(regular) coffee, eating my goodies, and tracking mud on my floor. With each new person my mind would wonder, “Could it be this person? Did this person have some reason to want Aunt Josie dead?” Then I’d struggle to clear my mind of useless speculation and try and return to the original sense of peace and contentment I’d had before Lucinda had put such awful thoughts into my head. The mood never fully returned.
I even held a cleansing ceremony for myself, but I couldn’t seem to clear my thoughts of the gruesome image in my mind, the image of someone aiming a car at Aunt Josie before cold-bloodedly running her down and leaving her lying dead in the street.
I am a mystery fan, certainly, but what is acceptable, even required, between the pages of a book is totally unbelievable in real life. Hit-and-run accidents could be the result of any number of things. Drugs, alcohol, carelessness, or bad driving could cause the “hit”. Even the “run” part could be the result of mitigating circumstances, and I could understand the panicked reaction, particularly in a young person. Even if the driver in question was drunk or on drugs there was at least a reason , although not a true excuse , of diminished competence. Running away out of pure self-centeredness was inexcusable to me. Whoever it was who hit Aunt Josie and left her to die hadn’t come forward later, not even after having time to think about his actions. I hoped the person was suffering enough guilt from the incident to assure some improvement in his or her life. My aunt was dead. It seemed likely her killer wasn’t. Life is for learning, though, and I wanted my loss to somehow be someone else’s long-term gain.
Unfortunately, thinking of the hit and run as a murder erased all sentimental thoughts. There weren’t any lessons to be learned for a murderer, except perhaps how to perfect his skill. And it was such an unreal thought, even a little frightening at moments. When it came to the subject of murder, my point of view was much the same as like everyone else’s on earth. Nobody I know would ever be the victim of a murder, much less commit one. I was completely sincere, too, in my tumbling thoughts. I saw no bleak humor in my banal reflections.
Something, though, must have fed my thoughts. Something I had seen, or heard, or even sensed. Much as I deny it in general, I am often psychically sensitive to both present and distant atmosphere. It’s one of those annoying things, coming and going according to its own whims, never to be counted on at any given time. That’s a good part of the reason I don’t often talk to people about being psychic. They expect to see an example immediately.
When I say a lot of people traipsed in and out of my house, I mean it quite literally. The entire coven, all twenty-two of them, appeared off and on to look me over, and in one way or another, to try and convince me that joining their coven was the best possible way to enhance my spirituality. I was beginning to think a little peace and quiet would be the best way to enhance it, but it didn’t look as if it was going to happen anytime soon.
Janice Barker performed for me – well, she’d call it a “visit”, but it seemed like a performance to me – by arriving after dark and slipping into the kitchen before I could invite her in…or keep her out. She wore a black, hooded cape that shadowed her face and cloaked her body. She was obviously aiming for the mysterious look, and she succeeded. What she looked like under the cape was a mystery to me.
She stood perfectly still in the doorway for a moment, allowing me to soak in the effects of her dramatic outfit, then threw back the hood of her cloak in an extremely theatrical gesture. She studied my face intently, spending an uncomfortable amount of time staring at my eyes, and
I even held a cleansing ceremony for myself, but I couldn’t seem to clear my thoughts of the gruesome image in my mind, the image of someone aiming a car at Aunt Josie before cold-bloodedly running her down and leaving her lying dead in the street.
I am a mystery fan, certainly, but what is acceptable, even required, between the pages of a book is totally unbelievable in real life. Hit-and-run accidents could be the result of any number of things. Drugs, alcohol, carelessness, or bad driving could cause the “hit”. Even the “run” part could be the result of mitigating circumstances, and I could understand the panicked reaction, particularly in a young person. Even if the driver in question was drunk or on drugs there was at least a reason , although not a true excuse , of diminished competence. Running away out of pure self-centeredness was inexcusable to me. Whoever it was who hit Aunt Josie and left her to die hadn’t come forward later, not even after having time to think about his actions. I hoped the person was suffering enough guilt from the incident to assure some improvement in his or her life. My aunt was dead. It seemed likely her killer wasn’t. Life is for learning, though, and I wanted my loss to somehow be someone else’s long-term gain.
Unfortunately, thinking of the hit and run as a murder erased all sentimental thoughts. There weren’t any lessons to be learned for a murderer, except perhaps how to perfect his skill. And it was such an unreal thought, even a little frightening at moments. When it came to the subject of murder, my point of view was much the same as like everyone else’s on earth. Nobody I know would ever be the victim of a murder, much less commit one. I was completely sincere, too, in my tumbling thoughts. I saw no bleak humor in my banal reflections.
Something, though, must have fed my thoughts. Something I had seen, or heard, or even sensed. Much as I deny it in general, I am often psychically sensitive to both present and distant atmosphere. It’s one of those annoying things, coming and going according to its own whims, never to be counted on at any given time. That’s a good part of the reason I don’t often talk to people about being psychic. They expect to see an example immediately.
When I say a lot of people traipsed in and out of my house, I mean it quite literally. The entire coven, all twenty-two of them, appeared off and on to look me over, and in one way or another, to try and convince me that joining their coven was the best possible way to enhance my spirituality. I was beginning to think a little peace and quiet would be the best way to enhance it, but it didn’t look as if it was going to happen anytime soon.
Janice Barker performed for me – well, she’d call it a “visit”, but it seemed like a performance to me – by arriving after dark and slipping into the kitchen before I could invite her in…or keep her out. She wore a black, hooded cape that shadowed her face and cloaked her body. She was obviously aiming for the mysterious look, and she succeeded. What she looked like under the cape was a mystery to me.
She stood perfectly still in the doorway for a moment, allowing me to soak in the effects of her dramatic outfit, then threw back the hood of her cloak in an extremely theatrical gesture. She studied my face intently, spending an uncomfortable amount of time staring at my eyes, and
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