The Children In the Woods: DeeDee Olsen, Ghost Girl, #2

By Glenda Norwood Petz

Ghost Girl DeeDee Olsen Blanchard is back with another supernatural case to solve.

Now an adult and Child Psychologist, she practices medicine in her hometown of Pahokee, Florida. New patient, seven-year-old Ethan Portman, is brought to DeeDee by his mother for treatment of what she believes is a dissociative disorder, telling DeeDee that he has always been a happy and loving child but has suddenly become despondent, refuses to eat, and no longer plays with his toys.

Upon her assessment of, and conversation with Ethan, DeeDee discovers that his condition isn't medically related. Ethan is being haunted by the dead twin brother that he never knew existed who is attempting to persuade him to join him so that they can be together forever. To Dee Dee's shock and dismay, she understands that the only way her patient can be with his dead brother is for him to die as well.

Determined to learn about the life and history of Nathan Banks, the deceased twin, DeeDee must go deep into the Florida Everglades to solve his murder. What she finds in her quest for the truth is gruesome and heartbreaking.

Nathan's ghost leads DeeDee and her husband, David, to Earl and Maylene Tibbetts, an ill-bred, illiterate, backwoods degenerate couple with a long history of abducting and murdering children across the state of Florida. The Tibbetts' farm hides many dark and disturbing secrets, and it's up to DeeDee to expose Earl and Maylene and the multiple crimes they've committed. Putting her own life at risk, she sets out to not only free the souls of the children trapped on the farm, but also to rescue the five living ones who remain there before the Tibbetts kill them, too.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Glenda Norwood Petz
• Release date: Jul 10, 2022
• ISBN: 9798201779047

Glenda Norwood Petz

Native South Floridian now residing in Clarksville, Indiana.

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The Children In the Woods

By

Glenda Norwood Petz

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All rights reserved.

Copyright© Glenda Norwood Petz, 2022

No part of this book may be reproduced in any form, by photostat, microfilm, xerography, or any other means, or incorporated into any information retrieval system, either electronic or mechanical, without the written permission of the copyright owner.

This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

Other titles by Glenda Norwood Petz:

A Requiem for Revenge

Ghost Girl

Hurricane

The Punishment Room

The Children In the Woods

Dream Weavers

The Fall of Autumn’s Becoming

Apollyon’s War

Welcome to Cowbell, Daniel Chesterfield

We’re All Dead Here

A Killing of Sparrows

The Meadows

Published by Tiger Eye Publications, LLC

Cover Design by Canva

For Robin Parrish – my very own personal Angel of Mercy.

ONE

If you read my memoir, Ghost Girl, then you’re already familiar with who I am and the abilities I possess.

For those of you who don’t know about me or my history, allow me to introduce myself and tell you how I obtained my ability to see and communicate with the dead.

My name is Diedre Olsen Blanchard.

At the tender age of fourteen, I suffered a traumatic head injury while playing softball that resulted in me having to be taken to the emergency room and then hospitalized after I underwent a seizure.

As a result of the head trauma, I now have the distinct ability to see and communicate with spiritual beings who are not of this world.

Oftentimes, they reveal visions to me through a series of events that led up to their deaths. Usually when this occurs, the spirits were victims of a violent death – particularly murder, and they want my assistance in revealing the truth and bringing their killers to justice.

Spirits also come to me for help in getting messages to their loved ones, and I always do my best to oblige them so that their lingering spirits can finally be put to rest instead of remaining in limbo forever.

It’s okay if you don’t believe me. You are not alone. I have dealt with all levels of skepticism from the onset of my abilities. I have been laughed at, made fun of, and called unimaginable names over the years. But not believing doesn’t change the fact that ghosts exist, regardless of whether a person can see them or feel their presence whenever they’re near. A majority of the population believes that seeing is believing, because it’s easier to accept that philosophy than it is to admit that there’s a possibility that worldly phenomena exists that is beyond their realm of understanding, or their scope of acceptance. However, throughout our great and massive universe, there are multiple occurrences or happenings that simply cannot be explained, no matter how hard one might try. I, too, was a non-believer prior to my accident. Now, I can tell you with insurmountable assurance that believing is seeing.

Spirits do exist. I know that personally and have assisted hundreds of them over the years in multiple ways. I’ve aided the local police department by offering them information that they wouldn’t have been able to obtain under usual circumstances. Information and facts that only the departed, or the guilty, would know about.

After the retirement of Chief Jerome Simms, my services were needed less and less, tapering off to not being needed, or wanted, at all. It was disheartening to no longer be of service because of the good I knew I could offer. I surmised it was for the best because I knew I’d never have the same type of relationship with any other law enforcement officer that I had with Chief Simms. Not that ours didn’t start off on the wrong foot or on the ledge of a rocky cliff. It wasn’t easy convincing him I possessed unique capabilities, or that I knew the death of Stacy Amberville was a murder, as were the deaths of hundreds of innocent patrons who vanished in the Club Xanadu fire, one of them being his baby sister. But when I delivered a message to him from his Nonny, everything changed. In time, he learned to trust me, believe in me, offer me his support, and witnessed me in the throes of a horrifying vision that led to the arrest of one of his police officers for arson and multiple counts of first-degree murder.

Now that you know my history, I’d like you to know me.

I’m DeeDee to my friends and Dr. DeeDee to my patients. I am a Child Psychologist in Pahokee, Florida. My practice is located next door to First Baptist Church. At one time, the building was an insurance office, but was renovated to fit my needs for medical space by replacing rotting floors and malfunctioning plumbing and closing in a large reception area to transform it into my primary office where I see patients. Everglades Insurance was one of the many places I worked after school as a teenager to save up enough money to get into a community college. Purchasing the space was both satisfying and bittersweet as I recalled memories of my old boss and what a kind soul he’d been by giving a poor project-raised girl a chance to prove that she could do the job she’d been hired to do.

No major changes have been made to Pahokee over the past several years, other than the complete makeover to the marina. Many lifelong residents have moved away, leaving their small rural town behind, and opting for a bigger city with more opportunities for jobs and growth. Personally, I’ve never been an admirer of bright lights, big city life, preferring to live and work in a small town. They’re more close-knit and friendlier because the residents know each other and genuinely care about one another. That is not common in metropolises. Not from my experiences, anyway. That’s why I returned home after graduating from college. And stayed. Home sweet home.

Although Donna and her husband left the Glades for mountain life in North Carolina, we remain good friends and either speak on the phone or video chat often. Every time we talk, she invites us to come for a visit. But so far, David and I haven’t gotten the opportunity yet to make the trip, but plan to one day.

Lake Okeechobee remains the fishing capital of the world. Professional and novice anglers continue to flock around the lake every year for fishing tournaments, all with their eyes on the grand prize. Local fishermen and fisherwomen set their lawn chairs up on the pier and spend hours at a time hauling in blue gill or speckled perch. If they’re lucky enough not to lose their catches to scavenging alligators that hang around the pier, their daily haul will make for one heck of a fish fry.

My reputation around Pahokee and the entire Glades area is well known now, and I no longer try to hide my abilities or keep them a secret. I am still contacted regularly by people who are willing to drive hundreds of miles for a private reading, but I continue to refuse their offers. I took a vow never to use my talents for monetary gain, and I firmly maintain my stance on that.

Even though my reputation precedes me, and although my name has been in multiple newspapers around the state, usually associated with the solving of a crime, there will always be skeptics, those who scoff at the mere possibility that ghosts are real, laughing at those who believe. Minds such as those can never be changed–unless they experience it for themselves. And without an open mind and a willingness to accept the unexplainable, the likelihood of that happening is extremely slim.

My time and attention are devoted to my patients. Children who are hurting emotionally or are experiencing issues with behavior, especially sudden onsets that seem to come out of nowhere, for no apparent reason, are my first concern. And when they become my patients, they always receive my undivided care.

I specialize in the treatment of children with psychological and behavioral disorders, and I have treated multitudes of children and young adults with illnesses in these areas. Some have involved spirits, and some haven’t, yet they’re all unique in their own ways.

While I like to think that I’m usually prepared for anything that might come my way, considering what I’ve been through myself and the spirits and visions that I’ve encountered, occasionally I’m caught off-guard and taken completely by surprise with a case.

Such is the instance with Ethan Portman.

TWO

My first meeting with seven-year-old Ethan Portman occurred on a brisk October morning, three weeks prior to Halloween.

He was brought to me by his mother, who’d expressed her concerns about his sudden change in behavior. In her words, it was as though he changed overnight, transforming from a happy, outgoing little boy into one who became quiet and withdrawn, forgoing playtime with his toys, instead preferring to sit alone in his room on the floor staring off into space, focused on nothing in particular. Even more concerning to her was that Ethan had invented an imaginary friend and often overheard him conversing with him, and sometimes, yelling and accusing him of actions that could have only been committed by her son because he was alone at the time of the incidents. She was worried about his declining conduct and desperate for answers.

Based on the information that was received from Ms. Portman when she made the appointment, I would be treating Ethan for audio and visual hallucinations.

Prior to meeting one on one with my young charges, I prefer having a private conversation with the parent, parents, or legal guardians in order to hear their side of what they believe is going on with their child and the symptoms they’re displaying that led them to believe that there is a problem that requires treatment. By conducting a meeting in this fashion, it gives me a chance to analyze the custodians and see what type of people they are. Whether they’re loving and kind, tense or impatient, or even possibly abusive. I also don’t want to give the child a chance to parrot what they hear their parents say, which would only result in them repeating what they’ve heard or saying what they’ve been conditioned to say instead of what they’re feeling personally.

Instead of having an assistant bring the parent or patient to me, I prefer meeting them in the waiting area to observe how they co-mingle together, then begin my analysis.

Hi, Ethan, I said, extending my hand. I’m Dr. DeeDee. How are you?

Fine, he said, placing his small hand in mine and giving it a firm shake. Am I allowed to play with those toys over there? he asked, pointing to a clown-painted box in the corner.

Of course, you are, I answered with a smile. Why don’t you go do that while I speak with your mom for a few minutes?

Okay, he said enthusiastically, jumping from his chair and running to the toy box.

Don’t worry, Ms. Portman. He’ll be closely watched out here. Come with me, please.

In my office, I motioned for her to have a seat on the black leather sofa as I sat down in the matching armchair directly in front of her. Her expression was pained, a woman deeply concerned about her child’s unusual behavior, one that she found serious enough to seek professional help for in order to resolve the issue.

Thank you, she replied.

Let’s start with you telling me what’s going on with Ethan that you feel he needs my help with.

Dr. Blanchard, she began, then started to cry. Reaching for the box of tissues on my desk, I offered her one and waited for her to dry her eyes before continuing. I don’t even know where to start.

Has he displayed changes in his behavior?

Yes.

In his attitude?

Yes.

When did you begin to notice these changes, Ms. Portman?

Focused on the tissue she was holding, she replied, About three months ago. At first, I thought it was a phase he was going through, like any other kid would. But as time passed, he seemed to be getting worse, isolating himself, losing interest in his toys, not wanting to go to school.

Prior to this, had he ever displayed any type of similar behavior?

No.

Has Ethan suffered any type of losses prior to the onset of his change in behavior? Losing a friend, a grandparent, perhaps?

No, nothing like that.

Any problems at school?

You mean with his grades?

Those could certainly be affected by inner turmoil, but I’m more interested in whether he’s being bullied at school. Are any of the other kids picking on him, teasing him, calling him names, anything that would make him not want to go to school?

Not that I’m aware of, she replied, glancing up at me. Surely he would have told me if something like that was going on. Or the school would have notified me of a problem like that. Wouldn’t they?

I should certainly think so, if they’re aware of it. Which is not always the case, I thought, recalling that the principal at my high school had no idea about how badly Blake Chutney had bullied me every day until I told him. Have you questioned Ethan about this?

I mentioned it to him, but he said nothing like that was happening, that the other kids liked him, and they all got along.

That’s a good thing, I said, concluding that whatever was causing his abrupt change in behavior had absolutely nothing to do with school life. Give me some examples of the behavior you’ve witnessed.

Before all of this started happening, Ethan was a cheerful boy. Outgoing, always laughing and playing, she said, exhaling. Then practically overnight, he began to change.

How?

Ethan has a ton of race cars and tracks that he loves, or I should say loved, playing with. He’d spend hours at a time in his room making racing and crashing noises as the cars made laps around the tracks. And just like that, she said, snapping her fingers, he stopped playing with them. When I asked him why, he said that Nathan broke the wheels off of all his cars and tore up the tracks. I found pieces of yellow plastic all over his room, but I don’t know what happened to the wheels. They weren’t in his room or his toy box. I checked.

Nathan? I asked.

His imaginary friend. He talks to him all the time, unaware that I’ve heard him. I haven’t bothered saying anything to him about it because I know that a lot of kids his age invent make believe friends, so I didn’t feel it was of any concern.

Now we might be getting somewhere, because sometimes, those imaginary friends are quite real, yet unseen to the eyes that cannot see.

Does Ethan know any other children his age by that name?

I don’t believe so. I’ve certainly never heard him mention the name before.

Is Ethan an only child?

Yes. Is that important?

Not necessarily, I answered. You’re right. It’s not unusual for an only child to create a playmate, especially if they’re lonely enough. Earlier, you mentioned isolation. Does Ethan shut himself off from you and his father?

He spends a lot of time in his room doing nothing but sitting on his bed or the floor. That’s usually where he is when I hear him having conversations with his friend.

Any loss of appetite? Definitely an important question, because if what I had a feeling was going on truly was, it can certainly affect a child’s eating habits and can have a negative impact on their overall health.

He eats, but he picks at his food now. Even when I cook something I know he likes, he acts as if he has no interest in it. He stares thoughtlessly at the plate while taking bites. It’s as though he’s daydreaming or lost in deep thought.

As long as he’s eating, I won’t be too concerned at this point. If he quits altogether, that’s a different story. We’ll monitor his progress on that.

Ethan always looks so sad, Dr. Blanchard, Ms. Portman said, shaking her head. Neither me nor my husband can get him to smile anymore. Nothing we do for him seems to make him happy. We’re both at our wits' end. All we want to know is what is wrong with our son.

I promise you, Ms. Portman, I’ll do my very best to find out.

Thank you.

Now I’d like to speak with Ethan, unless there’s more you need to tell me, I said, getting up from my chair and leading her to the door.

Nothing I can think of.

I’ll consult with you when we’re finished.

Thanks again, Dr. Blanchard.

Ethan? I called. It’s your turn.

Can I bring this with me? he asked, holding up a red fire truck. Sure, I answered, remembering that his mother had told me he’d lost all interest in toys, but had discovered one he found satisfying and was, at least, expressing some of the former little boy that his mother felt was lost.

Have a seat right there, I said, pointing to where his mother had sat.

Ethan Portman was a beautiful child, with white-blonde hair and the roundest, bluest eyes I’d ever seen, and eyelashes so blonde, they were barely visible until the sunlight hit them. If children were cherubs, then Ethan was the epitome of that description.

Within seconds of sitting down, Ethan nudged with his elbow as if pushing someone away, then scooted over closer to the end of the sofa.

When I’d first seen him in the waiting area with his mother, they’d been alone.

Ethan now had a visitor. The imaginary friend his mother had referred to. Only he wasn’t make-believe or pretend, and I immediately knew why he had attached himself to Ethan. What I didn’t know at the time was why–or how. It was important at this point to ignore him and focus on Ethan to find out exactly how bothersome his attachment was, and what kinds of discussions went on between the two of them.

Do you know why you’re here, Ethan?

He shrugged. Because mommy wants me to be.

Yes, but do you know why mommy wanted you to come and see me?

Not really, he answered, running the fire truck back and forth across the black leather.

We’ll talk about that in a few moments, but first I’d like to get to know you a little better. Do you mind if I ask you some questions?

No.

How old are you?

Seven.

What grade are you in?

Second.

Do you like school, Ethan?

It’s okay, he said with a shrug. I like art.

You enjoy drawing?

Painting.

I’ll bet that’s a lot of fun.

Yes.

Do you have a lot of friends in school?

Yes, but I don’t like girls, he said, rolling his eyes. They act too silly.

You’re a very handsome young man, I said with a smile. Perhaps the girls your age can see that as well.

Yuck, he said, sticking out his tongue.

Trying not to laugh, I asked, Do you ever get into trouble at school?

No.

How do you feel about your teacher?

I like her. She’s nice. And pretty, too.

Do you ever get into any arguments or fights at school? Does anyone ever pick on you?

No, he answered, glancing up at me. Just that one dumb girl that’s always following me around and telling me I’m cute.

He confirmed he wasn’t having any problems at school, which his mother would be pleased to learn.

"Ethan, your mother tells me you don’t want to go to school anymore. If you like your school, your teacher, and your friends, and no one’s bothering you there, can you tell me why you don’t want to go?

He said I don’t have to.

He? I asked, although I already knew who he was talking about. Who are you referring to?

Him! Ethan exclaimed. Nathan!

Is that a friend of yours? I asked, still refusing to acknowledge his presence.

Nope. He says he is, but he’s not because he’s mean.

Why doesn’t he want you to go to school?

He told me he didn’t have to go, and I shouldn’t have to, either. Besides, he started, then stopped, glancing sideways to his left.

Go on, Ethan, I prodded.

"He said if I kept going, he’d ruin all of my toys. Not just my cars."

Do you believe he would do that?

Yes. I told you that he’s mean.

Ethan, let’s talk about Nathan.

He stopped rolling the truck around, sitting rigid and refusing to look at me. Why do we have to talk about him? he groaned.

Your mom is concerned about some conversations she’s overheard you having with him.

Oh, he said, hanging his head.

Ethan, can you look at me, please?

Slowly, he raised his head, those piercing blue eyes meeting mine.

Scooting to the edge of my chair and leaning forward, I said, You and I both know that he isn’t imaginary, don’t we, Ethan?

He stared at me, his eyes unblinking, his mouth quivering as though he wanted to speak, but couldn’t bring forth the words.

I see him, too, I said softly.

His eyes grew wide with wonderment. A child seeing the Christmas display in a department store window for the first time. You do? he shrieked.

Um hum, I nodded, eliciting an inquisitive glance from Ethan’s companion. I see him as clearly as I can see you.

Whoa! he exclaimed, tossing the fire truck to the side. Can you hear him, too?

I haven’t heard him say anything yet, but that doesn’t mean he won’t, I answered. In the meantime, why don’t you tell me what you and Nathan talk about.

If I do, are you going to tell my mom?

She already knows you talk to him.

But she doesn’t know what he wants me to do.

My heart quickened. I had a feeling that whatever Ethan was about to say wasn’t going to be good.

Can you tell me?

Ethan shook his head. He doesn’t want me to.

Do you always do what Nathan tells you to do?

Not all the time. Sometimes he tells me to do things that I know are bad.

Like what?

Ethan shrugged. Stuff.

It was important not to press him, especially since his guest was growing more irritated. If Ethan remained under my care, he’d eventually tell me everything.

Ethan, I said, casting a furtive glance at Nathan. In order for me to be able to help you with Nathan, it’s important for you to tell me what it is he wants you to do. You do understand that don’t you?

I guess so, he said, receiving a punch on his arm for agreeing with me. To my surprise, it was a blow that caused him to recoil and massage the spot where the strike had landed.

Strange, I thought. I’d seen plenty of my spirit message recipients react to light touches from a kiss or a gentle caress, but never from being struck. Since spirits are composed of disembodied nonphysical matter, it would be highly unusual for one to have the power or capability to inflict bodily harm upon the living. Yet Nathan had. I sensed that this case was going to differ greatly from any I’d ever been engaged in and would involve mystical events I’d never seen before.

Does Nathan hit you a lot? I asked, letting Ethan and Nathan both know that I had seen Nathan striking his host. Again, Nathan scowled at me. Unfazed by his threatening posture, I kept my attention focused on Ethan.

Yes, especially when I won’t do what he tells me to do. But it doesn’t hurt much.

Of all the spirits I’ve encountered over the years, I’ve only felt the touch of two. Stacy Amberville and Amy, the little girl I encountered during my hospital stay following my accident. Both touches were so