Visions of Death

  Copyright© Bety Comerford (B.T. Lord)

  All rights reserved.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

  No part of this book may be reproduced or utilized in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the author.

  ISBN: 9781797756691

  Other books by B.T. Lord:

  Coffin Islands Paranormal Mystery Series:

  The Man In the Snow

  Twin Ponds Mystery Series:

  Murder on Ice

  Murder by Misadventure

  A Perfect Case of Murder

  Murder by Duplicity

  Murder Among Crows

  An Equal Measure of Murder

  Murder for the Holidays (A Christmas mystery)

  Murder To Die For (a free Twin Ponds novella available only on my website – www.btlordwriter.com)

  To Abby, Zoey and Lilyrose ~

  Cold noses, huge, loving hearts and lots of fur

  PROLOGUE

  Eagla Island, March 20th

  I’ve often heard darkness is simply an absence of light. It was in the context of some spiritual mumbo jumbo. Be the light and there won’t be darkness. But what those poor, misguided souls who actually believe that crap fail to acknowledge is that there are some of us who don’t want the light. Who find it obtrusive. Obnoxious. You see, it’s easier to hide things in the darkness. Secrets that no one should ever see.

  Those are my favorite kind of secrets.

  My biggest secret is that I’m happy about what happened. I know I shouldn’t be, but there it is. Next to cannibalism, it’s the ultimate taboo, isn’t it? You’re not supposed to gloat over the taking of a human life. Life is sacred. Life is a gift.

  More mumbo jumbo.

  The truth is, I enjoyed it all. It filled me up in a way that was indescribable. Call it what you will. Power, ego, selfish pleasure. But the fact remains. I relished it.

  I suppose I could justify it by saying she deserved it. Perhaps she did. Perhaps she didn’t. Who am I to judge? There was a need and the void was filled. Let’s just say, there’s one less bitch in the world. She’s gone now.

  Into the darkness. Which is a safer place to be than in the light.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Twenty-one-year-old Dara Clemons shot up in bed. Her heart racing, her mouth dry, fear exploding from every pore. She shook her head several times in a desperate attempt to dislodge the horrifying image, but it seemed to take forever before her mind finally cleansed itself of the atrocity. Yet the feelings remained. The choking. The inability to breathe. The frigid water paralyzing her limbs until she could no longer move.

  She heard again the frantic pleas - why can’t I open my eyes – repeated over and over as icy, weed choked water rushed into her mouth. Suffocating her until there was nothing left.

  Dara whimpered as she tried to stop the shaking in her hands. Knowing she’d never fall back asleep, and terrified that if she did, the dream would return, she climbed out of bed and instantly felt a cold shiver throughout her body.

  “Ugh,” she muttered as she grabbed the afghan off the bed and wrapped herself within its warmth.

  The chill in the air was the price she paid for living in an attic studio apartment in a century old house that needed a complete renovation. In the summer, she roasted while the feeble air conditioner did its best to cool down the sauna-like temperatures. During the winter, cold winds blowing up from the harbor whistled through the poorly insulated windows, making the rooms feel as though she were living in a refrigerator. Still, the rent was affordable; space heaters and blankets strategically placed on the couch and chairs helped to keep her somewhat comfortable.

  Walking around the screen that separated the bedroom from the rest of the large rectangle room, she padded into the tiny kitchen where she poured herself a glass of water. She took a gulp, put the glass in the sink and went over to the sofa where she plopped down.

  Tucking her legs beneath her, Dara sat in the shadows, the afghan wrapped tightly around her, the room feebly lit by the streetlamp outside her window.

  Living above a card shop on Harbor Street, the main thoroughfare that ran through Paradise Cove, the entry point to Eagla Island, there was always some sort of noise on the street below during the summer months. The island filled with tourists flocking to take advantage of the natural beauty, white sand beaches and bountiful sea life. However, once winter set in, visitors were as rare as the Atlantic puffins who made their home on the other side of the island, disappearing in August to return to the open ocean.

  Tonight the street and her apartment were silent. She closed her eyes as weariness slowly overtook her. Suddenly, against her will, the dream once more loomed up in her mind’s eye. She tried to jerk her thoughts away, but it was no use. It had never worked before, and it wouldn’t work now. This was a vision insisting to be revisited. Whether she wanted to or not.

  Once again, she saw herself arriving at Watson Pond, one of many small bodies of water that lay in the interior of Eagla Island. She was a strong swimmer, and in the summer when she wasn’t working as a waitress at the coffee shop a few doors down from her apartment, that’s where she could usually be found.

  In the dream, she’d waded in up to her chest before leaning backwards and dunking her head to refresh herself from the hot sun. She dove deeper, enjoying the sense of gracefulness in the water that eluded her on land. Taking a deep breath, she submerged herself, her long jet-black hair trailing in the water above her. She quickly surfaced and was about to continue swimming when she felt something cold slither around her ankle. Annoyed that it could be the weeds that lingered just beneath the surface, she once again dove under to disentangle herself.

  The water in Watson Pond was notoriously murky. Unable to see through the gloom, she had no choice but to reach down with her fingers and blindly attempt to pull the slimy weeds off her.

  Dara gave a start when the temperature of the water abruptly changed. It had been cool when she’d entered, but now it turned icy cold – much colder than it should have been at that time of year.

  Out of the corner of her eye, she felt rather than saw something coming up rapidly from the depths of the pond. Her mind instantly tried to make sense of it. She wasn’t that far out. The water here had to be only about 6 feet deep. Yet whatever was coming up accelerated as it came towards her.

  In a stark moment of clarity, Dara knew she had to get out of the water. Fast.

  She attempted to swim up to the surface, but the weeds had somehow pulled her further down into the darkness. She kicked frantically, but it was no use. She was stuck.

  Frightened she was about to run out of air, and trying hard not to panic, Dara leaned forward in the water and grabbed her ankle.

  And touched a cold hand wrapped around her skin.

  She screamed, the bubbles from her expelled breath obscuring her vision. The water, now frigidly cold, flooded her lungs, its iciness sending waves of pain throughout her upper body. She fought desperately to pry the hand off her ankle as her chest threatened to burst.

  I’m drowning.

  No! Her mind yelled back. She would not give up that easily.

  She kicked one last time and somehow managed to dislodge the grip. Swimming furiously towards the surface, she was about to break through – and to breathe in the blessed air – when a figure suddenly appeared and blocked her way. Determined to push past whoever it was, Dara came w
ithin view of its face. And screamed a second time.

  The bloated features of a lifeless girl stared back at her. Her long blonde hair floated like the tendrils of a jelly fish as her arms and legs gently moved up and down in the slight current. What struck Dara was how her face was somehow clouded. She couldn’t make out specific features, which frightened her even more.

  Please keep me company, Dara. It’s so cold and dark down here and I’m scared. Why can’t I see? Why can’t I speak? Help me.

  With the last of her strength, she violently pushed the girl away. It was then she realized her air was gone. Against her will, knowing it was suicide, but unable to stop, she opened her mouth to breathe and felt the ice-cold water rush once more into her lungs, choking her, extinguishing her life.

  Just like the girl floating away and disappearing into the murkiness.

  The dark outline of a face abruptly appeared before her. It had no details, no features. Only a set of red, piercing eyes staring back at her.

  Don’t go into the shadows, Dara. Never go into the shadows.

  It was then she’d awakened with a forceful start.

  Dara buried her face in the afghan and gave a shuddering sigh.

  What was she going to do?

  They were getting worse. These visions, or dreams, or whatever the hell they were. Out of the blue, they’d begun two weeks before. At first, she couldn’t remember details. All she knew was that she’d awaken with her heart racing and her limbs shaking.

  Then the dreams became more vivid. More heartbreaking. They always depicted some sort of death. She could never see the face of the victim, but the horrible way in which they died was shown in excruciating detail.

  And in each one of those dreams, she saw the red eyes staring silently at her.

  She’d racked her brain trying to come up with a trigger – something that had started these all too real dreams. That brought up the black, nebulous face that wasn’t a face. She never watched frightening movies. Never read scary books. She barely watched the news where the horrors of real life eclipsed the horrors in fiction.

  She wasn’t going crazy, she knew that much. Maybe she could live with the dreams. They weren’t real and something, somewhere was bringing them on. Perhaps all she needed to do was change her diet and they’d go away. It was the excruciating headaches that followed upon awakening, however, that had her on edge. The pain would throb for at least an hour before slowly ebbing away.

  Her mother had died of cancer the year before. Did she also have cancer – possibly a brain tumor that was causing the headaches and dreams? It would certainly explain what was happening. But she was too frightened to pick up the phone and make an appointment with Dr. Rhys to find out.

  She sighed as she realized this nightmare was different from the others. For the first time, she’d heard a warning.

  Don’t go into the shadows, Dara. Never go into the shadows.

  What were the shadows she was supposed to avoid? What did that even mean?

  Wincing against the pain building in her temples, she glanced across the room, unconsciously seeking out any corners that might be enveloped in darkness. Seeing too many, she quickly leaned over and turned on the lamp, breathing easier when she saw the apartment awash in comforting light.

  Looking once more across the living room, her eyes paused at the framed photo of her mother and grandmother that lay on the bookshelf near the front door. Before she could stop herself, she cursed them under her breath.

  “You and your goddamned gift,” she spat out as the pain spiked and she groaned in misery.

  She’d inherited what her grandmother referred to as ‘the gift of second sight’. She’d grown up with an uncanny ability of knowing when something was going to happen before it did. She’d look at a person and instantly know everything about them, including their deepest secrets. Sometimes she’d even know when and in what manner they were going to die.

  As far as she was concerned, it was a curse that kept on giving, despite all her efforts to turn it off.

  School in particular had been excruciating. It didn’t help that for centuries, the Clemons family had been considered strange and, as some still believed, witches. The inability to fit in, coupled with the islanders’ ingrained habit of shunning the Clemons, had led to a lonely, solitary life.

  After the death of her grandmother and mother, she’d found herself, at eighteen years old, truly alone in the world. There wasn’t much left to live on and waitressing only brought in so much. As much as she loathed it, she’d had no choice but to fall back on her abilities to make extra money.

  Setting up the scratched and ancient coffee table as an ad-hoc place of business, she was soon doing tarot card readings for the summer visitors that flocked to Eagla. She quickly discovered everyone pretty much had the same questions – will I meet my soulmate? Is my boyfriend cheating on me? Will I win the lottery? It was mindless and, quite frankly, ridiculous. She increasingly felt like an actress in a bad play as she repeated, by rote, an explanation of what the client could expect during a reading. Yet her accuracy proved successful and, along with her decision not to tell the client what they wanted to hear, but to tell them the information she was getting, it didn’t take long for her schedule to become fully booked.

  More than once she wondered why she kept her waitressing job. With the money earned from her readings, she was financially set for the winter months. In those moments when she was honest with herself, she had to admit that she’d not only inherited her psychic abilities from her family, but her grandmother’s defiant streak as well. She quietly enjoyed watching the islanders awkwardly deal with her if they wanted their morning coffee, Danish or homemade sandwiches. It was her way of showing them she wasn’t a witch, or a freak. She was normal.

  That is, as normal as someone could be who had the ability to look into their very souls and discern those secrets they thought were safely tucked away.

  No wonder the islanders hated her.

  She glanced down at the coffee table, at her tools of the trade as she liked to call them. In truth, she didn’t need the tarot cards to conduct her readings. It was more a visual aid for the clients, helping them to see the answers to their questions laid out before them. Although it was difficult to be objective when it came to herself, maybe the cards could tell her what was going on. Or what these shadows she was supposed to avoid were all about. It was worth a shot.

  With the headache finally beginning to recede, she bent over and grabbed the deck. She held them to her heart and intoned the prayer she always used before doing any reading.

  Let only the information of the highest intention and for the highest good for both the reader and the person seeking answers be allowed through. And so it is.

  Dara shuffled the cards until she felt it was time to stop. She didn’t know exactly what to ask, how to frame the question that would give her the information she sought. She therefore silently asked that she be provided with whatever the Universe felt she needed to know at that moment.

  Deciding to do a three-card spread, she let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding and flipped over the first card. In the position of what had gone on in the recent past, the card showed a church with the windows on the right brightly lit, while the windows on the left were bathed in darkness. Dara instantly knew it depicted a test of faith. Should she move towards a truth that could be difficult to acknowledge, but necessary for her spiritual growth, or should she remain in ignorant darkness?

  Flipping over the second card in the position of what was going on in the present, a large water wheel looked back at her. She was at a turning point in her life. A decision was soon going to need to be made, one she would not be able to put off.

  She hesitated over the third card. Whatever card she chose would represent what was coming up in the immediate future. Did she really want to know? So far, the last two cards had been spot-on. Did she honestly wish to see what was on the horizon?

  I’ve
come this far. Might as well go ahead and jump off the cliff.

  Drawn to the middle of the deck, she withdrew a card and flipped it over. She stared at it for a long time.

  Despite what people thought, a card could be interpreted several different ways. It all depended on what the other cards surrounding it showed. Each contributed to an overall narrative that was unique to the client. Whenever the card she’d just pulled came out during a reading, she always hurried to explain its meaning.

  “It doesn’t mean what it looks like. It’s actually a good thing. It’s telling you a transformation is coming. The old is dying and something new is coming in to take its place.”

  However, her heart clenched as she slowly put the card down on the table. This time the card meant exactly what it said.

  The Death Card was bringing death.

  Great. Just what I wanted to see, especially after that horrible dream I just had.

  She picked up the card and was about to slide it back into the deck when a strong impulse compelled her to study it again. Holding it up, she looked over the drawing of the iconic black-hooded figure of Death holding a large scythe in its skeletal hand. Suddenly, she cried out in fear and dropped the card onto the floor as she scrambled off the couch.

  “That’s crazy,” she said aloud to the empty room.

  What just happened had to be the result of not getting enough sleep in the last few days. She was starting to see things that weren’t there.

  She picked up the card and without looking at it again, shoved it back into the deck. It was time to go to bed. The alarm was set for five am; she was on the early shift and needed to get some sleep.

  Passing by the lamp, she leaned over to switch it off when she hesitated. With her nerves still shaky, she opted to keep the lamp on until morning.

  Sliding between the sheets, she made the conscious decision to ignore what she’d seen in the card. Correction. What she thought she’d seen. It was an illusion brought on by exhaustion. And the after-effects of the latest nightmare.