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?”