Total pages in book: 97
Estimated words: 93723 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 469(@200wpm)___ 375(@250wpm)___ 312(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 93723 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 469(@200wpm)___ 375(@250wpm)___ 312(@300wpm)
I take a seat, gingerly bending my torso, and smile stiffly. “I’ve got time.”
Right on the nose, Terrance emerges from his office after his patient exits. He smiles. “Josie. How are you?” Giving me a slow once-over, he frowns. “I was sorry to hear about your accident. Thank God for miracles.”
I grin. “Miracle indeed. I’m healing quite well. Do you happen to have a few minutes I can steal?”
He glances over at his receptionist. “Can you move my one o’clock to one-thirty?”
She nods.
“Come on in.” He gestures with a snap of his head.
It’s a dinky office but calming and neutral with wood wall art and deco planters full of succulents.
“Have a seat wherever you’re comfortable. Can I get you something to drink? A snack?”
“I’m good. Thanks.” I take a seat in a chair by the window.
He grabs an apple and sits on the leather sofa. I think I took his chair.
“So what brings you by?” He takes a bite of his apple, probably his lunch.
“Have you ever had anyone have a near-death experience who then had visions or dreams of things that are not related to the near-death experience or anything in real life at all? But they feel real. And each dream builds on the other dream, becomes more real, more detailed.”
He chews a big bite for several seconds. “Not in those exact words. But I wouldn’t say any two near-death experiences are exactly alike. What did you see?”
I thought I was ready to have this conversation with someone, but now that I have the opportunity to share it with someone who is trained to deal with this, I find it really hard to say the words. It’s not like I saw Colten’s dad or my grandparents.
“Josephine?”
I drag my gaze away from the narrow succulent garden on the windowsill behind him. “I saw long locks of hair from little girls’ shaved heads tied to tree branches in a churchyard. Then I saw where the bodies were buried, but I didn’t see who did it.”
I’ll hand it to Dr. Terrance Byrd. He’s perfected controlling his reaction. And I thought I was an expert at suppressing emotional responses.
“Where are the bodies buried?”
“In a cemetery. They were buried on top of caskets that were recently buried so that no one would get suspicious and look there for the bodies.”
“How do you know that?”
“Know what?”
He stares at his apple for a few seconds. “How do you know that’s why they were supposedly buried there?”
I shrug. “It’s the most logical explanation.”
Terrance nods slowly. “Have you recently had a girl with a shaved head on your table?”
“No.”
“Read books about shaved heads?”
“Not recently.”
“This started after your heart stopped?”
“Yes. I have dreams … well, nightmares, but only if I don’t take medication for the pain or to help me sleep. Sometimes I wake up screaming. It’s so real. And I remember every little detail from the nightmare. And they’re not all the same. Each time they are different girls, and their hair is tied to different trees in different churchyards. So I looked it up, thinking maybe it’s an actual thing that has recently happened. But I can’t find anything except a serial killer who did this exact same thing in the late 1800s, early 1900s.”
Terrance takes another bite of his apple, studying me or maybe just absorbing my words. “Had you read or heard about this killer before your accident?”
“No.”
His eyebrows draw together while he stares at his half-eaten apple again. “Your scans came back normal?”
“Yes.”
“Did you have a concussion?”
“No.”
“How long were you out? No pulse?”
“I don’t know.”
“Have you had any dreams like this before? Or even just lucid dreams?”
“No.”
He sighs slowly. “What’s your inclination? What’s your gut tell you that you should do about it?”
I laugh. “My gut’s telling me to go to Tennessee.”
“What do you expect to find in Tennessee?”
“I don’t know. Maybe an old cemetery that matches one from my dreams. Maybe …” I twist my lips. “Is it possible that my near-death experience didn’t put these visions in my head? What if it took away other memories that would give the images context? What if I studied Winston Jeffries when I was a child, and those are the memories I lost?”
“What are the chances that, as a child, you would have studied a late nineteenth century serial killer?”
My nose scrunches into a guilty expression. “I sorta had a thing with death. So if I’m being honest, it’s not wildly impossible or even all that unlikely. Dahmer. Bundy. DeAngelo. I was curious.”
“Well, trauma can cause selective memory loss. And you’re right, losing parts of our memory can make it difficult to understand some of the memories that do exist. Context is everything.”
Chewing on the inside of my lip, I flit my attention back to him. “We took a trip to Nashville when I was eleven or twelve. I don’t remember everything we saw, but I wouldn’t be surprised if we walked through a few cemeteries.”