“It is insurance in case your Will falters. If you look at it from your point of view, I suppose you have no choice, because it is not in your nature to back down from a fight, even if it is almost hopeless.”
“Thanks for the encouragement.”
“It is my job to help you. I do you a disservice if I do not spell it all out for you. You must make an informed decision.”
She took a deep breath, letting the incense get into her lungs. On the exhale, she began to feel much better.
“So . . . Any tips on how to get out of this predicament I find myself in?”
Jocelyn embarked on a shamanic journey to find someone who could help her, but it was a long shot.
She chose the center door on the fifth floor of her Inner Temple to be her journey portal. She took an elevator to that floor and walked on the balcony to the door. Then she opened the door that swung toward her, and inside was a gray mist. Nervous, she steeled herself and walked through.
The mist dissipated around Jocelyn, and she found herself on a road that curved to the left. Houses, spread apart by large several-acre wooded lots, lined the sides of the road. To the left, mountains sprang up behind the houses, and to the right a downslope led to the valley. While she didn’t view Beaver Park Market, she instinctively knew it was in the valley, nonetheless.
The half-moon, low in the sky to her right, shined on the road, and the houses nestled on it. She realized she had projected her astral self onto the material plane (the physical world) on an actual road while her body laid in the shallow grave.
Although she had never used astral projection before—part of her future training—her grandfather had told her the rules. She could travel through matter but not touch it, and so she didn’t stand on the asphalt as much as float on its surface. While astral-projecting, nothing she encountered on the material plane could physically harm her.
A thin cord attached her astral self to her aura—an egg-shaped glowing light surrounding her material body (right now in the grave). Her cord was her guide back to her body, and she could make it visible, translucent or opaque, on command.
I call upon the Holy Spirit and Saint Michael to guide me to the person who can help me. Praise be the Lord. She made the sign of the cross.
The aura of the house up the street came into view. Yes, houses have auras. In fact, everything has an aura, including parts of things. Thus, each floor of the house has an aura. Each window has an aura, each window pane has an aura, etc. The fact is, everything in existence, everything you can call a thing, has a personality, and each thing has an aura.
And the orange-colored aura of the house—a rustic-looking log home, but very large with lots of glass windows—called to her. She guessed it must be about four to six thousand square feet. A house this near the ski resort, and this large, must be worth several million dollars. Or at least used to be. She traveled to the house and broke the plane of the aura. A cord, similar to the one which held her to her body, undulated and attached itself to her. She drifted toward the house, the front door broken open, detached from its top hinge. She drifted into the house, following the cord. It led her into the basement, through a heavy metal door with a five-spoked handle, into a room. Although dark inside, the cord connected to an aura that illuminated an elderly man asleep on a bed.
An elderly man might help her? Well, beggars can’t be choosers.
Clarence Whitman was having his brains eaten while still alive.
<Wake up. I need to talk with you>.
Clarence realized he was dreaming and tried to wake up several times but to no avail, all while something fed on his brains. In his dream he started to scream. “Help! Help! Help!” But no one came to help. He continued to scream, each time louder than before. After many screams, he became aware of his surroundings, that he was in his bed in his safe room. He took a deep breath, sat up, and put on the electric camp light next to his bed—and there was a woman standing in his room, looking at him, the kitchenette and bathroom door behind her. He retrieved his glasses from the nightstand and put them on.
A woman. In his safe room. Where no one, no zombies, no humans, no one could get into.
Half-asleep, still in a frightened dream state, he screamed again. While panicking, he yelled, “Who the hell are you?” She seemed to be of slightly taller than medium height for a woman. She wore filthy clothes, and dirt covered her from head to toe. She had straight black hair with bangs.
<Please do not be frightened,> she said.
But she didn’t say it out loud. Instead, she thought it at him.
“Oh my god, I’m still dreaming!”
<You are not.>
Her lips were synchronized with the thoughts entering his mind, but she made no sound. He turned around and grabbed the shotgun from on the wall over his bed, pointing it at her.
<Put that down. I’m only an apparition. If you shoot me, it will go right through and destroy part of your kitchen.>
He didn’t feel like he was dreaming. Yet apparitions were not real. If he wasn’t dreaming, then the woman was lying. “Again, who the hell are you?”
<My name is Jocelyn Radomski, and I am not really here.>
“Really? You look like you’re here.” He kept the gun pointed at her. Now he was out of his dream state and felt the folds of the blankets under his butt.
<It should be easy to believe I
