a card in the air.“I believe I found something.”*This ends the sample chapters. To find out what happens next, go to and search for Violet by Elaine Snyder, or follow the link: , and purchase either the Kindle or paperback version. ................
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