I could feel her struggling as she was grabbed from behind, and I was forced to tense my own muscles to keep from lashing out in a mirrored response. A phantomlike, sickly sweet odor tickled my nostrils, urging me to drift off into sleep. I shook my head, fending off the woozy sensation. “Someone grabbed her from behind. She’s struggling, but he’s too strong. She smells something. He put something over her face. Chloroform or something…”
Dizzy. Sleepy. I’m falling. Falling.
“She’s blacking out,” I stated urgently.
Ouch! What was that? Something bit me on my arm. Did a mosquito get in here? No. It felt like a needle. Oh, I feel strange. What’s happening to me? Why does my head feel like this. I’m dizzy. Why is the room getting so dark?
“Pain,” I almost shouted. “Something on her arm. A bite? No, a needle. The bastard drugged her. Look at his face, Ariel! Dammit, look at his face!”
The sequence ended in a black fog, and I stumbled against the counter. I sensed Ben reaching for me uncertainly then pulling back, apparently remembering I had told him not to touch me if I tranced.
“I’m okay,” I told him, regaining my balance and pulling off my glasses in order to rub my eyes. “He drugged her. Did the medical examiner check for drugs?”
“Should have. Tox screens are SOP,” Ben answered. “I still don’t have a report yet. You sure you’re all right?”
“Yeah, I’m okay,” I answered. “Let’s keep going. Maybe she saw his face at some point.”
“Look, Row,” Ben started. “Uhhh… Are you tellin’ me that you’re actually seein’ what Ariel Tanner saw the night she was murdered?”
“Believe it or not, Ben,” I looked at him squarely in the face. “Yes. That’s exactly what I’m telling you.”
“Jeezus,” he said, “I’ve seen some strange shit, but this…” his voice trailed off.
Though I had explained to Ben some of the more minor aspects of WitchCraft, this was the first time he had ever seen any of the abilities I had cultivated in my studies. Considering his feelings on the subject, I realized I was asking him to take a rather large leap of faith, but of all my non-practicing friends, I felt certain he could be the most open-minded even if he hadn’t demonstrated it as yet. I flashed him an understanding smile to let him know that I understood what he must have been thinking at the moment and patted him lightly on the arm as I moved past into the wide hallway.
At the end, I could see where the passage opened into a combination living room/dining room area. To my left, there was a closet and bathroom, to my right, the doorway to Ariel’s bedroom. I continued my measured breathing as I stepped lightly along the worn hardwood floor. Once again, my hairs began to pivot upward painfully and my skin to sear as I entered the actual scene of the murder.
Blood on the walls and sheets had turned a rusty brown where it had continued to dry. A tracing of Ariel’s body was stretched out across the bed like a frozen caricature of the once vibrant young woman, the yellow lines clashing with the brownish red crust of dried blood. I moved slowly to the bed then grounded and centered. Once again, the color rapidly drained from the scene about me, and I felt myself being sucked into a dark tunnel.
Oh my head hurts. Why can’t I see? It’s dark. No, there’s a light. I have to move toward it. My arms. Why can’t I move my arms? I’m cold.
As before, the events of that night flooded into my brain caustically. I was experiencing her terror. Her pain.
Why am I on my bed? I’m cold. Where are my clothes? My arms hurt. My back hurts. What’s that noise?!
“I’m…she’s…” I started again, speaking from the trance I had fallen into. “…On the bed, my arms hurt and I can’t move them. They’re tied behind me…her. I’m…” I fought to maintain a separation between the experience and myself. “…She’s nude. The air conditioner is on and it’s blowing on her. She’s cold. She hears a noise.”
Who’s there? Why can’t I speak? I’m trying so hard but nothing is coming out. I’m so cold. I’m frightened. What’s happening? That noise again. Someone is here. They’re moving around. Why can’t I remember anything? My head hurts.
“He’s moving around, but she can’t see him,” I continued. “He must be out of her line of sight or maybe out of the room. I’m not sure.”
A crash! Am I being robbed? Oh please, let whoever it is just take what they want and leave. Wait. Someone grabbed me when I was in the kitchen. Who was it? Oh why can’t I remember? I’m cold. I’m scared.
“She heard a loud crash or something. From another room maybe,” I spoke. “She thinks it might be a burglar, but she still can’t see. She remembers being attacked in the kitchen. Whatever he drugged her with is still working on her. She’s foggy. She’s having trouble moving. Come on, Ariel,” I continued out loud. “Fight it. Concentrate.”
Maybe if I try to move forward. Ouch, that hurts. Just a little more. I’m so cold. Why is this happening to me? There, now I can see the door. Ohhhh, I’m feeling sick…hanging upside down…I can’t. Oh my head hurts.
“She managed to move herself a little. Her head is hanging over the side of the bed now, upside down. It’s making her nauseous.”
Who is that? Why is this person in my house? Why is this person wearing a ceremonial robe? Pull the hood back. I can’t see who you are. It’s cold. No, don’t go to that side of the bed, I can’t see you. What are you doing? Am I going to be raped? Please, don’t let him rape me.
“He came into the room,” I continued. “He’s wearing a ceremonial robe, and the hood is covering his face. He walked around to the other side of the bed. She can’t see him. NO, don’t do that. I can’t see you.” I slipped for a moment, and Ariel blended into the voice of my conscious self. “She’s afraid he’s going to rape her.”
What are you doing? He’s touching me. What? What are you saying? You’re sorry? Sorry about what. It’s cold. My arms are killing me. Why are you doing this?
“He’s speaking to her!” I exclaimed out loud. “He’s telling her he’s sorry. She doesn’t understand. Concentrate, Ariel,” I coached the vision. “Help me help you.”
What are you talking about? Sorry? What are you sorry about? I don’t understand. Tell me what you mean. Your voice sounds familiar, but I can’t remember who you are. Ouch! What are you doing? Get off of me. Oh, why can’t I scream? If I could just scream, someone would come to help me. It’s cold. Get off of me. What is that in your hand? What are you doing?!
“He’s on the bed with her. On top of her.” I relayed the vision to Ben. “His voice seems familiar to her, but she can’t place it. He has something in his hand.”
My athame! What are you doing with my athame? No! No, don’t do that! STOP!
My head exploded. At least, that is how it felt as a desperate scream that only I could hear echoed forever inside my skull. My skin burst into a violent blaze, and starting at my throat, running the length of my chest then spreading rapidly outward, I felt as if every single nerve were raw and suddenly plunged into a vat of alcohol. I clawed at my own chest, fighting to push away the ethereal knife that was ripping my flesh.
“Dear Mother Goddess!” I cried. “The son-of-a-bitch is skinning her alive with her own athame!”
I fell to my knees and continued to claw at the air in front of me. I was faintly aware of Ben’s concerned voice screaming my name, but I couldn’t respond. I was trapped in the vision. I could see nothing but dull red and black as I squeezed my eyes tightly shut, fighting to deny the searing pain. I could feel the blade of the athame, at once steely cold and white hot, as it slid beneath my skin, separating the layer of nerve impregnated flesh from the rest of my body. I was certain I could hear thick tearing as my hide was peeled away, exposing muscle, nerves, and hot viscid blood. I screamed my own guttural wail of agony as I struggled to break free of this vision I knew could easily kill me. It seemed to last an eternity. It seemed to last only a second. Time no longer meant anything.