Help Me

By Cynthia Carver and Renee Pellegrino

She went missing when her son, Sam was fourteen years old. After years of hiring private investigators and the law enforcement turning it into a cold case, locating her was given up without a single trace of her. The question still lingered, what happened to Eileen Thompso

• Language: English
• Publisher: Combat Boots Media, LLC
• Release date: Jun 10, 2024
• ISBN: 9798986932163

Book preview

1

"H elp me."

My body jerked upwards. The recognition of the odorous reek of a trash collector registered—the recognition of death filled the room. I struggled to wake up and glanced around, realizing no one stood over my bed. I reached to turn my light on, and the light bulb flickered. An entity needed the energy to appear. The stench continued, followed by nausea and disgusting, gagging burps. Only once have I ever thrown up. The entity felt feminine and fearful. She came into my energy field, and the hair on my arms stood on end along with goosebumps. In between worlds, I instinctively knew I shared my body with another being. The other dimension would not allow me to deny their presence, whether asleep, meditating, or zoning. Tonight, I planned on sleeping. The spirit world had other plans.

Help me. This time the voice grew louder in my right ear.

Who are you? I telepathically asked the female entity. Like a sneeze, the energy lingered, approached, hesitated, and then without further ado, she slammed into my body. Her spirit hit me with full-blown emotion, complete panic, like a rope biting into and burning my wrists.

Her response was only … silence.

Tell me who you are! I didn’t appreciate ghosts ignoring my questions when they came to me for help.

Only her terror-filled silence.

When entities approached me, I demanded they identify themselves instantly to my Spirit Guides or myself. This entity invaded my personal space without permission.

If I don’t know who you are in a count of three, I’ll cast you out. Why are you here? Concern for my own safety ranked higher than whether she communicated with me or not. I liked to help those who became stuck during the earthly transition to their next world. It was always a concern that a specter would visit and be benevolent. One … Two … I continued to share in the nightmare this woman had lived through.

Help me, please, the ghost transmitted in a slow southern drawl.

Who are you? It was important for her to answer my questions.

Eileen Thom– The second half of the name didn’t translate clearly.

Cold metal clamped around my ankles and every muscle tensed, ready to react without knowing how. My entire body ached as someone pulled it across a rough, cold concrete floor. Her fear tasted of a metallic wetness with blood.

How can I help you?

Tell my story.

My lip throbbed as something silenced her. I heard a labored gasp and the stale air filled with a stench I didn’t recognize.

You can’t live in my body. I will help you heal. Where is your body now? It confused me. Usually, those in need approached me after a recent death occurred. This felt as if it had happened a couple decades before.

No! she yelled.

Then, I experienced the hypodermic needle that pumped her full of a drug. The vision continued to haunt me as I lingered between the realms.

Intuitively, I knew she was in her mid-thirties. With a lean body, sandy blonde hair, emerald eyes and standing approximately five-foot-eight-inches tall. Her last thought before drifting into a drugged state was of her child being alone at home somewhere else. The sense that she lived in Florida came forth.

He will be alone with no one to care for him. He is only a child. I have to help him. I have to return to him. He will not realize I’m gone.

Her abrupt departure from my body jarred me awake.

The unknown woman experienced almost total darkness, yet my bedroom filled with the glow of the full moon. The night remained eerily still. The connection faded the more awake I became. Another kidnapped victim sought help with being remembered and found.

Communications from the deceased were important to me, and all deserved to be recorded and remembered in a respectful style. Eileen’s story would be as significant as all those who came before or after her. Often a ghost needed to know someone would take care of whatever they thought they must do before transitioning.

I reached for my brown distressed leather-bound journal and black classic desk pen. Both lived on the hand-me-down Victorian nightstand that once belonged to my granny. The table wobbled. My hands shook, and the pen rolled and landed on the planked white oak floor. My head collided with the hardwood floor as I reached for the pen and tumbled out of bed. Banging my head caused a dull reverberating pain, and the intensity was magnified by the pounding of my heart.

The pen rolled under the bed. Wild dust bunnies took it and seized the opportunity to play hide and seek. They seized the moment and moved the fountain pen farther into the dark void. I rummaged beneath the bed, feeling for the pen. Crawling under the low frame became my only option as the pen