(Psychic Visions 01) Tuesday's Child

Tuesday's Child

Book #1of Psychic Visions

Amazon Edition

Copyright 2010 Dale Mayer

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Tuesday's Child

This is a work of fiction.  Names, characters, places and incidences either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental. 

Amazon Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Amazon.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

 

1. Chapter 1
   
 

 

2. Chapter 2
   
 

 

3. Chapter 3
   
 

 

4. Chapter 4
   
 

 

5. Chapter 5
   
 

 

6. Chapter 6
   
 

 

7. Chapter 7
   
 

 

8. Chapter 8
   
 

 

9. Chapter 9
   
 

 

10. Chapter 10
    
 

 

11. Chapter 11
    
 

 

12. Chapter 12
    
 

 

13. Chapter 13
    
 

 

14. Chapter 14
    
 

 

15. Chapter 15
    
 

 

16. Chapter 16
    
 

 

17. Chapter 17
    
 

 

18. Chapter 18
    
 

 

19. Chapter 19
    
 

 

20. Chapter 20
    
 

 

21. Chapter 21
    
 

 

22. Chapter 22
    
 

 

23. Chapter 23
    
 

 

24. Chapter 24
    
 

 

25. Chapter 25
    
 

 

26. Chapter 26
    
 

 

27. Preview of Hide'n Go Seek
    
 

 

28. About the Author
    
 

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Tuesday's Child wouldn't have been possible without the support of my friends and family. Many hands helped with proofreading, editing, and beta reading to make this book come together. Special thanks to Amy Atwell and Pat Thomas. I had a vision, but it took many people to make that vision real. I thank you all.

2:35 am, March 15
^th

S
amantha Blair struggled against phantom restraints.
No, not again
.

This wasn't her room or her bed, and it sure as hell wasn't her body. Tears welled and trickled slowly from eyes not her own. Then the pain started. Still, she couldn't move. She could only endure. Terror clawed at her soul while dying nerves screamed.

The attack became a frenzy of stabs and slices, snatching all thought away. Her body jerked and arched in a macabre dance. Black spots blurred her vision, and still the slaughter continued.

Sam screamed. The terror was hers, but the cracked, broken voice was not.

Confusion reigned as her mind grappled with reality. What was going on?

Understanding crashed in on her. With it came despair and horror.

She'd become a visitor in someone else's nightmare. Locked inside a horrifying energy warp, she'd linked to this poor woman whose life dripped away from multiple gashes.

Another psychic vision.

The knife slashed down, impaling the woman's abdomen, splitting her wide from ribcage to pelvis. Her agonized scream echoed on forever in Sam's mind. She cringed.

The other woman slipped into unconsciousness. Sam wasn't offered the same gift. Now, the pain was Sam's alone. The stab wounds and broken bones became Sam's to experience even though they weren't hers.

The woman's head cocked to one side, her cheek resting on the blood-soaked bedding. From the new vantage point, Sam's horrified gaze locked on a bloody knife held high by a man dressed in black from the top of his head down. Only his eyes showed, glowing with feverish delight. She shuddered. Please, dear God, let it end soon.

The attacker's fury died suddenly. A fine tremor shook his arm as fatigue set in. "Shit." He removed his glove and scratched beneath the fabric.

In the waning moonlight, from the corner of her eye, Sam caught the metallic glint of a ring on his hand. It mattered. She knew it did. She struggled to imprint the image before the opportunity was lost. Her eyes drifted closed. In the darkness of her mind, the wait was endless.

Sam's soul wept. Oh, God, she hated this. Why? Why was she here? She couldn't help the woman. She couldn't even help herself.

She welcomed the next blow – so light only a minor flinch undulated through the dreadfully damaged woman. Her tortured spirit stirred deep within the rolling waves of blackness, struggling for freedom. With one last surge of energy, her eyes opened, and locked onto the white rings of the mask staring back. In ever-slowing heartbeats, her circle of vision narrowed until the two soulless orbs blended into one small band before it blinked out altogether. The silence, when it came, was absolute.

Gratefully, Sam relaxed into death.

Twenty minutes later, she bolted upright in her own bed. Survival instincts screamed at her to run. White agony dropped her in place.

"Ohh," she cried out. Fearing more pain, she slid her hands over her belly. Her fingers slipped along the raw edges of a deep slash. Searing pain made her gasp and twist away. Hot tears poured. Warm, sticky liquid coated her fingers. "Oh. God. Oh God, oh God," she chanted.

Staring in confusion around her, fear, panic, and finally, recognition seeped into her dazed mind. Early morning rays highlighted the water stains shining through the slap-dash coat of whitewash on the ceiling and the banged up suitcases, open on the floor. An empty room – an empty life. A remnant of a foster-care childhood.

She was home.

Memories swamped her, flooding her senses with yet more hurt. Sam broke down. Like an animal, she tried to curl into a tiny ball only to scream again as pain jackknifed through her. Torn edges of muscle tissue and flesh rubbed against each other, and broken ribs creaked with her slightest movement. Blood slipped over her torn breasts to soak the sheets below.

The smell. Wet wool fought with the unique and unforgettable smell of fresh blood.

Sam caught her breath and froze, her face hot, tight with agony. "Shit, shit, and shit!" She swore under her breath like a mantra.

Tremors wracked her tiny frame, keeping the pain alive as she morphed through realities. Transition time. What a joke. That always brought images of new age mumbo jumbo to mind. Nothing light and airy could describe this. Each blow leveled at the victim had manifested in her own body. This was hard-core healing – time when bones knitted, sliced ligaments and muscle tissue grew back together, and time for skin to stitch itself closed.

Sam understood her injuries had something to do with her imperfect control, paired with her inability to accept her gifts. Apparently, if she could surmount the latter the first would diminish. She didn't quite understand how or why. Or what to do about it. Her body somehow always healed, the physical and mental scars remained. She was a mess.

The physical process usually took anywhere from ten to twenty minutes – depending on the injuries. The mental confusion, disconnectedness, sense of isolation lasted much longer. She paid a high price for moving too soon. Shuddering, Sam reached for the frayed edges of her control. It wouldn't be much longer. She hoped.

Nothing could stop the hot tears leaking from her closed eyelids.

This session had been bad. Apart from the broken ribs, there were so many stab wounds. She'd never experienced one so physically damaging. Nervously, she wondered at the extent of her blood loss. If she didn't learn how to disconnect, these visions could be the end of her – literally.

Just like that poor woman.

Sam hated that these episodes were changing, growing, developing. So powerful and so ugly, they made her sick to her soul.

Several minutes later, Sam raised her head to survey the bed. The pain was manageable, although she wouldn't be able to move her limbs yet. Blood had soaked the top of the many Thrift Store blankets piled high on the bed. Her hollowed belly had become a vessel for the cooling puddle of blood. Shit. The stuff was everywhere.

The metallic taste clung to her lips and teeth. She rolled the disgusting spit around the inside of her mouth, waiting. She wanted to run away – from the memories, the visions, her life. But knowing that pain simmered beneath the surface, waiting to rip her apart, stopped her. Weary, ageless patience added to the bleakness in her heart.

Ten more minutes passed. Now, she should be good to go. Lifting her head, she spat the bloody gob onto the waiting wad of tissue and noted the time.

Transition had taken fifteen minutes this morning.

She was improving.

Oh God. Sam broke into sobs again. When would this end? Other psychics found things or heard things. Many of them saw events before they happened. She saw violence – not only saw, but experienced it too.

Occasional shudders wracked her frame from the coldness that seemed destined to live in her veins. The odd straggling sniffle escaped. She couldn't remember when she'd last been warm. Dropping the top blood-soaked blanket to the floor, Sam tugged the motley collection of covers tighter around her skinny frame. Warmth was a comfort that belonged to others.

She wasn't so lucky. She walked with one foot on the dark side – whether she liked it or not. And that was the problem. She'd been running for a long time. Then she'd landed at this cabin and had been hiding ever since. That was no answer either.

Her resolve firmed. Enough was enough. It was time to gain control. Time to do something. This monster had to be stopped. Now.

Christ, she was tired of waking up dead.

10:23 am, 16
^th
May

T
he police station, a huge stonework building, towered above Sam, blending into the gray skies above. Or maybe she just felt small. Insignificant. She couldn't imagine choosing to spend time in this depressing place. It only needed gargoyles hanging from the dormers to complete the picture of doom.

The entire idea of what these people did defeated her. She understood the necessity, yet given her insider knowledge, this whole human viciousness thing was too much. She wouldn't be here now except another woman had been murdered.

Given her past interactions with the police, even that wouldn't have been enough to make her sign up for more. The last cop she'd dealt with had been one bad-assed bastard.

No. The ring had brought her here.

This morning's killer had worn a similar ring to the one Sam had seen several months ago in another vision. She'd caught only a brief glimpse of it then, with the memory surviving transition to burn an indelible mark on her heart. Even the mask and gloves had looked similar. The biggest nail in this guy's coffin had been the energy. Like DNA, energy was unique, a personalized signature so to speak. Both killers had the same energy, the same variations in wavelengths and ripples. Even the same type of vibration. But that was hardly police evidence.