Some say the dead tell no tales but Sabriga Quill had been talking to people on the other side as long as she could remember. Only moments ago, visions from the dark world had flashed in and out of her consciousness like quick cuts in a movie. The visions had ceased now but Sabriga thought they would probably return. Sometimes they did, sometimes not. Sabriga had long ago concluded that she was merely an instrument for the powers beyond, powers of a shadow-universe that even a seasoned psychic like her self stood before in awestruck silence, humbled with the knowledge she had no real understanding of the forces she channeled, nor of their purposes, nor of the reasons for her having been chosen as their messenger.
She wiped her slim blue-veined hands with a dishtowel, placed the frying pan she’d been drying in the kitchen cupboard and walked into her dimly lighted living room. She lowered her thin-framed body into an overstuffed chair, her angular features in silhouette against the diffused light filtering through the white, laced sheer curtains of the east window. It was completely silent in the darkened room, furnished with 1800s antiques. This was the period from which she’d come, she believed, to take up her next life in the 21st century. She closed her soft dark-brown eyes and tried to relax.
She felt the tingling and stiffened. They were coming back. The images flooded in. There was a lot of red, a lot of sound, too, primarily human voices, yelling, beseeching, a baby crying. And there were party horns, like those blown on New Year’s Eve, blatting; and music, a band playing in the background. There were thuds, too, like something heavy and blunt pounding on something soft. Visually, there was an explosion, a momentary flash of fire, a pale face petrified in fear, the mouth open, the eyes wide, the nostrils flared, the head flung backward as if jerking away from something horrible. And there were sinister, ghostly human figures, tramping deliberately, relentlessly through the dim, shadow-casting light, wearing billed caps, long thick strands of hair flying out the sides.
Sabriga doubled over. The scenes were as ghastly as any she’d ever seen. Despite the horror, she tried to extract more detail. No matter her anguish, she rehearsed the memories over and over. She had to retain as many as possible, she told herself. Whether they told of something that had happened or was about to happen she didn’t know; she’d experienced both. The pain subsided. She breathed easier. Her heartbeat slowed. She straightened and sat for a few minutes more, waiting. No more images occurred.
Sabriga continued sitting, remembering. She thought she might have seen one of the human figures somewhere. Then she recalled: one of the men in the grocery store, that very morning, he’d looked like that. She felt goose pimples across her arms. Almost certainly the horrible event she was experiencing hadn’t happened yet!
With little effort—for despite her frail appearance she was fit—Sabriga arose from the chair, walked quickly across the room to a large wooden desk upon which sat two tall, unlit candles, a box of tissues, a phone, and a pen. She sat down in the large, leather swivel desk chair and from a side drawer pulled out a small box of matches. She struck one of the matches, allowed the flare to settle into a steady flame and lit both candles. She began to feel some measure of comfort in the flickering light. She sat there for a moment, composing, remembering again what she’d just experienced.
Now, from another side drawer, she drew out a small phone book. Leafing through the pages, her finger lit on a number. She raised the phone and started to press the buttons. Then she paused and shook her head, thinking better of what she was about to do.
She replaced the phone in its cradle and reached for the pen. Wiping thin perspiration from her forehead with a tissue, she drew out a sheet of paper from the middle drawer and began to write. When, within the hour she had finished, she folded the paper neatly and put it in an envelope already stamped with her name: Mrs. Sabriga Quill, 8646 Tammany Lane, Trane, Minnesota, 55604. She wrote out the Cook County sheriff’s address carefully, slowly, again reconsidering what she was doing. Maybe she should make that call. But no, she probably couldn’t get through to the sheriff anyway, and she knew they thought she was crazy. She shook her head; it was the best she could do. She sealed the envelope, rose from the chair, slipped a cotton robe around her shoulders and walked down her driveway and out to the street through the chilly, late October air, put the letter in her mailbox and raised the flag.
