House on Slocum Road by D. H. Clair

From the Publisher

Lottie Winslow doesn't remember the crash that orphaned her or that she foresaw the crash in a dream. Her memory never came back, but the dreams and visions did. When a chance meeting with a psychic reveals that she has a mission, Lottie must choose between her husband's American dream formula for their lives and the undeniable force within her. Her determination to forge ahead, despite his opposition, sparks a chain of events that begins with a discovery in The House on Slocum Road—a discovery that jumpstarts her inevitable date with destiny.

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THE HOUSE ON SLOCUM ROAD

Infinity Publishing

Chapter One

"What's so funny this early in the morning?" she asked, as she walked back into the kitchen.

"Just something Rush Limbaugh said," he responded, still chuckling.

"Really." She lifted her eyebrows. "Do you have surgery this morning?"

"No, but I do have a meeting with the staff." Paul glanced at the kitchen clock. "I should get going. Looks like the roads might be slippery." He took his coat from the back of the chair, hung it over an arm, swigged the last of his coffee and set his mug on the table. He picked up his medical bag. "Don't know what time I'll be home, it depends-"

"I know. If you're not at the hospital in Scarsdale, you'll be at the clinic in case of an emergency." She lifted her face for his kiss.

"I'll call you," he threw over his shoulder just before the door closed.

On her way to the sink with the remains of a hurried breakfast, Lottie paused to switch the radio to WQXR, New York's classical station.

She'd almost reached the stairs when the doorbell rang. Peering through the frost-covered window she saw Joey, their paperboy. The March wind tussled with her for control of the heavy door.

"Hi,Joey." She shivered as a cold blast raised goose bumps on her arms. "Whoa, March is coming in like a lion," she said, as she stopped the door from slamming into the wall.

A blue plaid scarf wound around his neck, covering his chin. Wisps of brown hair peeked from under a wool helmet, his cheeks apple red from the wind. "Time to collect, Mrs. Winslow," he said, hopping from one foot to the other. He wore one red mitten, its partner held between his teeth while he searched for her payment card on the ring clipped to his belt.

"Come in out of the cold. I'll get my purse."

When she returned, she paid him, including a generous tip. He hole-punched her card and uttered a breathless, "Thanks," as he stuffed the money in an envelope and stuck it in his backpack.

"Would you like a cup of hot cocoa before you leave?"

"No time, but thanks anyway." The freckle-faced eleven-year-old rewarded her with an impish grin before he opened the door. "See ya," he said, and dashed down the steps. He hopped on his bike and began pedaling down the drive.

He'd almost reached the road by the time it came back to her. Stiffening with fright she cried aloud.

"No! I will not allow this to happen." Lottie called to him, frantically waving her arms. He paused, one foot on the pedal the other on the pavement, ready to push off into the road, just as she had foreseen. She began to run, oblivious of the cold.

"No, Joey. Don't go yet! Wait!" she yelled as she ran toward him. When she reached him at the curb, he waited for her to say something. The road was quiet and empty, the boy's impatience to be off clearly evident. Lottie began to feel foolish, as he stared at her, waiting.

Just then, she heard it-the sound she'd been anticipating. It came tearing around the corner, the vroom of its engine shattering the morning stillness. Lottie clung to the back of Joey's bike as the bright red sports car whizzed by so close it riffled the boy's crisp newspapers. He drew back; his face drained of color, and stared at her, open-mouthed.

As the car disappeared in a cloud of exhaust, Joey recovered his senses. He looked up and down the street warily, then glanced at Lottie and pedaled off without a word, leaving her standing on the curb looking after him.

It was late when Paul returned home, the rhythmic ticking of the battery-operated rooster clock above the sink the only sound. He glanced up at it-eleven p.m.

She must be asleep, poor thing, another night she had to eat alone.

The smell of meatloaf lingered in the kitchen. He felt a double pang of guilt when he opened the refrigerator and saw the covered plate, a post-it note with his name on it. Too exhausted to eat, he took out a bottle of water, downed it and threw the empty in the recycle bin.

Lottie had been Paul's O.R. nurse. She knew better than most that a doctor's life is never easy. He'd built up a good practice by the time he finally proposed. But when he should have been able to lay back a little, he was consumed with another goal-a clinic for those patients turned away for lack of money or insurance. Once the idea germinated, he discussed it with Lottie. With her promised support he went ahead full steam.

The woman was fantastic-had a real head for marketing. She threw herself into fund-raising and applying for grants while he lobbied his associates. It finally paid off. The Good Sam Clinic had been in operation almost two years now.

Lottie had spent countless hours volunteering. There was something calming about her presence-the easy way she approached hesitant patients, putting them at ease. Then, out of the blue, she got sick. No getting away from it, it changed her. Paul was at a loss to explain it.

He'd just hung up his coat when Teddy padded down the stairs to greet him.

"Hi, fella. I guess your mistress has gone to bed." He patted the dog's large head, checked the front door lock, switched off the lights and went upstairs.

Light spilled across her face as she lay there, the book she'd been reading still in her hand, the clock radio playing softly. So lovely in her sleep. He leaned down to kiss her forehead and gently removed the book from her slackened fingers, shaking his head as he read the title:

Understanding Your Dreams, a Guide for the Novice. It was by no means the first of its ilk.

What's at the root of this new interest, Lottie? Where's it coming from?

He laid the book on the nightstand and turned off the lamp.

* * *

The mist enveloping her, she inched her way toward the light. The tunnel was cold and dank, the dampness a living thing that clung to her face like silken spider webs. She swiped at them and felt the stickiness on her hands. The radiant light at the other end seemed so far away. She had to reach the light and tried to lift her foot-it seemed stuck in mire, so heavy. She grew weary of the struggle and wanted to give up, but the woman's voice kept calling her name, urging her on. Why couldn't she move? Would no one help her?

"Who is it? Who's there?" She cried out. She sat bolt upright, her eyes wild. The dog began to bark.

Paul woke and admonished the dog,

"Quiet, Teddy-lie down." He turned to his wife. "Ssh-it's okay, Lottie. You were dreaming." He snapped on the bedside lamp.

She exited the dream slowly, the confining walls of the tunnel giving way to the familiar rose and white pastoral scene on the bedroom wall. Lottie turned toward his voice, relief flooding her face.

"You're shivering." He gathered the coverlet around her shoulders.

"I'm okay. Sorry I woke you." She sank back on the pillow.

"The dream again?" Worry lines creased his forehead, his voice betraying his concern.

"Yes." She dreaded what would come next.

"It's getting to be a regular occurrence."

"I can't help it, I don't pre-order my dreams."

"I didn't mean-I just think there must be a reason you keep having this nightmare, and maybe, if we-" She cut him off.

"I've told you before it's not a nightmare, it's only a dream."

"Honey, it's more than that. It always wakes you, and you sound so distressed."

Her glare convinced him not to pursue the subject. He sighed and slumped against his pillow.

"I don't want to argue with you, sweetheart."

"Then don't." She threw off the coverlet and got out of bed.

In the bathroom she leaned up against the sink and assessed herself in the mirror-the dark circles under her eyes, stark against the milky white of her skin, the tall frame a trifle too slender. It had been a hellish six months. First the coma, then the diagnosis. Type I diabetes. How could she have missed the symptoms? Almost immediately afterward the dreams began. She thought at first, it was a manifestation of low blood sugar, but testing proved otherwise.

She ran her fingers through the tousled red hair. Who are you? I don't recognize you anymore. She'd thought about telling him, enlisting his support, yet she hesitated. How could she explain it, this advance knowing of events? She didn't ask for it, didn't want it, or even know what she was supposed to do with it. One day, it was just there-this power, or whatever it was. How would Paul take it?

He'd already questioned her about the books she'd acquired on various paranormal subjects in a vain attempt to understand it. She'd dummied an excuse then, not able to tell him about the visions and how much they disturbed her. Paul was so straight-laced and, to be frank, a little opinionated. So she'd tried on her own. But this latest incident with Joey, the magnitude of it, frightened her. She had to tell someone soon or she'd go crazy.

Lottie took a face cloth from the rack, moistened it and dabbed at her face. Squaring her shoulders, she returned to the bedroom, still undecided. Stalling, she went to the open window and looked out over the garden. High in the sky the full moon cast eerie shadows through the stately trees. The April breeze fanned the nylon sheers about her body like gossamer wings.

Her mind made up, she turned from the window and slipped back into bed.

Paul lay watching her and waiting, his arms under his head. She sat with the coverlet pulled up to her waist, her slender arms encircling her knees.

"Are you planning to sit up all night?"

"I want to talk to you about something." She turned toward him. "But only if you promise to listen and not fly off the handle."

"Can't it wait until morning?" He yawned and started to turn over. "Wait a minute-" He rose up on his elbows and looked at her. "Is it something serious? Why would you think I'd fly off the handle-do I usually?"

"No, you don't, and yes, I think it's serious, but-" She picked at a chenille nub of the coverlet. "I don't know where to begin."

"Try the beginning."

Paul loved her, she told herself-he'd give her the support she craved. She took the plunge and told him everything. About the visions-the voices-Joey's near miss-all of it.

She drew a deep breath and let it all come out. Once she began she couldn't stop until she'd emptied herself. And then, breathless, she waited.

He fell back on his pillow, seemingly contemplating the ceiling.

"Well-aren't you going to say anything-Paul-?" She fought the urge to shake him.

He raised himself up and faced her.

"Honey, there's a logical explanation for this. Maybe it was something you saw on that TV show, you know-the woman who dreams things before they happen? Or something you read in the paper. Turn off the light and let's get some sleep. I have an early surgery."

"No, Paul, it was none of those things. And it wasn't the first time something like this happened. The other times weren't as dramatic. I just didn't tell you because, frankly, I felt you'd minimize it, just like you're doing now. This thing with Joey-I saw it weeks before it happened. Right down to the color of the car. If I hadn't stopped him from going into the road who knows what might have happened."

"That's right-who knows? For crying out loud, Lottie, you don't really believe this nonsense."

"It's not nonsense, it's very real. I'd hoped, of all people that you would try to understand."

"Sweetheart, I understand that you've been under a lot of stress the last few months. And I understand you've had to make a lot of adjustments, but-"

"Don't patronize me. My adjustments have nothing to do with it." Her Irish temper flared, the green eyes blazing. "What does the omniscient Dr. Winslow think it was-a symptom of my failing mind? You've hinted at it a number of times."

"I've done no such thing. You're being unreasonable."

"I'm being unreasonable? How would you explain the fact that I'd actually seen what happened before it happened?"

"It had to be a coincidence, that's all."

She was suddenly caught in a vortex as the years rolled back. She heard her mother's voice.

"Coincidence, that's all it is." It had something to do with Uncle Jeff. Why can't I remember?

"Lottie!"

His voice jerked her back to the present. "What?"

"You can't possibly believe you've suddenly acquired supernatural powers."

"I don't know what I've acquired, but whatever it is, it's real, I know that much."

He shook his head and sighed. "This has been going on too long-first the weird dream, then your new taste in reading. Now visions? Something's out of whack here. Can't you see it? I really think it's time we talked to someone. Maybe-"

"Don't bring that up again," she snapped. She was angry now, angry at him, angry at herself, angry at this "thing" that was wreaking havoc on her life. "I'm not crazy! I was a fool to think you'd understand. With or without your help, I'll figure it out." She flounced around to snap off the lamp, punched her pillow and lay back, flipping over on her side away from him.

"Lottie, please-"

She clamped her eyes shut and refused to answer. Let him stew, she thought.

* * *

In the morning Lottie rolled over, her arm flung on the place where Paul had lain, longing to feel the comfort of his arms around her. The memory of their argument pricked at her conscience. She'd turned her back on him. She'd never done that before. And now he was gone. What if something should happen to him-or her? Maybe she'd expected too much, she had to admit it was a lot for anyone to swallow.

The sudden chirp of the phone startled her. The digital clock read seven-fifteen; she'd overslept.

"Damn! Traffic will be lousy." She reached for the phone as she threw back the covers and swung her legs over the side of the bed. The Caller ID displayed Paul's cell phone number.

"Good morning."

"Did I wake you?"

"You left early." It was an accusation.

"You didn't get much sleep. I didn't want to wake you."

"You should have. About last night-Paul, I'm sorry I lost my temper, it's just-"

"Let's not talk about that now. Are you feeling up to driving out to Jersey?"

"I'm fine. I packed last night; just have to shower and dress. Jenna's going to take care of the cat."

"She's a good neighbor. I just wanted to tell you I love you, Lottie."

"I know. I love you too."

"Please be careful on the road, lots of crazies out there."

"I'll be careful."

Lottie waited until she heard the click of the hang up before she placed the phone back on its cradle. After she'd showered and dressed, she hurried into the kitchen, filled a small thermos and gathered up Teddy's supplies. The small bag she'd packed stood in the foyer. She picked it up, stepped outside and locked the door, feeling a little thrill of anticipation. Paul was right. Betty and Alec were just what she needed right now.

It had been six months since she'd seen them. What would they think about the dreams? How much could she-should she tell them?

Chapter Two

"Any good news in there?"

"Not really." He smiled at the attractive blonde and closed the paper.

"Congratulations on your appointment. May a mere psychiatrist sit next to Scarsdale Memorial's new Chief of Orthopaedics?"

"Absolutely. I'm surprised to see you here. Who's minding your office?"

"My associate. I've been called in as consult for a patient here at the hospital."

"Good to see you. How've you been?" he asked as he folded the paper and set it on his lap.

"Busy."

"And Bill, the family?"

"All fine. Kids are in school." She sat next to him on the bench and set her briefcase on the sidewalk.

"I see you're still wearing the red vest and perky bow tie. I'll bet you've even got some kiddie amusement in the pocket of that lab coat."

He patted his bulging pocket and smiled. "It makes the kids feel more at ease. I don't want them to be afraid of me."

"As if they ever would. You have a way with children, Paul. I'm surprised you don't have any of your own."

(Continues...)

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Excerpted from THE HOUSE ON SLOCUM ROAD by D. H. Clair Copyright © 2006 by Dahris H. Clair. Excerpted by permission.
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