I have just posted the latest chapter of A Quiet Moment. I hope everyone is staying safe and well during this difficult time. Peace to All. 🙂
The House on Prytania Street:
She followed the SUV off the exit leading to Crozet. Her gloved hands tapped nervously on the wheel of her car. What he proposed seemed a bit unorthodox to her, given their recent, how should she put it, near parting. But she hadn’t said no. He wanted her to spend the weekend with him at his house in Crozet, in the guest room of course. She blushed a bit, thinking of the reaction her grandmother and for that matter her mother would have had. But then again, they came from a culture that judged rather harshly on appearances whether there was any actual culpability in play.
He had taken her to a very homey sort of inn for breakfast. She hadn’t even known of its existence. Of course, during her five years in Charlottesville, she had spent remarkably limited time in Waynesboro. The place was just about five miles onto Skyline Drive, a rather breath-taking trek into the Appalachians. And perhaps, rather treacherous during this season, but of course they hadn’t gone far.
It was a sprawling sort of inn, with quite a view out of its scenic windows. Meadow View Lodge, just the sort of place she was thinking of spending the rest of the weekend. “Do you like it?”
She’d pulled her focus from her introspective musings back to the face of the man who was complicating her formerly well managed existence. “It’s lovely here, so serene.” And then she added, perhaps to try to unhinge him as much as anything. “The energy near the mountains is very calming.”
He didn’t flinch but sipped his coffee instead. “I suppose it is. I’ve never given it a name, but I do find a source of creativity here, and near the ocean I suppose.” She sipped her tea and glanced back at the view of the snow-capped mountains again. “So—” And then he stopped. She brought her eyes back to his with question in them, “Tell me. When you say energy, is it something you actually see?”
She brought the cup down softly to its saucer. “Mostly, I feel it I suppose, but at times I can see it too, when I’m in the proper frame.”
“Frame?” He was leaning toward her, hands sort of clasped together as though he were pensively studying some odd new discovery. It sort of made her feel like tossing her hot tea all over his head.
She straightened her shoulders, easing against the wooden back of the chair. “Yes,” quietly.
But he was undaunted, “So what does that mean, frame?”
She smiled, perhaps a bit condescendingly, “Do you really want to talk about this now Jacob?”
He nodded, “Yes, I want to understand what you’re, well, what you’re all about.”
She sighed, feeling irritated. But then again, she’d never been in a situation where she felt that she had to explain herself. The people who knew her best, Dominick, her grandmother, needed no explanations. This, however, was a different arena.
He wasn’t the first man she’d dated, but admittedly none of them she had allowed to get too close. The involvements had been temporary and superficial. But what Jacob Wyss was, she was coming to find, was anything but superficial. He had a deceptive depth to his essence. Deceptive in that he, on first observation, appeared easy and undemanding, but once you were in you found yourself within something altogether different.
“When I say frame, I mean something you could describe as an altered state. When I place myself in such a state, I can see the energy, energy emitted from everything. And then, after that it is only a matter of sorting out what is being seen.”
He nodded slowly, a perfectly calm demeanor as though he were attempting to evaluate what she was saying. “So, what does it look like to you, this energy?”
“It depends where it is coming from. It can be like waves of different colors, or it can look more physical.”
He leaned back, pensively, and she wondered if he thought her certifiable just now. “Physical like how?”
She laughed shortly to break her unease, “Jacob, I am perfectly aware of how ridiculous all of this must seem to you.”
His eyes seem to narrow a bit. “You’re so very defensive Aimee.”
His comment startled her. “I’m not used to being analyzed or judged for that matter.”
He laughed unexpectedly, “Is that what you think I’m doing, judging you?”
Her arms had unconsciously come up in front of her, wrapping in a protective stance. “I’ve, I’ve always kept this part of my life very private, private from people that would perhaps prefer to condemn rather than understand.”
He was very solemn. “Look, I’m not the inquisition here Aimee. As far as I know they’re not burning people at the stake these days for being witches.”
“At least we hope not.” She sipped her tea again to stifle further comment.
“The point is you don’t have to be afraid of any of that kind of stuff from me. I want you to let me in a bit. I need you to.” He glanced away. “For some reason, I really do need you to.”
Quietly, she spoke, “It might take some time.”
He smiled a little whimsically, “Well time I have. We don’t need to do everything at once. A little at a time will work. What do you think?”
He could be very winning when he wanted to be. “Let’s just get through breakfast, shall we?”
“Fair enough,” and then he glanced back in the direction of the kitchen. “That is if it ever gets here.”
“So, what was that idea you had?”
He smiled, “Oh yeah, well I know it might seem kind of unexpected, but why don’t you spend the weekend at my house?”
She sat staring at him, a little stunned. Had he really just suggested that they— “Umm, I don’t know about that Jacob. What you need to know is that I am kind of an old-fashioned sort of girl.”
He grinned in a way that made her feel a tad bit self-conscious. “Now, don’t suppose that I am suggesting anything illicit. Not that you don’t inspire illicit thoughts, but I have a lovely guest room. And I just would like to show you the area. Maybe roast a few marshmallows in the fireplace. Show you my etchings.”
Was there a blush creeping up her cheeks? She sincerely hoped not. “But you probably really do have etchings.”
“Yes, all kinds, but honestly, I just want us to spend time together. So, what do you think?”
She glanced around. The waitress was approaching from across the rather vast room with their breakfast. Looking back at him, all she could manage was, “I don’t know.”
He smiled, even though she hadn’t said yes. “Well, I can try to convince you during breakfast.”
“I don’t like being pushed.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it.” And he didn’t exactly, but he did subtly make a case that would make her feel very foolish to say no. So, she followed his car with her own, that they had collected at the hotel after breakfast, down a quiet winding road. And she was slowly being overcome by trepidation and unwelcome second thoughts.
It was an afternoon that she didn’t often dwell upon, didn’t like to even recall. In fact, it was one of the very last occasions that she had seen Dominick Trevor alive. She was nearing her sixteenth birthday, and one afternoon her grandmother had come for her under the guise of taking her out shopping. But upon her arrival, Aimee began to suspect that there was something else entirely on their agenda.
This day she brought her to Dominick Trevor’s St. Charles Avenue residence. There, Marie Roussel left her abruptly, left Aimee there quietly wondering what was happening. It was not odd that she didn’t ask. She had come to a quiet acceptance that all would unfold in its own time—prodding from her would not hasten any revelation.
Even Dominick, who usually took pains to put her at ease, appeared very solemn on this day. First, he inquired if she needed anything, before they went out, a refreshment, something to eat. Her stomach had kicked up its tension level, so that any intrusion of food or drink at this point would be most unwelcome. There was a tangible anxiety in the air that day. She was feeling it, breathing it, trying to master it before panic set in.
They left the house and got into his beige Volvo. He looked to her and smiled, a bit grimly she thought. “Are you ready?”
She shrugged, and he took that as some sort of affirmation. They drove for about ten minutes and then pulled into a driveway of an elegant old house on Prytania Street. Although visually quite attractive, she knew that the place was problematic. Her skin had begun to crawl at least two blocks before they arrived.
Aimee pulled her small compact car in behind Jacob’s SUV. The winding driveway on the side of the house was manageable but still icy. But then again, she imagined for most of the winter that it was simply something one dealt with in these well forested areas. She turned off the engine and let her eyes drift for the first time across his home. It was rustic, mostly wooden, and well nestled in its rural surroundings.
“You don’t expect me to go in there?”
She never remembered feeling like this before. Her eyes were wide, unblinking with fear, and her heart slamming into her chest so hard that it was painful. Dominick Trevor frowned deeply, lightly tapping his hands on the steering wheel, as though he were trying to come up with a good enough reason to convince her to get out of the car.
“I know this is hard for you to understand. But in life, with your gifts, you will unfortunately run across much that is, well, that seems unpleasant to you.”
She dug her hands in a death grip into the upholstered car seat. “I am not going in there.”
He stared at her and then smiled in what she assumed was to be a comforting way, although at the moment its effect fell somewhat short. “Aimee, if you can survive the worst, it is so much easier to deal with everything that is in between.”
And then she did something that she didn’t like to remember, even more upsetting than anything she saw in that house. She started to cry uncontrollably. She felt his strong arms go around her, and they were calming, soothing. “I—I just can’t. I feel like I’m breathing fear.”
He softly stroked her hair. “Yes, I know. But what I know too is how strong you can be. And how you can face that which frightens you.”
She stepped out of the car onto the snow. The surface had frozen into an icy texture and crunched beneath her boots. Slowly, he walked up to her smiling. “Well, this is home sweet home. Come inside and I’ll make you something warm to drink.” And then, she allowed him to lead her toward the entrance.
When the door swung open into the hallway of the Prytania house, it was nothing like she expected. From the feelings that she had picked up before entering, she expected some kind of old, decaying, rank sort of hell. But what lay before her, down the entrance hall was nothing remotely like that. The wooden floors gleamed brightly as though they had been freshly polished, and an elegant marble-topped table sat in the foyer with an arrangement of lovely fresh flowers atop it.
“I don’t understand,” she whispered to Dominick who stood directly beside her in the large doorframe.
“Pretty isn’t it?” he murmured. “The owners, a couple I know, are trying to sell it. They’re moving several states away. Of course, if it were my choice, I would recommend burning the place to the ground.”
She looked at him with puzzlement. “Go ahead,” he gestured with his hand. “Walk in.”
Feeling no immediate source of jeopardy, she took his advice. The first step was without incident, but the second was another matter. Suddenly, it felt as though she were slamming against a wall of ice.
She clutched her heart area with her hand where she had felt a pain pass through moments before. “Oh God,” it came out in a whimper. “What happened here?”
“Entirely too much,” he replied with little emotion.
The den of Jacob’s house was lovely, airy, and spacious. And Aimee felt relieved to find this, because she sensed that this house was not without its problems. But then again, most places were not entirely bereft of complications. She looked out the large scenic window, as he put a steaming cup of hot chocolate into her hand. “This is beautiful.” He smiled. Evidently, it was important to him that she be pleased. But with self-consciousness, she glanced down into her cup. Because she had known instinctively upon taking her first steps inward, that this would never become her home. “This is pretty hot,” she commented.
“Yeah, I have a bad habit of overdoing it with the microwave. I put your bags in the guest room.”
She smiled back at him. “How many bedrooms does it have?”
Her question hit home badly for some reason. He looked a bit uncomfortable, “Three, of course there is the option of turning the basement into a bedroom.” She wondered why such an innocent question would be a problem. She allowed her mind to wander for a moment. And she saw brief flashes, glimpses that raced across her mind — discussions, children of course. He wanted them and she, well, she wanted to wait. She felt a little embarrassed. This was private. She shouldn’t have pried.
He wanted the children to help the marriage. It was important to him, important not to fail. She glanced around the room again and could see now that the walls here held more than lovely decorations. They held pain.
The front room, a sort of den she supposed because of the old-fashioned chairs and antique looking sofa, was filled with light streaming in from a large bay window on the side. It was quite elegant. Someone had taken pains to decorate this place with an old-world sort of loveliness. “It is beautiful.”
“Is it?” He asked standing a few paces behind her. Once she had mustered the courage to brave the tangible cold spots in the long hallway, they had ended up here. She felt activity here, as though it had been the most lived in room of the house. “I mean, what I see seems very lovely.”
He put his hand on her shoulder. “So, your eyes let you see its loveliness, but your other senses tell you another story.”
She swallowed, feeling a little light-headed and nauseated, “They tell me that—that this is a terrible place.”
He nodded, “Well, I’m sure it didn’t start out that way. But it has been inundated with a multitude of, how should we say, negative imprints.”
“You mean energy left over from negative events, maybe the actions of people.”
“Yes, and of course with all that entails.”
He circled in front of her taking her hands in his. “Now Aimee, you must not see with your eyes only but with your mind as well.” She started breathing rapidly, fearfully, entirely sure that she didn’t want to go where he was determined to take her. “Put yourself into your altered state, like we’ve practiced.”
She shook her head. “I don’t think I can do that here. It’s not safe here. It would be too hard.”
“You must, you must be able to face what is most difficult.” He squeezed her hands almost painfully. “Now focus.” His expression had hardened. His usually warm eyes were steely now. There would be no getting around him, until he accomplished whatever he had set out to do here.
She was trembling inside, but she closed her eyes for a moment, allowing herself to sink down into that other level of awareness. It was for some moments that she concentrated on this, until she was quite sure that she had achieved it. His voice was beside her. He had released her hands. “Now Aimee, now try.”
Slowly, she opened her eyes. The very moment that her vision cleared, she felt as though her breath had stopped somewhere in the middle of her throat.
It was alive. Everywhere around her, everywhere she looked, was writhing alive. The room, the furniture, the walls were moving with all manner of grotesque creatures—some bug-like, bird-like, and others of jelly-like shape, pulsating with red, affixed to fixtures in the room. The wallpaper, the lamps, all of it was moving, slithering in an awful unnatural, convoluted way. It was hell. It was everything that she had felt before she walked into the house.
She wasn’t sure if she screamed, before she fainted. It was such a distant sound and to her hearing didn’t seem like her at all.
“There is so much more in creation than we can simply see with the eyes we were born with.”
“Those things, things everywhere in that house. What was that?”
“Creatures, living things, some mere nuisances like a swarm of flies feeding off a rotting carcass of meat— others more serious.”
“But there were so many of them. Why?”
“The energy, they were feeding off the energy, the concentration of negative energy. In fact, some were born of it.”
Dominick’s words echoed through her mind as she allowed herself to wander freely around Jacob’s house. He was downstairs returning a phone call from Bob Sanders, apparently business, so she imagined she would have a few moments unattended. The ceiling in the den was high, highlighted at its pointed apex by intersecting beams of cedar. The fireplace was impressive, made of a melding of huge stones and crackling with a fire that he’d created not long after they’d arrived. It was cozy, light, and entirely clear of problems.
She wandered into the kitchen. A slight chill traipsed across her spine. She glanced around at the light wood cabinets. It was nice and spacious, but there was a heaviness here.
She could ignore it, allow him his privacy, or she could look further. There was a puzzlement to Jacob Wyss that she felt the need to unravel. So, she cleared her mind and closed her eyes. Rather quickly, she could see the woman. She was sitting down at the bar, leaning over the counter. And she was crying, actually sobbing, the woman with the blond hair. She glanced upwards at the light fixture in the ceiling. There were still some there buzzing around — the flying ones, red, like big red insects buzzing. Luckily, there weren’t too many here.
The hand on her back jolted her out of her concentration. She literally jumped at the contact.
He slipped his arms around her waist. “Hey, take it easy. I just wanted to see what you were up to.”
She leaned back against him and murmured, “Just nosing around.”
“So, what is it you miss about back home?”
Her stare shifted from the glass door at the back of the studio to where he was standing behind his easel. He had only begun a preliminary sketch of her on the canvas. Her hair hung loosely, some of it draping forward on the shoulders of the bulky ivory sweater she wore over a denim skirt and brown boots. It made him smile. She was in no way what one would call a practiced beauty. But there was something beautiful, intrinsically beautiful, about Aimee, something that only seemed to deepen as he grew closer to her.
She frowned, “What did you say?”
He continued to sketch, getting a raw image of the picture that he wanted to paint before he even began to think of color. “I was wondering what it is you miss about home.” She shifted on the brown, wooden stool that he’d given her to sit on. He wasn’t surprised that it was uncomfortable. He wasn’t equipped to paint live subjects down here, wasn’t equipped because it was something that he never did. He painted landscapes or from pictures or occasionally from inspiration. This, having her here in front of him, was an impulse, a lucky opportunity. Although he knew, that at some point, he would be attempting to capture her likeness one way or another.
“Did I say I missed home?” Something was bothering her, something other than lack of physical comfort he suspected. It had begun much earlier in the evening. At dinner, she’d been reserved and then when he’d suggested the portrait, although observably reticent in demeanor, she had agreed. Contradictions, the lady was full of contradictions, but then of course it was hard to evaluate the moods of someone who was filled with so many facets.
“So, then you don’t?”
“Hmm, I don’t—” her voice drifted, preoccupied.
He glanced from around the canvas, where he had been concentrating on smoothing the lines around her legs. “Don’t miss home,” he repeated with a tad bit of exaggeration.
The green eyes were on him again, pulled from whatever distraction had pulled her away. “I do miss it.”
He grinned a bit, “I know you do. How come?”
A shrug, “You know the usual, family I suppose.”
“Yeah, I suppose. There is the familiarity, feeling of connection to a place, although it has changed quite a bit over the years.”
“You mean because of the storm.”
She nodded, her eyes still traveling restlessly over the room. Maybe the room was bothering her. “Yes, that was a terrible time, but things are better now. But the feeling, the energy of the place, never changed. It just feels like I’m a part of that. You know what that’s like.”
He paused for a moment, and then continued his sketching. He was considering what she’d said. There were places he liked, even felt energized by on occasion, the water, the mountains, but as for a connection that she spoke of. He couldn’t say that he had ever remotely experienced anything of the kind. He finished the last line of his preliminary sketch. Now the real work would begin. “No,” he whispered almost in a sigh, but evidently it was noticed.
“No, I can’t say I feel that about any place.”
He moved to pull his palette table closer to the easel and then stopped abruptly at the expression on her face. She did look a bit surprised. “What’s wrong Aimee?”
“I don’t know,” her voice seemed very soft. “I thought everyone felt that way about home.”
The room was intoxicating, drugging in a way. It took great concentration for her to remain focused to any degree. But the problem had started much earlier with the drainers.
She felt as though she was tracking them all evening. They kept their distance during dinner, hiding no doubt in some other portion of the house. For some reason, they became cowardly when she and Jacob were together. He made her a wonderful meal at dinner — steak, red wine, and a wonderful romaine salad. She was definitely being romanced. It was a pity that she couldn’t enjoy it. In the middle of a pleasant conversation, her skin would begin crawling. She would turn to see them lurking in a cowardly fashion across the den.
They were very akin to bugs, parasites, a species of drainers drawn in by the negative collection of energy in the house. And they felt old, as though they’d been present for a while. In reality, their lifespan, not unlike other insects, was relatively brief. Unless of course they’d found a sustained source of energy, and a protected domicile. He’d been living here alone after his divorce for some time, and there had been no changes that might force them out. She imagined that they over an extended period must have taken quite a bit of energy from him. For brief contacts, they were mere nuisances, but over long, sustained periods they could become damaging. That, however, was the odd part. Jacob, although not problem free, did not appear to her to be seriously harmed in any way. But then, as she had long suspected, he was anything but ordinary.
At one point during their dinner together, his phone rang. As he moved across the den to answer it, she silently watched with wrenching disgust as the creatures both landed on his back and began to drain. Witnessing something like this made her feel quite nauseated. The house on Prytania had been quite infested with such base creatures as well and more sophisticated ones.
Determined to clear the house, she attempted a technique that Dominick had taught her of focusing her own energy to dispel negativity. It did not go unnoticed. The bugs received the first hit and spun into a spiral of panic, and then they fled somewhere out of sight. Of course, she didn’t believe for a minute that they were gone. They had become quite strong and resilient feeding off his energy.
But it was an odd thing. The moment that they left Jacob’s eyes met hers from across the room. He’d felt something. She was sure of it. But she glanced away, disturbed by the intensity of his stare, and completely exhausted by the attack she’d launched.
During the remainder of dinner, she’d taken time to allow her mind to canvas the house. It appeared on the surface that there were only the two. In the physical world that would be good news, that an infestation had not spread. But in the spirit realm, the laws were different. Larger numbers would indicate weaker parasites, but just two meant that they had driven out any others and become quite formidable. Of course, that was not always the case. The Prytania house was fully infested from a variety of vantage points and had moved into the realm of unrecoverable. As Dominick had taught her, every situation was unique and had its own rules. Preconceptions could be quite limiting.
And in addition to all of this, of course her preoccupation on other things did not go unnoticed by her host. She could feel his curiosity all over her skin, but to his credit he didn’t press. By the time dinner was over, she was exhausted. All she wanted to do was sleep. She had expended much energy in several attempts of trying to clear the house, but then he had suggested the painting. It was a suggestion that took her completely by surprise and rather put her on the spot. “You want to paint me?”
He nodded, “Absolutely, I’ve been planning it for some time, just didn’t know how I was going to go about it.”
“Um, well,” she stammered with little grace. Her mind was torn. On a very basic level, she didn’t like the idea, didn’t like a whole lot of attention focused on her, didn’t like any focus on how she looked, and felt in normal circumstances uncomfortable under the scrutiny of his gaze. So, the idea of this — but on the other hand, there was definitely something going on in that studio downstairs. When she had let her mind canvas the house earlier, it was the only room that was completely barred from her. Something had prevented her from crossing the threshold, something that she needed to see. It could be a key to this place.
“Was that an um yes, or an um no?” he asked patiently.
She shrugged still unsure, “Well, I guess so, if you really want to.”
He smiled with evident pleasure, “Oh yes, I really want to.”
She followed him down the carpeted staircase into the well-lit room. That was the first thing that struck her about this place, the light everywhere. It was a huge room, a finished basement, whose area encompassed an entire floor of the house. It had stone floors, strategically decorated with throw rugs and windows, lots of windows, running along the walls that were shuttered with Venetian blinds. There was even a futon sofa against one wall. He slept there often, even before she’d left. She shrugged off that awareness. She didn’t want to know too much of their life together. It made her feel as though she were a voyeur.
She wandered further into the room, as he began pulling equipment out from a corner. There were canvases everywhere, some mounted, some piled in a stack on the floor, some finished, some half done, but literally everywhere. She distractedly stumbled into the center of the room, forgetting that he was near, forgetting where she was, truly stunned.
Of course, it did make sense. This place protected him, recharged him. For the parasites to enter here would destroy them utterly. The room was vibrating, singing with currents of energy, powerful, intoxicating bands of energy that resonated everywhere. He gently grasped her arm, “All right?” he asked. She nodded, not willing to speak. She felt as though she could close her mind and just be drawn off somewhere by the power here. The power he had created here. How peaceful, what a relief it would be just to be drawn off somewhere, not to think anymore. And then her eyes drifted to a far wall and a small painting that had been hung there. It was of a house, a villa in a desert somewhere, in a faraway land that she had dreamed about.
He wanted to start with her eyes. It wasn’t where he usually started on a portrait, but with Aimee they were the heart of the picture. When he’d first studied painting so long ago, one of his best instructors had taught them that every picture had a pulse, a center, from which every other aspect took its cue. It might be a particular branch of a tree, the sleeve of a child’s shirt, a burst of color issuing forth in a sunset. It might be something that went wholly unnoticed by the observer, but an artist must know the heart of his creation intimately. And with Aimee, it was her green eyes that went unguarded while she meticulously erected barriers all about her.
“Are you okay?” he threw out in her direction. She was entirely focused elsewhere, and he’d spent a large portion of their time together in his studio, trying to imagine just where that place was.
Her hair sort of carelessly swung around as she turned back to the sound of his voice. “Just a little tired, I think this past week is catching up with me.”
“Okay, just give me a couple of more minutes and I’ll find a stopping place.” There was a nod but no reply. “Why don’t you talk to me?”
“What do you want to talk about?” It was a quiet question. Hmm, what did he want to talk about?
“Well,” he was working to get just the right shade of green. It wasn’t a consistent color. At times, they reminded him of the sea and other times almost as dark and inscrutable as ebony. “Tell me about one of your psychic experiences.”
“That covers a lot of territory.” If she hadn’t spoken so matter-of-factly, he would have interpreted sarcasm in that last comment.
“So, then you have these extraordinary feelings often.”
“I have them all the time Jacob,” she said softly.
He stopped for a moment and then peeked around the canvas at her expression. There was none. “All the time?”
A nod, “I don’t separate them from other feelings. They are intertwined. It’s simply part of me. You take for granted that you can see what something looks like. I take for granted that I can see what something looks like, and what the energy it emits looks like.”
“So, in here, right now, you see energy.”
She laughed as though that were a ridiculous question, “Yes, I see energy here.”
“Why did you laugh?”
“Jacob, this place is a nuclear power plant.”
He put down the paint brush, willing now to pause for the evening. “Um,” feeling a little confused at the comment. “Is that good?”
He moved toward her putting his hand out to help her off the stool. Her hand felt cool against his skin, but electric as they made contact. She smiled gently and with indulgence, he thought. “Yes, that’s very good.”
Copyright © 2019 by Evelyn Klebert
Jacob Wyss is caught in a rut, in fact on the verge of being engulfed by it. After an excruciating and disillusioning divorce, his life as an artist in a sleepy-college town at the foot of the Appalachian mountains has become quiet, routine, and maddening in its predictability. One wintry day, his deep restlessness drives him out in precarious conditions to a largely empty bookstore nearly devoid of another living soul, nearly.
Aimee Marston isn’t like everyone else. On the surface, she lives a sedate life working as a feature writer for a small local newspaper in addition to several other editorial jobs to help make ends meet. But just beneath, her existence is largely not her own. She is a sensitive, an empathetic psychic, guided by her calling to use her gifts to help others. Unfortunately, as a result, her secretiveness has made her defensive, protective of herself, and prevented her from having much of a life of her own.
A psychic call for help sends Aimee out on a freezing January morning where her destiny and Jacob’s collide sending both their lives spiraling onto an unexpected and often disturbing track. Two lonely souls connect, not by accident, but by design. Theirs is the intersection of two spiritual paths, two lovers who must struggle to overcome the phantoms of a past life, as well as the challenges of their own inner demons to carve out an extraordinary future together.