“I think it’s very important for you to write down every singledetail while it’s fresh. And then, you should probably try to connect with the girl, because it’s likely she’s already dead.”
Anxiety coils in my stomach as I entertain the morose possibility. “Do you think?”
Her grim expression says she absolutely thinks it’s possible.
“If it’s a vision and what you saw has already transpired, then yes, she’s likely deceased. However, if it’s a prophecy, you might be able to save her.”
I blink repeatedly, replaying her words in my mind.
“How? If she’s not a spirit, I can’t connect with her.”
Her gaze locks onto mine, and I detect a hint of sorrow lingering within her icy irises.
“Don’t you see the similarities between Chelsea Grayson and the woman in your dream?”
I’m not even sure what happened to Chelsea. All I have to rely on are a few movie clips depicting the demise of other girls.
“There’s likely a connection,” she remarks, and I wonder if she could be right.
I don’t have to ponder for long because in the dim corner of the room, not one but two ghostly figures flicker in and out of sight, their faces twisted in silent screams. The girl in the red dress, unmistakably Chelsea Grayson, is one of them, but the blond girl, with hair tangled and matted, wearing the same outfit she wore in my dream, remains nameless.
“Who are you?” I whisper, knowing deep down not to expect a response.
Poltergeists don’t communicate with words. If anything, they assault your senses with a deafening banshee cry.
“You were right,” I say, not taking my eyes off the specters. “She’s dead, and they are connected.”
I hear her intake of breath. “You need to call Nick.”
She’s right. He needs to know that there’s another victim.
I grab my phone from the nightstand and make the call, paying no attention to the fact it’s two a.m.
“Hello?” His craggy voice is full of sleep, and I instantly feel bad for waking him. “Alyssa?” he says when I don’t speak.
“I’m sorry to wake you, but we have a problem.”
There’s a rustling on his end, and I envision Nick springing from bed, his concern overriding any remnants of sleep. “What’s happened?” he asks, sounding every bit the detective.
“There’s another victim. Her death was much the same as Chelsea’s,” I say, knowing he’s going to need much more than that. “I don’t know who she is, but she’s blond and young like Chelsea.”
“How do you know this? Did she come to you?”
“Yes. She appeared beside Chelsea, which is why I know it was the same person who killed her.”
He sighs heavily. “What else do you have that I can use to find her?”
“Her body was dumped in water too, so I’d start by the docks.”
I pause, trying to decide whether to tell him about the dream. Seeing ghosts, I’ve proven, but the dream part is new even for me. In the end, I decide to trust that he won’t rebuff me.
“I saw her in a dream before she came to me in life,” I admit. “She was at an underground speakeasy, running drugs.”
“I’ll check for local missing persons and see if I can match the description you’ve given with someone.” He huffs. “Is there anything about the speakeasy you can tell me?”
I search through my memories of the dream, finding nothing of use. I’m about to tell him that when I remember that the bar napkin had a symbol on it.
“There was a symbol. I’m not sure if it’s random or part of the club, but it was a triangle with an eye in the center. Well…the oval shape of an eye with another upside-down triangle interlocked with a half triangle.”
