Time Ripper: Theodore Bond, #1

By lost lodge press

A Staggering Discovery

When successful Psychotherapist, Theodore Bond, discovers that two of his patients are appearing in each others night terrors yet they’ve never met he decided to use Past Life Regression, and the detail of their nightmares is shocking.

A Terrifying Revelation

When he discovers that their Grandparents were acquainted: one the murderer, one the victim he probes deeper, and discovers a horrific past.

Fight for Survival

Now the clock is ticking, he must resolve the nightmares before a terrifying past slides into the future and he and his clients are consumed by an unspeakable Evil

• Language: English
• Publisher: lost lodge press
• Release date: Apr 30, 2017
• ISBN: 9781386985600

Book preview

Case Note Theodore Bond speaking

The case actually began in early September, 1988, though at that time I wasn’t involved. I was a practicing Life Coach with a post graduate degree in psychology utilizing Past Life Regression on select patients, and I was on top of the world. Thirty-five years old, working under my own shingle, rather than at a clinic, and with a full calendar. I had no idea that my life was about to take a turn for the strange.  I first met Leslie Meeker when she came to me about tension surrounding the subject of starting a family, we were attempting to discover the cause for her anxiety. Everything changed for her when her husband, Fred Meeker, was struck by a van, an accident he survived, though it left him in a coma. And so, with my involvement, begins the strange case of Past Life Regression gone terribly bad.

I sat in my office at the oak writers desk philosopher Elbert Hubbard had once owned, he’d gone down on the Lusitania when it was torpedoed by a german U-boat. It’s value was lost on my clients but it was a good conversation piece. I was staring at the Harley - Davidson  calendar day minder, wondering at the name of my next client. It seemed familiar. Edna Eddowes. I pronounced the name out loud, but hearing it didn’t make a difference. Edna was an old name, I’d had an Aunt Edna, she was born in 1898. Maybe that was it, she had the same first name as my aunt. She didn’t sound that old over the phone though. I walked to the window and looked down at North Main, a one way street, three lanes running south, hmm, north main, go figure the name. I glanced back at the clock, ten minutes to five. Sometimes I worked updating files between patients, seems I am always updating files. Lately I was caught up, which gave me time to speculate on Edna Eddowes. I watched Bloomsbury Books directly across the street. Some clients would  be early and fill the time perusing the titles, they’d arrive carrying a paperback.

I heard the foot falls on the steps first, I got a break on my rent for being on the second floor,  my clients didn’t seem to care, heard the door, then the bell. A look at the clock as I crossed my office, five minutes early.

I stepped into the waiting room to greet my new patient and last client of the day, Miss. Edna Eddowes.

Generally I like to have the first word, but she changed that. I extended my hand. Theodore Bond? She had a firm grip, I preferred Doctor. Yes, Edna Eddowes I presume.

Boy was that awkward. I recognized her at once from the newspaper. I’d been wandering around the house the other day searching for items to recycle, picking up pages of the newspaper I’d left strewn around when a pretty face caught my attention. Page three, section three, Art, the paper had captured her likeness, indeed she was a beauty in person. I vaguely remembered the caption, local gallery owner goes international, I hadn’t read the rest of the article. I stepped back and indicated my office with a sweep of my arm, and followed her in and closed the door. Surprised that she was still standing. Please make yourself comfortable.  She began talking even before she sat down. I’ve never been to a shrink. She laughed nervously at the slang. Sorry, it’s just that I’m not sure why I’m here. I took her empty file out of the drawer, set it in the center of the day minder blocking out the better part of the 883 Harley Sportster, folded my hands and tried to catch her eyes but they were all over the place. I spoke the familiar. How’s the art business. Her eyes snapped to center and she fixed them on her folder as if she was reading her name, even though it was upside down, then looked up at me. Puzzled. Oh, of course, you saw that article in the newspaper. I guess the office walls revealed my lack of art appreciation. As a matter of fact I did, but must confess I didn’t go beyond the caption. She repeated her nervous laugh. You didn’t miss much, though, that’s part of the reason I’m here. Do you deal with dreams? By now it’d become obvious that I wouldn’t be asking the usual questions needed to open her up. I do. Have you been having night terrors? Few people came to me to learn what it meant when they dreamed they were back in school, the bell rang, and they couldn’t find their locker. Not exactly, but yes, several and always the same. I opened her file and set down my first notes. Could you explain that? Another nervous laugh. Four of my paintings were accepted at London’s East End Gallery. I flew in for the opening and was thrilled when one actually sold. By afternoon I was exhausted from jet lag and the pressure of mixing with people I could barely  understand, British accents and all. I decided to go for a walk and ended up in a quaint little square, benches ringing a flower bed with a fountain center, surrounded by apartments and an old synagogue. I became transfixed on the flow of the water in the fountain. She paused and took a ragged breath, though I didn’t think she was going to cry. I must have dozed  because I woke up, but that’s when I knew I was still asleep. I held my pen up in a vertical position to get her attention. Excuse me? She blinked several times and looked away. I knew it, she was going to cry. But when she looked back her eyes were clear, and she continued her narrative. My head snapped up, you know, the way you do when you doze. My hand had slid from my lap to my leg, I looked down where it lay on my knee, and was shocked. My fingernails were ragged and broken, dirty. My dress looked like a loose knit burlap that had been dyed blue, I could feel my stomach tense, I’d been wearing jeans. An aroma wafted up that I dare not identify. My gaze wandered down my unshaven legs to a pair of dingy white boots that laced up my ankles. I stood, leaning against the bench trying to catch my breath... She seemed on the verge of hyperventilating, mentally I searched for the little paper bag I kept just for these occasions. Miss Eddowes? She seemed to be focused on the center of the desk, shoulders rising higher with each breath, lips moving but no words coming out. I patted the desk with enough force to make a clapping sound, and raised my voice. Miss. Eddowes. She took a deep breath, more a gasp, and looked up with a frown. Let’s take a break and discuss what you’ve described so far. She swallowed hard. You’re the first person I’ve talked to about this. I’d like to continue. She waited while I made a quick note, until I sat back in my chair. It was then... She began like she’d never stopped, an indication of the vivid nature of what she’d experienced. The air was oppressive, moist, and moving. It was afternoon and already there were shadows. I looked around and all the buildings were dirty, dripping grime. That’s when I heard him coming. I actually heard his footfalls, boots on cobblestone. His voice seemed to echo against the air,  and I turned. That’s when I awoke. Chin on my chest, I opened my eyes to an image of my jean clad legs. I raised my head, the fountain scrubbed, the water pure and clean. All the buildings were clean too. I took a deep breath, even the air was clean. I looked around, I was alone."

––––––––

I’d taken a few notes, mainly key words that would trigger my memory later when I reviewed the case, and observations on her body language as she told her story. I waited a minute, when she didn’t continue I knew it was finally my turn. This was upsetting...because? She looked at me like I was stupid. Very upsetting, because I had dreamed so vividly, and the content of the dream. I made note of her response. Did you get a look at the man that called out to you? She looked away when she spoke. Not really. The only thing I can identify for sure is the little square, and perhaps the fountain. I scribbled some more notes. It sounds like it was a series of vivid impressions. Was there something in particular that made it scary? She got up and walked to the window. The fact that it was a dream, yet so real. Then turned around to face me. And it was familiar.

She seemed fairly wired. This familiarity was the key I’d been fishing for. Familiar because you’d had the dream before or was something in the dream familiar?  She stayed by the window, but continued to face me. The dreams were of another time and place. All I can tell you is that I recognized everything, and although I was shocked at my appearance I wasn’t surprised.

I looked at my watch, damn, her hour was almost up. Sometimes when you buy something you experience buyers remorse. I use a different term, but the idea is the same. When a patient relives an emotional event, or as Edna had, a very vivid scenario, it brings it to the forefront. I don’t  want patients to suffer their fear once they leave the office. So I talk them down, convince them that resolution is at hand. But once again Edna beat me to the punch. I didn’t pick your name out of the phonebook, you were recommended by Sydney Peters, she said you do Past Life Regression. I was gratified by the word of mouth referral. Yes, and you’re interested in PLR? She came back over and sat down. I’ve done my homework and think I’m a candidate. I made a note. Right, usually PLR in a clinical sense is reserved for someone who has reoccurring dreams. She leaned into the desk. That’s why I’m here, for the PLR. I think if I could understand the contents of my dreams they wouldn’t be so disturbing. I made a show of looking at my calendar, my watch and the calendar again. I’m sorry but I have a six o’clock appointment. We could make your next session PLR, I have an opening Friday, the 14th. Again she talked as she moved, standing making her intentions to leave clear. Yes that’ll be fine.

I hustled in order to meet her half way. If you’re sure you’ve got time I’ll write you in.

She turned to face me as she opened the door. I’ll make time.

Then without a backward glance she was across the waiting room and down the stairs.

I wandered the waiting room, running the description of her dream through my head, picking up magazines where they’d been dropped when I came out to greet the reader, and stacked them neatly on the coffee table. I fluffed both pillows and set them at either corner of the couch, and rotated the seat cushions. I took one more walk of my office, not much to see. Writing desk center, the bank of windows overlooking North Main were my primary light, though I hung a 1921 Dard Pardon stained glass hanging light shade from the middle of the ceiling, the same era as the desk. My power wall was adorned with pictures of my past. Standing next to my fencing master, lopsided smile, hair plastered to my head after winning the California, Oregon, Washington, Tri-state fencing championship for Foil. The image of the two of us side by side always surprised me, that my mere six foot frame towered over this immensely talented and- charismatic man.  Arm in arm with Senior Grand Master Ed Parker after testing for my third degree black belt in Chinese Kenpo karate, and a half a dozen eight by ten’s of me straddling my favorite motorcycles, Honda, Harley,  and Yamaha. Antiques by today’s standards. This was my power wall. My diplomas and certifications were on the opposite wall. Post graduate degree in psychology, Certified Life Coach, Hypnotist and Past Life Regression Facilitator. That was it. I’d lined them up horizontally, ruler straight. I considered this my professional wall, my cha-ching wall. I checked the Harley day minder for tomorrow’s nine o’clock, closed the blinds, doused the lights, tucked Eddowe’s file under my arm, and locked doors as I excited. I wanted to review our session over dinner.

It was a warm September evening, I took a table in the garden yard at the Dragon Fly restaurant, ordered the Buddha Bowl. I took a moment to savor the rice noodles, and let my taste buds sort out the ginger, onion and cloves. Then I got down to business. I opened Edna’s file and finished the portion on physical description; height five foot eleven, full-figure, yet on the thin side. That was my professional way of saying she had large breasts and wide hips, narrow waist and trim legs. I’d filled out mannerisms during the session with little stars next to talks with arms, makes solid eye contact, and is able to coordinate physical movement to verbal declarations that she wants to emphasizes. Many people can slam a hand on a table or wave a fist in the air to make a point, but it’s usually after the verbal fact. She was poised and knew how to take advantage of her height. I mentally ran the image of her walking to the window then turning to face me to make a point.

I made a list of questions. How detailed, were the dreams always in the same location. Was she always a participant or sometimes watching, and did she recognize herself. I shut the file, the answers would provide enough information to determine if she was a candidate for PLR, besides my Buddha bowl was getting cold.

I backtracked from the Dragon Fly to Bloomsbury Books, I had a little time before my next appointment. Hopefully I’d eaten light and early enough to be able to work out comfortably. I grazed among my favorite authors for the better part of an hour, then stole a look at my watch, the Ashland Fitness Studio was just a five minute walk, time to head out. The next forty-five minutes turned out to be a gut buster with most of the exercises focusing on the abdominal muscles. I never knew what the trainer had in mind. I gathered my gear from the shelf in the bathroom where he let me keep it. On went the chaps, leather jacket and boots. I kept the gloves in the helmet until the bike was warmed up. I usually rode the Kawasaki Vulcan the 25 miles from my house in the Cascade mountain range to town, it came in at 65 miles to the gallon.

I rolled through the curves of Dead Indian Road, leaving Ashland a twinkle in the distance. Although alert to any wildlife that might want to share the road, in the back of my head were the details of Edna’s Dream. Dropping out of the mountains onto the Dead Indian Plateau I checked the pastures on either side for straying cattle, finding none, I accelerated. When the needle touched 80 miles per hour I was rapidly approaching my turn. I rolled off the gas to bring my