Circle of shadows, p.1
Circle of Shadows, page 1
Circle of Shadows
Book One
Supernatural Support Group
By M.L. Bullock
Text copyright © 2023 Monica L. Bullock
All rights reserved
Contents
Chapter One—Dr. Emily Thompson
Chapter Two—Emily
Chapter Three—Clara
Chapter Four—Ben
Chapter Five—Emily
Chapter Six – Clara
Chapter Seven – Alex
Chapter Eight - Ben
Chapter Nine—Emily
Chapter Ten—Clara
Chapter Eleven—Emily
Chapter Twelve—Clara
Chapter Thirteen—Alex
Chapter Fourteen—Ben
Chapter Fifteen—Clara
Chapter Sixteen–Emily
Chapter Seventeen–Alex
Chapter Eighteen–Emily
Chapter Nineteen–Lolo
Chapter Twenty–Clara
Epilogue–Emily
Author’s Note
Chapter One—Dr. Emily Thompson
The antique clock chimed, marking the end of the hour. The clock was a gift from my late mother and although it was quite old-fashioned, I treasured it. Gold-toned and a bit ostentatious for my personal taste, it added a touch of sophistication to my otherwise dull office. I proudly displayed it on the corner of my uncluttered desk.
I glanced over at Kim. Tears stained her face, her grip tight on the armrests of the leather chair opposite me. Today she was sporting her usual side ponytail, but she’d opted for the right side rather than the left. This was probably not a major indicator of anything but then again, even the smallest clues can give a therapist insight on a patient’s mindset.
"It's happening again," she murmured, avoiding my gaze. “I’m hearing people that I can’t see and it’s driving me crazy. I mean, am I crazy?”
Taking a moment to find the right approach, I leaned in. "A crazy person wouldn’t ask if they were crazy, Kim," I began gently. "Do any of these voices sound familiar to you?"
She looked thoughtful, wiping away a tear with the back of her hand. I handed her a few tissues from the box near me. "Some of them. I think. They’re like echoes of conversations I've never had. And then there are others... voices that feel completely foreign, almost like they're from another time. Kind of archaic."
I scribbled a note. "And do you remember when this all started? This time, I mean. Anything that you might consider a trigger?"
She hesitated, fingers playing with the hem of her crop top sweater. "After my grandmother passed away, I'd be in my room, and I'd hear her voice, clear as day. It was comforting at first, but then... it wasn’t just her. There were more voices joining in, and it became overwhelming. It has become totally overwhelming. You can’t know how it feels to have a friend, a living friend talking to you, but the other voices won’t shut up and you can’t say anything because they’ll think you’re nuts and...” she collapsed into tears again.
As always, I pushed against the urge to give Kim a hug. She was after all my patient, not a close friend. I needed to maintain a professional distance. I tried to maintain my neutral therapist demeanor, but my curiosity was piqued. "Since that day, has anything specific triggered experiences? An event or maybe a place you visited? It could be something as minute as a smell or sound, a memory maybe."
Kim shook her head as she dabbed at her face with the wadded tissues. "No, it's random. Sometimes it's in the middle of a busy street, other times when I'm alone in my room. It just... happens. I really don’t want to take medicine. I hear some of that stuff makes you drool. I don’t know what to do, doctor."
I mulled over her words. The consistency in her accounts and those of others in Crestwood was uncanny. Kim wouldn’t believe it if I told her, but she wasn’t the only soul in the town having strange experiences. Maybe it was time I clued her in?
Taking a deep breath, I ventured, "Kim, what if there was a place where people like you could come together? Share your experiences and perhaps even find some answers?"
She blinked away her tears, looking at me with a mix of hope and disbelief. "I don’t want to tell people about this. Then they’ll definitely call me crazy.”
“That’s not true, Kim. No one who spends five minutes with you will think you’re crazy. I am suggesting you join a small support group I’ve created. It’s for people going through something unusual. People who need friends that understand them.”
For the first time during our session, Kim smiled. “If you put it like that. Do you think anyone would join? Would they even believe me?"
I gave a half-smile. "Let's find out together."
As Kim left, a whisper-like sensation brushed my mind. It was fleeting but left me with an unsettling realization. Perhaps I was more connected to these stories than I ever imagined.
Stepping out of my office, I decided to take a walk-through Crestwood. I’d been sitting at my desk for hours and I needed a good stretch of the legs. Why had I joined the gym? Who had time for aerobics these days? My business was booming, but my understanding of what my patients needed, not so much.
And I needed a moment to process Kim’s session and the ever-increasing stories like hers. The town had always been my sanctuary, and right now, a touch of its familiar charm was precisely what I craved.
The streets of Crestwood were alive and vibrant. Colorful neon signs flashed outside stores, advertising the latest record albums and movie releases.
Which reminded me, I needed to drop my latest Rob Lowe movie off. It had been a bit of a disappointment except Rob was in it. My dream guy. Geesh, I hope I remembered to rewind.
The distant thumping bassline from a passing boombox playing a Madonna track added to the town’s pulsating rhythm. The local high school had let out a few hours ago and it showed. Kids raced by on their BMX bikes, their laughter echoing as they traded freshly opened packs of baseball cards. Over by the park, teenagers huddled in groups, their outfits a testament to the era – brightly colored windbreakers, high-waisted jeans, and those ever-present Converse sneakers.
The unmistakable scent of hairspray wafted over as a group of girls adjusted their teased bangs, giggling and sharing secrets. One of them had an expensive camera and they were indulging in an impromptu pose fest.
Good for them, I smiled. I wish I’d done more of that when I was younger. I was only twenty seven but felt so much older. Had I ever been a teenager? I’d spent my young and impressionable years devouring books on the human psyche.
My old friend Lisa’s voice rang in my head. “You’re such a buzzkill, Emily.” Yeah, that was me. Good Old Buzzkill Thompson.
Further down the road, the local diner buzzed with activity. Through its large glass window, I could see families enjoying their meals, the bluish hue of a TV screen in the corner broadcasting the evening news on a chunky CRT television. Clearly tonight’s menu centered around burgers, with lots of bacon. As tempting as that might be, I wasn’t ready to stop yet.
At least get ten minutes of walking in first, Em.
I should have changed shoes before venturing out, but my low heels weren’t too uncomfortable, and I felt pretty today. My recent purchase of a denim blue prairie skirt and peasant blouse flattered my slender figure. Or so the sales clerk at TG&Y told me. Not one to resist a compliment, or save a dime—it was on sale, I grabbed it.
As I continued my walk, the town's rustic charm fused seamlessly with the unmistakable mark of progress. I think that's the thing I liked most about Crestwood. The town’s leaders held on tightly to their proud past but had a progressive vision, hence the new drive-in theater and William Berry Walking Trail that I planned to visit this weekend.
But beneath the sounds of arcade games and the scent of fresh pine trees, I felt a subtle undercurrent – a silent murmur that only a few could sense. It was this whisper of the unknown that Kim spoke of, and perhaps, I was starting to hear and sense too.
Something was going on here.
“Good afternoon, Dr. Emily,” Andy, my neighbor said as he passed me on the sidewalk.
“Afternoon, Andy,” I kept walking, happy not to get stuck in a long conversation about vintage cars with my lonely yet chatty neighbor.
After soaking in the town's ambiance, my stomach began to complain. I’d skipped lunch and I had no plans to cook dinner. Well, it’s the diner for me. Maybe it was the nostalgic comfort of its checkerboard flooring and red leather booths, or just a simple craving for a slice of its famous cherry pie.
I pushed open the door and the little bell above jingled a cheerful greeting. The diner was bustling, filled with familiar faces engaged in animated conversation. The clatter of cutlery and the low hum of the jukebox playing a Bon Jovi tune formed a cozy symphony. A few folks greeted me and I returned each one with a wave and a smile.
Finding a seat at the counter, I scanned the menu even though I already knew it by heart. The waitress, Patty, with her teased hair and aqua-colored eyeshadow, flashed me a warm smile. "The usual, Dr. Thompson?" she asked, already pouring a cup of coffee for me.
“Let’s start with the usual,” I nodded gratefully, my thoughts still wrapped up in the mysteries unfolding in my therapy sessions. Lost in contemplation, I almost missed the presence beside me. “But no burger tonight. Just pie.” Patty raised an eyebrow and poured my coffee before going to retrieve my slice.
"Is this seat taken?" a voice asked. Looking up, my gaze met a pair of intense blue eyes. It was Alex, his ta
"Don’t think so," I replied, surprised by the unexpected company. We'd only exchanged brief greetings around town once or twice.
As he took the seat next to me, I felt eyes watching us. Okay, that was the downside of Crestwood. Nothing like a chance meeting to stir up the gossip. Thankfully, our conversation remained quiet and centered on casual town updates. After I gobbled down my pie, I decided to order a chicken salad. Alex and I made the decision to hop into a newly opened booth where our chat quickly veered toward deeper subjects.
Our conversation felt strangely natural, and the topics seemed to dance around the edges of the supernatural without ever directly addressing it. Later, I would wonder about this but now, I was glad to have someone to confide in, though not about clients. I would never share anything about a patient.
Alex sipped on his coffee; the mug dwarfed in his large hands. “You ever stay up to watch the skies, Dr. Thompson?”
I raised an eyebrow, “Call me Emily. And occasionally, when the mood strikes. Why?”
“There’s a comet passing in a few days,” he said, his voice tinged with a hint of excitement. “It’s going to be one of the brightest we've seen in decades. I've always felt a strange connection to the cosmos. It’s as if the mysteries of the universe echo some of the mysteries here in Crestwood.”
I leaned back, intrigued. “You believe in that? The mysteries of Crestwood, I mean? Aren’t we too small for mysteries? We’re not a big city like Franklin or Denver.”
He gave a half-smile, those blue eyes searching mine, "I think Crestwood holds more secrets than we know. Have you ever sensed...something, Emily? A feeling that there's more to our world than what meets the eye?”
I paused, recalling the whisper-like sensations and the shared dream with Kim. "Recently, I've begun to wonder. There are stories, experiences... they're hard to dismiss.”
Alex nodded, seeming to weigh his next words carefully. “I’ve had my own experiences, things I can’t quite explain. Sometimes, it feels like there's a force here, something both wondrous and... possibly dangerous.”
The words hung in the air, charged with an unsaid understanding.
“Maybe,” I ventured, “it’s not just about observing these mysteries from a distance. Like through a telescope or microscope. Perhaps we’re meant to dive into them, understand them... and maybe even protect others from what lurks in the shadows.”
Alex looked at me with a newfound respect. “Emily Thompson, the skeptic therapist with a curiosity for the unknown. I think we're going to have some interesting conversations in the future.”
I chuckled, feeling a bond forming. “Only if you promise to share your comet-watching tips.”
He laughed, the sound warm and infectious. “Deal.” As we continued chatting, the world outside seemed to fade, replaced by the fascinating realm of possibilities and shared curiosities. I half hoped he’d invite me to join him, but he didn’t. I certainly wasn’t going to invite myself, so I let the subject drop.
By the time we finished our meals, Crestwood’s mysteries seemed a little more approachable, almost as if the universe had orchestrated this chance meeting to help unravel its secrets.
We both left the diner at the same time without exchanging pager or phone numbers, but it seemed okay. I knew somehow, I would see him again. I would make sure of it. In the meantime, I had a date with Rob Lowe. Maybe I’d keep the video just one more night. Rob was surely worth an extra two bucks, right?
That night, as I lay in bed, the events of the day replayed in my mind. The conversations with Kim, the walk through Crestwood, and the unexpected meeting with Alex intertwined, lulling me into a restless sleep.
I found myself dreaming, kind of. It wasn’t exactly a dream.
I walked the familiar streets of Crestwood, but they were very different.
Cloaked in a silvery mist, the town seemed suspended between the past, present, and perhaps even the future. The neon signs flickered alongside gas lanterns from a bygone era, while distant, futuristic hums resonated with the sounds of horses' hooves.
Where am I? Is this really Crestwood?
As I continued to wander, I could hear murmured conversations—whispers that sounded much like the ones Kim described. They were fleeting, sometimes clear, sometimes distant, creating a mosaic of emotions—fear, joy, regret, hope.
Drawn to the town square, I noticed a grand old oak tree, its branches stretched wide, casting tangled, shifting shadows on the ground. Beneath it stood a shadowy figure, its form constantly shifting—sometimes tall, sometimes short, but always cloaked in darkness.
As I approached, my feet seemed to move of their own volition. My heart pounded in my chest, and a cold dread settled in the pit of my stomach, but an inexplicable compulsion drew me closer. Trying to pierce the veil of shadow around the figure, I called out, "Who are you?”
The shadowy figure seemed to sway as if buffeted by an invisible wind. I reached out, trying to touch the enigmatic figure, but my fingers passed through nothing but cold air. The mist grew thicker, enveloping everything, including my outstretched hand. I snatched it back and stepped away from the tree.
I was alone and suddenly quite terrified.
I jolted awake, the sheets tangled around me, my skin slick with cold sweat. The weight of the vision pressed down on me. And just like that, it was time to wake up.
The morning light filtered through the curtains, casting a comforting, gentle glow in my bedroom. I sauntered to the kitchen to get my day started. What a night! So strange. I hadn’t had a lucid dream like that in ages. But was it a dream? I didn’t feel as if I’d slept at all. I stood in front of my Mr. Coffee machine and waited for the dark brew to finish.
I decided to head out early to my office, feeling the need to be in my professional space. Perhaps there, the vision would make more sense.
The early morning fog was thick, reminiscent of the dream's silvery mist.
I reached for the radio and turned it on full blast. I let one of my favorite girl bands pelt away the dread from last night’s experience with a peppy tune. By the time I reached my office, I felt a little better. Or so I told myself.
But in my own psyche I detected a disturbing undercurrent. One I couldn’t quite put my finger on but for now, I was determined not to probe too deeply.
I could handle peeking into another person’s soul, but my own? I couldn’t be sure I’d like what I saw there. For now, I’d focus on today’s client list.
With Ben and Lola on the appointment book that would be plenty to think about.
I hoped.
Chapter Two—Emily
The morning sun painted Crestwood in strokes of golden light as I drove to the outskirts of town to see Dr. Philip Grant. He was my mentor, my former professor, and if anyone could offer some clarity, it was him.
For a little while, many years ago, Dr. Grant dated my mother but the two quietly broke up after a presumably fun-filled summer together. I’d been disappointed by that turn of events, but we were all grown-ups and this was truly none of my business. But I was curious. One day, I might have the courage to ask.
His home was situated on the outskirts of town, an old colonial beauty with ivy creeping up its brick walls. Philip had retired years ago, but remained a touchstone of reason in my life. Visiting him always felt like walking into a safe space, a sanctuary of rational thought. He was an inspirational figure for many people in my field.
Before I could knock, Philip opened the door with a welcoming smile. "Emily, my dear! How fortuitous. I was just thinking of calling you. Come inside. It’s always good to have someone to share tea with."
I followed him to his study. It was as I remembered it – a haven of books, photos, and knowledge. We sat on opposite sides of his mahogany desk, which unlike mine was cluttered with papers, pens, and old books. He poured tea from a Ming reproduction pot and then asked gently, "What brings you here today?"
Taking a deep breath, I told him everything. Perhaps a bit recklessly, I recounted Sarah’s confession, without sharing her name, the shared experiences of other Crestwood residents who were my patients, my dream, and the ominous note.
