When Deep Sleep Falls

By Karyn Masters

They don’t want to know me. I’m dangerous. I show no mercy because I’m cold through and through. In human terms, I’m referred to as a psychopath. But that’s just the tip of the iceberg because … I’m … not … human! 
 
Kara Fisher has an uncanny ability to communicate with the dead. Unsure of where her special power comes from, she sets out to uncover the truth about her past, which her mother has never revealed. She teams up with another psychic, Sauscha Wilkins, who helps her unearth her family secrets. Together they search for answers, starting with her father, who she knows nothing about, not even his name. Just bringing him up causes her mother to tremble.  
 
Thinking they have a special gift to help others, they discover it’s actually no gift at all. Along the way, they learn their supernatural insight is powered by evil. They learn it’s not the deceased they’ve been conversing with, but dark entities who are out to control them, and one in particular is following them. She and Sauscha turn the tables and start spying on this entity through astral projection in an attempt to learn his identity.  
 
As Kara searches for the truth, she uncovers horrific secrets concerning the past with her mysterious father. She discovers he is searching for her. While trying to piece her life together, this unknown entity reveals his shocking identity along with revelations about their future … causing them to make unthinkable decisions.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Karyn Masters
• Release date: Jun 14, 2017
• ISBN: 9781386596929

Book preview

Chapter One

I leaned back in my chair and closed my eyes. I listened carefully for the faintest sound. For a vision. A whisper, maybe. Sometimes it takes me a minute to tune in. I rested my head against the back of the seat and opened my mind, or at least tried to. It wasn’t usually this hard for me, but today I’d been having trouble concentrating. I opened my eyes just long enough to see that the woman sitting across from me was watching anxiously, also waiting for some kind of sign … wanting so badly for me to speak, but I wasn’t saying a word. I sat in a trancelike state, quiet and not moving. Uncomfortable. The woman, I believe she said her name was Cynthia, had her eyes focused on nothing but me. I wondered if she was waiting for my head to start spinning around, or for me to levitate. Wasn’t going to happen.

Finally.

I heard a whisper in my left ear. Or was it a whimper? I’m not sure what it was, but it was something.

There.

I heard it again.

Come on, speak to me.

I tried to block out all thoughts except for the faint voice in my left ear.

It’s my birthday.

Oooh, yeah. I heard the voice loud and clear now.

What’s your name? I asked aloud so that Cynthia could hear me. I could relax a bit now that I’d made contact.

My name is Joshua, and it’s my birthday today.

I opened my eyes and saw a young boy standing in front of me. I jumped, but quickly composed myself. I wasn’t expecting him to be so close. That usually wasn’t the way it worked. He was smiling proudly and held a big red balloon in his left hand. He had wavy, sandy blond hair brushed to one side with big brown eyes that sparkled. He was swaying from side to side, making the balloon dance in the air.

Today is your birthday, Joshua? How old are you? I looked over at the anxious woman sitting across from me and noticed tears in her eyes. Cynthia nodded her head, dabbing at her eyes with a tissue. I could see her hands shaking as she wiped the tears that rolled down her cheeks.

I’m six years old. Look! I have a red balloon. My mommy has lots of balloons for me at home. She made me a cake. It’s chocolate with a clown on top because today’s my birthday.

Your mommy made you a cake? I repeated, so that Cynthia could be a part of our conversation. Did you see the balloons and the cake?

Yes. I watched my mommy make me a cake and then she hung big red balloons all over the room. See? Joshua held out his balloon for me to see. He was quite calm, and though his mother was clearly upset, he didn’t seem to realize the impact his presence was having on her. He acted as if there’d never been any separation between them; as if he saw her every day.

I made him a cake, and I hung red balloons all over the room because red was his favorite color. Oh my gosh, he can see me? Cynthia sobbed, and put her head in her hands. Her long dark curls fell around her chin as she cried, and her body shook with each breath.

I watched the little boy standing in front of me, smiling, still holding out his balloon to me. He seemed so happy and completely oblivious to his mother’s sadness. I sensed that he couldn’t understand her heartache, and felt his mother should be happy for him to be where he was—that he was lucky to be there. I’d seen this almost every time I did a reading for someone. Sometimes the deceased would even laugh when the ones they’d left behind would cry, telling me to pass along the message that they were among the living any time they wanted to be.

Is there anything you’d like to tell your mother?

Yes. Why is she always crying? That’s all she does now, and it makes me sad. I don’t like to come around because she’s so sad all the time. Tell her she needs to stop crying and to be happier.

I repeated every word aloud to Joshua’s mother as he spoke. Do you come around a lot?

Sometimes. But I keep trying to tell my mommy that I’m right here, but she can’t hear me so she just keeps crying. Sometimes she looks at pictures of me and it makes her very sad. That’s all she does every day. The little boy sighed and looked down at his feet, kicking the toe of his left shoe with his right.

And you want her to stop being sad? He seemed to be more aware than I gave him credit for.

I want her to be happy so when I come to see her she won’t be crying anymore.

Ask him if he’s okay. Who is he with? Cynthia blurted out.

I’m with Grandpa and Buster. We go walking in the garden a lot and play ball.

I repeated what the boy said to his mother.

He’s with my dad. Buster is my dad’s dog that died almost twenty years ago, Cynthia said as she smiled unbelievingly.

Your mommy wants to make sure you’re okay, I said.

I’m good. I was riding my bike and then everything went black, then an angel came. Her name was Alexandria. She called my name and said for me to go with her—and she held my hand. So I did, and I saw Grandpa and Buster and Uncle Steve and Aunt Kate. They were waiting for me. Today’s my birthday, and I’m six years old.

I leaned back in my chair again and closed my eyes. I felt Joshua fading away, and I fought for him to stay.

Not yet. I’m not finished. Just give me a couple more minutes.

I concentrated hard on his presence and keeping the channel with him open, but when I opened my eyes, he was gone. Wait! I could no longer see him, but I could still feel his spirit present. He started showing me pictures. Pictures of events from the past when he was in this realm, living.

I turned my attention to Cynthia now.

Who is Jeremy? I asked.

Oh, wow, that’s my husband.

Did Joshua and his father fish a lot? Because I see them on a boat and Joshua is holding up a fish, and there’s another man with him. He’s telling the man he caught the fish, and the man is confirming he didn’t have any part in helping Joshua catch it. Is your husband still alive?

Yes. They went fishing a lot and Jeremy would always make sure Josh would catch at least one, or two, fish on his own.

I see a dog. It looks like a cocker spaniel mix. Joshua was sending me random shots of his memories, and I tried my best to keep up with him.

That’s Buddy. He’s still with us. Josh loved him so much. Buddy slept with him every night. Since Josh has been gone, Buddy wanders around all night, restless, as if he’s looking for him.

No, no. Buddy can see Joshua. Trust me, he may wander around at night, like he’s lost, but he knows where Joshua is.

I felt the little boy drifting farther away and tried to pull him back to me, but I knew it was no use. When the spirits decide it’s time to go, they go, and there’s nothing that can make them stay longer. They deliver their message and then it’s as if they have other business to attend to, and they pull back. Just like that.

Suddenly, when I thought Joshua was gone, he came back strong—swooping into the room—and I saw him turn and walk out the door, carrying his balloon and singing Happy Birthday. I smiled at his unawareness that we were existing in two separate planes.

He’s gone. I leaned forward and squeezed Cynthia’s hand.

What do you mean? He’s not here anymore?

He left. He said what he had to say, then he moved on. He doesn’t want you to cry anymore. It upsets him that you dwell on his death, and that you’re having trouble moving on. He wants you to be happy.

I can’t believe my baby was here. Can you get him back? What do you mean he’s gone? Will he come back? He saw his cake I made him! Cynthia wiped her eyes with her tearstained tissue. She had makeup running down her puffy cheeks. She flipped her hair back away from her face as if she were angry. But it wasn’t anger she felt. It was a deep sadness she struggled with every waking moment. A sadness so strong, it consumed her. He’s with my dad and he’s okay, right? He’s here with me, right?

He’s still here. He’s not gone. He wants you to know you’ll see him again and to stop dwelling on his death, I said as compassionately as I could, and handed her more tissues from the box of Puffs sitting on the coffee table between us. How does one tell a parent to stop dwelling on the loss of their child? But now the woman’s tears seemed to be tears of joy instead of sorrow.

I sympathized with the woman. Even though I had no kids of my own, I could feel the pain this woman was going through. I could only imagine how devastating it must be to lose a child. I’d always heard the death of a child was the hardest to get over, and from all the readings I’d done for parents who’d lost a child, I was positive that statement was true. This poor woman lost her little boy only a year earlier, when he was struck by a car. He’d been riding his bicycle outside the house, when he darted into the street without looking. A teenager in a pickup truck had been speeding and never even saw the little boy. Her son was killed instantly. He was her only child.

I tried to calm Cynthia by talking to her about some of the happy times she’d experienced with her son, and by letting her know he was still around her. I tried to explain the other side as I saw it, how beautiful it was to me, and that the living should wish they were there, instead of here. It seemed to be working, somewhat. Cynthia was beginning to calm down, and smiling faintly. She seemed a lot better knowing her son was okay and could visit her anytime she called upon him. She said she was ready to go home and think over what he’d said about being happier and moving on with her life.

I always felt a bit stressed after a session involving the death of a child. Those were the hardest and most emotional for me. Parents who had lost a child had a hard time moving on, and would almost give up on their lives. A lot of them even contemplated suicide. It was not uncommon for their marriages to fail, ending in divorce. But I always tried my hardest to help mourning parents understand that their children were still alive. I helped them to start over—giving them the closure they needed to move on—by showing them how to communicate with their children, and to see they were all right and happy.

I walked Cynthia to her car, reassuring her the whole while that her son was still with her. I watched her drive away, and then I took in a deep breath and held it for a few seconds. I slowly exhaled, trying to relieve the tension I now felt.

Breathe in. Breathe out.

I tilted my head back and let the sunshine warm my cheeks, as if it would help me clear my mind of the previous session. I turned around to walk back inside and stopped dead in my tracks. The curtains in my living room window were waving in the wind, but how could that be when the window was shut? I looked at the front door to see if I had left it opened. I hadn’t. I always kept my house secure. All windows and doors were shut and locked at all times. I didn’t fool around. Being a medium, death was around me all the time, and I was reminded daily of the kind of world we live in. I’d say I was a pretty careful and safe person, at least as much as I could be. Let me put it this way, if Jack the Ripper showed his face around here, well, let’s just say he’d be hobbling off with a bullet in his rear end.

I stood still, watching the curtains sway back and forth, trying to figure out how this could be. Then the curtains blew up in the air and opened wide. What I saw next took my breath away. For a split second, I could have sworn I saw a figure standing in front of the window, dressed entirely in black.

I strained my eyes to get a better look, but the curtains violently blew shut and then stood perfectly still. I was frozen in awe as I stood staring at the motionless curtains, wondering if I’d actually witnessed what I thought I had. I’d never seen an apparition like this one before. The person in black had seemed … solid, not like someone from the afterlife, but more like someone living.

Was there someone in my house? I knew there wasn’t, but I questioned it anyway. What stumped me even more was I could have sworn I’d also seen a gun belt with a gun on each hip. And was that a cowboy hat he was wearing? Yes, I’d seen guns and a cowboy hat. He looked like something out of an old Western movie.

The wild, wild West!

Kara Fisher, you are out of your mind!

I laughed at this thought, even though I was still feeling uneasy about my … uh, vision.

I slowly started toward the front door, wondering if I’d get inside and see the gun-toting cowboy waiting for me in my living room. I’d be hard put. I had no weapon on me. I kept my gun in the bedroom, and even if I had it on me, would I really shoot someone in their derriere? Well, at least it wouldn’t kill him. I’d never used a weapon on anyone in my life. Never needed to. What would I say? Uh, sir, I don’t want to kill you, so could you please turn around so I can put a bullet in your behind? I believed this cowboy had two guns. I was getting ready to walk into my house with an armed stranger waiting to pounce on me.

I looked up and down my street, nervously, wondering if there was anyone around to hear me if I had to yell for help. Deep inside I knew nobody would be on the other side of my front door, but the strange feeling I had that this man was living, and not an apparition, made me very uneasy the whole way to the door. If I entered my house and he was waiting … then what?

I went for the doorknob and turned it as quietly as I could. I heard the door squeak as I opened it a couple of inches. Stupid door. I’d meant to fix that annoying squeak months ago, but it hadn’t been on my list of priorities. I held my breath and listened for any sounds, but heard nothing. I got brave and pushed the door open a few more inches and listened again. Still nothing. Feeling even braver, I opened the door all the way and took a couple steps into the foyer.

Hey, I’m one tough cookie, I reminded myself. I took several self-defense classes not too long ago. I bet I could kick this cowboy’s butt, packin’ heat or not. Now feeling as tough as a warrior princess, I peeked my head around the corner of the living room and, just as I’d expected, no one was there. I glanced around the room and then walked over to the window, where I threw back the dark green paisley curtains and checked to see if it was shut and locked. It was.

Everything was still and quiet, as usual. It was a good thing, too, because I was no warrior princess, puny in comparison. I was only five-seven and weighed about a buck twenty-five, soaking wet. My hair was an ash blonde and hit the middle of my back, with Julia Roberts waves. Nobody in their right mind would compare me to a warrior princess. On occasion, I’d heard I resembled a princess (and I don’t think that was meant to be flattering), but warrior? Never.

Maybe my cowboy was just a vision of someone in the afterlife trying to get my attention. Yeah, that was it. This happened quite often. Sometimes, when a client made an appointment with me, a loved one from the other side would come to me a day or two early and let their presence be known. Nothing more than, I’m here and waiting. They always seemed as anxious to communicate as my clients.

I needed to put this gunslinger out of my mind and quit wasting precious time. After all, I had bigger things to be thinking about … like my trip to New York Sauscha talked me into. I headed toward my bedroom to pack.

I’d be leaving in the morning.

Chapter Two

I was seven the first time I saw a spirit, at least that I can remember. I awoke one night to find a man sitting at the foot of my bed. He was an older man—well, older to a seven-year-old. In reality, he was probably around twenty-five. Short brown hair, combed neatly to one side. He was wearing a pair of crisp black slacks and a heavily starched white button-up shirt. Not the smallest wrinkle or crease was evident. His attire seemed a bit dated. Even at my young age, I sensed he was of an earlier period. His left sleeve was neatly rolled up because that arm was in a cast. His skin was pale, peppered with freckles that lined his nose, and he had small brown eyes, set close together. He smiled at me and that’s when I noticed he was missing his left front tooth. Then he just faded away.

I’d known, almost immediately, he wasn’t real. I can’t explain how, I just knew. It was as if his spirit felt different; not like us, the living. Once I’d realized something wasn’t right about him, I screamed bloody murder. My mother had rushed into my bedroom, pale with fright, yelling, What’s the matter? What happened? I told her about the man and how he’d disappeared, but she tried to convince me it was just a bad dream. I knew it was no dream, though. I’d seen the man, and I’d been wide awake.

After several similar episodes, all during the night, I learned not to scream for my mother anymore. She became exceedingly disturbed by my bad dreams and was suggesting a child psychiatrist if they didn’t go away, so I lied and told her I wasn’t having them anymore. I didn’t need some shrink trying to brainwash me into thinking these weren’t ghosts I was seeing, but instead a cry for attention because I felt neglected, ignored, or some drivel like that. There was no way I was going through the rigmarole of therapy just to be told in the end I wasn’t seeing what I thought I was.

Even though I realized I was the only one who could see these spirits—or ghosts, as I’d called them in my innocence of youth—I knew I wasn’t crazy. I was aware I had a special gift. A power no one else had. Because it was something I was forced to keep to myself, I learned very quickly to get over my fear of them. I kept telling myself they weren’t mean to me and they didn’t hurt me, so what was there to be afraid of? At first, it took a lot of strength to keep from running out of my room in the middle of the night screaming, but once I started talking to them, I felt at ease.

One night, when I was around ten years old, I awoke to someone whispering in my ear, Kara … Kara. When I opened my eyes I saw a little girl, about the same age as me, standing at the side of my bed. She had a toothy grin, arms wrapped loosely around a doll. I sat up, startled, at first, but then the girl spoke to me in a soft, soothing voice.

Do you want to play with my dolly? Her name is Sophie. Her hair is very soft, she said as she ran her fingers through the doll’s blonde, curly hair. Before I knew it, I was dragging my dollhouse out of the closet and playing with my new friend. Her name was Brenda, she was eleven years old and she had the most beautiful long red, curly hair I’d ever laid eyes on. Her skin was pale and freckled all over, even on her arms and legs. Her eyes were as blue as the sea. She spoke with an accent that reminded me of a Leprechaun named Bosley from one of my favorite cartoons.

Brenda had explained to me she no longer lived with her mommy and daddy, and that she now lived with her great-grandparents. I didn’t ask why that was. It’s as if I already knew what had happened to her, and for the first time, it didn’t seem to matter anymore. My fear had subsided, and all I really cared about was the fact that I’d made a new friend and had someone to play dolls with. Even though I never saw Brenda again, my encounter with her was life changing. I was no longer frightened by my nighttime visitors. I later realized she was sent to me to conquer my fear of the other side.

I spent my teenage years keeping my ability discreet. Sometimes while hanging out with friends, I would be visited by their deceased relatives wanting to get a message through. The spirits wouldn’t leave me alone, insisting I convey the message, and when I could take it no longer, I’d end up blurting something out that would silence the room. I could usually cover my tracks by pretending my friends had previously shared stories with me about Uncle George, or Aunt Rita, or about their little dog Tippy who used to fetch the paper every morning. But I still got some uneasy looks.

It was difficult hiding my reality from friends and family. Over the years I tried to bear with it, but eventually it got to the point where I felt I was living a lie. I felt I was hiding my authentic self, and believed I must have been given this gift to share it with others. What good was my ability if I kept it a secret?

After months of contemplating whether or not to openly share my conversations with the dead, I decided I’d try it out on a few people first to see what would happen. If they thought I was some kind of freak who needed to be locked up in the crazy house, then I’d go back to hiding my enlightening conversations with my dead buddies. It was the skeptical ones who lost out. I didn’t lose a thing. I could help a grieving mother to move on, or a son to mend a broken relationship with his parents when he thought it was too late. I was gifted with an incredible ability to help people and considered myself special and chosen. It shocked me how others viewed me as just plain crazy.

One day, around the age of twenty-two, I was shopping and bumped into Mary Wright, a close friend of mine from high school. As I talked with her, an older lady appeared by her side, smiling broadly. She said, Tell Mary I’m okay. I recognized her to be Mary’s grandmother. I felt warm and excited inside. I explained to Mary I was able to see and speak to the deceased and that her grandmother had just appeared to me and given me a message for her. Mary had wrinkled up her nose at me in disgust and said her grandmother was at home safe and sound, then she walked off, leaving me standing there with my jaw to the ground. I heard her mumbling something about a loon as she walked away. Later that week, I learned Mary’s grandmother had suffered a fatal heart attack the very same day I was visited by her.

After that incident, I decided it wasn’t such a great idea to share my ability and, once more, I stifled it. Deep inside I’d always known people would think I was crazy; my mother had taught me that from the very start of my nightmares. She said if I went around talking such craziness, people would think there was something wrong with me, that I wasn’t all there in the head. Even though I wasn’t quite sure what she meant, I didn’t like the way it sounded. I didn’t want people to think I was sick in the head, so I hid my ability out of shame.

Anytime I revealed even the slightest bit about my gift to others, the response I received was always negative. Almost as if they were repulsed with me. Like I was some kind of freak. I didn’t know if I could deal with it, or if I even wanted to deal with it. So I went back to living a lie. It wasn’t until I was thirty that I again decided to share my gift with the public and help people get the closure they needed to recover from the deaths of their loved ones. I believed I’d been given a gift by God, and I was to use it to help others.

I decided to hunt down some other psychics to see if their experiences were anything like my own. I needed the support of others like me. It would be like therapy for me, I imagined. I’d heard of a new age store named Spiritual Life Enrichment Center where they advertised psychics and sold metaphysical books, herbs, candles, and things of the sort. I made an appointment to meet with a psychic, but it wasn’t a reading I was after. I had questions I wanted answered, such as, What am I supposed to do with my ability? How can I help people with my gift? Why do I have this gift? I didn’t know if I’d ever get the answers I was searching for, but I felt the best person to ask would be someone like me.

After making an appointment and talking with Sauscha Wilkins, a well-known psychic in town, I discovered I wasn’t much different from any of the other psychics or mediums, as he’d called me. And I was very advanced in my ability to communicate with the other side. I’d been so nervous the day I met him. So fearful to open up and reveal the truth about who I was. I almost walked out of the waiting room several times before my appointment. Just as I decided I’d made a mistake by going there, I heard my name being called. Sauscha’s voice was almost majestic. I looked up to see one of the most handsome creatures to have ever graced my presence.

I’d sat motionless in my chair. I didn’t know I’d be sharing my innermost feelings and secrets with such a gorgeous being. I didn’t think I could do it. How was I to open up with those big, beautiful blue eyes staring back at me?

Kara. He called my name again, glancing around the waiting area and then the store. I needed to make a move. I couldn’t just sit here pretending I hadn’t heard my name being called … could I? There were two other women sitting nearby, both looking at me, waiting for me to react, and no doubt wondering why I wasn’t. They knew it was my name being called, which probably meant Sauscha knew it as well. I stood up abruptly and pressed my pants down. With wobbly knees, I headed toward the most handsome man I’d ever seen. When his eyes met mine, I almost melted.

Kara? He had offered me his hand as I got closer. I’m Sauscha. Good to meet you.

Hi. Thank you for seeing me, I said as I shook his hand, which was soft and warm, yet strong. I knew he was strong because I could see the outline of his muscles through his slim-fit button-up shirt. This was a guy who worked out. He was fit. Probably a clean eater and a big fan of protein. I pictured him guzzling down Muscle Milk every morning after his hardcore workout, which left him dripping in sweat, muscles bulging.

Concentrate, Kara!

He had motioned for me to