Chapter Three

Sybil

Present

The first thing I notice is that the office is cold. Not just the temperature, but the dark, muted colors and the sharp angles of the furniture and chairs. This is obviously strategic, but I believe for most clients it probably has the opposite effect. Sitting in a small room with a therapist is awkward enough without the uninviting setting.

“I’m sure this won’t come as a surprise, but I find your name quite … sardonic—Payne.”

She squints at me, and I know I’ve hit a nerve. “I get that a lot, though most people don’t find it to be ridiculing, rather funny.”

I nod in acknowledgment, not knowing how to follow up; it’s difficult to have a sense of humor in this situation, much less this office.

I glance around the room and tale in the various works of art. They are surprisingly void of color, which seems to fit in with the rest of the décor. I quickly spot a black-and-white picture of a boat floating a short distance from a small dock. It elicits a sense of loneliness that I immediately connect with, and it isn’t until a voice seemingly drifts in from the shore that I realize I’ve been staring at it.

“So, with this being our first session,” Dr. Payne continues, “let’s begin with you telling me a little about yourself and why you’re here.”

I turn my head abruptly back to her. Here we go. “Well, we should begin with me explaining what it means to be clairvoyant.”

“You’re clairvoyant?” the doctor asks as she scribbles on her notepad.

“Yes. I can read the energy emitted by objects and sense when traumatic events have happened to the person that possessed it.”

“What do you mean by ‘sense’?”

It’s been a long time since I’ve had to put it into words, so I try not to fumble for an explanation. “I get some type of … visual—sometimes first person, sometimes third—similar to a movie playing in my head.”

“And that’s of traumatic events, you say? Can you explain?”

“Say a person is attacked or suffers a tragic—even mortal, accident—then I can usually get something from it.”

“Usually meaning most of the time.”

“Quite often. But not all the time.”

Dr. Payne stops writing and locks eyes with me.      

“That must be … difficult. How long have you had this ability?”

“Since I was very young.”

“That must have been traumatic when you discovered your ability.”

I scoff without hesitation. “It’s traumatic now,” I say as my mind wanders to the dismembered body near Chapel Hill.

“Yes, I imagine that’s true. I simply mean that it would have been difficult to process as an adolescent.”

“It was. The first time I thought I got hit by a car—I wet myself.”

Did I just admit that to her out loud?

“Something like that imprints on one’s memory. Did you dream about it afterward?”

“Yes. Things still replay in my dreams quite frequently. I imagine so my brain can process everything.”

“Yes. Have you ever taken medication to help you sleep?”

I hesitate but answer truthfully. “I take Doxepin on occasion. Only when I need to.”

She scribbles more, and I regret telling her. I know I’m supposed to be forthcoming for this process to work, but I don’t want her to think I’m some sort of pill-popper.

“Are you taking it now?”

“No.”

She must sense my aggravation because she immediately tries to soothe me. “I understand this is difficult—and remember this is a judgment-free place—I just need to know where you are right now when it comes to any anxiety or other physical repercussions. That’s why you’ve come to me, and I want to help you. Unfortunately, many people only see me when they’ve become desperate.”

“I’m not exactly desperate: I’ve been dealing with this on my own my entire life.”

“I understand that, and I commend you for your resiliency—I wouldn’t have been able to do it. But this is a lot to carry on your own … and for so long.”

I nod. She’s right, and that’s obviously why I’m here. I don’t know how to deal with whatever happened.

“I can only imagine the screams of the victims you give you night terrors.”

“No—there’s no sound. I don’t hear anything, and I don’t know what they’re thinking.”

Dr. Payne scribbles another note. I wonder what it is.

“Okay … we can circle back to that here in a moment. Your profile says you work for the FBI.”

“I contract with the FBI.”

“What service do you provide as a contractor?”

“I use my … ability … to assist in missing person cases.” That came out relatively easy. If she’s being honest with herself, it has been easy to talk about this with a stranger.

“Your ability as a clairvoyant?”

“Yes.”

“How does that work?” Dr. Payne asks.

“I typically have a piece of clothing or some other item belonging to the person when they were abducted.”

“How do these cases usually play out?”

At first, I’m not sure what she’s asking. “You mean do we find them?”

“That, too, but how involved is your part of the process?”

“I’m not very involved, aside from the initial consult.”

“Do you find out how the cases end?”

I nod. “The detective I work with updates me as they go along. No sensitive details, or anything. I’m not authorized. He does tell me how they conclude.”

“Does it usually work out in the end?”

“Sometimes. Not always the way we would like.”

“That’s all very interesting—I can’t wait to hear more—but for now, let’s move on to what brought you here today.”

I take a deep breath to gather my will, then I look Dr. Payne in the eye and say, “I want to talk about the demon that tried to possess me.”

By the end of the session, I’m confident Dr. Payne will refuse to see me again. Throughout most of the explanation of what I was told and what I remember, the therapist sat silent, her eyes large. Bulbous even. I know she hears some crazy things, but probably not like my crazy. Only, ends up proving me wrong and scheduling me for the following week. I suppose whether or not Dr. Payne believes my story, she is intrigued enough to want to hear more.

The office is only a short drive to the coast, so I cross the bridge and head toward the island’s northern tip: Kure Beach. I try to notice the comically colored bright houses of purples, blues, corals, and yellows, but my mind keeps drifting back to my time in Dr. Payne’s office. It surprises me how freeing it is to talk to someone about what is happening to me—especially a third party, someone not trying to tell me how to react or shelter me from what they feel to be dangerous and avoidable situations. She simply listened—didn’t lecture me or tell me to shut myself away—unlike my family. I have to admit I’m looking forward to my visit next week.

The rock barrier coming into Kure Beach reminds me of pictures of European coastlines where the rocks slice through the beach as a last stand before the ocean’s corrosive intrusion. It is gorgeous, and it has been far too long since I’ve been here, which is a real shame since I live so close. My family came here a lot when I was young; this was our favorite beach. Not many people drove this far down, so it was never overcrowded. Plus, there’s the nearby aquarium, which I would beg to go to every time we came. And that was often. But that all ended when my gift became more than I could bear. Or hide.

Now, the beach adjacent to the rock wall is lined with people—even on a cold spring day like this one. Then again, it’s probably the only one that still has free parking.

I climb to the top of one of the large protruding rocks and sit down to stare out over the ocean. The glassy water reflects the sun’s powerful rays, bouncing off light ripples in the water. The vastness beneath calls to me. There is so much below the water’s surface the naked eye cannot see, things most people will never experience or interact with. Much like the way I see the spiritual world: There is so much of it others will never experience. At least until they die. I’ve always thought they were lucky to be so ignorant. But especially now. The other side frightens me–desperately. The good doctor was right. Something happened I cannot explain—that I don’t even really remember—but it threatened my life, my very spiritual being. And I’m scared. That’s why I took sleeping pills for so long after it happened. I didn’t want to remember, and I was afraid my dreams would betray me in a way my waking mind wasn’t.

In fact, the more I try to wrap my mind around it, the more I think my memory isn’t failing me at all but protecting me. Knowing what that thing did would have broken me. Now it’s telling me to remember, only it’s edging me back toward the precipice of the events of a few months ago, easing me into realizing the true nature of the danger I was in.

Soon I will be able to talk about it to someone who was there without cracking up. Soon, I will call the pastor who saved my life.

Now I’m beginning to see that everything I thought I finally understood about the other realm was only a shadow of its existence. There is a real darkness, and within it there are evil powers that seek to destroy. For whatever reason, one of them sought me out. Soon, I will remember why.

The rock wall isn’t slippery, but I climb down with great care. The last thing I need is to be bed-bound with a twisted ankle. At the bottom, with my feet planted firmly into the sand, I close my eyes and inhale the salty air, letting my mind travel back to something pleasant: my recent vacation with Freddy. My body becomes warm against the cold breeze assaulting it.

And I suddenly miss him. He’s not even been gone for 24 hours, but my body craves him. The sensation is welcome, though unsettling. I’m not used to craving someone this way. I’ve always enjoyed my space, and when someone finds a way to intrude upon it I typically run the other direction. Like Evan. Then again, Evan was so different from Freddie. He was romantic and sweet, but needy and clingy. His value derived from being part of a relationship, whereas I value space. Freddy? He is his own man—and all man, mind you—who wants her to be a part of his life, not all of it. He gives her the space they need for their relationship to continue.

This is when it first occurs to me that I consider my arrangement with Freddie to be a relationship. How would he feel about that? Me? I would normally end things as soon as that became an inescapable option, but now … I’m comforted by it. I’m in a long-distance relationship with a successful man who meets my physical and emotional needs.

And it feels good.

I don’t even realize I’m walking when I come upon two old women bundled in coats against the cold, their hoods pulled over their heads, the fake fur lining them blowing erratically in the wind which has now picked up to a howl. They don’t seem to notice me; they’re involved in some conversation that has them fully engaged. It makes me want that connection with someone. The person I’m closest to, Micki, is my sister—and I don’t even tell her everything. These women look like they’re sharing some dramatic secret: their faces are animated, open, and friendly. Their mouths move a hundred miles a minute. Have they been friends since they were young, I wonder? Or did they meet as adults who already had husbands and children and careers?

As they approach within mere feet of me, the woman closest suddenly turns her head toward me. The vigilant spirit within me perks up: Her movement is so mechanical it’s like her head was forced. But by what? And her eyes are so completely black … unnaturally so.

Then her words light a fire under my guard. “He won’t save you next time.”