whites of his eyes were more pronounced, a look of concern etched his face. “Are you okay?” he asked.
“Yes,” I lied. Still gasping for breath I looked past him at the clock. 7:00 a.m. I scrambled out of the tangled covers and ran into the bathroom. “If I don’t get a move on, I’m going to be late.”
“What is up with you lately? Maybe it’s all that speaking with the dead you do. You know. Affecting your brain.”
Truth be told, the nightmare had scared the hell out of me. As I stood looking into the bathroom mirror, a kaleidoscope of colors and fragments of disjointed images twisted before my eyes. For the moment, I was back, standing on the deserted street of my nightmare. I felt a rush of panic. It was all too close to home. There, in front of me, stood my teenage son. I struggled to make sense of what I had seen. Why had he been in my dream? I’d have never allowed my children to partake in an exorcism. A tear slid down my cheek as I once again saw Josh’s wide-eyed stare as he reached out and cried, “Mom—please!” Just as in my dream I was once again forced to helplessly watch as his pale body was being clawed at by dark, soulless figures with unseenhands. They whipped around him, pulling him down, deeper. Deeper. Until the pavement swallowed him whole.
The images of the nightmare were way too vivid, way too colorful, way too coincidental. It must be a warning. My thoughts ran to the discussion I’d had with Ron a few nights ago, when I’d agreed to attend an exorcism with him and Brian the Monk, a friend of Ron’s I hadn’t met. Brenda, our client, had called for help after finding our website, and we thought Brian’s services might be needed.
Steve’s voice carried over the sound of running water as I splashed my face. “Don’t you think it’s time to give this up? I mean, come on. What’s it going to take for you to realize this isn’t healthy for you?”
I’d known the truth when I first met my husband all those years ago. He was terrified of the idea that souls actually existed after death. I witnessed his fear every time I talked to him about my experiences. His eyes would tear up and his usual jovial demeanor would turn solemn and gruff. Since we’d met so young, he had assumed I’d grow out of it, like the habit of biting nails. Bad assumption. These days, though, our conversations of the dead and dying are few and far between. He likes it that way.
Trying to make myself sound more upbeat, I forced a smile. Smiles have a way of lightening a voice. I don’t know why, but they do. “Don’t worry about me. I’m fine. Maybe it’s that horror flick I saw the other night? Really, I’m fine.”
I glanced in the mirror, the terrible visions of moments ago now gone. I gasped at my reflection. Visine for the redness, makeup for the dark circles, but only time would heal the puffiness.
Later that night, after wrestling with the images of the nightmare plaguing my mind, I called Ron. “Ron, I had another nightmare.I’ve been thinking…I don’t know that I can make it with you and Brian on Wednesday.”
“What do you mean? We need you. Brenda needs you.”
“Look, I really want to help. But this time ‘it’ went after my son. I couldn’t stop it.”
“Maureen, it was just a bad dream. Besides, Brian said for it to work right, he needs the three of us.”
My heart thudded in my chest. “My son, Ron. Did you hear me?” My voice cracked as I swallowed back the tears. “Look, to you it’s just a ‘bad dream’…I do want to help. But at what cost? It was my son, Ron.”
“You know, if you have a bad dream and tell someone about it, it’ll go away.”
Not fully convinced, but on the off chance that he was right, I shared my dream. “I saw the townhouse looming in the darkness in downtown Boston. The house seemed alive. The moment a blonde woman opened the front door, I felt evil oozing out of it. Josh was there. He was being attacked by dark, soulless
“Yes,” I lied. Still gasping for breath I looked past him at the clock. 7:00 a.m. I scrambled out of the tangled covers and ran into the bathroom. “If I don’t get a move on, I’m going to be late.”
“What is up with you lately? Maybe it’s all that speaking with the dead you do. You know. Affecting your brain.”
Truth be told, the nightmare had scared the hell out of me. As I stood looking into the bathroom mirror, a kaleidoscope of colors and fragments of disjointed images twisted before my eyes. For the moment, I was back, standing on the deserted street of my nightmare. I felt a rush of panic. It was all too close to home. There, in front of me, stood my teenage son. I struggled to make sense of what I had seen. Why had he been in my dream? I’d have never allowed my children to partake in an exorcism. A tear slid down my cheek as I once again saw Josh’s wide-eyed stare as he reached out and cried, “Mom—please!” Just as in my dream I was once again forced to helplessly watch as his pale body was being clawed at by dark, soulless figures with unseenhands. They whipped around him, pulling him down, deeper. Deeper. Until the pavement swallowed him whole.
The images of the nightmare were way too vivid, way too colorful, way too coincidental. It must be a warning. My thoughts ran to the discussion I’d had with Ron a few nights ago, when I’d agreed to attend an exorcism with him and Brian the Monk, a friend of Ron’s I hadn’t met. Brenda, our client, had called for help after finding our website, and we thought Brian’s services might be needed.
Steve’s voice carried over the sound of running water as I splashed my face. “Don’t you think it’s time to give this up? I mean, come on. What’s it going to take for you to realize this isn’t healthy for you?”
I’d known the truth when I first met my husband all those years ago. He was terrified of the idea that souls actually existed after death. I witnessed his fear every time I talked to him about my experiences. His eyes would tear up and his usual jovial demeanor would turn solemn and gruff. Since we’d met so young, he had assumed I’d grow out of it, like the habit of biting nails. Bad assumption. These days, though, our conversations of the dead and dying are few and far between. He likes it that way.
Trying to make myself sound more upbeat, I forced a smile. Smiles have a way of lightening a voice. I don’t know why, but they do. “Don’t worry about me. I’m fine. Maybe it’s that horror flick I saw the other night? Really, I’m fine.”
I glanced in the mirror, the terrible visions of moments ago now gone. I gasped at my reflection. Visine for the redness, makeup for the dark circles, but only time would heal the puffiness.
Later that night, after wrestling with the images of the nightmare plaguing my mind, I called Ron. “Ron, I had another nightmare.I’ve been thinking…I don’t know that I can make it with you and Brian on Wednesday.”
“What do you mean? We need you. Brenda needs you.”
“Look, I really want to help. But this time ‘it’ went after my son. I couldn’t stop it.”
“Maureen, it was just a bad dream. Besides, Brian said for it to work right, he needs the three of us.”
My heart thudded in my chest. “My son, Ron. Did you hear me?” My voice cracked as I swallowed back the tears. “Look, to you it’s just a ‘bad dream’…I do want to help. But at what cost? It was my son, Ron.”
“You know, if you have a bad dream and tell someone about it, it’ll go away.”
Not fully convinced, but on the off chance that he was right, I shared my dream. “I saw the townhouse looming in the darkness in downtown Boston. The house seemed alive. The moment a blonde woman opened the front door, I felt evil oozing out of it. Josh was there. He was being attacked by dark, soulless
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