Frightening. Scary. Cool. That is how others described me. Those people were uneasy whenever around me. I suppose I was odd, but ignoring me did not make it better. That was how the entire four years of high school went. My entire existence was and still is scary to those I know, except my mother. She totally understands what I do, I think. She believes I’m cool because of what I do. I find them. I find the bodies of the dead. They are those humans that have been murdered. Murdered victims came to me with their stories of death.
At times, they described in great detail what happened to them. Those gruesome tales struck me to the bone and encouraged me to believe what I was doing was right. What I did helped those souls move on. There were always spirits that wished I would leave them be, but they always came back to me and told me in great detail what took place with them before death. I can still hear their pleas, they are always loud and clear. I can still see their tragedies still plastered to their faces. That had become commonplace for me. It was tiresome work, but I felt the push to help them whenever possible.
I find it simple to communicate with them. The dead know who they are and they assume nothing about me. I kind of liked that. Unlike the living the dead accept many things that seem unlikely. They are the ones that ask the questions about why I can see them, hear them. All I do is shrug my shoulders. I do not know why or how. It just is.
My pulse raced as I stepped into the slick mud beside the American River near Folsom, California. There she was lying in the wet sludge with her eyes still wide open. I knew she would be found by me. She led me here with her soft words and calm demeanor. Anxiety never hit me. Sarah, the deceased, was not your typical dead girl. She had a choice in life and she took this option. That is what she told me. This is her story.