Reincarnate: A Paranormal Thriller

By Dean Serraville

Oscar Predest is a prominent child psychiatrist specializing in hypnosis. When his son Tobias goes missing, Oscar abandons his whole life to find him. After countless failed searches, Oscar is approached one night by a woman with an unusual request – an invitation to her son’s exorcism. Surprised to hear a “specialist” has been solicited from the Vatican, Oscar attends the ceremony only to find that the voice possessing the boy recognizes him. This voice reveals itself as the spirit who once inhabited the man who murdered Oscar's son.

Alongside Lauren, the detective who led the search for his missing son, Oscar investigates the crime on another, paranormal front. What they find, in this spiritual autopsy, is a murderer with a mysterious history, which in turn leads Oscar back to the possessed child, Ryan. Through hypnosis, Oscar manages to speak to the spirit. These therapeutic sessions are as explorative as they are dangerous. But Oscar needs to know more about the conventions of this alternative world of reincarnated spirits. It opens doors of impossibility never imagined by Oscar or the Vatican specialist, Father Bosco.

As Oscar inches closer and closer to this forbidden tree of knowledge, Father Bosco, the exorcist from the Vatican, begins to exhibit strange behavior, with visible, physical injuries. What results is an apocalyptic finale between good and evil in the reincarnated world, shedding new insight into the controversial theories of predestination and reincarnation, where Oscar, Father Bosco, Ryan, Lauren, Theresa, and even Nathan’s spirit, encounter findings of an extraordinary nature.

• Language: English
• Publisher: TouchPoint Press
• Release date: Sep 6, 2021
• ISBN: 1952816777

Book preview

Chapter 1

The security lights detected her in the forest before the walking-bridge to his cabin. She trespassed alone, dressed in black, her face veiled. Oscar watched her from his bedroom window after turning down his lights. The woman walked hunched over as if pushed by the invisible path from which she came. With every five steps, another light spotted an area behind her, creating a slanted shadow toward his home.

She didn’t seem bothered by the light or its obvious implication. Her pace appeared timed by a metronome; her head bowed. Oscar reached for the hunting rifle next to his bed without taking his eyes from her, for fear she would disappear without footprints. The bridge refused to creak as she walked across it; neither did she feel the need to use the rope handles. Her balance remained centered on the wooden planks, one at a time. Oscar descended the stairs to the front door, loading his rifle as he did so. A light knock sounded from the other side of it.

Who’s there?

I’m looking for Dr. Predest.

Dr. Predest doesn’t exist anymore.

Then I am looking for mercy.

The oblong mirror in his entranceway reflected a bearded man with long disheveled hair. This frightening image of his reclusive self convinced Oscar to lay the rifle down on an end table, within his reach. He opened the door to a woman in black, framed by an aureole of light. Her bleached face wrinkled deeply around her mouth, though her sapphire eyes sparkled with youth. The sharp chain of a rosary creased her hands like external veins, the cross dangling from them as if choked by the stranglehold.

Dr. Predest?

Oscar, please. I haven’t practiced for quite some time now.

May I come in?

Who sent you?

My son.

Where is he?

Strapped to a bed.

The awkward silence of the moment invited her in on its own. Oscar shielded the gun from her with his body as she entered and discarded her tiny slippers to the side. As one accustomed to it, she carried the weight of mourning, apparent by her heavy cloaked dress, although the black attire perfected the contrast to her silver skin.

Oscar closed the door on the forest, hills, and brooks surrounding his home. Fragments of the scene disappeared as the security lights retracted.

The lady remained standing in the entranceway to his home, awaiting instructions to move. Oscar pointed to the table he had carved and planed from a fallen oak tree. She felt the table with her fingertips before sitting down in the wood-scented darkness. A candle holder with dry, melted wax, centered them as he sat across from her. Preferring to read by candlelight in this room, he lit the taper to ignite a reason for her visit. Her waxen face melted real in color before him.

"I do understand your preference not to see anyone."

I prefer to study alone, now. No offense to society.

You’ve created a nice island for yourself, I see.

No man is an island.

John Donne?

Yes.

He was impressed that she recognized the poet’s quote.

She moved her thumb over another rosary bead. She prayed as she talked to him.

I didn’t get your name.

Theresa.

"Why are you here, Theresa? I made sure to mark the outskirts of my property with many No Trespassing signs. You’re lucky I’m in between guard dogs, or a coyote didn’t cross your path."

Yes. I am.

Her thumb moved onto the next bead. With each bead crossed, the candle revealed another wrinkle engraving her face. She noticed his observance on the rosary.

Do you believe in God?

I did.

You can’t remove the root of your belief. You might have cut the branches, but the root remains.

Are you preaching to me?

Yes, I apologize. His words and suffering are ingrained in my heart.

Listen, Theresa. It’s late and I wasn’t prepared to examine my conscience tonight. Why have you come here?

I want you to see my son. I would like you to counsel him.

I told you, I stopped my practice, Theresa.

I know; since you lost your own son.

Oscar didn’t appreciate this foreknowledge. It reminded him of too many betrayals of trust, of concern. It reminded him of Tobias.

I understand why, Oscar. I feel the same way. Nobody wants to help me, or my son. They think I am a religious fool, a fanatic, who may be contagious. They want everything to go away, all packaged up, like the garbage. And when the stink doesn’t go away, they dismiss you with blame, or the word crazy.

Oscar rose to plug the tea kettle into an outlet. He proceeded to arrange two cups and dropped the tea bags into them. He waited in the kitchen for the water to boil. Theresa remained silent at the table, never looking back, focusing on her prayers. He wasn’t prepared to discuss this type of material tonight. His routine was disrupted, and he felt uncomfortable in his own space. When the water percolated, he poured it into the cups and the scent of the steeping tea changed the air with an herbal humidity. He hoped it would change the subject of conversation when he returned to the table.

I know it must be hard to revisit the past, so I will just resume my begging. My son is ill, and he needs your help.

Why is he strapped to a bed?

To prevent him from hurting himself again.

Where is he now?

In his bedroom.

Who is watching him?

A nurse and a security guard I have hired.

There are many child psychiatrists out there. Why did you seek me out?

I’ve read all of your articles. Every one of them, even the one about predestination and hypnosis. I’ve also read articles about you, before and after the disappearance of your son. You were onto something, I believe, but they made you feel like you had gone crazy, especially in the connection between predestination and hypnosis. Apparently, you are an expert in the field.

Yes, I am, in the same way that gypsies are experts in magic. Listen, I don’t believe in those talents anymore. I haven’t used—I mean, I’ve only trained. Listen, I’m not sure I can help your son with hypnosis.

The steam from the cup of tea glistened her face, softening it.

Well, perhaps, you can judge for yourself.

She slid a sealed envelope across the table, square in shape, like a formal invitation.

What do you mean?

A specialist, a priest from the Vatican is visiting tomorrow. I came here to invite you to my son’s exorcism.

A priest from the Vatican? An attempt has already been made? When an exorcist from the Vatican is sent, he needs to be referenced by a bishop from the diocese.

This will be the third time. I want you to see my son, and if this attempt fails, I need you to talk to the spirit possessing him.

I’m not a spirit talker or a ghost whisperer.

Theresa rose from the table, leaving her tea idle. He has mentioned your name. I believe he knows you.

Who?

The spirit possessing my son.

Chapter 2

Oscar drove his car uphill, bending around roads that wound around the mountains of Northfield, Massachusetts, and through long, dark tunnels. The township of Grace, like many scattered settlements in his area, permitted the overgrowth of nature as a means of penance for past witch hunts.

Upon a first visit, the spectrum of green preached naturopathic healing. It seemed to bury puritanical conflicts in deep, dark soil while shrouding their secrets with towering flora. Alongside the road, tiny, hand-built kiosks emerged next to thick oak trunks. Within these harmless enclosures, local vendors hawked natural, homegrown remedies—the inspiration of bees and organic honey, the fountain of youth in aloe plants, or the saving grace of tree sap from a maple.

As these establishments became reversing images in his rear-view mirror, Oscar found himself descending into the valley and into the district of Thorold, from which a canal spliced to an adjoining Connecticut River. The oak trees from the top of the mountain imposed greater threats to the sky with their height, blanketing the valley and road on the other side with shade.

At once, he felt exposed by the flatter farm settlements and naked without a forest surrounding him. How easily Theresa infiltrated his natural security system the night before. How difficult it was for him to drive into the open again, his thoughts rampaging the purpose of this visit, questioning the validity of her request.

Although he had spent the better part of the night reconsidering this visit, he couldn’t move past Theresa’s last words. His name. The spirit possessing her son mentioned his name? Was it a ploy to get him to see her son? He had arrived at this possibility when he pulled up to the tiny aluminum-sided home with the lonely barn in the back. The agricultural land surrounding it showed no signs of growth or seasonal preparation, strafed yellow with dry soil and weeded cornstalks.

Before he stepped out of the car, Oscar thought about returning home. Demon possession? Of all things to be duped by. He was much sharper than this, as a therapist, as a mind reader, as a psychoanalyst. He had prided himself in the past on his objective eye, his impartiality, his ability to see beyond the language to a person’s motivation. Why was he here now, thinking in his car, the keys dangling from the ignition? He felt foolish for having shaved for the event.

He had read his fair share about the practice. Stories of exorcism spread as urban myths, even in medical circles. Although he had treated two patients, both children, with medication after they were freed of their demons, he questioned the validity of the exorcism. Had it worked, or was the ritual simply drama to create a placebo effect?

There was no substantial psychological proof of the presence of preternatural spirits lodged in human form. But as a child psychiatrist, he had wondered why children, most often adolescents, were the victims of such demon-possessed diagnoses. Was there a direct connection to hormonal imbalances during this growth period or were children more capable in their young belief systems to accept the possibility, thereby making them viable candidates?

The fact someone from the Vatican had been sent for, to handle this case, convinced him to step out of the car. Never, in all his case studies, had he read of an exorcism conducted by an expert from the Vatican. The specialist, as Theresa called him, was only summoned when all local help was exhausted.

Perhaps Oscar gravitated to this foreign house on the virtue of that curiosity. He was also a specialist. Psychotherapists and psychiatrists alike came to hear him speak on the value of hypnotism in psychotherapy. He was paid handsomely to attend conferences, publish writings, and make public appearances to further his findings in the discipline. Celebrity hypnotists continued to pay him to consult their own, performance work. But since Tobias’ disappearance, he had retired his talents and stored them in a secret container he had labeled disillusion.

Oscar stepped up onto the cement porch of the home. He pulled the invitation out of his pocket to double-check the address. He was going to meet this specialist. If this priest exhibited skill, he would stick around to critically watch his expertise. On the other hand, if he were some quack pretender, Oscar would leave without once looking back or addressing Theresa’s son. He had developed a phobia of betrayal.

As he stared through the frayed screen of the storm door, it surprised him to find no religious denomination decorating the home. Expecting to see crying statues or iconic images sticking to the windows, no such symbols, not even a cross, characterized the home of a religious fanatic. He had counseled many in the past. Physical, religious symbolism was a mainstay, from crosses dangling from rear view mirrors to bloodied pictures of Christ in foyer entranceways. When he knocked, a stern man in heavy boots and a blank security uniform stood tall behind the screen door.

Are you Dr. Predest?

Yes. Oscar handed him the invitation and wondered why afterward. It wasn’t a VIP pass.

We’ve been waiting for you. Please.

The man held the door open for him.

Anticipating a little space to adjust to the house before he entered a room, Oscar hesitated upon finding the ceremony staged in the living room. A hospital bed centered the living room like a coffin, while the attendees sat in armchairs on either side, teacups in their laps. When Theresa saw him in the entrance foyer, she darted out of her chair to fill him a cup. Before he could find a seat in the room, or introduce himself, she pushed the cup into his hand.

Very formally, Theresa linked her arm with his and led him to the collared specialist as she would a suitor first introduced to her father in request of a hand in marriage. Bearded with thick glasses, he wore the Vatican crest on his lapel, like a soldier. It gleamed gold in the poorly lit surroundings. Because this room centered the house, no window to the outside introduced it to direct light. Perhaps they had staged it this way on purpose. Oscar noticed the absence of picture frames or mirrors on the walls, leaving pointed nails and chip marks to be exposed. The specialist rose from his seat to acknowledge him.

It is a pleasure, Dr. Predest, to meet you outside your writings.

Flattered by the recognition, Oscar intended to exercise the same humility, but the priest had chipped the first shard of proverbial ice.

Likewise?

Father Bosco.

How was your trip in, Father Bosco?

Pleasant, under the circumstances. Can you excuse us, Theresa?

Please, she motioned to the empty space in the kitchen, while she turned and knelt by the hospital bed. When she did so, Oscar caught a glimpse of the child. No more than ten years old, at the very least, light-haired, sleeping, but strapped to the bars encasing the machinery below the bed.

When Father Bosco found a pocket of silence on the flower-patterned linoleum, he motioned for Oscar to lean in closer.

I understand you are here to observe the ceremony. I trust that although you are a doctor, you are also a believer, no?

To be honest with you, Father, and this is no objection to your vocation, but I have ceased to believe in such practices, despite past experiences.

But many of your articles argue the opposite, Dr. Predest. In fact, I remember the Vatican conducting a follow-up study on one of your theories.

Which theory are you alluding to, Father?

Your theory on predestination of course. That article found an active audience at the Vatican, let me tell you. How can you write an article about souls existing before they become human, or as you put it, before they enter ‘human temples,’ and not be a believer?

I assume I was mistaken in that particular theory, Father Bosco.

How can that be? I believe we have some things in common, Dr. Predest. I too studied human psychology, outside of the seminary. It has been difficult to compromise the science with the belief if you know what I mean. But you seemed to find a verifiable connection between the two. Have you abandoned it absolutely?

I’m afraid I have.

But Aidan Jude?

What about him?

That was the study. You hypnotized him and found you were speaking to his spirit, instead of his subconscious. Am I incorrect?

I suppose you are, Father. I’m sorry, but I must have been mistaken.

Oh.

Father Bosco twisted the excess beard at the tip of his chin. He paused his concentration onto Theresa, static in prayer at the side of her son’s bed. Despite the volume of their voices, the boy remained asleep, as if drugged in preparation for a surgical operation. Father led Oscar aside to another vantage point.

He whispered, According to Theresa, the spirit has said your name. I’m sure this is the real reason for your visit.

Yes, it is.

What is your initial explanation for this phenomenon, doctor? Have you ever met Theresa or her son? Please, I need to know.

No, I haven’t.

Well, what convinced you to come?

I have no explanation. I assumed it was a ploy to get me here.

You do realize I am the third priest to see this young boy, and oftentimes, a true exorcism can take quite some time to accomplish.

Yes, I am fully aware you are a specialist and that your presence here is not whimsical or by accident. If indeed he is possessed, I am prepared to help out in any way I can.

Good. The Vatican doesn’t send me unless there is credible ground. I’ve performed many exorcisms, Dr. Predest, and at the risk of preaching to the choir, I am here to expel a demonic spirit.

I understand, Father, and I don’t discredit the practice. I fully respect your expertise. I am simply here to observe the process.

Father paced about the kitchen until he reached the screened window, dirtied by decayed spider webs. He gazed beyond them and out onto the flat land. In the distance, green mountains traced a pulse-like ridge across the sky. He appeared anxious. But he couldn’t be, Oscar thought. There was something else.

I will expel this demon. I am confident and faithful of the ability given to me to do so. But if it is true, Dr. Predest, and this spirit has mentioned you by name, wouldn’t you want to find out why before I remove it?

At once, Oscar realized he now stood in the presence of a true specialist in the field, someone whose interest exceeded the limit of what needed to be done. Every genius he had encountered in his professional lifetime possessed this quality, the appetite to question further, or to seek undiscovered ground. Father Bosco was one—of these special people, intent on learning beyond his respected expertise. The question stunted Oscar at first and he began to see what he doubted just a few minutes before as a scientific reality. Father Bosco had inspired him to think this way, outside of the box again. Oscar felt invigorated by the challenge. Although he had isolated himself from the world of his former career, he missed such conversations.

"Yes,