David Golemon - The Supernaturals

“I can very much see your belief in your actions.”

F.E. Lindemann tossed his expensive hat on one of the work tables and stepped forward. He reached the young woman in ten very quick steps. He took her arm and looked her over.

“She fainted and was causing the others to stop work, I was just—”

Another stern look shut the Irishman’s mouth.

John wanted to laugh at the worried look on the foreman’s face. He wanted to slap old F. E. Lindemann on the back — he obviously hated bullies.

“My dear, you are obviously too far along to be working in this heat,” Lindemann said as he helped the girl forward. He paused for a moment, letting her to get her bearings.

“Yes, sir, but I need the money, at least for the next two weeks; I’ll be traveling to Baltimore to stay with my aunt. That’s where my baby will be born.”

Lindemann reached into his pocket and pull out a roll of bills.

“Now you ladies, staring at me is not conducive to making me any money, so I suggest you return to your sewing.”

Most of the women smiled at the polite little man. They didn’t understand the word conducive, but did as he asked.

“Take this. It’s more than a month’s salary for you, and more than enough to get you to Baltimore by train to have your child.”

“Mr. Lindemann, I couldn’t, I would—”

“You can and you will, young lady.” Lindemann placed the rolled bills into the girl’s hand. “Now, you listen. As I am more than likely to sever Mr. Coughlin’s services, I suggest you take that train to Baltimore this very day.” Lindemann looked back at the large Irishman, who was still standing arrogantly with his hands on his hips watching the exchange. “I trust him not to pay you a visit for causing him to be exposed.”

The young girl looked back at the foreman and nodded her head. She understood the threat.

“Good. I’ll see you to your room, and then to the train.” He pulled out a gold pocket watch and examined it. “If I don’t return to Summer Place by tomorrow evening, Mrs. Lindemann will eat me for dinner.”

John watched Lindemann pull the girl away. He saw the smirk on the shop foreman’s face. John wondered when Lindemann was going to fire the man, but allowed his mind to ease when he felt the girl’s tension fade. Lindemann helped her toward the door, and toward a new life in Baltimore.

John felt the dream starting to fade, but was startled by the look in the foreman’s eyes. It was not one of embarrassment at being caught being an overbearing and cruel man — it was one of a job satisfyingly done. John realized he had been watching an act of some sort on the foreman’s part.

The light and the heat faded as the girl and Lindemann walked toward him. John tried to step out of the way, but the strangest thing happened. The girl acted as though she saw him. Her blue eyes looked right into John’s. She smiled and maneuvered at least three steps over to her left, pulling the smaller Lindemann with her, and then she passed right through him. John felt a jolt of electricity, something he had never felt before in any dream walk. He felt the girl pass through him. He felt the growing child inside of her, he felt the sweat on her face and brow. Then she was through, and he wanted to collapse. As she reached the door, she turned her head and looked in John’s direction once more; as if she were apologizing to someone she couldn’t possibly see. John raised his hand and wanted to say something, but the dream faded and then he was gone into the dark void that was his dreamscape.

The pain made him sit straight up on the couch, but in his dream he was sitting on a large hardwood floor. He turned his head as the sharp pain came once more, his body shaking as though the pain were so bad he couldn’t bear it any longer.

He heard the cry of a baby, then another ripping pain. Then a cloth was placed over his mouth and nose and pressed down firmly. He managed to raise his head slightly in the brightly illuminated room. He saw an old wood burning stove and, most shockingly, he saw his own blood-covered legs and ripped open belly. He knew for a fact that he wasn’t looking at his own body. It was the body of a young woman, kicking out from the excruciating pain. He tried to focus on the faces above him, but the girl’s body wouldn’t cooperate. He knew somehow that they had tried to put the girl out with chloroform but it hadn’t taken.

“This crap isn’t working anymore,” said a husky voice with a Russian accent. Then a fist slammed down into John’s face, then again. Then the chloroformed soaked rag once more.

“Never mind, just take her below and dispose of her. Give me the child. No, no, watch its poor head. There, there,” the Russian voice said, “it’s all right now.”

John felt his legs rise into the air and then he was being pulled across the tiled floor.

“You’re dragging blood all across the kitchen!” the voice said angrily. Somewhere, the cry of a baby started.

There was silence from whoever was dragging him. His legs were tossed down and then heard the sound of a door opening. He was once more pulled away and into the semi-darkness of another room. Then, with searing pain coursing through his body, he was dragged down a flight of stairs. His head hit every one of them. Then he was dragged onto a concrete floor. He tried to scream, and this time he did. It came out not as his voice, but the voice of a young woman.

“Stop it, please stop it. Please, I cannot stand the screaming!”

John recognized the voice that had spoken, even though his host body kept screaming. Through the pain-seared voice of the girl he heard the click. It was loud and he knew exactly what the noise was. The gunshot sounded and John felt the impact of the bullet as it sunk deep into his skull, and then there was blackness. When he screamed next, it was his voice. The sudden scream nearly took ten years off the life of everyone in the ballroom, and those who were watching on national live television.

The Dream Walk continued as the battle upstairs began.

Lionel Peterson bumped the cameraman at the banister on the third floor landing. According to the string of motion sensors and laser designators, the dark mass vanished as it made the turn into the second floor hallway. That meant the next time they would have any indication of where it was, would be when it came to the base of the third floor staircase. Peterson, for one, didn’t relish waiting until then to make a decision on what to do. After all, the staircase was their only avenue of escape.

“Kennedy, I hope you have a backdoor to this floor.” Peterson stared fixedly at the base of the staircase.

“I have a better idea, Professor. Why don’t you just call off your dogs? Enough is enough,” Detective Jackson said. He turned from the banister and saw that Gabriel wasn’t even close enough to hear. He was a few feet away, using his small penlight to examine the wall. He was running his hand over the flowered print wallpaper. In frustration, Jackson moved toward the small light.

“See it?” Gabriel asked, tracing a bulging outline along the wall.

“Yes,” George answered, and swallowed. His heart beginning to beat faster.

“This wasn’t here when we first stepped onto the landing. I remember looking this way.” Kennedy straightened. “Ms. Reilly, can you place your hand right here?” Kennedy ran his fingers along the wall about four and half feet up from the carpet runner. “Tell me what you feel. George, you do the same, then allow our intrepid detective to do so.”

“Shit,” the soundman muttered.

Julie made sure the cameraman had turned and zoomed in on her. She didn’t know what the professor was angling toward, but for dramatics, she nodded. She slowly reached out and placed her small hand on the wall.“Higher,” Gabriel said. He took a step back so the large cameraman could get closer with his night vision lens.