Remember Me...: Alise Campbell and The Lens, #1

By Cat Morgan

The first in a three-part urban fantasy murder mystery series, Alise Campbell is a title secretary in Houston, Texas with as little drama in her life as possible. Having decided long ago that watching the news was not helpful to her personally, she has been blissfully unaware that a serial killer is on the loose in her hometown. As the body count mounts, the news intrudes into Alise's world from several directions at once, including lucid dreams. Alise is initially hesitant and more than a bit disbelieving that some kind of magical device can help the police catch the killer, but she decides to give it a try. In a process similar to "psychic questing," and combining quantum physics with metaphysics and the latest in DNA memory research, Alise grows in her own knowledge of the arcane through trial and error while others join her on her mission to see the face of a killer in a hologram.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Cat Morgan
• Release date: Jul 24, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223075783

Book preview

Preface

This book should be considered a work of fiction. While you may recognize the name of a country, state, or city, or think you know a neighborhood or landmark reference you come across as you read this book, it isn’t the place you know.

The same could be said for certain kinds of industries and processes. What works in our reality may not necessarily work in another reality. And vice versa.

Quantum physics says there are an infinite number of possibilities in our reality; that every time we think or act, we change our reality. Science also teaches us that we can’t imagine something if it doesn’t already exist in our reality, thereby proving the point of the prophet who wrote in Ecclesiastes 1:9, There is no new thing under the sun....

Along the same line of thinking, if any person’s name sounds familiar, it is probably mere coincidence. Probably.

Because really, if you think about it, maybe it sounds familiar because it is actually what or who you were thinking of. If anything is possible, even the impossible must, by definition, be possible. Right?

A rose by any other name....

Part One:

Initiation.

The Fan.

The bathroom fan kicked on in the apartment next door. I could tell because my apartment shared a common wall with the adjacent unit, and that common wall would vibrate every time the neighbor’s fan came on, as if my apartment was being held in the arms of a giant cat, or maybe a dragon that was purring. The distant pulsing throb didn't sooth or irritate so much as it just distracted. It was there in the background until it wasn't, pulsing its anonymous vibration with no way for escape except out.

Out was Houston, Texas. Outside the downtown area where the old suburbs had been, way back when Houston had settled down from its Wild West Days (at least externally), there was now a seemingly endless array of cheap multi-family apartment complexes. Lumped together into a vast and twisting mass encompassing miles of affordable housing, it was as confusing as any labyrinth, and equally as terrifying. 

As to the heart of Houston? Who can say? In any event, the one thing I knew for sure was that out was no escape. It was simply passage from one form of frustration to another. I resigned myself to having to deal with the neighbor's bathroom fan, again.

At that moment the fan turned off.

Mateus.

Mateus remembers...

...hot dusty days playing fútbol with cousins...falling asleep on the roof hearing cicadas...loud bangs over and over...men yelling...Papa screaming...silence...Tío beside him, lifting him up...running through the night...why?...what?...Tía holding him, rocking him...sitting, hungry, hot, sad...where is Maman? Papa?...voices of men, quiet...Tía whispering "no no no..." being lifted again...carried...pushed inside a big dark space...hearing breathing sobbing around him...BANG BANG doors slam...riding riding forever...feel his pee hot in his pants then cold...hungry...asleep...awake...doors open men scream water bottles thrown past grab one grab it grab it...BANG BANG doors slam...water...riding forever again forever...stopping...doors open...quiet voices sooth as arms lift him up...more voices whisper...a blanket wrapped around him...another car door opens...he is placed inside...the sun is starting to rise...he sobs...he rides forever...he sleeps...he wakes clean...bed soft under him...he is afraid to open his eyes...he sees a room...he sees a man...he sees a hand before him...he takes the hand...mornings and evenings come and go...he is sad...he misses his Maman and Papa...he misses his Tía and Tío...but new Tío is nice...new Tío buys him toys...

new Tío buys him candy...new Tío plays fútbol with Mateus...but new Tío also hurts him...hurts him in the night...he cannot think of it...sometimes it is too much to bear...Mateus does not want to sleep...new Tío comes again...there is pain...there is more pain...Mateus is screaming...around his neck his gift from new Tío is tight...too tight...Mateus cannot breath...Mateus cannot scream...Mateus remembers...

¡...Maman! ¡Te extrañé!

After Glow.

The curtain closed for the last time. Everyone dashed off stage to their dressing rooms to get out of costumes and scrape off pancake makeup, finishing a transformation that had begun four hours earlier in the exact reverse of the process.

He was elated. The bouquets of roses that had been tossed at his feet tonight were so satisfying. After years of slowly building up his public persona, he had finally arrived. He was exactly where he knew he was supposed to be: Adored by thousands of fans, reviews all extolling his talents and natural grace, being interviewed for local and regional magazines.... Why, his agent had told him just yesterday that he might be booked for a spot on the late night show. Yes indeed, things were finally, finally looking as he had imagined them.

Finishing his change of wardrobe and, with a final careful combing of his perfectly coiffed hair, he gazed at eyes reflected back to him in the mirror and was filled with love. He was beautiful. He thought the hint of silver just beginning to frost his temples gave him an air of sophistication. He knew it made him look more like a tío or an abuelo to his special guests. It was a persona he had developed over the course of a lifetime, born out of an insatiable need to give love. He had no family to speak of; had grown up in the slums, had learned the hard way that it is always better to be the bearer of some gifts than the receiver. Had learned he liked being with boys, if he was the one in charge. Bestowing the gift. Feeling them tremble beneath him drove him into ecstasy. He knew he had to be careful. No one must know that he had special guests. He glanced at his watch: Time to go. His ride was waiting impatiently outside. He shrugged and tossed his jacket over his shoulder, stopping for one last quick glance in the mirror before he left the room.

An Awkward (Re)Introduction.

... I am ... dreaming?

All I could see was white. I could see and feel my feet standing on what felt like a cold, solid surface, but everything I could see except me was white. No distinct horizon, floor, or ceiling was visible.... Everything was a seamless expanse of white. I felt a moment's vertigo but a blink restored my sense of balance.

I'd had lucid dreams before, where I had known I was dreaming inside the dream and was able to at least understand what was happening within the dream, but this felt different. I really didn't like lucid dreams. It seemed they were only harbingers of doom, which I then got to re-live in my life with the inevitable sense of deja vu and a I didn't like it the first time when it was a dream sense of helplessness. Who needs that?

But this felt different.

For one thing, I seemed to be alone. There didn't seem to be anything or anyone that I was supposed to interact with. Why was I here? I knew the fragile tapestry of the dream would not allow a strong response/thought and I'd just wake myself up. If there was some point to being here in this infinite nothingness, I wanted to find out what that was.

And in that instant, She was There. I thought I recognized Her as me which confused me for a moment, but then I thought, oh okay, must be my Higher Self and felt one corner of my mouth twitch upwards. She raised one eyebrow in silent inquiry. I shrugged slightly.

Still doesn't tell me why I'm here, I thought, and She raised her hands towards me in a silent invitation, bending her knees to sit on the floor. I felt my knees bending in response and decided to go along with it. Again, I could feel floor beneath me but it remained an elusively non-reflecting, opaque surface, my eyes unable to get a hold of it. I decided it wasn't important and stopped trying, raising my eyes instead to look at Her.

She smiled slightly and inclined Her head, resting the backs of Her hands on Her knees in the classic gyan mudra. I followed suit, satisfied for the time being to follow Her lead in this. She closed her eyes and breathed slowly. I did the same.

Why am I here? I found myself thinking.

You are here to learn was the instant reply-thought.

What am I supposed to learn?

Your purpose for being here.

Wait, what? That was just a circular thought process, some silly kind of brain exercise. I felt myself begin to feel annoyance and thought, I better not get mad or I'm just gonna wake up.

With my eyes still closed I could feel her answering smile and thought, I am ready. At least I hoped I was.

Much Ado About Nothing.

Everyone makes such a big deal about spiritual gifts like intuition as if it’s something to be desired. I know better. Knowing about catastrophes before they occur is useless; if we can’t stop the events from happening, what’s the point of knowing about them?

I had the migraine from Hell. I sat at my desk, considering myself fortunate for having arrived safely at work. My head was just too heavy for my neck to hold up, so I rested it on my left hand, elbow propped on my desk, while I tried to type a one-handed response to an email with my right hand.

I could feel someone standing behind me.... Ahhh yes, that would be Tony, my supervisor, I recognized his Old Spice after shave. I waved my right hand behind me in his direction, letting him know I knew he was there but trying to communicate non-verbally that I didn’t want to communicate verbally.

Tony ignored my nonverbal transmission. What’s the matter—you gotta hangover?

I winced visibly, his voice piercing my head, and replied, Something like that... while I tried to telepathically send him away.

He still wasn’t receiving my signals and barreled on: There’s Motrin in the kitchen, go chew a few of those—you look like shit.

I slowly raised my head up and turned my chair around so I was facing him directly. I looked him in the eyes. He flinched, mumbled something about, Sorry, just trying to help... and turned to walk back to his desk.

Tony, I said, stopping him. Thank you. I appreciate you. I have a migraine. I had a crazy dream last night and woke up like this. I am doing the best I can, okay? He smiled at me and said, Go. Home. I started to demur and he said, I’m serious. Whatever you are doing will wait until tomorrow. I promise. We’ll douse any fires in your absence. We’ll document everything thoroughly. Take your migraine home and call me when you get there so I know you got home okay.

I took a breath, and he gently nudged my chair back with a toe and a Go. Home. Now.

I exhaled and turned back to my computer. Let me just finish this and I will go home. I promise. I felt his nod and tried to figure out what I had been trying to say in the email on my monitor. I typed some non-response about I’ll review and get back to you tomorrow, going home not feeling well now. I shut down the computer and slowly gathered my purse and jacket, sliding my feet just above the floor so I could move without bouncing my head.

How I managed to make it home I’ll never know. I don’t remember the drive at all. I sent Tony a I’m home safe thanks text and fell into bed, pulling the pillow over my face.

I woke up at 2:00 a.m., urgently needing to pee and being desperately thirsty. How is that even possible? my brain protested. I told my brain to shut up and go back to sleep, stumbling to the bathroom with my eyes closed, arms outstretched as my heart and head had a mutual drumfest session going. I peed, drank tap water from my toothbrush glass, and stumbled back to bed.

If this is the result of intuition activation, unactivate me. Now. With that last thought I went unconscious. And started to dream again.

The Lens.

... I am ... dreaming?

Back in the White Room (that’s what I’d started calling this dream space) once more, I seemed to have again arrived before She Who Knows. Feeling a bit like an expert at this point, I inhaled and closed my eyes, then exhaled slowly and dropped my shoulders, bending my knees and sitting down to await Her appearance.

Opening my eyes I saw Her there, seated across from me. I smiled. She smiled. Between us was a small round wooden box, about a foot and a half or so in diameter and about half that in height. It looked like an old hat box and appeared to be made of a single piece of dark-colored wood, unvarnished but finished to a smooth gleaming surface. She lifted the top which formed a lid, turning it over and setting it on the floor beside the box. Inside the box appeared to be a smaller cylindrical wooden object nestled in a padded compartment, maybe eight inches in length and two to three inches in diameter.

I felt my eyebrows crease. I'd never seen anything like it before.

It looked something like a very short telescope, with a gray-black round eyepiece connected to a cylinder made of two obviously different sections of wood. I watched Her curiously as she gently removed it from the case, letting me see it as it rested in her hands for a moment before she offered it to me.

I felt my hands reach for the device without conscious thought. I felt no fear or hesitation at all through this strange encounter, although at some point in my consciousness I recognized how singularly unique this situation was.

Being a somewhat expert on various types of rocks and crystals, I thought I recognized the eyepiece as black tourmaline, cut in a donut shape to form a circle with a hollow center. I raised my eyes to Her with that thought and she dipped her head once in silent approval. Returning my gaze to the device, I could see what looked like a quartz crystal point nestled within the tourmaline's center. Feeling my eyebrow twitch, I looked carefully at the wooden section the tourmaline was joined to. It was a perfectly smooth cylinder approximately two inches long, and I guessed it was hollow inside to hold the quartz crystal, which meant the crystal was about two inches long and about an inch thick.

Hmmm, that's a 1:2 ratio... interesting.... I thought.

There appeared to be some kind of spacer between the first and second sections with a small raised lip. It seemed perfect for getting a fingertip hold of, so I tried that. The piece slid out easily, a small black frame that held two pieces of glass, maybe a couple inches square. It looked like the lip had an opening where the glass pieces could be inserted and removed, so I tipped the frame over and watched as two thin clear pieces of what felt like glass slid out a bit, making it easy to remove the rest of the way. It reminded me of the science kit I had when I was little, with the small clear glass slides you put a specimen on before placing under the microscope. These were just bigger and square. I blinked and raised my head, genuinely puzzled now and not worried about whether I woke up or not. This was getting weird.

She smiled at my confusion and raised one hand in a just hold on a moment gesture. I heard Her say, This is the Lens. She nodded to the device. I nodded my understanding.

Black tourmaline for the threyepiece, to set a focus that is balanced and based on the root chakra, joining left- and right-brain functions.

Thriepeace? I thought.

The piece for the Third Eye to be directed through, was Her reply. She continued without pause. A clear quartz double-point crystal concentrates the energy being directed through the threyepiece, with one point held within the tourmaline's center.

The threyepiece is mounted to a two-inch section of yew, hollowed out to firmly hold the quartz crystal generator. Yew provides the energy of regeneration.

"The 'slides' as you call them are indeed very similar to your science kit, and as you see they are held in a black bracket which forms the frame for the two clear glass slides. This allows a microscopically thin specimen to be mounted and placed within the Lens. When a specimen is mounted and inserted, one side of the slide touches and makes a connection with the crystal point."

The last section of the cylinder is ash, which provides strength and accuracy.

At one end of the ash cylinder section is a reading glass lens with a +3.5 magnification. She glanced at me to make sure I was still with Her. I nodded slightly and returned my gaze to the Lens.

At the other end of the ash cylinder is an 8x magnification lens, most commonly used in archery scopes. I tilted the end of the Lens and could clearly see a glass lens at the terminating end. I returned the Lens to rest in both my hands and lifted my eyes to Her.

In my mind’s eye, I saw each piece as she described it:

The Lens (interior components only)

She met my gaze calmly but didn't make any other gestures. I didn't hear any other thoughts from Her. I looked again at the Lens, feeling like I was missing something here. You obviously couldn't actually look through the device; having a quartz crystal blocking whatever might be seen through the tourmaline and the interior lenses pretty effectively guaranteed that. So why call it the Lens and what did it do? What was its purpose?

Which immediately reminded me of the start of this conversation. I had asked why I was here, and She had answered that I was here to find out my purpose.

Okay, copy that. So now what?

She asked, Is hindsight always 20/20?

I replied, "That's what they say" with a mental shrug, unsure where this was leading.

If hindsight is 20/20, what is foresight?

Ummm. "I don't know? What kind of question is that anyway?"

I could feel Her amusement with my thought process.

You use your foresight when you get your inspiration or 'divine downloads' as you call them. Foresight, divination, prophecy and related skills are all just aspects of your true vision.

"My third eye."

Indeed.

She held my gaze for a long moment. There is an evil in the world. In your world. Here. Where you are currently. It needs to be stopped. The Lens can show this. With your help. My bewilderment must have been apparent, because She leaned forward intently and continued.

Holding the threyepiece to your Third Eye, the Lens will project an image of the memory held within the specimen between the slides onto the lid of the box.

I thought I understood what She was saying but I was losing focus of the conversation. I could feel the dream slipping out of my control and decided to let it go.

* * *

I woke up with another migraine. It was Monday morning, the start of a new work week. Hooray. Whatever the hell that was all about.

I half-fell out of bed and felt my way along the hallway to the bathroom for an urgent call of nature, snagging the bottle of Motrin out of the medicine cabinet to down four tablets with saliva while I peed and listened to the pounding of my head, willing the drugs to stay down as I fought a bout of nausea.

Lovely.

A Calm and Clear Day.

37 Tango was monitoring traffic along southeast Houston, flying at altitude, cruising south of I-610 between the 288 and I-45 corridors. Current air conditions were calm and clear; traffic below seemed to be in the typical mid-morning patterns, moving steadily along on the freeways and with relatively little traffic on the surface streets. Thompson let his gaze drift towards the horizon momentarily, just enjoying the view. He nudged Ramirez in the arm and nodded towards the Old River Quarry. A half dozen buzzards were circling over a section of the quarry on the northeast side where the older abandoned section of the quarry was located. Ramirez called into Dispatch and advised they were going to take a quick sweep and check out the quarry. Receiving confirmation from Dispatch, Thompson angled the helicopter and pressed the throttle forward slightly, taking them into a shallow curve around the area where the birds were circling.

Ramirez grabbed his binoculars and adjusted the lens until he could see the surface tarmac of the access road coming into the north end of the quarry in detail. He reoriented to where the area should be that had the birds’ interest as Thompson kept tightening the curve, leaning Ramirez into the window with a more direct angle to the ground. He waited, holding his breath as they came into view of a small clearing between several tall piles of loose rock debris, when he abruptly swore and dropped the binoculars.

What? What is it? Thompson yelled into his headset.

Ramirez just shook his head and held up his hand, then grabbed the mic.

Dispatch, this is 37 Delta, come in.

Copy 37 Delta, this is Dispatch. What’s your 10-20?

We are over the quarry, approximately .8 miles due south from the access road. Sir, there’s a body down there. A small body. His words caught in his throat. A child’s body. He dropped the mic in his lap and looked over at Thompson who sat incredulous next to him, oblivious to anything but keeping the bird in the lazy circle as he gaped at his partner, watching tears well momentarily in Ramirez’ eyes before being brushed away angrily with the back of his hands. They did traffic patrols. They reported accidents. Not homicides.

I’m okay, Ramirez said, wiping his face again with his arm. He picked up the mic and pushed the transmit button, speaking into the silence on the other end. We’re coming in. Send someone out here now. Just follow the birds.

Copy that. Officers are en route. Dispatch out.

News Flash.

I had stopped watching or reading the news months ago. The continual barrage of death and destruction had been making me seriously depressed. With my natural empathic nature always open, trying to heal the wounds and pain of those around me, I was dying an energetic death by a thousand cuts. The more I heard, the worse it seemed to get. The world was spiraling downwards and so was I.  The only way to stop it was to stop letting that energy into my personal space. Period.

Consequently, I had no idea what was or wasn’t happening in the news.

After the most recent White Room session, I thought it might be a good idea to see if I could find out what this was really all about. I plopped down on the couch and started up my laptop, opening a Google search page. I thought I should start my search in my local area and see what was happening in Houston, so I typed, Houston news for lack of any other ideas and hit Enter.

Expecting anything and everything, I was shocked numb when the following story appeared at the top of the page, a black-and-white photo of a small covered shape surrounded by police officers above the heading:

"Body of Young Boy Found In Abandoned Quarry: Residents Shocked

KTRK—ABC13 Houston. The body of a young Hispanic boy was found early this morning in an abandoned section of the Old River Gravel & Rock Quarry southeast of Houston. Harris County Institute of Forensic Sciences announced the unidentified male is estimated to be between 8 and 9 years old.

At a brief press conference held earlier, HPD spokesperson Shelly Carson asked for the public’s assistance regarding any information that might help the investigation. ‘At this time we are still trying to identify the body and to notify next of kin. If you have seen or heard anything suspicious in the area around the quarry, please notify our office immediately at [phone].’

When asked how the child was killed Ms. Carson replied, ‘No comment.’

Police presence in the area outside the quarry, particularly along the residential areas closest to the abandoned quarry sections, has been increased at the request of residents in the area."

I was horrified. Appalled. Chills raced down my spine and my stomach dropped out from underneath me.

Was this what I was being called to help with in some way? Feeling overwhelmed, I collapsed on the couch, shaking my head and repeating over and over, no no nope no way not going there nuh uh not happening not me.... Little by little, my initial outrage and shock settled into a cold, dispassionate assessment.

I could do something about it. If I wanted to. Free will and all that.

Realistically though, I wasn’t as sure of myself as She Who Knows seemed to be. I must have something I don’t know about, some special talent or skill or something.... I just couldn’t get it out of my head. The story, and the photo of the quarry, kept swirling around in my imagination.

I got dressed for work, swallowed more Motrin for the ongoing migraine (now drugged down to a dull thudding inside my skull), determined to think no more of it for the rest of the day.

As I walked into the office I was greeted by a Yay, Alise is here! Help! How nice of the Universe to give me a work crisis to distract me from that nightmare scene.

Aspirations of Grandeur.

It was so unfair!

Why did his birthday have to fall in the middle of August? Summer in Verona was always horrible—it rained all the time, and it was so hot.... and the electricity? What a joke! Where his family lived in Villaggio dell'Oca was a slum, and he was not going to stay there one second longer than he had to.

Which was still awhile, considering he had just turned 12.

After the sorry excuse for a birthday party with only his family in attendance that afternoon, he’d asked to go to his room as soon as he could. His two older sisters had been mean and rude to him, as usual, teasing him every time he tried to talk. His voice was changing, which was its own form of torture—how was he going to be a famous opera singer when every other note went from a pure tenor to a screeching falsetto? His sisters thought it was the funniest thing they’d ever heard, and they made sure he knew what they thought. Repeatedly.

His mother was no help. Cowed by years of being beaten by his father, she’d simply given up trying to defend him against even his sisters, whom his father adored. Why? Just because they made him espresso every morning with freshly baked biscotti? He was sure there was something else going on, because he couldn’t understand it. They were just fat cows who did nothing but moan and complain (when his father wasn’t around), pinching him (when his mother’s back was turned)... it was so unfair!

Finally, alone at last in his room, it was little better. His sisters shared the main floor with his parents. Their rooms had windows you could open. Their rooms had real fans that would blow lovely, cool air across your face. And where was his room? In the attic. Why? It was so unfair!

If you asked his father, he’d tell you that real men don’t need comfortable rooms, that the heat and humidity would only serve to toughen him up, and that he obviously needed to be toughened up since he was always complaining about it. Of course he complained about it! At least to his mother. She wouldn’t smack him in the back of the head. But his father seemed to have some super power of hearing; it never failed that, as soon as he even mentioned the fact that there was no air up there, that he couldn’t breathe, there’d be just one heavy footstep behind him and whack!

It was enough to drive anyone mad.

Laying spread-eagle on his bed wearing only his briefs, he stared at the roof above his head.  The window had long ago been painted shut, and the sorry excuse for a fan rattled and clanked but, apart from the occasional hint of air movement, was only background noise. He tried breathing shallowly, taking in as little moisture as possible with each breath. He couldn’t tell if his eyes were stinging from sweat or tears. "I guess it doesn’t matter. I don’t matter. Nothing matters." He could not stop hearing that in his head, over and over. Nothing matters.

There was a trapdoor in the roof. Above his bed.

It wasn’t painted shut.

But it was out of reach. He knew, because he’d tried a couple of times to get to it. He had a little desk in the corner of the cramped space with a matching little chair, but the trapdoor was high up along the roof line, just where the interior wall met the roof. The chair was not big enough to be of any use.

At least it hadn’t been before. But he’d grown since the last time he had tried it. He was now wearing his father’s old pants—he had outgrown the clothes his mother had bought for him for Christmas months ago, so he was now wearing his father’s old pants. Which was awful; pant legs rolled up and belt cinching in the too-big waist. The children at school pointed and laughed as he walked by. Or worse: The whispers from behind him would start. He knew they whispered just loud enough that he would hear but not be able to understand what they were saying. His eyes started to sting again.

It was so unfair....

The other problem with trying (again) to see if he could get to the trapdoor was that his parent’s bedroom was directly under his. The last time he’d tried, he thought he’d been so quiet as he moved the chair from the corner to middle of the room, but his father had heard anyway. He’d had only seconds to get the chair back in place and lay down on his bed before his father had come barreling into his room. Grazie Dio the stairs creaked. Not that his father had been trying to be quiet, as he had stormed up the stairs. He wasn’t stupid. He’d still gotten a beating anyway.

It had effectively