Chapter 1 Eastwood, California
When you have a psychic gift, Don’t hoard it, share it with the world.
As I stood over the bloodied, twisted corpse, my nerves tangled within over how to write the young woman’s tragedy, let alone tell her parents and the world about her. Horrendous images came to my mind of how to describe what happened to her; how it happened, the circumstances surrounding this case, and of course the perp’s name, whoever he might be. It was too daunting while thinking of my soon to be ex-husband. My rigid body sat at the desk as I mulled over what to write. Mine was a sinister life, observing death through my psychic eye while seeing and feeling everything the victim was feeling. My reflections took me back to the haunting dreams that tormented me as I placed my hands on the keyboard and began to type. Inside my head, I knew where Faith would be found. It was not a pretty sight, but it was something that was a permanent part of my life. This need to know took place daily as my mind raced over what to think of next. How agonizing to believe that true evil was out there, waiting for any unsuspecting person to fall into its clutches. I typed fast, and then slowed when an inaccuracy occurred. This assignment was not for the faint of heart, and those who might accomplish it needed to possess a hardened outer shell to protect them from the monstrosities that walked among us. Again, I relapsed into the past, and my musings directed my gaze to where I spotted the manila envelope from the lawyer’s office. I chose to ignore it, but could not. My hand lifted it up and I ran my fingertips over its smooth edge. It was something that I did with every piece of mail I received. Shaking my head, I inhaled and tried not to allow my mind to wander. It needed to be focused on the task at hand, and my fingers began their dance along the keyboard once again. My hands typed what I had witnessed as my stomach did flops. So I continued on, because this job would never be finished if I did not believe that there was some good left in this world. I began, It was pitch black. She was walking just a few hundred feet from her home when a light green, beat up sedan pulled up alongside her. Her heart raced like a marathon runner inside her chest. “Need a ride?” the husky voice of a man asked from the driver’s seat. “Yeah, that would be nice,” the other man agreed. Faith declined. The driver stumbled over his words as the passenger leaped out and pulled her into the vehicle with them. She screamed, and they laughed at her futile cries for help. Doom possessed her, and she realized that nothing in the world could save her from these men dressed in jeans and dark sweatshirts. When Faith awoke, a small light illuminated the four-cornered bedroom where she was tied to a steel bed frame. With a dry throat she coughed, then gagged at the stench of the room. The two men entered and held her down while instilling horrific torments upon her. She closed her eyes as they beat her repeatedly. Faith pretended to be in another place and time where she felt safe and secure from what was happening to her. When it was over, she could no longer breathe. With pleasure, she released her soul from her body and was finally free of the atrocities that they had thrust upon her. The house that she was in was a green two-story with red trim, and the name Sanderson came to me. I sat breathing heavily.