Mirrors

By Jennifer C. Parker

Time-travel into two different dimensions to discover two different hauntings thatll change your psychological view of fear.

After surviving life on the run as a blacksmith from an old murder mystery that he was unaware of, 10 years later, Chester finds himself in a reality that leaked his haunted conscience into reality to torture his un-rested soul through the eyes of a Gypsy he fell in love with on his journey. Every time he thought he was innocent, the haunting became stronger. Little did he know, he was the haunting of 1920 and his love played a role that would change his life and societal views. Do you think you can solve the mystery? Or, will you become another victim?

After encountering a near tragic experience, Jake finds out about a world that appears to be an endangerment to his dimension through his nightmares. When the creatures transitioned into his dimension, they came as a warning in knowing that one day his world would become just like theirs. He finds out that he is the only one who can stop the puzzle behind the worlds development from prevailing and prevent the supernatural force from taking over his dimension. Or did he?
Based on the poem called Mirrors from my well-known book, Poetic Visions through the State of Mind. This book takes your fear to its limits of looking into the eyes of the paranormal. The chilling feeling that this science fiction thriller will leave on your soul will alter your views on reality. Will you survive to make it to the end of the book?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Apr 15, 2013
• ISBN: 9781483608600

Jennifer C. Parker

I am an abstract rose. I always looked at life’s thin line through the magnifying glass of society. Reality was something I thought of as a one sided mirror. I, often, wondered what was on the other side of the glass that’s hidden. Writing books opened the door to other dimensions that brought out the psychology of what makes reality abstract. Sometimes the sketch behind the abstract painting is the reality that challenges your fears or leaves a mark on the psychology in your mind to make you want to overcome the fears by adapting them to your strategies of reaching success which hands you the key that builds character and understanding which formulates the positive from it. I chose the name abstract rose when I was young because on each of my pedals are the many faces of my mirror that shapes and defines who I am as a writer through the hands of my foundation that sculpted me. What structured me to become the individual I am today is my positive surroundings that molded my direction in life based upon living with these quotes that I adapted to my own values that a wise person once told me: “Try not to be a man of success but a man of value.” – Albert Einstein “Dreams are touchstones of our character. Our truest life is when we are in dreams awake.” – Henry David Thoreu The creative things I’ve produced in my life that added personal value as to why I write is what made me cherish the power of literature and how it affects reality in playing upon the mindset of society in terms of man versus self.

Book preview

Copyright © 2013 by Jennifer C. Parker.

ISBN:

   Softcover   978-1-4836-0859-4

   Ebook       978-1-4836-0860-0

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Rev. date: 04/11/2013

To order additional copies of this book, contact:

Xlibris Corporation

1-888-795-4274

www.Xlibris.com

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127882

CONTENTS

Part 1

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Part 2

8 Nightmares of Horror

To all aspiring authors and writers. I, also, dedicate this book to all of the most important people that have crossed my path in life that helped framed my courage and metaphorically held my hand in teaching me not to crumble for society but to be an example of what can be gained and accomplished through the strength of self-motivation and dedication even through the tears and fears.

Also By Jennifer C. Parker

Poetic Visions through the State of Mind

The Era of Unchained Voices

Reality VS The Era

An unrecognizable face is staring at you in the mirror,

That is foreshadowing your fears through parallel imagery,

To see if you want to cross over to the dimension of fear,

To embody what is to become of your corpse,

When you find out what sucked the life out of you,

Then uses you as a product to be eligible for body snatching,

For the reincarnation of what is dead that your mind produced as your worst fear.

Have you looked in the mirror lately?

Embracing your worst fear?

Or would you like it to appear physically or in your dreams at night?

Catching you off guard each time,

So that it can get the opportunity to jump into your body,

To reflect to the world a fear that is unreal.

The grave dancer of karma is dancing its curse while painting the portrait of your final days.

Recognize the face of fear.

It’s creeping up on you.

As a grave dancer leads to your casket,

To be put in the ground as your final destination in the land of the dead,

Where your screams can’t be heard to the world on the other side of the mirror.

—Jennifer C. Parker

Poetic Visions through the State of Mind

Copyright 2011

Welcome… You have just entered your worst fears. If you feel like your worst fears have already been encountered in your dimension, that’s only the beginning compared to the experience waiting to be discovered on the other side of this door. If you are fearless of the unknown, turn the page to enter. Let the nightmares begin.

I hope you survive to tell about it…

PART 1

The Mystery of 1920

CHAPTER 1

Imagine, one day, everything makes sense and your life is at its best status. You walk into a bar that night. You engage in conversation with a man you’ve never seen before. Later, the conversation comes to an end. You shake his hand. The next day, you wake up from a strange night. You look in the newspaper. On the front page is the man that you spoke to in the bar. He was listed as dead by bullet wound and a missing eye. A reward is posted for any information. There’s no lead to the murder case. The man was labeled as unidentified. The only thing police can label him as is 1920 because of his license plate of his car that was found parked 30 miles from his body in a cornfield. The fingerprints on his hand trace back to you. At the bottom of the information stated in the paper explains a warrant for your arrest. What do you do?

This is the story of my second life. I, often, heard of the people of elite and middle class refer to themselves as individuals who live two separate lives. I never understood it, but, I never knew it would be my eulogy. A casket and a tombstone has no name. We all die metaphorically. Time only tells if reality says it’s your time. Well… I’m not dead yet. It just feels like the veil of death is trying to put its sheet over my eyes. The setting was in the season of death, as my mother used to refer to as the fall before she died, because the spring was considered to be the rebirth. In my first life, I was known in town as a prestigious blacksmith. To the public eye, I always felt this sense of being watched. Whether in a positive or a negative way, it always made me experience paranoia. I’ve seen everything walk across the path of my shop and in the streets. I remember this regular customer that had a missing eye. He had a habit of staring into a person’s soul, so people would warn me. When he would come in, all he would do is bring in his item, place it on the table, stare at me for a mere second, then, left the shop. I would even see him standing across the dirt road at the saloon in front of my shop, where I go to drink free whisky, staring at me in a gloomy way.

Now, I’ve been on the run for the past ten years. I changed my name to Henderson… Chester Henderson. It’s the fall of 1931. I lived in a small town in New York. There, I worked hard to build my life from scratch. I own a shop on 24th street in Brooklyn. It’s not much. I live in the upper level of the building and conducted my business downstairs in the morning until the moon rises to its peak.

I found love on my journey with a woman named Martha Livingston. She was beautiful as a rose, with long black hair, and a dark mind and soul. She was a Gypsy. Her walk was as beautiful as the wind passing through her hair, to caress my body as if she kissed me with the look in her green eyes. I encountered a relationship with her on my escape to a world of opportunity with no fear, a place where I can escape an attempted wrongful death, to myself. She helped me build my shop and named it, Henderson Blacksmith. Things became so easy and hard as the days went by. I became blinder each day. I left my old life behind, never forgetting my convictions in the other part of town. I don’t speak the name of the town because of the haunting memory that day I ran. I hoped for the day when the hunt for me will end and if it never came to the point of the police tracking me down. Each time I looked into Martha’s eyes, while holding her hand, all of my fears would to fade into the back of my mind. It’s as if I were under her love spell.

It’s the wake of dawn outside. I was sitting behind the counter reading a local newspaper. When I would look out the front door, for possible customers, I would suffer suppressing hallucinations of seeing that one eyed man standing across the street. I would snap back to reality when a customer came through the door. When the spirit disappeared, the love of my life walked though the door to be of assistance to the local customers. More and more, the man’s face becomes familiar when he appears. I tried not to come to conclusions with my hidden paranoia. A young man entered my shop. He asked me if I could repair an item for his grandmother. It was an old timepiece from the 1800’s. He mentioned that his mother received it from her diseased grandfather, who worked at the old saloon in my old neighborhood. When he placed the old watch in my hand, a chill ran up my spine. Within each tick, I heard a gunshot. I blinked and looked at the boy. The man with the missing eye was standing beside the young man. Behind him, stood my love in front of the shop looking at me strangely. I held onto my heart, grasping for air. The spirit disappeared. My love raced over to my rescue. The young man offered to get help, but, I recovered. Martha went in the back to bring me a glass of water. I asked the young man his name. He responded, Carter… Are you ok? If I hadn’t thought about it myself, it appears that you look like you’ve seen a ghost.

I just closed my eyes and took a deep breath. When I opened my eyes, I saw Martha standing in front of me with tears in her eyes as she held the glass of water. She looked into my eyes with fear. The glass fell from her hands, shattering on the ground. She said in a mournful voice, What have you done?! . . . . What have you done! I looked at her with the most puzzlingly disturbed facial expression. I hadn’t the slightest idea of what she was talking about. She screamed, Chester! You didn’t!, as she pointed to the floor. I looked over the counter, slowly. There, laid the helpless, blood drenched body of the young man. I inhaled as my heart stopped beating with the hands of time as I looked. I backed away, slowly, looking into my frightened love’s eyes. I assured her that I didn’t know what happened. She told me to look at my hands to see if she would believe me. I lifted my hands slowly. When I looked at my hands, with my love, my hands had no evidence on them. She whipped her tears from her cheeks and ran into my arms. She told me that she was going to call the police to have an investigation on the murder. My body trembled when she said the word police. I, immediately, left her in the shop. I went upstairs to my room. I sat on the bed, holding my face in my hands. I listened as Martha was speaking to the police on the telephone. I was horrified.

Martha hung up the phone. She called out to me. She informed me that the police were on the way to pay a visit to the shop. I raced down the stairs. She held onto me, tight. She told me everything would be okay. I watched as the police examined the body and the ambulance carried the corpse away. When the police departed the shop, I grabbed a floor brush and a bucket from behind the counter. I asked Martha to fill the bucket with soapy water. She grabbed the bucket. She went in the back and ran the water. I began to suffer a headache to the sound of the water. When she turned off the faucet, my headache disappeared. She walked into the room in tears. She handed me the bucket of water. She gave me a soft kiss on the cheek. She reached behind the counter, grabbing another floor brush. She walked over to me, grabbed the bucket and my hand. She went on her hands and knees with me. Placing the bucket on the floor, she dipped her brush into the water, looked into my eyes, and began to scrub the blood off of the floor. I dipped my brush into the water and joined her.

The next day came. I couldn’t stop thinking of the young man who came in the other day. A young woman walked into the store with her husband. They were dressed in elite attire that I’ve never seen before. There was this glow within their walk. The man looked liked he was in his late 30’s. He asked me about a telescope that he used to study astronomy. He said, I was having trouble seeing through the lens. I called out to Martha in the back of the shop for assistance. I offered to take a look into to magnificent looking telescope. As I looked through the lens, I saw a dark spot. I held down the telescope, gently. I wiped the lens with a piece of cloth. I held the telescope up to my eye. The black spot began to grow. I asked the man, Have you noticed the spot on the lens before you brought it in the shop to my attention?. He replied, What spot?. I gave him the strangest look. I held down the telescope as I wiped off the lens again. I held the telescoped up to look through it. The spot grew larger. This time it had a different face. The face of the one eyed man was looking at me. I jumped, dropping the telescope on the table. It broke.

The man jumped over the counter, grabbing my shirt. He yelled, What’s the matter with you! I paid good money for that! I hope you plan on paying for another one!. Martha jumped in between us. The man slapped her out of the way. His wife grabbed his left arm. She begged him to leave the store with her. She assured him that I would fix the telescope. He released my shirt. He said, It better be fixed… or you will need fixing. I grabbed my wife. I noticed that she had been wounded. I helped her to her feet. I looked at the man and his wife. I said, Come at noon tomorrow. Your telescope will be ready for you… . I’m sorry for the inconvenience. The woman looked at Martha with sorrow. Then, she looked at her husband hinting him to leave. I closed my eyes. I took a deep breath. When I opened them, the woman looked at me with tears forming in her eyes. She looked at Martha and I. She said, Please don’t hurt me, . . . I just want to go… I wont call the police. I said, What’s wrong? The woman didn’t respond. I looked at Martha. She pointed to the floor. I looked at the floor with the most eeriest feeling. Her husband was lying