Past Life Therapist: A Short Story

Words: 1699
Pages: 7

The next couple of days were uneventful. No sexual fantasies, shadowy images, or music from another century that echoed throughout the house. Casey’s anxiety lessened, and she began to relax into a comfortable routine. However, she was still plagued with misgivings about Sean’s death and who made it happen and why.
Denise had called as promised to give her the appointment time with the Past Life Therapist. The doctor had squeezed her in as a personal favor to Denise next Monday. She would need to leave early in the morning to make the hourlong drive to his office in Atlanta factoring in traffic and extra time to find a parking spot.
Several work orders had popped into her queue that morning, one software development, and a couple of troubleshooting
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I’m sure of it. But there is someone out there that looks so much like Michael that an innocent man could have gone to prison for the rest of his life, or he could have gotten the death penalty. I wish the authorities had continued their investigation. They were so certain Michael was the perp that they gave up looking for anyone else. Now Mr. Ahmed will never find closure. My investigators tried. They weren’t successful.”
Afternoon light filtered through the study windows and danced across the polished coffee table. Casey put her hand on Ray’s shoulder. “At least you tried.”
Ray cleared his throat. “Enough about that. Tell me about your week. How did your appointment go with Fiona’s medium friend? What was her name?”
“Denise Howard. It went well. She picked up on what happened to Fiona right away.” Casey then went into a detailed blow-by-blow account of what Denise uncovered during her search of the house, and what she planned to do to get rid of the negative entity on the stairs.
Ray, who always supported the notion that all life supervened on the physical listened with his usual skepticism without commenting.
She could see the furrows deepen between his eyebrows and decided to stop any further discussion on the subject. It didn’t matter if he believed. Not really. She knew he would always find a logical explanation even if irrefutable evidence, tied up in a neat little package, stared him in the