disintegrating weave of a white cotton sock.
I suddenly remembered having once seen a cable television documentary about forensic pathology and a place in Tennessee nicknamed “The Body Farm.” While a plot of land where decomposing human cadavers are studied wasn’t exactly high on my list of things to recall, the sight before me triggered the forgotten memory and a handful of facts returned to the forefront of their own accord.
What came to me immediately was the recollection that there were basically five states the human body would go through post mortem-fresh/autolysis; bloating/putrefaction; wet decay/skin slippage and fluid purging; dry decay/partial mummification; and finally, skeletonization.
This young woman’s remains represented at least four of these five stages, and they were fully embroiled in seeing the process through to its conclusion. At the moment the gelid atmosphere of the cold room was holding them off only slightly, which is what triggered the next arcane factoid to bubble up from the depths of my memory- any and all of these stages could be hindered or hastened by a wide variety of factors such as temperature, humidity, and even body type.
Debbie Schaeffer had been dumped in the woods, fully clothed, and wrapped in plastic sheeting. To the best of the medical examiner’s determination, it had been sometime around the end of October or beginning of November. The temperatures had ranged from well below freezing, right up into the sixties and even seventies over the past two months. Rain had fallen. Sun had shone. Opportunistic predators from mammal to insect had come and gone. Mother Nature had worked to reclaim what, in the end, rightfully belonged to her.
This young woman had literally become a self-contained forensic pathology specimen suitable for inclusion in a textbook. I had to consciously remind myself that she had once been whole and full of life, not the putrefied and skeletonized mass I was seeing before me now. The visual evidence didn’t make it easy.
“Jeeeezzz, white man,” Ben sputtered. “Ya’ wanna do your thing so we can close this up. I’m about ready ta’ spew.”
His words rattled in my ears and registered as little more than background noise because I was already doing my thing.
A calm like I had not felt in more than a year fell over me. I had all but forgotten what it felt like to be fully and completely grounded. I squeezed Felicity’s hand tight and basked in the vibrant flow of energy passing between us. Almost instantly I found myself wishing I could remain this way indefinitely.
I drew in a deep breath and sputtered as I immediately regretted the action. After a quick shake of my head, I pulled myself back together and focused on the task that brought me here.
Slowly, I brought my free hand up and reached outward. I could feel a growing static electricity-like attraction flowing between Debbie Schaeffer’s remains and me. The ethereal magnetism took hold, and like the opposite poles of magnets, it sucked my palm downward until it brushed against a tangled mass of blonde hair that had pulled away from the skull.
Where am I?
Darkness underscored by a faint, high-pitched whine.
I scream… Or do I? I hear nothing.
What is happening to me?
An explosion of blinding light.
Blink.
Psychedelic spots before my eyes.
Staring into nothingness.
Darkness.
A second bright blast.
Blink.
My heart races.
The kaleidoscope goes on.
Darkness…
Darkness…
Yet another sudden infusion of brightness.
More spots in the mix.
Darkness fading to a soft light.
A silhouette moving in the shadows.
Visceral fear.
My ethereal self jerks quickly back as the most recent experiences of Debbie Schaeffer’s life-and perhaps death-assault me without apology. Her fear wraps its icy grip about my heart and begins to squeeze mercilessly. I have no idea what I am going to see, but I am certain it will be less than pleasant.
Felicity’s grip on me remains steadfast; I don’t think I could break free of her even if I wanted to. As I force myself back forward into the ethereal quest for answers, I feel a wholly familiar presence in the room. In the here and now-in the land of the living. But I can tell beyond a shadow of a doubt that it no longer belongs on this side of the bridge.
Phasing in and out of synchronization with time, the entity’s feminine voice rings directly into my ear.
“Well, look who finally decided to show up. I’ve been waiting for you, you know, Rowan. What took you so long?”
Before I can respond, Debbie Schaeffer turns her attention elsewhere. She is apparently observing something that I cannot see. She continues her recitation off in the distance, speaking as much to herself as to me.
“What’s he doing now? Oh man, is he kidding? Would you look at that, Rowan? Is he an idiot or what? I mean it’s not like it’s rocket science to pick out an outfit, you know. He’s got to be color blind or something.”
I have no idea what she is talking about.
I cannot see what she is seeing.
The volume of her voice fades from high to low and then low to high as it moves about my head in an insane demonstration of stereophonic principles. The disconcerting pattern of her speech continues to shift in and out of time between planes of existence.
“Get a grip, will’ya? Those red shoes don’t go with that skirt. The black ones, you moron, the BLACK ones!” Her voice seems directed at someone unseen by me.
“I don’t think he can hear me. Hell, I can’t even hear me. What do you think, Rowan? Can he hear me?”
“Who?” I ask aloud. “Tell me who can’t hear you.”
“What’s that?” Ben’s voice slowly rumbles past me in a discordant echo.
Oh God, what’s happening?
Where am I?
Absolute terror burns its way into my chest.
I can see only a silhouette in the dim light. I can’t make out any features.
An explosion of brightness sears my eyes.
I’m blind.
I try to scream, but it catches in my throat and rests there, making me choke.
I can feel the burn of tears welling in my eyes.
An angry voice exclaims, “Fuck! Not again! STOP IT! STOP CRYING! Your makeup is running!”
“I don’t care. It serves you right, you weirdo. Oh, no way. Are you blind? That lipstick is way too dark. Look at me, you idiot.” Debbie Schaeffer’s voice vibrates inside my head as she admonishes some unseen figure.
She turns her attention back to me for a moment. “Can you believe this guy, Rowan?”
Before I can even begin to answer, she is yelling at him again.
“Go ahead, make me look like a circus clown, you dipshit!”
Her voice bounces around inside my skull, trying on my psyche for size. From one moment to the next, I am she and she is me. We are one and the same. We are neither and separate. We phase in and out of one another like playing cards shuffled into a deck.
She stands at my shoulder.
She faces me.
She steps into me.
She steps out of me.
