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Visionary/Metaphysical Novels by Karen R. ThorneSome titles not yet released.
For a complete list and to order, visit the author’s website
www.krthorne.com
where you can also download free samples, read blog posts,and keep up with all the latest exciting offerings!
Paranormal - Alternate Reality SeriesGiving Up the Ghost: The Walk-In
BLUE thread reality – Book One of the Alternate Reality Series
Giving Up the Ghost: The Walk-InGREEN thread reality – Book One of the Alternate Reality Series
Hearing Voices: Walk-Ins WelcomeBLUE thread reality – Book Two of the Alternate Reality Series
Hearing Voices: Coming HomeGREEN thread reality – Book Two of the Alternate Reality Series
Giving Up the Ghost: The Walk-In - The EVPsmp3s – available at www.krthorne.com
Marek: Diary of a Walk-In
Ghost Matter: The Story of OberonA Quantum-Visionary Timebending Exploration
MusicGilding a Darksome Heaven (The Orchid)
Forsaken Sparrows in the Garden of Winter
The Devil’s Caprice
FantasyDartfoil
Dralácri (Tears of the Dragon)
Supernatural/Otherworldly BeingsReflections of a Vampire - A Visionary-Metaphysical Metaphor
Paradigm Swift
VISIONARY FICTION – FORGING NEW PATHS BY CHALLENGING BELIEFSAre you game?
“Some people come into our lives, leave footprints on our hearts,and we are never the same.”
Unknown
For Marek∞
Hearing Voices: Walk-Ins Welcome
Blue thread – Book Two of the Alternate Reality Series
3rd Edition © 2015
Copyright © 2006, 2015 Karen R. Thorne (Karen Korwal)
All Rights Reserved
No part of this book may be reproduced by any means or in any form, in whole or in part (beyond that copying permitted by U.S. Copyright Law, Section 107, “fair use” in teaching or research, Section 108, certain library copying, or in published media by reviewers in limited excerpts, without written permission from the publisher.
PUBLISHED BY
Visuallusions LightSource PublishingGolden, CO
Printed in the United States of America
Visuallusions logo image: paperball, www.stock.xchng.comTitle Page image: Historical airplane3 by amju
http://www.sxc.hu/browse.phtml?f=view&id=1157007Cover image: DSCF2307 by ronnieb, http://www.morguefile.com/archive/display/72734
brieting_wingwalkers1.jpg by hotblack, http://www.morguefile.com/archive/display/864605Girl silhouette, by mzacha http://www.freeimages.com/browse.phtml?f=view&id=1110154
Brushes: Curtain brush – curtainbrushes2 by annika http://farmerstochter.deviantart.com/
Skeleton Key (009) by Faln_Stock http://falln-stock.deviantart.com/Ornament - http://mouritsada-stock.deviantart.com/
Cover Design by Karen R. Thorne (Karen Korwal)Created in GIMP
About the Author
Welcome, Visionaries!
I am on a mission: To inspire the human spirit by challenging the mind and heart. My goal is shifting paradigms, moving from what has been to what can be.
Throughout all my stories you will find a world in which a greater, mystical Intelligence is at play (without the confines of religion), where violence is not the answer and Love restores the wholeness of Who we are.
“My lord, I should be sorry if I only entertained them; I wished to make them better.”— George Frederick Handel
All my stories are given to me by my wonderful Inner Muses. These Messengers introduce me to these amazing other-world people, and then the people tell me their story. You see, for me, all these stories are real—the people, the places, and everything that happens—somewhere, in some plane of existence. (I know this because if I try to change it, they fight me on it!) My job is to transcribe the stories they tell me so I can share them with you.
My Writing is Not for Everyone
I write for Visionaries , people who look beyond to see a better world than this one, not by doing more of the same but by challenging the status quo, often breaking the rules in favor of a new and better way. Those who no longer wait for someone else to tell them what to do, but instead are willing to think for themselves, to listen to the Voice within, and go for it.
21st century trailblazers, quantum-style!
Are you with me?
Karen R. Thorne is a Visionary novelist living in Denver, CO. A graduate of The N. C. School of the Arts (Cello) and former member of the American Association of Electronic Voice Phenomena (AA-EVP), she has been crafting Visionary novels since 1994.
Visit her on the web at
www.krthorne.com
For more information on
Emotional Freedom Techniques (EFT)
visit www.emofree.com
Have you ever wondered, “What would’ve happened if . . . ?”
What if I’d turned left instead of right?
What if I’d married my high school sweetheart instead?
What if I’d chosen theater over medical school?
Quantum physics says all possibilities are being played out. . .
somewhere, in some parallel, quantum reality.
This story explores that theory.
When I originally wrote Giving Up the Ghost: The WalkIn, it was to
have been a standalone novel.
Or so I thought—my Muses had other ideas.
Once our thenghost investigation group (currently on indefinite
hiatus) finished reading that first truetolife ghost tale, Monica
exclaimed, “Oh, dude, you have to write a sequel! All about Jenny
going on to become a medium. . . .”
Well, that pretty much clinched it.
What I didn’t know was what my Muses had in store.
Parallel realities, stemming from the two divergent endings of the first
story: What if Marek lived? What if he died? Where would Jenny’s life
go, in light of each—very different—twist of fate?
And so, each thread – the green thread and the blue thread (named
for their respective covers) – follows its own thread of reality.
Ah, but there’s a catch.
They also overlap.
Ha! Just gave away a secret . . . if you’re curious, read both threads
and see if you can figure it out.
Things can get pretty strange in the quantum world.
Are you game?
As always, any resemblance to persons living or dead is, of course, purely coincidental.
1Marek. . . .
Tossing, turning, hands flailing, reaching, grasping, muttering words unintelligible. “No—” Grappling with something that was not there, the depths of the nighttime darkness scattered with sounds more agonized cry than moan. “Marek!”
A sharp gasp, followed by the light flicking on.Screaming now, Marek, Marek!, sitting up, desperate hands
reaching for empty air. Tears streaming from dark open eyes staring somewhere beyond, as trembling lips formed soundless words, the corners of her mouth turning down. Then a loud thud as she hit the floor.
“Jenny!”Crawling, her body contracted into a tiny crumpled mass, no,
no! wailing and whimpering, the white cotton nightgown tangling around her bare legs as she slithered across the cold hardwood floor.
“Jenny,” he said over and over, gently taking her shoulders, gently pulling her back, “Jenny, wake up.”
Cowering into the corner, down and back and away from him, trying to compress her body beneath the corner chair. “Help me, please!” Begging, vacant eyes not knowing where she was, not knowing what was happening, only that she couldn’t breathe.
“Yes, Jenny. Now give me your hand and I’ll help you.”A little choking sound. “You . . . can’t . . . help me.”Steadily he returned her stare. “You’re right. I can’t help you.
Not if you won’t let me.”Still fearful, she hesitated. Biting, the breeze that crept in
beneath the slit of open window, the edgy spring chill of April though it was only late March, dank smell of fish and riverbank and ancient car exhaust, echoing the faint faraway sound of a
Karen R. Thorne 4
siren that had long ago ceased. The cold surrounded her now, wet and pressing; up, down—no way of knowing in this murky darkness, the liquid filling her lungs both welcome and terrifying. Then doubt suddenly took hold; frantic, she reached out, blindly groping, but before he could reach her, her entire body convulsed. . . all went black.
Shaking; someone shaking her. And calling—calling her name. Groggy, she sat up from the floor. “Marek?” A pause. And then a choke of tears as she collapsed in his arms.
He smiled his relief. “Yes, beloved,” he said, stroking her hair, “shh, it’s all right. It’s all right. You’re safe.” Gently lifting her, he helped her back to bed.
“Ohh,” she moaned, head rolling against the pillow as she lay back, “oh god . . . I can’t see!”
“It’s all right,” he smoothed away the damp strands of hair, “you will in a moment. Just lie still and breathe.” Settling her beneath the covers, he slipped from the room, returning with a glass of water and a damp cloth. “Shh, no, there now, just relax. You’ll be all right in a moment.” As he wiped her brow and cheeks, he kept his demeanor neutral. “Calm . . . calm. Yes, that’s it. Take a sip of this. Good. You’re all right now, beloved. You’re perfectly fine. Do you know where you are?”
Forcing down a swallow, she nodded. “I’m . . . home.” This last came out in three syllables: homme, her teeth chattering with fear or cold.
“Yes.” He held her gaze, not letting her go, not letting her slip back, not slip away. Holding the glass, he had her take another sip, then another. Then he leaned onto one hand as he engaged her eyes. “Talk to me. What is your name?”
“Jenny,” she said, struggling with the word.“Jenny who?”
5 Hearing Voices: WalkIns Welcome
“Tttownsend.”“Tell me where we are.”Ragged inhale, ragged sigh. “We’re . . . at home. In our room.”“Which room?”“Bedroom.”“Is it night or day?”“Night.” She glanced past him. “Around threethirty, maybe
four.”Setting the glass on the bedside table, he took hold of her chin,
made her look at him. “And who am I?”She studied his face a long moment. Then she smiled. “You’re
Marek. My beloved Connor Marek.” Pulling herself up, she gave a long, deep exhale. “I’m all right now,” she said, blinking, clarity at last returning. She leaned forward to kiss him. Beyond them, the wintry soft breeze lifted the lace curtains, the window barely open, the room scenting with the moonlit wind and late winter dew. From somewhere came the brief sound of a dog barking, then the night settling back into restful silence.
Slowly she released him. Marek let out a quiet sigh.“Come,” Jenny said, pulling aside the covers. “You need your
sleep.” She flicked off the light.Reluctant, Marek complied. But he did not close his eyes.
Instead he lay on his side, looking at her.She turned. “What?”In the pale darkness his eyes were full and round, his face in
shadow. “They’re getting worse, aren’t they.” It was more statement than question.
Sober, she nodded. She could feel his hazelgold eyes search her features.
“This one. . . .” He paused. “This one didn’t want to let go of you, did it.”
She shook her head.Marek rolled over, staring at the ceiling, one arm tucked
beneath his head. “Jenny, this is not good. Not good at all. Have
Karen R. Thorne 6
you spoken to Nikky? After all, she’s supposed to be your teacher. Maybe she can—”
“No,” Jenny said with a frustrated sigh, “I couldn’t reach her. She’s still in India, you know.”
“Oh, that’s right. I’d forgotten.” He looked away, watching the rise and fall of the curtain, the faint light from outside making dotted patterns on the floor. The breeze had grown stronger, howling a little now, at times sneaking in to lift the wavy ends of his burnished red hair as it lay upon his stilltoothin collarbones, whipping the lace curtains like sails on a laketossed boat.
“Maybe I should close that,” he said, starting to rise.“No—” she reached for his arm, “couldn’t we leave it open? It’s
so stuffy in here. And the coolness helps.”In the dim light his gaze was lost in shadow. He gave a
reluctant nod.Jenny could sense what he was trying to hide. “Marek?” He
turned. “My love, I’ll be okay. Really. It was just a dream.” She stroked the loose chestnut ringlets curling the ends of his hair, noting with delight the tiny diamond sparkles of her antique engagement ring. The precious, precious ring he’d given her, glittering like a thousand miniature stars in the night. She smiled.
Marek, however, did not smile. “Just a dream,” he echoed. The words were taut and dry. “That’s what you always say.” He slid down further, pulling the comforter up.
“Hey,” she said, reaching over, giving his arm a shake, “what’s the matter? Are you angry at me?”
No answer.“Sweetheart?” She sat up. “Come on, tell me what’s wrong.
What is it you’re so afraid of? You know Nikky said I’d probably have dreams like this. She said it’s all part of opening up to the spirit world, being receptive, expanding the psychic abilities I’ve been gifted with, learning to connect—”
“I’m afraid I’m losing you!” Turning, he punched the pillow.She was quiet. “What makes you say that?”
7 Hearing Voices: WalkIns Welcome
No answer.“You’re not losing me,” she said, keeping her voice gentle. His
continued silence implied she’d guessed wrong. “Beloved? Losing me how?”
A weary sigh. “To all of this.”“This?”Giving the pillow another punch, he shook his head. “This
other world, these dreams.” She started to say something, but he suddenly sat up. “Jenny, I almost couldn’t wake you. Wherever you were, I couldn’t get to you. I couldn’t reach you. You couldn’t see me, and you acted as if you couldn’t hear me, either. It was as if you were far away . . . and I wasn’t even there.”
“Only because I was deep asleep—”“No.” He gave her a little shake. “Don’t you remember when I
helped you to lie back down? You said you couldn’t see. You couldn’t see. That alone should tell you something.”
“Like what? Maybe that I was a little disoriented—”“Jenny,” and now his eyes became intense, “you were still
there.”She stared at him.Marek was nodding. “Yes. It took several minutes of talking to
you and wiping your face with a cold cloth to get you to come around.”
She pursed her lips. “And how is that so different from anyone else’s dreams?” It was late and she was beginning to get irritated.
“Jenny, beloved,” he said, “it isn’t just that. It’s many things. Like your not getting enough sleep. Like this emotional rollercoaster you’ve been on each night. Like the dreams lingering long into the day, sapping your energy though you think I don’t know. Like—” His voice caught. “Like the things you say you don’t even realize.”
A knot came into her throat. “What do I say?”Marek looked down, the long lashes she loved so much
lowering to his cheek. “Lots of things,” he said with a shrug. “Most
Karen R. Thorne 8
of it gibberish.” His softly curved fingers toyed with the edge of the comforter, bunching and smoothing it, the hollow space beneath forming a silent mouth that opened and closed.
Jenny leaned forward, touching her forehead to his. “My angel,” she murmured, “gibberish would not have you so upset.”
The antique clock ticked on the dresser.He shook his head. Light and dark from the lamp outside
danced upon his face, the stiffening breeze playing in his hair.Jenny waited.Finally he gave a sigh. “Who’s Johnny?”“Johnny?” She was puzzled. “I don’t know anyone named
Johnny.”Marek shook his head. “You must. You keep calling to him,
begging him to come back.” The intensity in his eyes seemed to want her to both confirm and deny it. “Every time you have these dreams, that’s who you’re calling to,” he said, his jaw set. “Johnny.”
It was all she could do not to smile. “Beloved,” she took his cheek in her palm, “you needn’t be jealous. I love only you.” He seemed unconvinced. “I swear to you, I don’t know anyone by that name.”
“No? Are you sure it isn’t Jon?”For some reason she hadn’t connected that.A hint of resignation crept into Marek’s face. “He is your best
friend,” he said. “Maybe you call him ‘Johnny.’ Like a pet name or something.”
“No.” Jenny’s tone was firm. “Jon is simply Jon. No one ever calls him ‘Johnny,’ not even me.” When his expression didn’t change, she sat back. “Connor Marek, you stop this. Stop this right now! You’ve no reason to be jealous, and certainly no need. You know I love you and you alone. After all we went through! I battled an evil entity to save you―why would I jeopardize that now?” She paused, letting that sink in. “Whoever this Johnny
9 Hearing Voices: WalkIns Welcome
person is must be either someone in the spirit world or else . . . or else some character my dreaming mind made up.”
To this he gave a somber nod. “That’s what I’m afraid of.”
A taut silence presided over breakfast the next morning. Polite requests for more coffee and pass the cream cheese were communicated via gestures or telepathy; gazes were reserved for the food in front of them. The only sounds were those of toasted bagels being crunched, coffee being swallowed, and the howls of the fierce March wind pushing against the dining room windows.
Suddenly the relative silence was interrupted by a loud crack and a crash.
“Ooh!” Jenny said with a start. The jolt left her with a lap full of coffee.
Marek’s hand went to hers. “Just the wind, beloved,” he said, handing her his napkin and giving her hand a reassuring squeeze. He got up and went to the window. “The oak has snapped a branch,” he said, craning his head to see.
“What?” Instantly Jenny was on her feet. In the yard by the side of the house, a large fourinch thick branch lay broken. “No,” she said in dismay, “not my beautiful oak!”
“Maybe you should put the Cruiser in the garage.” “Ohmigosh, you’re right. I’ll go now―”
He reached for her. “Forgive me,” he said, slipping his arms about her waist. “I was really tired last night.”
Relief, like spring rain. “Sweetheart, it’s okay. You’re still not really yourself, you know?” From his expression it wasn’t the best choice of words; he was still sensitive about being a walkin. “I know all this upsets you,” she hastily went on, “and rightfully so. It upsets me, too. But it’s just something I have to work through. Nikky said there would be a period of adjustment, just like with you, and that’s what I’m going through now. It’s just all the more
Karen R. Thorne 10
difficult after everything that’s happened.” As she said it, she noticed he winced. “Are you all right?”
“Yes,” he said, in his face an edge of pain. Gingerly he rubbed his left arm. “I don’t know why this still hurts. It should have healed by now.”
“The doctor said the nerves were damaged,” she said softly, cradling his injured forearm, “remember?” Laying one hand atop his, she stroked it lightly. How fragile he still looked, even after two months of healing. “Come on,” she said, shaking herself. “Let’s get you some Hypericum, then I’ll go move the car.”
They were halfway up the stairs when the phone rang. Jenny ran for it. “Hello?”“Jen, hey!” It was Margo’s voice. “Can you believe this wind?
Like a freaking hurricane or something.”“Margo, you sound more like a Colorado transplant than a
native. You really expect it to be any different, living near the foothills?”
“I expect Mother Nature to behave herself, and not threaten to tear my roof off every other day.”
Jenny bit her lip. “So how’s my best girlfriend and soontobe sisterinlaw?” she said, changing the subject.
“Awful. Look, I don’t think I’m gonna make it for lunch. That wind’s flipping cold and this morning sickness is turning my insides out.”
“Morning sickness still? It’s been four months.”“Yeah, well, I never was good with nausea. Worst part is, I’m
absolutely famished. But ugh—just the thought of food makes me want to puke.”
Jenny smiled. “Well, you’ve got that rapscallion brother of mine to thank for that. Serves you right, falling for him. Seriously though, Margo, you’ve got to eat. Maybe some potato soup? That’s fairly bland. I could make you some and bring it over.”
“No, Jen, really, you don’t have to fuss.”
11 Hearing Voices: WalkIns Welcome
“It’s no fuss,” she said, smiling as Marek came up to nuzzle her neck. “Only takes . . .” she shivered as his nose tickled her, “about a half hour, and . . .” another tickle, “what time is it now?”
Marek whispered in her ear.“Nine fortyfive,” Margo said over the phone.Jenny stifled a giggle. “Perfect. I’ll start the soup around ten
ish and be at your place by eleven. Sound good?”An audible swallow came over the phone. “No. Nothing sounds
good right now. But I could use some company.” With a sigh she hung up.
Marek was still nuzzling Jenny’s hair. “Sweetheart,” she said, headtotoe with goosebumps, “let me
go move the car, really fast, okay?” Turning, she sneaked in a quick, scrumptious kiss. “But don’t you dare go anywhere. I want you right here when I get back, promise?”
“Promise.”Jenny could swear her feet grew wings.
The wind was still pressing hard on the house a halfhour later, as the couple headed back down the stairs, Marek’s hand warmly clasped around Jenny’s. “I wish you didn’t have to go,” he said in a quiet voice.
“Sweetheart, I’ll only be gone a few hours.” Going into the kitchen, she took down an apron and tied it on, then opened the refrigerator door and knelt. “Are you sure you don’t want to come with me? I know Margo wouldn’t mind, and having a guy around might even do her some good, what with Perry away.” From the bin she selected five large potatoes, cradling them in her arm as she retrieved the milk and butter and closed the refrigerator door.
Coming to stand next to her at the kitchen counter, he shook his head. “No, you and Margo should chat, just you girls. I’m just feeling a little selfish this morning, that’s all.”
Karen R. Thorne 12
Hand on the faucet, Jenny paused. “Selfish? One thing you never are, my beautiful love, is selfish.” She turned on the water, filling the pot. “Eager, perhaps. Concerned, maybe, or even worried. But never selfish.”
The unusual weight of the silence that followed caught her attention.
“Here,” she said, wiping her hands as she strode into the living room, returning with a small leatherbound book. “You can read this for company while I’m gone.”
Marek frowned. “Your journal?”Smiling, Jenny nodded. “It has all my deepest, most secret
confessions . . . of how much I love you,” she said, giving him a peck on the cheek before resuming her soupmaking.
Again he was quiet.“Sweetheart?” She turned, pushing the utensil drawer closed
and laying the wooden spoon down. “What’s really bothering you?”
Setting the journal aside, he gripped the edge of the counter behind him, gaze on the floor. “I’m frightened,” he said.
“About what?”Giving a shrug, he shook his head. “You.”“Me?” She stifled a giggle. “Surely you’re not frightened of
me.”All at once he looked awkward. “It’s these dreams you’re
having,” he said, all in a rush. “They’re more than just dreams. I can feel it. It’s as though something has hold of you and won’t let go. I try to convince myself it’s just my imagination, that this is just your mind’s way of trying to comprehend the incomprehensible, the supernatural, the paranormal. But it doesn’t feel true. It feels . . . like a lie, like something is little by little sucking you out of this world and into the next.”
Stepping closer, Jenny smoothed away a strand of his tousled hair. “Marek, my love, you’re mistaken. The dreams are just that: dreams. They’re not real, any more than this Johnny person is
13 Hearing Voices: WalkIns Welcome
real.” A flush went through her as she said it. “Anyway,” she went on, retrieving the vegetable peeler from the drawer, “everyone has dreams, some more vivid than others. My dreams have always been intense, as if they’re really happening to me, often seeming more real than real life.” Turning, she gazed at him. “The dreams I had about you, for instance, before you walked in.” She waited a moment, letting that sink in. “If you don’t believe me, you can read about it right here,” she said, indicating the journal. “Beloved, this has been going on ever since I was a child. The only difference is, now you have to live with it, too.” Reaching for a potato, she raked at the peel with a vengeance, irregular bits flicking this way and that, into the sink, onto the counter and the floor.
“No, Jenny,” he said quietly, “it’s you who are mistaken. I’ve been there, remember? I know what it’s like on the other side.” She looked up as he continued: “I haven’t forgotten. Maybe one day I will, but right now the memory of being in the spirit world is crystal clear, like a lucid dream from which I’ve only just awoken. The power of whatever is pulling you is growing, my love. Maybe you don’t feel it, but I do. Each night you fall deeper and deeper into sleep, so far I cannot wake you. And every time you close your eyes I lie awake for hours, watching over you,” his gaze lowered, “fearful you won’t come back.”
“Sweetheart,” she said, laying the peeler and potato down and reaching for him, “you’ve been losing sleep over this?” Only now did she notice how dark the circles were under his eyes, how drawn his thin cheeks. “And it’s not just when I wake you by my calling out or crying. You’ve been worrying yourself instead of getting the rest you need.” He wouldn’t look at her. “Oh, Marek, how do you ever expect to get better?”
Reaching up, he smoothed her hair and sighed. “You should finish the soup. You promised Margo you’d bring it to her by eleven.”
Karen R. Thorne 14
“Come on in,” Margo groaned, holding open the front door, “just don’t make me smell the stuff.” She pinched her nose, waiting until Jenny had stepped inside before closing the door. “Take it to the kitchen, quick. The bowls are on the counter.”
Smiling, Jenny did as her friend asked. “Marek didn’t come with you?” she heard Margo say.“No,” Jenny called back, “he still tires easily. He needed to
rest.” Setting the heavy casserole dish on the counter, she shook out her fatigued hands; the injuries she herself had sustained were likewise taking a long time to heal. “Where’s a ladle?” she called to her friend, searching in drawers. “Oh, never mind, I found one.” Moving the ceramic container to the stove, she turned the burner on low before ladling the steaming soup into two bowls. “So when’s—”
From the other room came the sound of a door slam.“Margo?” Hastily finishing with the soup, Jenny came out of
the kitchen just as her friend emerged from the bathroom.“I’m all right,” Margo answered, one hand to her forehead.
“Didn’t puke this time, just gagged.” She collapsed into one of the oversized leather chairs.
Jenny grimaced. “Jesus, hon.” Setting the bowls down, she reached for her purse. “Here,” she took out a small blue vial, “after you’ve eaten, wait twenty minutes and take this. It’s specifically for morning sickness.”
“Morning sickness, ha!” Margo said in a disgusted tone as she took the vial. “Might as well call it ‘neverending sickness.’ With me it’s 247.” She plunked the vial on the end table.
“Have you spoken with the obgyn? That doesn’t sound normal.”
Her friend shook her head. “No, Dr. Wallace says some women just go through this, to one degree or another. Me, I think it’s because Fal had to go off on one of those freaking assignments. Why’d he have to be a flippin’ journalist, anyway?” She flung up a
15 Hearing Voices: WalkIns Welcome
hand and sank further down in the chair, wiping at her moist brow with trembling fingers.
Jenny pursed her lips not to smile at Margo’s pet name for her brother. “Well, at least this time Perry’s not in some diseaseinfested thirdworld country, like before. Last I heard, Canada’s a nice civilized place, and not that far away.” She’d hoped to elicit at least a smile, but it didn’t seem to be working. “Anyway, he’ll be back soon enough, and right now we have to get some food into you. Did you have breakfast? No? God, Margo, what am I going to do with you! Wait’ll Perr gets back—once this baby’s born, he’ll tan your hide. Until then I guess I’ll just have to come over here and babysit you.” Taking up the soup, she scooped out a spoonful and halfforced it into Margo’s mouth. “Honestly, you’d think you’d at least be more concerned for the baby’s health.”
“Hey, that’s not fair,” Margo said, shoving at the bowl.“Ooh! Dang it, Margo, that stuff’s hot!” She made a grab for
one of the napkins on the coffee table.Instantly Margo’s face was contrite. “Oh, I’m sorry, Jen. Are
you okay? I really didn’t mean to spill it on you. It’s just that I feel so utterly horrid.” Sinking down on the chair sideways, she laid her face against the cool leather.
Jenny gave a small frown. Laying the napkin aside, she went to kneel beside her friend. “It’s awful when you don’t feel good. Can I get you a cold cloth and some water? Your skin’s all clammy.” Margo nodded, and Jenny went into the kitchen, returning with a clean wet cloth and a glass of water.
“Thanks,” her friend said, taking it, downing a long swig and swallowing. “But I warned you, now didn’t I. I warned you not to fuss.”
“Oh, pooh and fiddlesticks. You’re as bad as Marek.”Margo sat up. “Marek? What’s wrong with him now?”“Not him, me. He’s all worked up about those dreams I’ve been
having.” She reached for the soup, doing her best to coax Margo into taking another spoonful.
Karen R. Thorne 16
“Dreams?” Margo said, her mouth full. “You didn’t say anything about any dreams.”
Jenny could feel her ears go warm. “Didn’t I? It’s nothing, really,” and she maneuvered a large chunk of potato towards Margo’s mouth. “Just some rather vivid nightmares I’ve been having.”
“Really. And how long’s this been going on?”She shrugged. “Oh, I don’t know, a few months. It’s all part of
the process of awakening my psychic abilities. Nikky says it’s normal.”
Margo gave a sniff of contempt. “Yeah,” she said, mouth still full, “normal. Like my morning sickness, I guess.”
The spoon clinked. “Yes. Now eat the rest of your soup before it gets cold,” and she shoved the bowl into her friend’s hands. Picking up her own untouched food, she left the room.
Margo followed. “Okay, girl,” she said, coming into the kitchen, “spill it. And I don’t mean the soup.”
Water from the sink splashed in all directions, the faucet on full. “Margo, don’t start. I know you’re not feeling well, and you’re worried about Perry. But dragging my stuff into it isn’t going to help anybody, least of all me.” Reaching, she flicked on the disposal, letting it run a good long time, waiting until the grinding noise stopped before turning the water off. “Besides, I didn’t come over here to dump my problems on you. I came over to feed my friend and her growing little one, and maybe help my friend feel better.” Vigorously she wiped her hands on a nearby towel; then as she turned, her face broke into a big smile. “Oh! Margo, you’re starting to show!”
At this her friend’s expression brightened. “Yes,” she said, smiling as she ran a hand over her slightly rounded belly. “Wonder what Fal’s going to say when he gets back and sees his bigasahouse fiancée?”
Jenny went over and put her arms around her. “He’s going to say you’re absolutely beautiful, and he wouldn’t have you any
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other way.” Beaming, she guided Margo back towards the living room. “Do you have any idea how ecstatic he is about you and the baby? God, I can’t believe how he’s changed. I still can’t get over how he hardly even let on that he liked you all those years, much less was in love with you.”
“Me neither. Nor I him!” Margo laughed as she sat down. “I always thought he was just your geeky kid brother with the snotty nose and his hair never combed and big holes in the knees of every single pair of jeans he owned.” She shook her head.
“He’s still like that!” They both laughed.All at once Margo’s eyes welled.Jenny moved to sit beside her. “Hey, hey, now,” and she
reached for a tissue. “Perr’s my stinky old brother, remember? That means I get to rag on him anytime I like.” She winked, giving Margo’s arm a nudge.
“I know, I know,” she took the tissue, blowing her nose, “it’s not that. I’m just a bag of emotions these days. I can hardly even concentrate on the website—you know I forgot to ship two purse orders the other day? Two! Pregnancy does that to you, you know. That, and your husbandtobe going off to some freakin’ foreign country on some retard journalism assignment.” Wiping at her eyes, she folded the tissue. “I just wish he’d settle down with a nice local job so he wouldn’t have to keep traveling and he could just stay home with me and the baby.”
Jenny was quiet.“And besides,” Margo reached for one of the ginger chews (for
staving off nausea) Jenny insisted she keep in a bowl on the end table, “now that things have changed, I think Perry really wants to settle down. All that traveling was just ‘sowing his wild oats,’ you know?” When Jenny didn’t answer, Margo turned. “Jen? Oh, Jen, I didn’t mean to upset you—”
But Jenny didn’t hear her. Margo’s voice was as far away as she was.
2“Jenny,” Marek said gently, rubbing her hands, “Jenny, my love. Can you hear me?” He took the glass of water Margo handed him, holding it to Jenny’s lips. “There’s a girl. No, a little more . . . .” He helped her to sit up. “Much better. How are you feeling?”
She put a hand to her forehead. “Aside from the most enormous splitting headache, just peachy.” Then she blinked. “Marek?”
Smiling, he nodded. “Margo called me when you wouldn’t answer her. She said it was like you were asleep only your eyes were open and she couldn’t wake you.”
Margo, standing behind him, couldn’t see Marek’s face. But Jenny knew that look, belying the reassuring smile.
“Where were you?” her friend asked, eyes wide as she came and sat down beside them.
“Off in another world,” Jenny said, likewise feigning a smile so as not to worry her. “I think . . . I think something you said just happened to remind me of something else, that’s all.”
“I’ll say! You know I called your name for ten solid minutes and you didn’t respond? I thought I was going to have to call 911 again. But then I remembered how mad you got at me the last time, so I called Marek instead.”
“I’m glad you did,” she said, reaching for his hand; her own was cold and clammy. “Marek knows about these kinds of things, the paramedics don’t. They’d just start looking for all sorts of medical reasons that have nothing to do with anything, and I’m certainly not going through all that again. Remember what happened last time?”
“Yes,” Marek said, “they don’t have any tests or gadgets for the paranormal. But we should get you home. You should rest.”
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“Rest? Beloved, it’s you who needs to rest. How did you get here, anyway? I hope you didn’t walk!”
He shrugged. “Fastest way I could get here.” Getting to his feet, he extended one hand. “Come.”
Margo’s eyes widened. “Oh, Marek, do you think she should drive? Maybe I should take you two back,” she said, starting to get up. “I’ll get my keys—”
But Jenny shook her head. “That would mean leaving my car here, and if we take yours how would you get back home? No, Margo, I’m fine to drive. Really. Besides, it’s just up the street.” As she stood up, she swayed a little; she grabbed Marek’s arm, assuming an affectionate gesture to disguise her unsteadiness.
“Yes, we’ll be okay,” Marek said, turning so Margo wouldn’t see his expression. “Thanks for taking care of Jenny until I could get here.”
“No trouble. I’m just glad she wasn’t in the car when it happened.” She escorted them to the door. “Oh, Jen, wait―what about your soup? It’s still on the stove. Hang on, I’ll get it.”
“No,” Jenny said, leaning heavily on Marek’s arm, “I brought it for you. You need to keep up your strength.” The room was beginning to darken. “Remember you’re eating for two?”
Margo squinted at her. “Thank you, Miss Cliché. Much as I hate to admit it, I do feel better having eaten. Now you’re sure you’re okay?”
“Yes, yes,” Jenny said, her back towards her friend as she unobtrusively wiped her brow; the steps were wavy as they went out. Marek went to open the car door, and Jenny gratefully slipped into the driver’s seat. “We’ll call you when we get home, ’k?”
“’K,” Margo said, folding her arms. “And thanks again for the soup.”
“Sure,” Jenny said, starting the car as Marek got in, then giving a jaunty wave as she slowly backed out of the driveway.
Karen R. Thorne 20
Then, watching in the rear view mirror for Margo to go back inside, Jenny quickly pulled over. “Drive for me,” she said in a voice nearly as pale as she felt. With no small effort she opened the door, waiting until Marek came around before trying to get to her feet. The jelly in her knees threatened to give way; then as he helped her into the back seat, everything began to spin. She fell onto the cloth cushions.
Eyes closed, she heard the car door shut. “My love,” she heard Marek say, “how do I do this?”
Not the easiest thing, being engaged to a walkin who’d never driven a car. “Put your right foot . . . on the brake (difficult to talk now)—the one in the middle—while, ah, your left pushes down the clutch. You see the . . . the little diagram on the gearshift? Move it forward into . . . first.” She could feel herself fading.
“Like this?” The engine revved, followed by the grinding of gears.
“Yes, but . . . don’t let go of the clutch . . . until you press . . . the gas.” The car lurched forward, nearly throwing Jenny to the floor. “Easy! Let . . . the clutch up easy.” Again the car lurched as the engine jerkily cut out.
“Oh! What have I done? Oh, Jenny, I think I’ve broken your car.”
“No, love, you’ve only stalled it. Push down . . . the clutch . . . and turn—turn the key.”
Marek did as she instructed. Several more minutes of this startstop, startstop got them to
the end of the block, though Jenny was only vaguely aware of it. At least Marek’s driving skills were improving: for the most part he was no longer cutting the car off. Then the tires gave a sharp squeal as they jerked to a stop, which managed to kill the engine again since he’d forgotten to take it out of gear.
“This is a lot harder than it looks,” he muttered, half to himself.
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Jenny could barely hear him over the ringing in her ears. She prayed no police spotted them before they could get home.
At last the car bumped into the driveway behind the house and came to another jerky stop. Marek turned off the engine. “Jenny?” Opening his door, he got out, reaching into the back seat and gently pulling her limp form towards him until he could lift her and carry her inside.
The silence of the house surrounded them as he proceeded up the stairs. Softly he laid her on the bed.
“My Jenny,” he whispered.She was too far away to hear him.
Marek was just coming in with a cup of hot tea when she gave a faint groan.
“Here you are, my love,” he said, coming to set the teacup on the bedside table before seating himself beside her.
“We made it?” Jenny said, more than a little surprised.“Yes,” Marek laughed. “Though for awhile there I had my
doubts.”With no small effort she pulled herself up, to lean heavily
against the headboard, hands trembling she reached for the tea, which he handed her. “Thank you for making this,” she said. “Mm—white pear! Oh, it’s just perfect.” She took another sip, the slightly sweet, fruity warmth trickling blessedly down her throat.
“So tell me what happened.”Letting him take the cup again, she lay back. “I really don’t
know. I remember Margo was talking about Perr, saying how she wished he could just stay home instead of going off on assignments. The next thing I knew I was someplace else.”
He leaned onto one hand. “Tell me about it.”
Karen R. Thorne 22
Jenny closed her eyes. “It was someplace far away, long ago. The twenties maybe, or the thirties, I would guess, from the style of the clothes and the automobiles. There was a girl, I don’t know if it was me, and she was standing on the street talking to someone. But that’s really all I remember.”
Marek’s fine brows knitted. “Was it like one of your dreams?”She shrugged. “I don’t know. I didn’t recognize it, but then
again I don’t remember the dreams, either.” She reached for the cup, which Marek once more handed her. “It was nighttime, I do remember that.”
“Good. You’re remembering more, that’s good. What else?”Jenny frowned, then shook her head. “That’s it. The rest is too
vague.”They were interrupted by the phone.Marek reached for it. “Hello? Oh! Just a minute.” He held out
the handset. “It’s Richard.”Eagerly Jenny took it. “Richard, hi! When did you get back?
When can—what? Yes, well, it’s been a bit of an exciting . . . oh, she told you, huh.” She was silent a few moments, then she looked up at Marek, face brightening. “Well, sure, we’d love it, if it isn’t too much trouble.” Nodding, she smiled. “No, I’m feeling fine now. Yes, really. Okay, see you in ten.” She returned the handset to the base.
“Richard’s coming over?”“Yes. Says he found a book he thinks we’ll find of great
interest, though he wouldn’t tell me what it was.”“He’s a good friend,” Marek said with smile.A little feeling of relief washed over her. “I’m so glad you say
that,” Jenny said, pulling him to her to kiss his cheek.Marek’s face reflected surprise. “Why is that?”“Because . . . well, I just thought maybe you’d start feeling
jealous of my male friends. Though,” she said, grinning, “by now you’ve probably realized Richard is more like an overprotective, doting uncle than a friend.” She caressed Marek’s cheek a long
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moment. “Okay now,” she made pushing motions with her hands, “up, up. I need to at least brush out my hair before Richard comes. It’s such a tangled mess!”
Mess proved less applicable to the state of her hair than what they found downstairs.
Jenny stood staring, mouth agape. “What in blue blazes happened?”
Sofa cushions, CD's, and a pile of papers and magazines had been strewn from one end of the living room to the other. Even her favorite plant, the sizable peace lily she’d nurtured for six years, had been upturned—as if someone had lifted it up and flung it hard to the floor.
Marek stared at her. “You mean you didn’t do this?” “No, I didn’t do this,” she said with a scowl, “I was with you,
remember?” Puzzlement knitted her face. Then all at once she felt herself blanch.
“No,” Marek said firmly, stepping over the disarray, “don’t even think it. You’ll just get yourself all worked up.”
“And what else am I supposed to think?”Giving a small shrug, Marek shook his head.“Well,” Jenny said, running her hands through her hair,
“standing here debating the matter isn’t going to get this mess cleaned up. Richard’ll be here any minute.” She knelt and began to return the CD's to their cases as Marek hoisted the cushions back onto the sofa.
They were just sweeping up the last of the brokenplant dirt when the doorbell rang. Jenny hurried to peek out the front window. “Not a word to Richard,” she said, turning and placing a finger to
Karen R. Thorne 24
her lips. Then her eagerness overtook her as she ran to open the door. Marek came up behind as she greeted her old friend.
“Well, well!” Richard said, laughing as she threw her arms around his neck, giving him a big squeeze. “That’s a fine welcome if I do say so. Perhaps I should go away more often. Marek, how are you?” the elder man said, extending his hand as he stepped inside.
“Better, thank you. How was your trip?”“Chicago was wonderful, but cold. March really isn’t the best
time of year for visiting the Windy City, but Agnes couldn’t very well change her birthday just to suit the weather!”
“No, I guess not.” “So how is your sister?” Jenny said, closing the door. Strange;
all at once she felt slightly dizzy. She made a grab for the doorknob for support.
“Fine, fine,” he said, smiling as he shrugged out of his brown tweed Ulster. “Another year older than me still, but fine. Says she might come out to Colorado this summer for a visit.”
“Once all these frigid temperatures are behind us, I hope,” Jenny said with an overly bright smile as she hung up Richard’s coat. At least the dizziness was fading. “Come on in and make yourself comfortable. I’m really eager to hear about your trip, but more eager to see this book you’ve brought us.” Richard being a rarebook dealer, he always found the most interesting and obscure titles, and he never bought anything that wasn’t somehow special. Linking arms with him, she led her longtime friend into the living room.
From the direction of the kitchen a highpitched whistle rose. “I’ll take care of the tea,” Marek said, heading off as Jenny and Richard sat down.
“Ahh, tea,” Richard said wistfully, settling into one of the plush antique chairs. “You just can’t get good tea in Chicago.”
Jenny’s eyebrows raised. “No? How come?”
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“Nasty city water. At least to me. My sister says she doesn’t notice it, but I certainly do. Either that or I’m just too used to the water here at home.” Then he gestured, as if suddenly remembering something; from his sweater pocket he removed a small brownpaper wrapped package.
Eyes widening, Jenny stared. “Is that the book?”Richard’s grin was smug. “Now don’t get too hasty. It’s as
much for Marek as it is for you.” He leaned forward, placing the package neatly on the low table. “You’ll see why when you open it.”
By now Jenny was literally on the edge of her seat. Fortunately Marek came in then with the tea, and at a nod from Richard, Jenny reached for the package. Then, pausing, she handed it to Marek. “You open it,” she said with the eagerness of a child at Christmas.
Glancing at each of them, Marek sat down next to Jenny on the couch and tore open the brown paper. “Bridging the Between,” he read the cover aloud, “Stories Of, By, and For WalkIns.”
Jenny gave a little gasp. “Oh, Richard, wherever did you find this?”
Her friend’s face was beaming. “A quaint little independent bookshop on the south side, down by the Chicago River. My sister goes there often—”
“Jen?” Marek made a grab for her.She waved him away. “I’m okay, I’m okay,” she said as she
steadied herself.Richard’s gaze narrowed. “Jennifer Townsend, what have you
been up to now?”“Nothing, and don’t fuss. I’ve had enough of that today.”As she leaned (fell) back against Marek’s shoulder, Richard
folded his arms. “I’ve heard that tune before.” His gaze slid sideways. “Marek?”
“She hasn’t been sleeping well,” he said by way of explanation. Hastening to pour the tea, he saw to it that Richard’s cup was
Karen R. Thorne 26
filled and then handed Jenny hers, holding her gaze to be sure she drank some. “And she spends entirely too much time worrying over me. So, Richard,” he said, draping an arm around Jenny, “tell us how your trip was.”
The older man’s eyes were stern. “I already said it went well, and you’re avoiding my question. Young man, have you been taking care of our girl?”
Marek’s face turned ashen. “Well, yes sir, of course, I—”Jenny laid a hand atop his. “My love, he’s only joking. Richard
knows you dote on me worse than a mother cat with her kittens.” Then she smiled. “Besides, we could say it’s partly his fault,” she glanced at her elder friend, “being away so long and not being here to take care of me himself,” and she winked to let Marek know she was exaggerating.
“That’s as may be,” Richard said, “but what I want to know is, what have you been doing that’s been keeping you from your sleep. Your dark circles have dark circles, m’girl, nearly as bad as the ones you had when you first moved in here and had all that ghost business keeping you awake.”
She felt a little wave of remembrance.“Moreover,” Richard went on, “your beloved here isn’t looking
so chipper, either.” He gave them both a stern look as he reached for the teapot. “If you don’t mind my saying, you two look like football players ready for the big game.”
At Marek’s look of bewilderment, Jenny briefly explained. “As for the dark circles,” she said, turning to Richard, “it’s not
just the vivid dreams. Apparently I’ve also been talking in my sleep.” She took a long draught of tea. “And screaming like a banshee—that part I do remember, all too well. It’s been keeping poor Marek awake, and probably half the neighborhood besides.”
Marek turned. “Jenny,” he said slowly, his voice puzzled, “you haven’t been screaming. You’ve been quiet as a mouse.”
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She blinked. “What are you talking about? I was screaming last night, don’t you remember? You almost couldn’t wake me. You had to go get the cold cloth. . . .”
Marek was shaking his head.“It’s not ghosts again, is it?” Richard leaned forward, dark
brows knitted.Jenny was still staring at Marek. Then she blinked. “What? Oh.
Not as far as I can tell. Though knowing me, I wouldn’t rule it out.” Hastily she downed the last of her tea, which was cold.
“Well, I don’t like the sound of it,” Richard said, the brow crease deepening, “not after all that business before.” And with that he launched into one of his elderknowsbest scoldings.
Jenny heard none of it. Her mind was fixated on what Marek had said: You were quiet as a mouse. But she clearly remembered screaming! Her throat was still raw, and the breakfast coffee had stung a little as it went down. She even remembered him saying something about it being the middle of the night and not waking the neighbors. Maybe she dreamed that too. . . .
Marek had been slowly flipping through the book their friend had brought. Now he looked up. “Richard, he said, his voice hushed, “this is amazing.”
“I hoped it would be. As soon as I saw it I thought of you. The shop owner said it was a good one, and he mentioned another one, too—author by the name of Beaconsfield. Highly recommended. But they were sold out of that one, and this one they only had the one copy left.” He finished off his tea, setting the cup down. “Of course, I don’t know that it’ll be much help with your problem, Jen. From what Margo tells me, it sounds like you’ve got your own version of morning sickness, is that true? Unless. . . .” The concerned brows became hopeful question marks.
Face warm, Jenny glanced over at Marek. “No, it’s not that. Actually,” her fingers intertwined with his, “I think it’s pretty much the same as when I used to spontaneously link into Marek’s plane crash, and how that affected me.”
Karen R. Thorne 28
“I thought you learned to control that?” Richard reached for a tea biscuit.
“Well, yes and no. Once I understood what had happened to Marek, I thought the problem would go away. But now I’m thinking maybe it hasn’t.” She let Marek feed her a bite of biscuit, stifling a chuckle as crumbs fell down inside his shirt. “That’s what you get for sitting so close,” she whispered, smiling as he flapped his shirt to shake them out. “Trouble is,” she continued to Richard, “it doesn’t do me much good when I don’t even remember the dreams. Usually I’m very good at it, recalling the the most minute details, but these . . . well, they’re just gone. As far as the unsteadiness, I’m not getting any images that would clue me in as to why, so I’m really in the dark about the whole thing.”
“And what does Nikky have to say?”“She’s away,” Marek said, reaching for a napkin. “In India.”There it was again: the slight hint of discomfiture. Jenny
suspected Marek had never felt entirely comfortable with the clairvoyant, ever since that first encounter when she’d recognized who and what he really was.
“India?” Richard echoed. One dark brow raised. “Well, that’s exotic. Beautiful country, I hear. Pleasure trip, or . . . ?”
“Spiritual sojourn,” Jenny said. “She goes there every year, usually for six months at a time.” She reached over, sneaking a sip from Marek’s cup before it reached his lips. “I haven’t seen or spoken with her since just after New Year’s.”
At this Richard sniffed. “Some guru.”“Mentor,” Jenny said with a frown, “not guru. Anyway, before
she left she taught me quite a bit, sort of a ‘weekend intensive,’ you might say. Left my head swimming!” Clearly Richard was not impressed. “And she gave me the number of a guy here in town who knows about all this stuff, in case I ever needed it.”
Marek sat back. “You never told me that. Why haven’t you called him?”
She shrugged. “I don’t know. Shy, I guess.”
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A chortle came from Richard’s direction. “Shy—right.”“Well, I’m definitely not outgoing, that’s for sure.” Jenny
wrinkled her nose at him.But Marek was insistent. “Jenny, you should call him. Tonight.
Tell him about the dreams you’ve been having, and the dizziness and the nausea.”
“Why? So he can tell me I’m not suited for this kind of work, that I can’t handle it?” She hadn’t meant her voice to rise like that—it just slipped out.
Marek returned her gaze. “If that’s what he thinks.” His own voice was steady and calm. “You should call him anyway. Else, how will you know?”
This time the heat went past Jenny’s ears.Suddenly Richard sat up. “Goodness, would you look at the
time. I promised to meet Sue at the Antiques Mall fifteen minutes ago, and it’s at least a twenty minute bus ride away.” Draining the last of his tea, he got to his feet.
“I hope you’ll forgive me, Richard,” Marek said, “if I don’t get up. I still tire easily.”
Jenny reacted with a look of concern, but Richard didn’t seem to notice. “No problem.” He gave Marek’s shoulder a firm squeeze. “You take care of yourself, hear?” And he beamed the young man a warm smile.
“Sue, huh?” Jenny said slyly, eyebrows raised as she followed her friend to the door. “New interest?”
“Er, yes and no. She’s very much into antiques, an expert of sorts.” He took his coat from Jenny, shrugging it on. “Though we do have much in common. Well, my dear, it’s been a pleasure as always. Marek, I hope you enjoy the book, and Jenny, I hope you get something out of it as well. Next time it’ll be my turn to invite you two over.” Beaming that broad Richardsmile, he opened the front door.
Jenny gasped. “Jesus God, Jon Lansing, don’t you know how to knock!”
Karen R. Thorne 30
Her friend’s expression was mixture of dismay and innocence. “Well, I was about to,” he said, hand still upraised.
Laughing, Richard clapped him on the shoulder. “Looks like you were. Sorry, old man, gotta run. We’ll chat later. Hugs, Jen!” he said, and he hurried off.
Jenny stood in the doorway, one hand on the knob, the other over her pounding heart. “Well, for heaven’s sake don’t just stand there, come on in. This wind’s freezing.”
Without argument Jon stepped inside. “I tried calling you,” he said, glancing over at Marek who was still seated on the couch, “but I kept getting a busy signal.”
“Busy?” Jenny reached for the extension and held it to her ear, then dashed up the stairs. A few moments later she returned. “For once, nothing paranormal,” she said with a grin. “I just didn’t get it put back properly on the base.” As she took Jon’s coat, she noticed his sideways glance. “You know you could’ve tried my cell,” she said, trying to read his expression.
“Did that too. All I got was your voicemail.”Jenny fished out her cellphone. “Oh. Guess I forgot to turn it
on.” She could feel Jon’s eyes on her. “Well, come in and have a seat. We were just—”
The room was empty.“Marek?”“He was here a minute ago—”“Marek!” Jenny tried not to let panic slip into her voice.
“Marek, where are you?” Not like him to just disappear. She checked the dining room and the kitchen; then just as she was about to check upstairs she caught a glimpse of movement outside.
“Beloved?” she said, hurrying out the back door.Over the top of the parked car his head came into view.Jenny marched over and clouted him on the shoulder. “Connor
Marek, don’t do that!”“Don’t do what?”
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“You know very well what! Jesus, you scared me. Disappearing like that—how could you!”
“I just came out to get some wood for the fireplace,” he said, indicating the armful he carried. Then, gazing at her, he frowned. “Jenny,” he said, holding her gaze. For a long moment she stared at him blankly, seeming not to recognize him. Then at last she blinked, and he gave a slow nod. “That’s better. Now, are you going to help me take this in, or do I have to carry it all myself?”
A short while later the trio sat down in front of the fire Marek and Jon had started while Jenny went to make more tea. Settling to the nerves, Jenny found, preparing the tea, then sipping it as they chatted lightly about Jon’s work and when he thought his friend’s place at the beach in California would be available. “None too soon,” Jon said with a small scowl. “After not having had a vacation in over three years, I can’t wait to get away for awhile.”
However, it was soon apparent (to Jenny at least) that Jon had more on his mind.
“Marek, darling,” she said, “do you feel up to making us all something to eat? I know we had those tea biscuits earlier, but my stomach’s starting to growl.”
“Well, it is going on fourthirty,” Jon said.“As if that makes any difference,” she teased, giving her
friend’s knee a playful clout.“Hey, a man’s gotta eat,” he said with a shrug.With an amused smile, Marek got up and headed for the
kitchen.“Nothing fancy, sweetheart,” Jenny called after him. “Your
sourdough hamandcheese sandwiches would be excellent.” She waited until he was gone. “So what’s up?” she said to Jon in a low voice.
Karen R. Thorne 32
His expression faded. “What makes you so sure something’s up?”
“Oh come off it, Jon,” she gave him a warm smile, “it’s me you’re talking to.” “Besides, you wouldn’t have come over here without getting me on the phone first if it weren’t important.”
“Jenny—” Marek interrupted from the kitchen doorway, “where did we put the Parmesan?”
“Oh! It’s, ah, in the door of the fridge. Bottom shelf.” “Okay, thanks.”All at once she felt guilty. Though she wasn’t trying to hide
anything, she just sensed Jon would feel more comfortable talking to her alone. “So what’s going on?” she said, moving closer so he could speak without Marek overhearing.
Jon pressed his lips together. “I didn’t want to say anything, because I know what all you’ve been through, and I know you’re devoting all your time to helping Marek recover. But things are starting to get a little out of hand and I may need your help.”
When he didn’t go on, Jenny frowned. “My help? With what?”Shifting uneasily, he leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “I
think,” he said, matteroffact, “my place has ghosts.”She tried not to react.“I’ve tried to find some other explanation,” he said, rubbing at
the back of his neck. “I’d put things someplace and then I couldn’t find them, but I brushed it off as forgetfulness, or fatigue from overwork. Then I started hearing things, little knocks or bumps, usually late at night. I dismissed that, too, thinking it was just all that business with you.” He shifted again. “But then as all this went on I had to admit it was just a little too coincidental. It just seems . . . well, like something’s there.”
“Like what?” Jenny was careful to keep her tone neutral.Jon shook his head. “I don’t know. Just a feeling, really,
nothing I can put my finger on.” The jiggling of his foot implied there was more.
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Instinctively Jenny reached for Jon’s hand. But before she could say more the kitchen door opened.
“Here’s the first—”Jenny was on her feet. “Wonderful! Oh, Jon, you gotta taste
this. You think Monte Cristos are good, wait’ll you try these. Marek’s really a good cook. Here,” she handed the plate to her friend, “dig into that. You know what would go good with these? Chai! I think I’ll make some . . . Jon, chai sound good to you? Marek, you can help me.” Then without waiting for an answer she pulled him along with her into the kitchen.
“What was all that about?” he asked as the kitchen door swung shut.
Glancing towards the living room, Jenny pursed her lips. “Something’s bothering Jon. I was just about to find out what it was.”
“So that’s why you were holding his hand.”“Yes, I—oh, now stop! He’s my friend and I wanted to reassure
him.” She frowned. “Do you know how many times he shifted in his seat trying to figure out how to tell me whatever it was he was avoiding having to say? Six or seven at least.” At Marek’s blank look, Jenny’s frown deepened. “Dang it, now don’t you start!”
“Start what?”“That jealousy bit again.”“I’m not jealous.”“You are! I can see it in your eyes. Like you think I’m going to
run off with Jon or something.”“My eyes are looking at you.”“Yes,” she folded her arms, “with that jealous stare.”“That’s what you see.”“Yes, that’s what I see!”“It’s not what I’m feeling.”Moist heat reached her eyes. “Then what are you feeling? That
I don’t love you any more, is that it?”“Do you?”
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“Don’t answer a question with a question!”“Jenny, please, lower your voice. Jon will wonder what’s up.”By now her cheeks were burning. “And just what is up?”“You tell me.”“I asked you!”“I’m not the one upset.”“You are! You’re—oh!” She could feel sheepish wash all over
her; one hand went to her mouth. “Oh Marek, what am I saying? I’m sorry,” she said, putting her arms around him, laying her head on his shoulder.
“Jenny, my love,” he said. “I understand.”Letting go of him, she frowned. “You understand? God, here I
go again,” she said, wiping at her eyes.Marek shook his head. “You’ve been through a lot.” He ran a
hand through her hair. “Give yourself time.”“Me?” She reached for a napkin. “What about you?” Unfolding
the small paper square, she blew her nose. “The unbelievable strain of becoming a walkin, and then all the physical trauma when that maniac Alan nearly—” She halted. “Anyway, you’re only just barely able to be up and around again and now I’m the one acting like some helpless little baby.” She let out a sound of disgust.
For a moment he was quiet. “Have I been acting like a helpless baby?”
“What? No!” Exhaling, she leaned against the counter. “I didn’t mean it that way. What I meant was . . . oh, never mind. It doesn’t matter. What does matter is that you’re finally getting better, and I shouldn’t be so focused on myself.” She knotted her arms.
Curling a finger under her chin, he made her look at him. “What you meant, my love, is that for the past three months you’ve done nothing but tend to me,” he said. “Now it’s your turn.”
His smile was irresistible. “No,” she said, smiling as well, “that is not what I meant, and you know it.” Gazing at him, her eyes
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welled with tears. “I nearly lost you,” she said, biting her lip to keep it from trembling.
He leaned into her hand as it caressed his face. “I would always come back to you,” he murmured, catching her hand and kissing it. “I did it before, and I would do it again, to be with you.” His soft eyes held hers a long moment. Then, reaching past her, he took up an oldfashioned tin from the counter. “Now, if I’m not mistaken, Jon is still waiting for his chai.”
Jenny gave a little chokelaugh. Taking the tin and measuring out the spice, she stole a sideways glance. “Marek?”
“Hm?” He dropped several slices of bread on the griddle, layering slices of Swiss atop the ham.
“Why do you put up with me?”Carefully he monitored the sandwiches, sprinkling Parmesan
on top. “I don’t put up with you. I love you.” Going over to the sink, he filled the kettle with water and set it on the stove.
“But you’re just so casual about it. No matter what I do, or how completely ridiculous or idiotic and insane I act, you just take it all in stride.”
He gave a tiny mischievous smile. “Well, what do you want me to do, pitch a fit like you?”
Just then they heard: “Hey, what happened to the chai?”“Coming!” Jenny called. Her gaze was still on Marek.
“Seriously. Why do you put up with me?”He paused, carefully turning the sizzling sandwiches. “I
already told you,” he said, pressing the spatula into each, “I don’t put up with you. If I did, I would’ve left a long time ago.”
A rock dropped in Jenny’s stomach.After a few moments more, Marek turned off the burner,
lifting the toasted sandwiches out of the pan and onto a plate. “Here,” he said, handing it to her. “Just save me a corner of yours, okay? I’m not very hungry.”
Jenny didn’t move. “I don’t get it,” she said. “I don’t get it, and I don’t get you. I mean, I stand here and yell at you, accuse you of
Karen R. Thorne 36
being jealous—for nothing—and you just calmly listen. How do you do that?”
The hazel eyes smiled. “I don’t.” He reached for the steaming kettle, pouring the hot water over the tea spices, then adding the milk. Stirring, he looked up at her. “Love does.”
With a kiss to her forehead, he went into the living room.
Over the next two hours Jenny tried to again catch Jon’s eye, but could make no further headway on whatever was bothering him.
And the afternoon was fast drawing to a close.At length Jon yawned mightily, giving a huge stretch. “Oh,
sorry! It’s been a long day. I was up before five, and then I thought I’d never get that boot glitch fixed on that Athlon this afternoon.” He shook his head. “Must’ve picked up a virus in the wild or something.”
Jenny felt Marek’s confusion. “Computerspeak,” she explained with a small smile. As Jon stood up and headed for the door, Jenny followed. Desperately she wanted to know more about his “problem” . . . but how to get him to open up and talk about it? He’d said his troubles had something to do with ghosts. Friendly Caspertypes, or . . . ? Was there more than one? And the noises: were the ghosts talking to him, or just banging around, poltergeistal? Had he’d actually seen them, or did they only act up when he wasn’t looking, or not at home or not around? She stifled a chuckle. Not so long ago she would’ve turned tail and run at the mere mention of ghosts. Now she was beside herself wanting to know everything.
“Well, Marek,” Jon said, pulling on his coat, “thank you very much for the excellent sandwiches. Sometime you’ll have to tell me how you make them.”
“It will be my pleasure.”
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Jenny stepped forward to open the front door and a chill wind gusted in. Immediately Jon went to zip his coat.
“So we’re still going to your friend’s art exhibit tomorrow, then?” Jenny said, watching as he fiddled with the zipper catch. She hoped her tone sounded nonchalant.
“Yes, absolutely,” he said, getting the zipper to work finally, stuffing his hands deep into his coat pockets as he stood on the porch. “It starts at two—shall I pick you up around noon? We can grab some lunch on the way.”
“Sounds great.”“Marek, you’re more than welcome to come with us,” Jon said,
seeing Marek’s arms slipping around Jenny’s waist from behind.“Well, I appreciate the offer but I don’t think I’m up for too
much activity quite yet. You and Jenny have a good time.” He leaned his chin on Jenny’s shoulder.
Together they waved as Jon climbed into his Land Rover and drove off. Another chilly gust of wind sent the pair scurrying inside.
“I don’t know how he drives that great big thing,” Jenny said. “Though in wind like this at least it’s sturdy.” Closing and latching the door, she turned. “What?”
Marek gave a slight shake of his head. “I’m just looking at you.” He motioned, and Jenny followed.
Together they went into the living room and she settled down beside him, snuggling against his shoulder. A flash of memory skittered past: this sofa, the one he’d given her, how he’d lain on it, bloodied and bruised, when Alan . . . she pushed the images away. Even with all the meridian therapy she’d done, the raw edge of memory was still too painful. At least she had a powerful tool like Emotional Freedom Techniques to help. Skeptical at first, she’d been unconvinced this weird tappingthing would do any good. Described as “acupuncture without the needles,” one would lightly tap various points on the body while “tuning” the emotional field by stating the problem. The combination of tapping and
Karen R. Thorne 38
tuning would then release the energy blockage. EFT was said to “tap” the sting out of virtually any pain of the human condition, physical, emotional, or otherwise; so, curious, she tried it. It didn’t take long for her to become a believer: in one session it had utterly neutralized all the hatred she’d felt towards her alcoholic exhusband, all the bitterness of their fouryear marriage that was nothing less than a descent into hell.
Leaning her head against Marek’s chest, she closed her eyes. Now the healing energy technique would heal her and him, too. It was only a matter of time, finding all the aspects and collapsing them, one by one. She sighed. The soft scent of him, that delightful, odd, othertime smell; how precious to be like this, when it could so easily have been otherwise.
“Beloved, I’m really sorry about the way I acted earlier,” she said with a sigh. When he didn’t answer, she looked up. “Marek?”
Gazing down at her, his eyes held her in soft focus. “Why did you say you were screaming?”
Jenny shifted. “Why do you ask.”“Because I want to know.”She turned, leaning her back against him, feet up on the
couch. “I . . . guess I must’ve dreamed it. You know me and my vivid dreams. I can never tell whether or not they’re real.” She looked up at him. “Kind of like you.”
He frowned. “Jenny, you still don’t believe?”“Oh, of course, my love!” She swung around to face him.
“That’s not what I meant. I meant all those times I dreamed of you, when you were still in spirit, before you walked in. All those times you were talking to me, being with me, even in my waking life, how hard it was to know whether it was really happening or just some wild fantasy I was playing out in my sleep.”
The hazel eyes narrowed. “Jenny, tell me the truth. All of it.”His simple statement took her by surprise. She paused. “I don’t
know,” she said, in her voice a mixture of frustration and dismay. “Marek,” she let out a forceful sigh, “I swear to you, I remember
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screaming last night. I remember I couldn’t wake up. I was calling for you, and I was terrified—of what, I don’t know. I could hear you calling for me, but I couldn’t come out of it. And you were right. Something had hold of me, not like a physical thing or a spirit or a ghost, more like a force of some kind, that invisible force that seems to hold you in your dream when you desperately want to wake up but can’t. I tried to get away from it, fell off the bed, even crawled underneath the chair! But it wouldn’t let go. It was like something made me look―” here her eyes became disfocused, “made me watch and see and feel . . . something. Something terrible and tragic and utterly heartbreaking, though for the life of me I can’t remember what it was. And then you were talking to me. I was aware of sitting up in the bed, and you were talking to me, asking me to describe it, and all I could say . . . all I could say was that there was a girl, and she was talking to some man, at night. That’s all I could remember. Just that girl and the man, and the nighttime darkness.”
“Tell me about this girl, and this man.”She blinked. “Yes,” she said, nodding, “that’s what you asked
me last night. But I’ve already told you everything. The rest is gone. Only. . . .”
Marek waited. “Only what?”Gazing off again, into some unseen distance. “Only it wasn’t a
dream. It was real.”
3Jenny, a female voice murmured.
She rolled over, trying not to listen, trying not to hear. Jenny, the voice said again, no louder but a little more urgent
this time.Go away, she said in her mind, leave me alone. I want to sleep.Jennyy, the girl’s voice cried, receding.
Marek lay staring into the darkness, the dim light through the curtain playing tricks with his eyes. The shapes on the ceiling were people dancing, moving, faces speaking to him with silent words. Even closing his eyes, he could still see them.
“Jenny?”“Hm?”“Are you asleep?”Rustling of covers. “Yes.”Turning, he could see her outline, cheek against her palm, hair
spilling onto the pillow. “Remember what you told Richard about what happened last night?” He paused. “Do you want me to tell you what I remember?”
“Yes,” came her quick reply.Breathing a sigh, he laid back, staring again at the ceiling. “We
went to bed around ten, and I was so tired I fell right asleep. I don’t even remember dreaming anything. I must have been very deep because the next thing I knew I heard you say my name but I was too sleepy to open my eyes. Actually, it didn’t even sound like you. But it must have been, because it was a female voice, calling me. I kept trying to open my eyes, and I think I mumbled
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something but instead I drifted off. The next thing I knew, it was morning.”
The quiet in the room rang in their ears.“Marek,” Jenny said softly, “which one of us was dreaming?”He turned. “I don’t know. Though my thought would be that it
was you.”A shift, as her eyes closed. “Forgive me, my love, but what I
remember was not a dream. If it was, then I must seriously be losing touch with reality.”
The shadows from the window played in the soft planes of her face. “Then,” Marek said with a deep sigh, “perhaps I was so deep in sleep I said and did things I don’t remember. Like sleepwalking.”
“Or,” she cradled her head in the palms of her hands on the pillow, “was I the one so deep in sleep that what I was dreaming seemed utterly real? I clearly remember you telling me I needed to hush, that I would wake the neighbors if I didn’t stop screaming.”
For a long moment he was silent. “I don’t remember saying that, my love.”
The wind rattled at the window.Suddenly she sat up. “The cold cloth!” She flicked on the light.
“It would be here . . . yes!” Reaching down, she picked it up, triumphant.
But Marek shook his head. “You brought it with you to bed. After dinner your head was bothering you, remember?”
Deflated, Jenny sank back. Then she scrubbed at her hair. “Oh, I don’t know. All this is too strange for me to even try to figure out.” She snapped the light off, pulling up the covers. “Cuddle like spoons?” she said, scoonching backwards.
“Like spoons,” he said, in his voice a smile.Then as the weariness took over and she closed her eyes, an
image flashed through her mind.The image of a darkhaired girl. . . .
Karen R. Thorne 42
Noon the next day arrived all too soon. The entire morning, Jenny had been lost in thought, pondering
what Marek had said, trying to figure it all out. His version of what happened (or didn’t?) was so completely different from hers. How could two people be in the same place at the same time yet experience two totally different things?
Now, as she sat staring out the passenger window of Jon’s SUV, she couldn’t seem to rein in her thoughts. Another chilly day, the Colorado winter unwilling to give itself over to spring, the wind again rocking the trees and bending the dried landscape. Snow this year had been sporadic, likely not enough to stave off the drought come spring and summer; it would be waterrationing again. Still, watching the brownandgray foothills’ passing blur whizzing along C470, the fact barely registered; Jenny was a million miles away, the hum of the Land Rover’s engine mesmerizing.
“Hey,” Jon nudged her, “wake up.”Jenny shifted a little. “I’m awake. Though just barely.”He flicked her a glance. “At noonthirty?”“Yes, well.” Stifling a yawn, she hunched down deeper in the
heated leather seat. “I didn’t get much sleep.”“You and me both,” he muttered, his blue eyes taking in the
roadway.“You too? How come?”He didn’t answer. Flipping on the turn signal, he looked over
his shoulder to change lanes, passing a heavyladen pickup. Then he seemed awfully intent on adjusting the rear view mirror, as well as the side one, up, down, a little to the right.
“Jon, you’re stalling.”Nostrils flaring, he gave a forceful sigh. “It’s that ghost again,”
he said.Jenny’s heart beat a little faster. “What ghost? You never did
tell me the details.”
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His mouth pressed into a line. “Not much to tell, really,” he said with a frown. “Noises, mostly. I know my dishwasher makes some clicking sounds after it’s finished, but this was hours later. A couple of times it even woke me up.”
“What sort of noises?”He thought a moment. “Taps, or knocks maybe. Like this.” He
rapped a knuckle on the dashboard.Jenny raised a brow. “Anything thrown, or broken?” He shook
his head. “Hm. Doesn’t sound much like a poltergeist, then, except for the stuff you say gets moved around sometimes.” Sensing he was a little more open now, she pressed further: “Tell me, what do you feel when you hear these sounds? I don’t mean like feeling scared or angry, though those are important too. I mean, do you get a sense of presence with this? Like someone’s there? Any hostility, aggressiveness, anger that’s not your own?”
With a little grimace, he shrugged. “Nothing I could really put my finger on.”
Definitely he was hiding something.Just then they came to the exit. Jon decelerated onto the
ramp, stopping at the bottom to wait for the light to change. Jenny wanted so much to ask him more, but her mind was so full of questions she didn’t know what to ask next.
Under the overpass, and a block or so later Jon pulled in at the restaurant and parked. As they got out, Jon motioned for Jenny to precede him.
“Good afternoon,” the pleasant hostess said with a smile. “Right this way.” She led them to a table near the foothillsfacing windows.
As they sat down, a waiter immediately greeted them. “Welcome to Orfeo's. My name's Tim. What can I get you started with?”
“An iced green tea with lemon for the lady,” Jon said, “and a house wine spritzer for me, please.”
Jenny blinked.
Karen R. Thorne 44
The waiter nodded and went off. Jon unfolded his napkin and laid it in his lap. Then he rearranged the silverware, moving them all to one side, lining them up. “What? Didn’t you want an iced green tea? It’s what you always order.”
“A wine spritzer, Jon? You never drink.”“Yes, well, today I feel like having one,” he said, opening the
menu and perusing the various items.With a slight frown Jenny likewise opened hers, scanning the
long list. Everything became a blur. It wasn’t so much Jon’s sudden unusual behavior, but more the vibes she felt emanating from him.
“I hear the poached salmon is excellent,” he said, still looking over the menu. “They serve it in a delicate winecream sauce with capers and creamed parsley potatoes. Fortunately, at this time of day it’s the lunch portion. Dinner portion’s easily enough for two.”
Jenny said nothing.“So,” the waiter said, coming up and serving their drinks,
“have you decided?”Jon picked up the spritzer downing half of it. Then he
motioned. “Jenny?”“Oh.” Rapidly she scanned the menu. “Um, I’ll have the
poached salmon, that sounded good.”“The same for me,” Jon said, handing over his menu. “And
another of these,” he held up the halfempty glass.Jenny’s eyes grew wider.“Very good, sir. If you require anything while you’re waiting
just raise the flag.”At Jenny’s puzzled look, Jon pointed: each table had a small
triangular flag mounted at the top of the decorative pole that served as a coat rack. When the flag was raised the point of the triangle faced the table where service was needed.
“Neat, huh,” Jon said as if reading her mind.“Hm? Oh, you mean the flags. Yes. Saves all that
embarrassment of waving to get the attention of the wait staff when you need something.” She took long draw from her water.
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As the waiter went to put in their order, Jon tried to avoid looking at Jenny, who was still staring at him. “What?” he said finally. “They’re small.” He twiddled with the swirl pattern on his fork.
She leaned forward. “Jon, this isn’t like you.” When he didn’t respond, she reached out and grasped his hand. “Talk to me. Something’s bothering you and I want to know what it is.”
His gaze went to Jenny’s hand, clasping his. “I can’t sleep. Every night I lay awake for hours, wanting so badly to fall asleep, yet wanting not to, scared to drift off, yet longing to.”
“Longing to?” Odd word for him to choose.He nodded.“So why can’t you? Is it the ghost?”He gave a shrug. Folding and refolding the linen napkin, he
pressed his lips together. Then he sighed. “It’s a girl.”A small flutter. “You mean you’ve found someone?”He shook his head. “I mean the ghost.”Now she was more intrigued than ever. “Then . . . you’ve seen
her?” She took a sip of green tea, then grimaced. She’d forgotten to sweeten it.
Jon sat back with a sigh. “Yes and no. I fall asleep and I see her, but vaguely, like in a mist or a fog or something. When I’m awake—well, this will sound crazy, but I can feel her there. Just sometimes, though, not all the time.”
A million things zipped through Jenny’s mind. “What exactly do you feel?” She reached for a packet of raw sugar.
“That’s just it.” He ran a hand through his sandy hair. “I don’t know how to describe it. You know how in dreams you can do things and be things and it all makes sense, and then when you wake up and try to tell someone about it, suddenly it all sounds preposterous? Well, it’s sort of like that.” Picking up his glass, he downed the rest of the spritzer, all in one gulp.
Jenny stirred the sugar into her tea. “Are you in love with her?”
Karen R. Thorne 46
“No!” Lowering his head, he scrubbed the side of his face. “No,” he said in a softer voice, “how could I be. Look, I’ll admit, she’s beautiful incredibly beautiful—but I’m not in love with her.― I can’t be. She’s just some girl haunting my dreams.”
To this Jenny simply returned his gaze.“Oh, come on now, Jen. This isn’t anything like that. This isn’t
you and Marek.”“I didn’t say it was.”“No, but you thought it.”“Since when do you know what I’m thinking?”“Since I’ve known you for twelve years and I have a pretty
darn good idea.” He reached for his spritzer, his expression suddenly crestfallen, finding the glass empty. “Anyway, it’s not like that so don’t go getting your bonnet in a knot.”
Another odd phrase. Where was all this coming from?Vainly he tried to extract the last drop from the bottom of the
glass. “I shouldn’t have told you,” he said, scowling as he plunked down the empty glass.
“All right. So you’re not in love with this girl. But she obviously upsets you. Why?”
“I don’t know why,” he said, reaching for her green tea and taking a big swig. Then he made a face. “Ugh, I forgot how I hate lemon.”
As if on cue the waiter appeared with their food. The plates were set before them, the warm waft of tantalizing aromas suddenly reminding Jenny how hungry she was. She’d been too preoccupied with her thoughts to eat breakfast. Unfolding her napkin, she discreetly observed Jon’s expression.
He tasted his potatoes, then set down his fork, reaching for the salt with one hand and the second wine spritzer with the other.
Jenny eased her own fork into her salmon, pretending not to be concerned. “Mm! Oh, this is delicious,” she said a moment later, mouth full.
“I told you it was. The capers are what set it off.”
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She tried to catch his eye, to no avail.As Jenny suspected, the food brought a halt to their discussion.
A former culinary school student, Jon appreciated fine food, and he preferred keeping conversation to a minimum so he could focus fully on the interplay of tastes and textures of the food. In this case Jenny was glad, since it gave her time to think, carefully planning out her words ahead of time.
“Whew,” Jon said at last, pushing back his plate, “I am stuffed.”
“So am I. You should’ve warned me not to eat so much bread!”He shook his head. “Wouldn’t have done any good. Freshly
baked and piping hot, with soft whipped butter on the side—doesn’t get any better than that.” Smiling, he took out his wallet and nodded for the waiter, paid the check, and then led Jenny from the restaurant, their pace a tad slower than when they went in.
“So where’s this art gallery?” Jenny wanted to know as they climbed back into the Land Rover.
Jon hedged. “Well, to tell you the truth it’s not a gallery, it’s a house.” Starting the engine, he revved it slightly, then backed out. “Or should I say, mansion. Chris has this humongous spread in Highlands Ranch—you’ll see.”
A house? Not what she expected; she’d assumed they’d be visiting one of those sterile art galleries with the sparse displays, leaving lots of elbow room between guests and the opportunity to gracefully exit when needed.
So badly Jenny wanted to continue their conversation about the ghost, but she didn’t want to upset Jon any more than he already seemed to be. In all the time she’d known him, she’d never seen him so . . . offkilter. Torn, almost, between one thing and another. She turned to gaze out the window, watching the scenery whiz past, a grayandbrown blur patched with the white of lingering snow. A girl, he’d said. As if she were real.
Karen R. Thorne 48
Signaling, Jon made his way over into the far lane and took the next exit; at the light he turned right, heading into the elite estates dotting the gently sloping landscape south of C470. Largely new construction, every house had at least two if not three stories, with lots of expansive open windows, vaulted ceilings and skylights, though very little in the way of trees or bushes. Jenny wrinkled her nose.
A little ways down Jon turned onto a winding, upscale residential street. New trees, garages, and small wellkept lawns—very Highlands Ranch. “Here we are,” he said, coming to a stop behind a row of parked cars near the culdesac. Turning off the engine, he got out and came around to open the door for Jenny, closing it after she alighted. “It’s the tan and Dutchblue one.” He nodded.
Through the tall windows of the very posh house across the street she could see a small milling crowd. “Oo, Jon,” she said, catching his sleeve, “are we dressed for this?” Suddenly she felt very selfconscious in her beige cotton twills and buttondown sweater.
“Nonsense,” Jon said, linking arms with her. “Chris is a great guy.” And with that cryptic comment he led her up the steps and rang the doorbell.
A smiling face opened the door. “Jon! Come in, come in. I was so hoping you’d come. Just about everyone’s here.” Their effusive host opened the door wide, stepping back to let Jenny and Jon enter.
“Chris, this is Jenny Townsend, the friend I told you about,” Jon said.
“Pleased to meet you,” she said, extending her hand.“Jenny Townsend. What a lovely name.” He shook her hand in
both of his, his grasp light yet firm. “I’m Christopher Jakes, l’artiste.” He laughed, giving a flourish. “But everyone who knows me calls me Chris.”
A flickerimage skittered past.
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But before she could think much about it, another young man came up. “Jon, you remember Christian.” As Jon nodded, Christopher took the glass of white wine the young man handed him.
“Christian Harding,” the young man said to Jenny, shaking both their hands.
Jenny was hard pressed not to stare. Dark hair, dark skin, and absolutely the most intense dark eyes, in a face more handsome than any male model’s. Stunning contrast to Christopher’s attractive blondehaired, blueeyed looks. “Nice to meet you,” she said, making a subtle grab for Jon’s arm. Her knees had suddenly gone to jelly.
Christopher laughed. “Chris and Chris, that’s us. Well, make yourself at home. There’s fruit and hors d’oeuvres in the kitchen,” he said, gesturing, “and on the sideboard you’ll find the wine and cheese. Help yourself and just give us a shout if you notice anything running low.” Together he and Christian linked arms and went off to mingle.
She felt Jon’s hand under her arm.“Told’ja he was a great guy,” Jon muttered, eyes twinkling as
his voice reflected amusement.Jenny couldn’t resist elbowing him.The mirth on Jon’s face was pure mischief. “You fell for it,
didn’t you? You really thought I was going to try to set you up.”“I don’t know why you would,” she said, edging past a group
of four engrossed in conversation.“Well, you always did accuse me of that, even though you
knew different.”She stopped and turned, giving him a glare.But Jon merely took her arm, leading her towards the
sideboard. “Come on, I want to check out the cheese. Chris only buys the finest, and he promised he’d get some Danish Havarti.”
Karen R. Thorne 50
“Jon Lansing, we just ate!” Then as she watched him fill a small cheese plate, she shook her head. “I don’t know where you put it.”
“Just watch,” he said, and the entire cheeseandcracker he was holding disappeared.
If only she could get Marek to eat like that at least for― awhile. After nearly four months he was still little more than skin and bones.
Jon nudged her. “Thinking about Christian?”Jenny was taken aback.“Hey,” he said with a shrug, “I’m not even on that team, and I
know he’s a great looking guy.”“Jon!” Then as she looked up the subject of their discussion
spotted her from across the room. He flashed her a winning smile. “Although,” Jenny said, easing into the nearby side chair, “I’d be lying if I said he wasn’t attractive. He’s absolutely gorgeous.”
At this Jon leaned down. “There is something about him, isn’t there?” Then he chuckled. “No, I don’t mean like that. I mean he has a sort of charisma, an aura about him that draws you in.”
Jenny was beginning to wonder if her green tea at the restaurant had accidentally been spiked that, or the two small― wine spritzers were having an untoward effect on Jon.
“Christian has a mystique,” Jon was saying, finishing off another cheeseandcracker. Reaching for one of the glasses of red wine, he swirled it, inhaling the bouquet. “Almost otherworldly.” He took a sip.
“I wish I knew what you’re driving at.”Looking around, Jon leaned close. “He’s a walkin,” he
whispered.She nearly spilled his glass.“You’re making that up!” Jenny could feel her cheeks growing
warm. “Jon Lansing, that’s not funny.”“Honest to God, I swear.”“And just how would you know?”
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Nonchalant, he took another bite of cracker. “Told me so himself.”
Just then they were startled by a pinging on the side of a glass. “Everybody! Everybody, can I have your attention please? If you would all make your way into the great room, the showing will begin.” Christopher waved a hand high over his head, indicating the direction.
Jenny tugged on Jon’s sleeve. “I thought this was going to be like a regular art gallery,” she said with a frown, “just walking around and looking at stuff.”
“Christopher has his own way of doing things. He shows the paintings one by one, explains a little about each, and afterward anyone interested can make an offer, much like an auction.”
They followed the crowd into the great room, large enough to host a ball, where numerous framed paintings sat on easels and leaned against walls. Most were covered by dark silk cloths. “All right, everyone, gather round.” Christopher’s eyes proudly gleamed. “First, I want to thank everyone for coming today. I am very proud to present my latest collection, and I hope very much you all will enjoy it. So to begin, this,” he said, removing the silk cloth, “is the first work I would like to present, ‘Tangled Whispers’ . . . .”
As Christopher talked, Jenny gazed around, taking in the rather bizarre tableau. Art showings weren’t exactly her thing; she’d only agreed to go was because it was a friend of Jon’s. Never one for social gatherings—especially ones that involved any sort of alcohol (she’d had more than enough of that with Alan)—she much preferred her smaller, closeknit group of “mughuggers” with whom she could relax and share coffee and chai and quiet conversation and be comfortable. Gatherings like this made her nervous . . . despite Christopher was a very genuine person, and certainly a likable host.
Christian wasn’t bad, either. Reminded her somewhat of that opera singer—what was his name? Evan . . . Lewis, that was it.
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The countertenor with that amazing voice who sang at the winter concert Jon had taken her to last December. So depressed over Marek’s spirit leaving, she didn’t want to go, but of course Jon coaxed her (rather like today), and somehow listening to Evan Lewis’ voice felt, well, healing. Of course, the singer’s eyes were blue, unlike Christian’s, whose enormous liquid brown eyes . . . well, like Jon said, drew you in.
“So what do you think of Chris’ work?”“Oh!” She jumped, unaware the subject of her thoughts had
come up behind her. “Um . . .” She turned, but Jon had wandered off.
“Jon tells me you know another walkin,” Christian said. He was standing much too close; his melodic baritone reverberated in her ear.
Swallowing, Jenny nodded. “Yes. My fiancé.”Christian laughed. “Guess we’re all taken then, aren’t we.”Surely he meant it as a joke, or so she hoped. Whatever his
meaning, it was lost on her.“Listen,” he said, “why don’t we go somewhere and talk? Chris
is all wrapped up in his showing, and I’m sure Jon won’t mind.” Eyes twinkling, he flashed her a winsome smile.
“Okay,” she heard herself say. Then as he took hold of her arm she caught yet more fleeting glimpses, conflicting images that made no sense.
He led her away from the great room, through the expansive chrome kitchen and out onto the large balcony that overlooked the immaculate landscaped backyard that led off into a broad open field. “Quieter out here,” he said, closing the glass French doors, shutting out the murmur of the party. “Have a seat.”
Thank God. Her jellyknees were knocking.Christian sat gazing at her a long moment. “You have a lot of
questions,” he said.
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Heart beating in her throat, she mentally repeated Calm, calm, reminding herself that Jon was only a few steps away. Belatedly she nodded.
Inclining his head, the young man gave a halfsmile. “I don’t know if I have the answers. But I’ll try.”
Her mind was spinning. What had Jon set her up for? Biting her lip, she blurted out: “How do you know you’re a walkin?”
With a simple smile he shrugged. “How do you know you’re a human being?” Then he shook his head. “It’s not anything I could point to, really. I just know. Sometimes I have memories that don’t seem my own, and other times I seem to remember being someone else. Beyond that, I don’t really know what to tell you, except that once I came to the realization and admitted it, at least to myself, everything got easier. Not easy, mind you . . . but definitely easier.”
For a moment, she felt herself slip someplace between. Then she blinked. “Oh!” She could feel herself blushing. “Forgive me. I didn’t mean to stare.”
Christian smiled. “I’m used to it. We are a bit different, you know. Or,” here he gazed skyward, “we’re seen differently by those who can see.” He leaned forward. “Like you.”
She choked a little. “Like me?”“Yes. You know, sensitive. Psychic.”“Well, I try.” She looked down. “But tell me. What’s it like,
really?”Another lilting laugh. “Do you have all night? Seriously,
though, in many ways we’re no different than you or Jon or anyone else, and in other ways we’re entirely a breed apart. At least in my experience. Of course, each walkin has his or her own point of view, his or her own path and experience, which aren’t necessarily like any other’s. There are similarities, of course, just as there are for any human being. Many don’t even know they’re a walkin, while others retain full memory of who’ve they’ve been,
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where they came from, how they died and then walked in to their new host body.”
Not a trace of sadness; a mere statement of fact.“Of course,” he went on with a smile, “most walkins aren’t as
unusuallooking as I am. I was blessed with an Italian mother and a Lebanese father. But most walkins are not outwardly remarkable at all. They’re just regular folks, and if they’re aware of being a walkin, they don’t want to draw attention to the fact.” He leaned forward, taking hold of her hand. “What’s his name?” he asked, drawing a finger along the faint white scars crisscrossing her palm.
His touch was like electricity. “Marek,” she said when she found her voice. “Connor Marek.”
Releasing her hand, he reached over and poured a glass of water from the pitcher. “Marek,” he repeated, handing the glass to her. “Yes, it’s a fitting name, isn’t it.”
Keenly she was aware of the noise of the water as she swallowed, how much it sounded like gulping. She tried to disguise it.
Christian leaned forward again. “Does he remember?”She nodded.“And how has he handled it?”“Quite well, considering.” She drank more of the water,
wishing it weren’t nearly gone.“Considering what?”“Considering,” she let him take the glass and refill it, “all he’s
been through.” He waited for her to go on. “His . . . the person he was walking into was in a car accident. The young man wanted to die.” The knot in her throat made it difficult to speak. “I had a hard time believing Marek was . . . well, you see, I’d known him before, or at least sort of, and ”―
“From a past life,” Christian said before she could finish.“No, he was a ghost. In the house I bought.”
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“Oh, I’m sure,” Christian reached forward, taking Jenny’s fingertips lightly in his, “but you also knew him from a past life. That’s why you’re so close.”
Jenny’s jaw dropped. “What?”Christian smiled. “Many of us walkins are quite psychic.
Intuitive, if you prefer.”At this she sat forward, eager. “So when did I know Marek?
Were we married before? How many lives have we spent together? Were we very happy?”
“Whoa, whoa,” Christian said, smiling, “one question at a time. I’m not a fullfledged clairvoyant, but I can tell you what I’m picking up.” Closing his eyes a moment, he nodded. “There was a girl, a fiancé,” his fingers slid from Jenny’s fingertips to the diamond ring she wore. “He wasn’t fond of her, this girl, because he was in love with you. But you didn’t pay him much attention—your strict father wouldn’t let you. Something to do with Marek’s family; too poor, foreigners . . . IrishPolish is what I’m getting.”
Jenny could hardly restrain herself. “So what happened?” Releasing her fingers, Christian shook his head. “That’s it. The
scene was very brief.”“Oh. Well, thank you. It explains a lot. Though I don’t know if
Marek remembers all that—he says I knew him from a birthday party I’d gone to at the house we live in now, when I was a child. Apparently I was sensitive to ghosts even then, spending time with him instead of enjoying the party, though I hardly remember it. But he remembered me,” here she couldn’t help but smile, “and he was the one who drew me to the house, influencing me to buy it.”
“Sounds like he loves you very much,” Christian said with a small smile of his own.
“Yes, he does. Almost as soon as I moved into the house, Marek began visiting me in my dreams.” At this her smile widened; she sat back with a blissful air. “Being with him in my dreams was the most wonderful thing that had happened to me in a long, long time. Pretty soon, it was all I wanted to do. But for
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him it wasn’t enough. He needed a way to overcome Tom, the malevolent entity who’d been harassing me ever since I moved in.” She reached for a sip of water. “Tom was one of those entities able to affect people physically, to the point of physical pain and injury. Then my exhusband showed up.” At this she faltered.
Christian laid a hand atop hers. “Go on.”Almost without thinking she began subtly tapping her
collarbone. “Marek nearly died,” she said, shaking her head, continuing to lightly thump. With no small difficulty she told him how Alan had secretly stalked her for months, showing up at Christmas, and then again on New Year’s Eve, viciously attacking both Jenny and Marek.
“Drunk out of his mind,” Jenny halfwhispered, her voice breaking as the tears welled, “as usual. Easy prey for Tom, who’d also been an alcoholic. Tom had murdered a woman he’d been obsessed with, Rebecca ” the words tumbled out, “ because she― ― was deeply in love with someone else. In a drunken jealous rage he’d beaten her to death, in one of the bedrooms of the house, then went after her beloved Eli, beating him to death as well, in the cellar.” Jenny closed her eyes, remembering the grisly scene.
“So how did you manage to stop this guy?” Christian said gently, stroking Jenny’s hand.
“Alan passed out, and before he had a chance to come to, I went into trance, connecting with the spirit world to try to coax Tom to go to the light.”
“Did he go?”Jenny gave a slow nod. “He fought me bitterly, though. If it
hadn’t been for the help of my spirit guide, Dark Moon Leave, he never would have consented to go.”
“So where’s Alan now?”She took the tissue Christian handed her. “He committed
suicide,” she said, wiping her eyes. “In the mental hospital, awaiting trial. Though I can't say I regret his loss. It took nearly
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three months for Marek just to be able to get out of bed, and still he tires easily.”
“Severe fatigue,” Christian said, nodding. “That happens to us sometimes. Was it a quick transition? Yes, then that would explain it.” Cupping her hand in both of his, he gently pressed it. “He was far too weak to fend off such a violent attack. Typically it takes at least six months for the new spirit to initially anchor in, and up to two years to fully ground in the body. After that, it’s another few years to assimilate the emotional body. It’s a miracle he survived.” He paused, as if to let the words sink in. “And with all you yourself went through. . . .”
A little jolt went through her palm, like sparks of electricity. She jerked her hand back.
Again Christian smiled. “Not to worry. I’ve been gifted with a healing touch, that’s what you felt.” He reached out and turned her hand over; the skin of her palm was warm and slightly red. “Increased circulation,” he said by way of explanation. “Have you used EFT with Marek?”
Another little jolt, this time of surprise. “You know about EFT? I’ve taken him through a few rounds, though not for that specifically.”
Christian’s gaze deepened. “You should. He has a lot going on inside that he hasn’t told you. All walkins do, and we all have to process it. It isn’t easy coming into a body that belonged to someone else.”
Just then a voice interrupted: “There you are!”Jenny looked up to see Jon standing at the door, Christopher
coming up behind him.“We were having a bit of a chat,” Christian said, “where it’s
quieter.” He stood up, retrieving the empty water glass.Christopher relieved Christian of the glass, reaching for the
pitcher. “Well, I hope you’re coming back in now. The afternoon clouds are rolling in, and it’s getting chilly.”
As Jenny got to her feet she felt herself sway.
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“Yes,” Jon said, eyeing her, “and it’s about time Jenny and I start heading back.”
“So soon?” Christopher’s face reflected his disappointment. “We were hoping you’d stay and visit awhile after everyone leaves.” He carried the pitcher and glass to the sink.
“No, we really do have to get back. But we’ve had a wonderful time.” Subtly he took Jenny by the arm. “Thanks again, Chris, for inviting me.”
“My pleasure. I’m so glad you could come, both of you.” He started to follow his guests to the door.
“Jon, wait.” Jenny turned to Christopher. “Before we go, may I use your bathroom?”
He laughed. “Which one? There are five!” With a wave he gestured. “Just take your pick, and if you can’t find one then something’s seriously wrong with you.” Giving a goodnatured smile, he and Christian headed off towards the living room.
Jenny watched them go. The proverbial night and day, those two, though they seemed wellsuited to each other. Then, feeling a bit overwhelmed, and more than a little dizzy, she looked around. She decided on a set of stairs leading down into the lower level, gripping the railing for support. A splash of cool water on her face should help.
Halfway down, she felt compelled to turn. Sitting on the stairs was a little girl in a frilly white dress and patent leather shoes. The moment she saw Jenny looking at her, she turned and ran up the stairs, then vanished.
Jenny wasn’t sure whether to let her mouth drop open or smile.
When she rejoined Jon a few minutes later, she crooked a finger at him, whispering in his ear.
One eyebrow raised. “Really?” At that moment Christopher walked by, and Jon snagged his arm, bringing him to a halt. “Tell him what you just told me,” he said to Jenny.
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She felt herself flush. “You have a ghost downstairs,” she said, trying to keep her voice matteroffact.
“Oh, you mean the little girl? Yes, she’s a sweetie. Unless she doesn’t like what I’m painting. Then she comes in and tugs on my painting arm, trying to mess me up!” Laughing, Christopher continued on his way into the kitchen.
Jenny was beginning to think she should give up trying to understand anything.
Jon chuckled. “You didn’t think he’d believe you, did you.” Catching Chris’ attention, he said, “Thanks again! We’ll show ourselves out.” His friend waved as he escorted Jenny to the door.
Christian came hurrying after them. “Jenny, here.” Into her hand he pressed a small card. “It’s an organization here in Denver specifically for walkins. Saved my life, literally.” Again he gave her that winsome smile, waiting as they went down the front steps before closing the door.
Jenny glanced over her shoulder. “You know,” she mused, watching through the window as Christian joined Chris in the kitchen, “part of me wants so badly to say what a waste.”
Jon followed her gaze. “Not for Christopher,” he said with a small smile. He pressed the remote to unlock the Land Rover’s doors.
With a sigh Jenny cast one last glance at the house. Then tentatively she waved, staring as they pulled away, unable to take her eyes off the little girl waving them goodbye from the front window.
~End of excerpt~
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