Blind Visions from Heaven: Based on a true story

By Angela Rhodes-Parker

Blind Visions from Heaven is Katherine Rhodes's breakout novel. Written under her sister's name, as she helped guide Katherine with her writings, Blind Visions is a based on a true story and promises its readers will get at least one severe case of the goosebumps. This beautiful and chilling novel embraces the depths of grief and offers hope after the death of a loved one. As you travel through Katherine's journey in life, you will fall in love with many of the characters in her novel. Katherine has learned in her life that her lost loved ones are much closer to her than she once thought. She has learned that her loved ones can be still connected to her, despite the fact that they are esperares into two different states of being. This is a spiritual novel that promises not to disappoint its readers.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Christian Faith Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Dec 14, 2020
• ISBN: 9781098045531

Book preview

Chapter 1

The devil slips in unbeknownst to those even closest to a person. They can live for years pretending to be God-fearing. They might attend church religiously, just for the appearance to their peers. They may live in a nice house and drive nice cars.

That does not mean that in one instant, when they think that you are onto them and have seen the devil lurking in their eyes, he will not come out and try to harm you. You see, those with the devil in them certainly do not like God’s truths spoken. When you fight the devil, you are in for the fight of your life.

My story takes place in Tri-Cities, Washington. This is a cute, fast-growing agricultural area. The impressive Columbia River splits apart the three cities, and you must either cross a bridge or ride by boat to get to the neighboring cities.

Bike paths line the beaches of the rivers, as do houses owned by the wealthier folk in town. As a child, I used to wander through the parks by the river, admiring the Columbia’s natural beauty. Birds would chirp around me, squirrels darted across my path, and the sound of children playing filled the air.

I would admire the houses that lined it, imagining myself living in one of those homes one day. How wonderful would it be to just step out your backdoor and have this huge park in your backyard?

I had always felt safe strolling by the river. The parks were always filled with people on a warm spring or summer day. What I did not realize as a child gazing at these mansions was that while a home may look perfect on the outside, on the inside, it may be a house full of demons. Skeletons could be swept into the closets of even the nicest of homes.

I had no idea that the innocence of my youth would one day be gone. These skeletons and scary people would one day cross my path, and forever change the way that I viewed life.

They are the good old boys. A group of wealthy men who live scattered amongst the doctors, lawyers, and other high-paying professions here in town. While their education levels do not coincide with their assets, most do not notice.

They appear very nice. You might spot one walking into the home next to yours. His lifted pickup truck is shiny and well taken care of. Dirt bikes, wave runners, and other fun toys meant to enjoy the warm weather typical of Tri-Cities summers are eye-catching, but you still blink it away.

Tri-Cities had long been a hot spot for real estate, as it has been a fast-growing town for years. You assume he invested well and go on with your day.

His wife is quite the woman. She looks like a trophy that should be held on his arm, yet he walks ahead of her. This man is never by her side, holding her hand. He never walks behind her, letting her lead the way. He walks ahead of her, claiming his dominance. He most certainly never holds the door for her.

He will greet you first, and she will stay meekly quiet. She is always smiling. Her dirt kickers are expensive looking and without a scratch on them, as they are saved for special nights out and church. Her outfits are modest but easy on the eyes. It does make you wonder why she is wearing a full-sleeved cardigan on a hot summer day, but you push this thought to the side as well. She doesn’t like to show her skin much, you decide.

He leaves his house often and has lots of people swinging by. Well, he was the popular guy from high school. He has boasted through the gates that separate your homes many a times about trophies and records set. The stories about Friday night lights and high school romance do make a book nerd a tad jealous, which was the intention for the conversation.

The tales he does not tell you are much crazier and the making of a movie set here in this little Podunk town. For if you step inside of his home, it will tell a different story, much like his wife’s summertime cardigan.

The life he leads once he has left his home will yet again tell you a different tale. That dirt bike he rides through the unpaved roads of town is a quick getaway from the police. His backpack is always tightly zipped, and his leather jacket is closed and bulky looking. After he waves goodbye to his neighbors, he is off to make some money. One would never guess by the looks of his immaculate yard that he was a member of an underground organization.

This is an organization with ties to the judicial system, money to pay people off, and enough popularity that most turn a blind eye to it. They could not be that bad if so many people adore them, could they?

For those who were invited into their homes, yet somehow made it out, there is a tale to tell.

Writing is a passion for me, and I have written books ever since I started writing my name out. Years ago, the pen was ripped from my fingers, and my mouth was forced shut. I could no longer write, as the story that unfolded surrounding me became a nightmare.

Within recent years, I chose to pick back up my pen. While my dad was the bowling champion here in town, I chose to claim my throne as Queen Pen.

Word spread around town that I was writing a book like wildfire amongst the dry landscape. Once this rumor landed upon the ears of a certain person, they panicked. I suppose a person not so innocent just might get scared at the thought of their victim writing a book.

That is truly the saddest part about my story. My book was never going to be about them. The intentions I held with my writing was a story based on a loved one who had passed on and our continued connection to each other. It was to be seen as a spiritual guide for those in grief.

Whenever you speak of a heaven, the devil does have a tendency to throw out his flames. Those with a temper respond before thinking, and the response was so horrendous that it had to be added in. I don’t want one more woman to go through what I have been through. Enough is enough.

Do you want to know what it feels like to be scared for your life? I’m not talking about being scared once. Like, you had to slam on the breaks for your car as to avoid a crash on the highway. A ladder had fallen from the truck in front of you and was flying toward your windshield. The cowboy in you came out instinctively as you held onto the wheel so tight that your knuckles turned white, preparing for the worst.

At the last second, the ladder hits the front of your car, tumbling beneath the wheels of your vehicle and you kept that death grip on the wheel, running the ladder over at high speed, trying to keep your car in the lines and not hit the morning traffic rushing by on each side of you.

I’m not talking about being scared twice. Like that time you came into the kitchen with a laundry basket in your hand to find your phone missing. When you asked your little daughter where it was, she said, The man in the backyard took it.

Suddenly, a man twice your size comes bursting through the back door, breaking into your home. In a matter of seconds, you were pinned down to the ground and desperate to find a way out from this violent attack.

I’m not even talking about three times scared. Perhaps all of the previous two events had happened to you. Aside from the fact that you were a single mom struggling to financially and physically take care of your children, you were over and over again thrown sticks down your path. As though the verbal, physical, and emotional abuse were not enough, you had to find yourself fighting for your life.

It was a chilly January day in the year 2019. This was the day that I would yet again meet face with the devil. Standing at my work locker, I threw my gray sweater on over my scrubs. The Tri-Cities’ wind could be bitter cold in the winter months, and I needed to take out the boxes that we had just broken down.

I stepped outside and was immediately met with a chilly gust that made my steps quicken. As I walked across the work parking lot with a load of boxes in my hands, I thought back over the events of the last few years.

I was happily settled down and married to my best friend. My youngest daughter’s thirteenth birthday loomed in the near future, and we had many plans for the upcoming year. To top all of this off, I had just finished writing my first novel and had self-published it to Amazon. I was going to forget about the tragedies that my family had gone through and focus on the years yet to come.

My mind began to wander as I lifted the recycle bin open and threw the boxes inside. What would the year of 2019 bring to my family? Would my book sell lots of copies? Or would it sit as an e-book, just taking up space on the internet. Pushing those thoughts aside, I started to turn around. Just as I did this, I heard my name called out.

Kat! a male voice behind me yelled out my name, startling me.

I swiveled around quickly, only to see an older man coming close to me. A white cloth was grasped in his right hand, and suddenly, all that I could see was it coming closer to my nostrils.

Quickly, I backed away from the man, who was attempting to get right into my face. He stared directly into my eyes, clearly trying to show his dominance over me. The man’s blue eyes were menacing as he squared up with me. There was something about them that seemed so evil and yet so empty all at once.

As I backed slowly away from this stranger, I continued to stare back at him, etching his face into my mind. I noted his thin lips, haggard skin, and scrawny frame. He did not appear to have lived a clean lifestyle.

My feet stepped backward slowly, inching myself toward the office building I had stupidly stepped out of a few moments earlier. I found it very odd that he was trying to cozy up with me, as he was at least twenty years older than me. This was not a man attempting to gain a dinner date.

The stranger appeared startled by me staring him down and quickly threw away the cloth that he held. Apparently, he had thought that I would go down without a fight.

I just need to throw this away, this man said quickly as I continued to put distance between us, making sure my eyes never left his face. Who was he, and why did he know my name? He acted as though we were coffee buddies, yet I had never seen him before in my lifetime. Or perhaps, he was checking to see if I did recognize him? He quite obviously knew very well who I was.

The haggard-looking guy gestured toward a car that was parked right up in front of the building. I glanced toward his gesture only for a split second, not wanting to break my eye contact with him.

Why don’t you get in my car? I have a Chihuahua that you can pet. It’s a beautiful dog… The car he was pointing to was white and did indeed have a small dog perched in the back window. Strangely enough, one of the back doors had also been left wide open.

My legs took quicker steps back toward the building until I had enough distance between us that I was confident to turn around and run inside. The sidewalk that surrounded the building was now under my feet, and I quickly pivoted with my heart pounding inside of me. Years of ice skating lessons made my turn quick, as I had practiced this movement on the slippery ice time and time again.

This was a routine made of nightmares as I bolted away from the wolf behind me, unsure if he would follow in chase. I ran into the warm, comforting office and slowed my pace to a walk, passing by my unknowing coworkers in a daze.

My mind raced for an answer. What had just happened? Who in the world was that man, and how on earth did he know my name? Immediately I ran into my boss’s office and explained to her what had just happened, feeling dumbfounded.

My gut instincts told me there was something up with this strange person. The way he got right next to me was most definitely not the actions of a gentleman. I went over and over the event in my mind, trying to find some logical explanation, but the fact that he had yelled out my name kept playing through my mind.

I looked down at my gray sweater, seeing that my name badge was most definitely covered by it. He could not have seen it written on my scrubs. He had to have known my name before I walked across that parking lot. He had to have been waiting for me.

My heart did not want to admit it at that point in time, but I did have one clue as to the identity of the man by the dumpster. Years ago, while attempting to leave a relationship that had become extremely violent, I had received a threatening phone call.

Much like today, the guy on the other end was not a voice that I recognized, yet he knew my name and sounded extremely angry. His menacing voice warned me against telling the police anything about him.

I explained to him that I knew nothing about him, very confused as to why he was calling me of all people.

This was no lie. Prior to his phone call, I had no information that I could have given to the police regarding his behavior. However, thanks to his threatening phone call, I did now have a little bit of useful information.

He had not bothered to block me from seeing his number, and the caller ID clearly showed me his first and last name. Knowing that this was a very dangerous man and situation, I burned that name into my mind but did not let on to him that I knew his name. My gut feeling was that one day, this piece of information would come in handy.

I also had to shake my head in amazement about the brain capacity of criminals. The law system was so jaded and flawed that they did not have to think through their actions prior to performing them. It was my responsibility to provide proof that my life was being threatened. The man who threatened my life years ago got away scot-free, in more ways than one. This term scot-free refers to a tax set about in medieval times. Those who managed to avoid the tax had gotten away scot-free.

As the past flooded through my mind, I became extremely frightened. All of the threats that I had received for so many years were now coming back to me full force. Over and over again, my life had been threatened by a group of abusive underground criminals.

You can’t leave. We have money. We will send a friend out to kill you.

We will put a tracking device on your car.

We will poison your dog and break in through the doggie door.

We have ties to the legal system. We will pay off judges and lawyers. You will never win.

As the never-ending threats from the past flooded my brain, my heart began to race in fear, a type of fear that I had only known once before was once again setting in.

As my heart thumped in fright, I knew exactly who was behind this man at the dumpster. What was the motive this time? The front cover of my book flashed through my head, and I knew that’s what it was. How dare I write a book? How dare I tell the truth about what had happened to me?

The worst thing of all was how much I had sugarcoated the truth with the first version of my book. One tiny chapter listing myself as a domestic violence survivor and it was off with my head. So much disgust filled my body. I knew the guy at the dumpster would not be the last of it. This was about a loss of control. Violent abusers cannot stand losing control and will stop at nothing to win.

I mean, come on. They always won. They were the stars, weren’t they? How dare I become the star character of my own book?

This thought as well made me laugh, as I knew that was exactly what they were upset about. Not only had they lost control, but they were also no longer the stars in town. Their glory days had ended.

The most ironic fact of the matter was that I was not the star of my book. A child was the star. She wanted me to write her book, and her wish was my command. To be fair, I really wasn’t the author either.

Yes, physically I wrote this book. However, it had been given to me by a writer. This story had been a gift given to me, and it was my duty to write it for her. I had two tasks at hand with my writing: I was to type out the story given to me, and I was to make a little girl the star she always dreamed of being. This story had nothing to do with this group of people.

They sure did have to make it about them though, didn’t they? They earned their place in my book.

My mind flashed back to days I just wanted to forget. I knew no one else this violent. No one else had ever pinned me to the ground in a brutal attack.

The weeks to come were very scary. I opened up a case with the police department and a videotape was recovered from our office’s security cameras.

Oh boy, did that video ever give me a bigger picture of just how dangerous this guy was? My heart fell to the floor when I found out that the man had sat outside of our office building in that white car for seven hours, casing the joint. He never once went inside. He just sat in his car for hours, watching my place of work.

For weeks, I was walked outside, escorted by an armed coworker with military training. Friends drove me to work, as I began to spot familiar cars following me everywhere around town. I would shake at the thought of even getting into my vehicle. What if they really had put a tracking device on my car, as I had once been threatened? I would think that I was okay to drive, and then a panic attack would tell me not to.

One early morning, my husband dropped me off at a local Starbucks on my way to work. Wrapped up in a blanket and reading the book that my cousin Kendall had sent to me in the mail, I attempted to shake off the fright that I felt.

A warm cup of coffee pressed up to my lips and people surrounding me helped to sooth my fears. This was a safe place, and nothing should happen to me here. As I attempted to calm down by reading a page of my book, a face came out of nowhere. Directly to the right of my eye, a creep had shoved his head next to mine.

I turned my head quickly to see a young man, possibly Hispanic, peering directly into my personal space. He stared me down, just inches from my face, as though to intimidate me. I stood up and stared him back down. We were inside of a Starbucks, and there were tons of people all around, so I knew he couldn’t do anything. Yet my mind wondered, does he have a gun? Is he going to shoot me?

He sank back away from me, as though he had done nothing creepy and slowly sipped a coffee while leaning against the wall next to the register. He appeared a little startled that I was grabbing toward my phone to take a photo of him.

I got distracted when I looked down to see a text message from Rosy. She was letting me know that she was here and right out front. I paused as the tall, skinny young man seemed to be waiting for me to leave. Funny, was he going to meet me out in the parking lot? Not one part of me thought this an innocent young man.

He finally slowly left, seeing that I was pulling out my phone to call the cops. Shaking, I got into Rosy’s car that was parked just feet from the door. She looked me up and down, seeing my fright.

I explained to her what had just happened, and I could see her surprise. Trying to calm me down, she joked around, Maybe he was just hitting on you.

I laughed, but I knew that a nice-looking, very young man would not be hitting on a nearly forty-year-old mother of two. While I never would see that jerk again, I did wonder how much he’d been paid to do that.

So what was the amount? What amount was my life worth? I am very curious to know the price, as I think it was set far too low by a cheapskate.

Slowly, my confidence came back. The man who met me out in my work parking lot must have heard from the grapevine that the police were involved in the situation, as I did not see him in any parking lot again.

My friends, family, and relatives were shocked. What in the world would bring someone to go to this length? Who in the world would sink low enough to do something like this to a woman who would never harm a fly? Here, I’d spent the last year helping a friend move, taking care of my kids, and writing a book in the memory of a passed loved one.

I explained to them all that was their answer right there. My book had been published. This had to be about them. How dare she talk about us? What right did she have to talk about our actions?

What right do I have to talk about my abuse? I have every right in the world to write my story. I am a survivor of domestic violence, and no one will stop me from surviving! I will do everything that I can to survive, and I want the thieves who tried to steal my happiness and my life from me to hear me out: This is not your story. This is my story to tell.

Chapter 2

My name is Kat Middleton, not to be confused with the famous Kate. Now, don’t get me wrong. Sometimes I do act like a princess. Just ask my husband; he would likely agree to this statement. However, it took me awhile to get to my castle, a little country home in eastern Washington. I have always kept my faith that I would make it here.

No, I do not live in a mansion, and I’m not married to a prince. However, we do like to joke around about Cousin Kate. The two of us share a story extremely unique, yet I hope to find more tales out there like ours.

My life has not been a fairy tale. Through it all, though, I have found my happily ever after. You see, I watched way too many princess movies as a kid, and I did believe I’d find my prince.

I always knew that I was searching for more. I never understood what the more was. I just knew it was something on an entirely different level of thinking.

So…a little bit about me. I am a cheer mom, a wife, a registered nurse in the state of Washington, and…I am a psychic. Call me a bit of a one-upper if you will. Please do not be jealous of me. My mind has seen things that cannot be unseen.

I have no idea the quantum physics or mathematical equation behind this. As a person who is thoroughly intrigued by all things science, I seek a scientific answer. However, as a person who is also a believer in the heavens above, I know that it is a higher power who is mapping out my plan. This is not in my control.

At times, I was beyond myself with, Why me? Why do I have to go through this all? I have beat myself up over misinterpreting a dream, only to find out it truly was a nightmare just waiting to happen. As I kept my faith and continued upon my spiritual journey called life, I realized that there are just some things that I will never understand. Some things I must let go of and let be in the hands of a higher power.

I know that I can attribute these visions to my belief in intrinsic design, which may also lead to a genetic component. Perhaps, I was simply born this way. Much to the effect that I was born with horrendously poor vision, I find it ironic to realize that my vision isn’t as bad as the doctors said. It just comes to me in an entirely different way.

To my naysayers, I do not cast blame upon you. It is in our human nature to be skeptical of such things, as they can be hard to prove. However, if you are still reading at this point, perhaps my words have intrigued you. I found myself embellished upon the spiritual journey called grief years ago, and through it all, I have been lead to some beautiful places. The hard times and days are far fewer than the light that shimmers down upon us.

I learned to let my own lost loved one back into my heart. At first, I could not speak of her, and I certainly could not even peek at old photos. As the years passed, it became increasingly evident that was not her wish for me. She wanted to be remembered and has given me quite the story to pass forward.

It is hard for us as humans to understand that our angels truly are up in heaven. We often question it because we think that we cannot see it. Once our mind-frame changes, we begin to realize that heaven is sent down to our planet on a daily basis. Sparkles of light, beautiful creatures in odd places, all of these are signs from our loved ones.

Sure, heaven could be just a comforting thought. If that is so, then what is wrong with a thought of comfort? I find nothing terrible about a warm blanket wrapped around us during the depths of grief. Now, I have no idea how many miles or spatial planes away they rest. All I know is my story. My story has turned nonbelievers into believers and has helped guide some on their own spiritual journeys. That is the only reason I tell it.

I will begin my tale shortly. It starts in a trailer park, goes on to a dangerous situation, and ends with a prince coming into my life at an older age. Sort of a princess who needs some wrinkle cream kind of a story. One thing that has kept true, throughout all of these years of anguish, was my belief in a divine intervention. I have never once doubted that a god existed. Am I the perfect Christian? No. Am I a Christian? Yes.

Many Christian people snob their nose to hear this all came from me. Why her? She’s not perfect! That is perfectly fine, as I have no answer for you. Sometimes, when we seek perfection, we dabble upon narcissism where we begin to judge others. It is best if we look into our own lives and the ways we can improve ourselves versus comparing ourselves to others’ mistakes.

So here, I go to confession. As a child, I spent many hours with family members, sitting on the pews that filled churches with beautiful stained-glass windows. The communion would get passed around, along with the donation box that kept the lights on in our place of worship. Confession was a place you could go to ask for forgiveness.

My confession is this. I get dreams. They come true. Call me delusional, call me crazy… I don’t think that I’m any of that. Some people call it a gift. At times I thought it a curse. You can ask how it comes to me and I have no idea. It is given to me. I have no choice or say over the matter. Usually, I don’t really want it. It is usually terrible.

The hard part at times can be trying to decide what I am to do with the dream once I receive it. You see, not all of them are good dreams. I have come to the conclusion that I am given each dream for a reason…no