The Forest

By Michele Rout

Romance/Thriller/Spiritual.

Sarah Portman's lifelong perplexing phobias and nightmares prompt her to eventually seek help from the handsome psychologist, Jack Stone. Not being able to identify the cause, he uses regressive hypnotherapy in an attempt to unlock hidden memories that may be causing her problems.

They are both unprepared for what happens next as Sarah is taken back to previous lifetimes. What secrets are revealed about the connection Sarah and Jack share spanning many centuries? And what shocking event does Sarah finally recall, an event that has shaped both their destinies?

The appeal of this story lies in the fact that it is hard to categorise. It is part thriller, part romance and a spiritual voyage. Its pace is fast and the plot twists are unexpected. It is a love story with added dimension.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Michele Rout
• Release date: Aug 18, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301488407

Michele Rout

Michele Rout lives in Durban, South Africa with her husband and son. She works in the advertising industry and writes in her spare time. This is her first book.

Book preview

There was no sound except for the crunching of fallen twigs under her feet as she skipped through the dense, shaded forest. Her long blonde hair, tied in pigtails, swayed from side to side in rhythm to her steps and the breeze was cool on her innocent face as she hummed in tune to the trees’ whistling sweet melody. She felt perfectly content and at peace in the woods, her secret wonderland.

A fragile, single white flower, growing in the moist leaf-covered earth, caught her eye. She stopped and knelt down to pick the young bloom.

As she did, ominous dark clouds moved quickly overhead and the trees’ gentle rustling turned to an angry hiss. Branches danced violently as they darted and bent madly as if controlled by a menacing, invisible puppeteer. Her fantasy playground instantly transformed into a strangely hostile place as she sensed some sinister force. Instinctively, she turned and ran as fast as she could in the direction of home. Her breathing was fretful and a foreboding so heavy consumed her.

The firm ground mysteriously transformed into a swamp-like wetland and she began to sink. She struggled as she flapped her arms and legs in a drowning motion as the mud engulfed her. She plunged deeper and deeper until completely covered by the sludge.

Her frantic attempts to pull herself to the surface were to no avail. Gravity and the heaviness of the murky soil pushed her down further. She opened her eyes in the vast, dark expanse and knew in her heart that her end had come.

There was no return. She had to let herself go. And in the moment of understanding, all her angst dissipated. She relaxed her arms and legs and her whole body surrendered to her fate. She felt weightless, and closed her eyes for the last time.

CHAPTER 1

It was a typical Cape Town winter morning in August, cold and raining. I hoped the chilly weather was going to let up soon with spring around the corner. I sat apprehensively in the waiting room, twirling my long, light brown hair, as I often did when I was nervous.

Comfortable armchairs were positioned side by side in two neat rows, against facing walls. The entrance was to my right and the reception desk on my left, custom-made with a high front shielding a lower desk where the receptionist sat busying herself with answering phone calls and admin. Original works of African art were on display, a welcome difference to the usual static prints of other doctors’ rooms.

A timeous schedule was obviously kept to and no other patients were waiting. There was nothing to distract me but the sound of the middle-aged receptionist typing on the keyboard, the piles of reading material available to pass the time and of course, my very own thoughts.

I stared down the short passageway off the waiting area. There was a kitchenette on the right and a closed door at the end with a silver plaque nailed to it that read Dr Jack Stone, Clinical Psychologist.

My mind was racing in contradiction to my attempts to order my thoughts in preparation for the consultation. I realised the pointlessness and picked up the latest copy of Vogue from the coffee table in front of me, hoping for a diversion and flipped through the pages without paying much attention to the pictures or content.

Within a couple of minutes, the door opened. I glanced up and watched as Jack finalised his formalities with the patient he had just seen and bid her goodbye.

My eyes lingered on his strong and athletic frame. Tousled brown hair framed his handsome face and he was dressed casually in a pair of chinos and a golf shirt. I guessed he was in his early-forties.

He walked over to the receptionist’s desk and picked up a patient file. Conscious I was ogling, I quickly looked down to the open magazine on my lap, squinting to still peer at him. He scanned the file briefly and turned to me.

Miss Portman? he questioned.

I looked up, caught his gaze and nodded politely.

I’m Jack Stone. Please come in, he smiled welcomingly and pointed to the open door to direct me into his office.

The room was spacious with enormous windows that allowed glorious natural light to enter, although on this particular morning it was overcast and gloomy outside. It was tastefully decked out, I assumed by an interior decorator.

A huge, oak antique desk, meticulously crafted, stood in one corner. A brown leather couch that was next to a single armchair upholstered in a striped cream and blue fabric was arranged opposite the desk, separated by a simple coffee table.

He motioned to the couch. Please take a seat, he said.

I sat on the edge apprehensively, using up a fraction of the space with my legs moulded together and arms folded. Jack positioned himself in the chair facing me, his legs crossed casually and elbows relaxing on the arm rests. Aware of my stiff posture, I shifted back into the couch. I was immediately taken with his aqua blue eyes as he clasped his hands under his chin and pressed his index fingers to his lips, looking at me in a way that brought butterflies to my stomach. A gnawing familiarity tugged at my subconscious.

So Miss Portman… He appeared a little distracted as he paused for a moment and stared down at the patient sheet in front of him.

Please, call me Sarah, I interrupted.

He looked up, making eye contact again. Sarah, he smiled. What can I do for you?

I have certain concerns that I need to talk to someone about, I explained, with slight trepidation.

Okay. What worries you? he asked attentively.

Well, it’s quite difficult to explain really. Basically, for as long as I can remember, I’ve been scared.

Of what?

Dying, I said bluntly. I felt a sense of sadness and fear as I uttered the word.

Does it pre-occupy your thoughts?

Constantly.

Does anything in particular bring it on?

I have nightmares.

So your bad dreams trigger your fear of dying, rather than your fear of dying being the reason for the bad dreams?

Yes.

Any other related symptoms?

"Well, because of the recurring nightmares, I dread falling asleep and have become a bit of an insomniac as a result. When I finally do nod off, it’s never for long, as I’m invariably woken by another bad dream."

And how do you feel when you wake up, physically I mean?

I gasp for air feeling completely suffocated.

Can you explain more specifically what you experience?

My heart races and I feel sharp, stabbing pains in my chest. I’m disoriented and don’t know where I am or what’s going on, and yet I know something bad has just happened, like I’ve had some kind of premonition of death.

What are the dreams about?

Of a young teenage girl in a forest. She always dies by some invisible force.

Jack recounted what he understood from what I was telling him. What you are experiencing is severe anxiety in response to heightened stress caused by these bad dreams. You believe these feelings are a sign, a warning so you have an extreme sense of foreboding and doom despite there being no rational danger.

No, it’s different, I corrected him. My fear of death comes first and it comes due to my nightmares. Then I feel the anxiety.

How long have you been having these dreams? Jack spoke as he scribbled notes.

For as long as I can remember.

Since childhood?

Yes.

I tried to remain focused on Jack’s questions, but found his familiar mannerisms distracting. I got a sense that I knew him from somewhere, although I was quite certain we’d never met before. I shrugged and assumed it was because I felt comfortable in his company.

He broke my train of thought. Did anything happen to you when you were young? he probed.

Well, my father passed away when I was five years old, so maybe that has something to do with it. I paused, not wanting to make any assumptions. I’m not sure. All I know is I can’t continue feeling the way I do, every day, I said, disheartened.

Your dreams and fears may well be caused by the loss of your father, however we can’t rule anything out at this stage. It does appear your symptoms relate to some kind of trauma. He paused briefly before continuing. What happened to your father?

He died of a heart attack. My mother and I were at home with him when it happened but I have no memory of that day.

Are you and your mother close?

Oh yes. She raised me on her own.

Does she still live here in Cape Town?

No, she’s in Umtata. She’s working as a volunteer for a non-profit organization helping orphaned children in the surrounding rural areas who are inflicted with HIV. I guess she thinks I’m all grown up now and don’t need her as much anymore, so she’s gone where she feels she’s making a difference. We still chat on the phone once a week but I don’t like to load her with what I’m going through.

I thought longingly of my mother, whom I missed terribly. I respected her so much for the sacrifices she had made for me, and how she’d always put me first when I was growing up. And how she was now dedicating her life to those less fortunate at a time when she could really just be selfish and live her life for herself.

Do you experience any other symptoms? Jack asked.

I can’t swallow pills. My throat literally closes up and I gag on the smallest tablet I attempt to ingest. Wearing polo necks is not an option. I feel strangled.

As the words came out my mouth, I felt silly for giving such simple examples. I don’t know, it’s difficult for me to articulate, I stumbled, shaking my head and letting out a despondent sigh.

Those are associated behaviours manifested by your fear. How does all this make you feel?

Desperate and alone, I answered solemnly.

Are you married? he asked.

No, but I do have a boyfriend. We live together.

And how does he feel about all this?

He’s quite unsupportive, really. He’s got issues of his own.

How so?

His mother died during childbirth and his father passed away when he was nineteen. He avoids talking about it. I think he sees it as a sign of weakness, so he doesn’t like it when I try to confide in him about my issues. He thinks I create problems where there aren’t any, that I’m just being negative. He just doesn’t understand. It’s the way he is, I surrendered.

"How does that make you feel?"

Misunderstood. A tear trickled down my cheek.

Jack poured some water into a crystal glass, handed it to me and gently nudged a box of tissues across the coffee table that divided us. I took a sip and dabbed my cheek with a tissue.

But he’s a good person, I justified. There’s a side to him that’s very caring. And there are times he can be so sweet.

Is there anyone else in your life you can talk to?

Yes, my best friend, Rachel. She’s a pillar of strength but she can’t solve my problems.

And you’ve never sought professional help before?

No. My mother was always there for me as a child. She was all I needed to feel better. She always understood when I asked if I could sleep in her bed. She never questioned me. I think she just assumed I missed my dad.

And as you got older?

As a teenager, I began to realise that people didn’t have the same fears I did. Most of my friends were carefree. They thought they were bullet-proof but I never did. I kept my feelings to myself. I didn’t want to be different or negative. And now as an adult, I don’t want to worry my mom. She’s been such a great parent and it’s time she did things for herself. She’s made enough sacrifices in her life for me. I’ve realised no amount of support or talking to friends and family is going to solve these problems. That’s why I’m here. I need your help.

I’ll do my best, he smiled. He continued to gaze at me analytically, index fingers pressed against his lips that brought an overwhelming sense of déjà vu. I understand your dreams bring on a fear of dying, but what is it about death that you are afraid of?

"I’m not scared of death as such. I understand that it’s part of life’s order. It’s rather that I have this deep sense of foreboding, like an omen, that something bad is going to happen."

Your fear sounds like a symptom and the cause, your nightmares. So we need to find out why you have these nightmares. Only then will you successfully be able to live a life where fear has less of an impact.

So, what do you suggest?

"There are three types of disorders for want of a better word, associated with a fear of dying. A generalised anxiety disorder where you are consumed by negative thoughts, is one. You don’t strike me as a negative person."

I’m not, I immediately dispelled.

Well, for now, let’s not consider this possibility then. The other is associated with OCD, Obsessive Compulsive Disorder. You’ve heard of it?

Yes, irrational obsessions with repeating certain tasks.

Exactly, well put. Some people may obsess about physical danger. Again, in your case, this doesn’t seem to be the case because you have these feelings only after one of your nightmares.

So, what’s the third disorder?

You may be dealing with some kind of post-traumatic stress. A devastating event you may have experienced could easily lead to a fear of death.

Like when my father died.

Yes, witnessing death makes you feel helpless and vulnerable. In a nutshell, your fears may relate to the subconscious unanswered questions as to why your father died and the reasons why he was taken away from you at such a young age.

Makes sense, I said.

I think this is worth investigating further on your next visit. I suggest we meet once a week. I’d like to recommend a mild tranquiliser that you can take at night to help you feel less anxious. I would need to email a recommendation to your G.P. who can then provide you with a script for the medication. They’re available in liquid form so it’ll be easy for you to take. Are you happy for me to do that? he asked.

Yes, that’s fine. Thank you, I replied. I’d never taken medication but I was desperate and willing to give anything a try.

Many people are fearful Sarah. You’re not alone. I’ll do my best to help you through this, he said as he concluded the session. He had managed to reassure me and I felt a light sense of relief that I had taken this step to seek help.

CHAPTER 2

Michael and I were an unlikely match given our twenty-year age gap, but I’d always found slightly older men more attractive than those my own age. I had this fantasy that they were somehow stronger than their younger male counterparts and could protect me from the world. He was immune to the passing of time with his rugged good looks and thick, dark hair that belied his forty-five years of age.

I met him at a friend of my mother’s second wedding two years earlier. He was a friend of the groom. Our romance blossomed almost immediately, however, I did at times wonder if I would have entertained the fascination had he not shown such a strong interest in me to begin with. I found the attention flattering. He wooed me by sending flowers and wined and dined me at exclusive restaurants. Quite simply, he made me feel special.

It was the first time in my life that I felt looked after by a man. Not in a financial sense, although he was extremely wealthy, being a very successful property developer. He bought, renovated and then sold houses and apartment blocks, but I had money of my own, thanks to the inheritance left by my industrious father. It was rather in the way he doted on me, like a protective, loving parent. I longed to play adult and feel grown up. I had always wanted a partner that made me feel like a woman but at the same time I was desperate to feel taken care of. Michael ticked all the boxes.

As our relationship progressed, I often doubted that the lure was based on love, but rather something that fed into my long held insecurities.

As the courting stage of our relationship petered off, he changed and he became intolerant and domineering at times. He’d never been married before, and as a man in his mid-forties who’d been single all his life, compromise and compassion were not in his vocabulary.

As our relationship matured, I began to open up to him more about my constant battle with fears and phobias. It irritated him. Let’s rather talk about something happy, he always said. You’re always so negative. Why don’t you focus on the positive aspects of your life?

This upset me. I wished he was more understanding and I longed to be with someone who validated how I felt. Did men like that exist?

He was also very guarded and didn’t like to talk about himself or his emotions. I thought this would change over time, that he’d eventually open up but he hated talking about his feelings or his past. I knew not having a mother must’ve had some effect on him and therefore I tried my level best to tolerate his standoffish behaviour. I imagined there was a scared, sad little boy hidden deep somewhere behind his brave façade and I still hoped