The Aurator: Deadly Secrets

1. The Pain

Everyone has a destiny, and whether it is predetermined or not, reaching it is up to each one of us.

Growing up I had always been . . . well felt different. I’m not sure why. I was a moderately attractive girl, sleek athletic build from all the years of soccer and running, long dark hair which I had been told had the perfect wave and body, although I was constantly at odds with it. I was good at sports, and academically I was in the top ten percent of my class. Still I never felt like I fit in. Friends, or the lack thereof, were a difficult subject for me to talk about. Many tried to be friends with me, but I was never able to let anyone close enough.

Megan, my father would say to me, why don’t you call one of your friends and go to a movie or something? But there was no one to call. It’s hard to explain, but I see things that other people don’t. A sort of a light or dark essence around a person. I remember my first experience with this when I was six years old.

The Catholic church that my family went to had a priest who always looked angry to me. But whenever he was around certain young boys in the congregation his shape took on an eerie dark hue. It was almost as if someone had taken a thick black marker and drawn a perfect outline of him, careful not to draw into the lines of his body but also not too far away. At least this is how my six-year-old eyes saw it. Everyone at the church loved him. He was, after all, one of the chosen ones . . . chosen by God. However, he disappeared one day, and neither I nor anyone in our church ever saw him again. It was much later, well into my twenties, that I heard he had been molesting the boys in the church.

The next time I noticed the strange outline, as I called it then, was not until my teenage years, when I was sixteen and a junior in high school. I hated high school. This time the outline was around a boy at school, and I remember it was much darker, more pronounced, and had a feeling of impending doom to it. Since I didn’t have a lot of friends, no one noticed when I became obsessed with following him around. I watched his every move, waiting for . . . well, I don’t know what I was waiting for. I was always intrigued by others and felt as if people wandered around with blinders on, not watching their actions, others’ reactions, or quite frankly even where they were going. I felt very aware of everyone, as if I was waiting, looking for . . . or about to miss . . . something.

The boy’s name was John Steele, and I followed him around for two months the way an obsessed stalker follows his or her intended, watching his ever-changing outline. Sometimes it was jet black and very defined, moving with him. Other times it was a faded gray, less defined, more see-through and not very snug to his figure. But always there. By all accounts, John should have been a very popular boy since he was attractive and played on the lacrosse team. I saw that girls were definitely attracted to him because they would stare at him when he wasn’t looking. He seemed completely oblivious to this. He was an attractive boy with short brown hair, blue eyes, and a strong build. The lacrosse team had to work out in the weight room every day so most of the boys on the team were fairly muscular. We were similar in one respect . . . he did not appear to have a lot of friends either. While I did not find myself attracted to John in that way, I was drawn to him. Why? I didn’t know.

One night, two months after first noticing John, I had an extremely vivid and terrifying dream. Little did I know then that what I saw was more than just a dream. The dream started in a classroom, not one that I regularly attended, when something dark walked into the room. There was a loud noise . . . many loud noises. I saw three specific faces, kids that I recognized from school but didn’t take classes with, twisted in terror and screaming. Everyone was screaming.

The screen in my head went red and I heard loud noises. It was more than noise, the screaming started to take shape. Words began to pierce the red screen . . . NO . . . HELP . . . MOM . . . PLEASE. The words were prefaced by and ended with more terrified sounding screams.

I wanted to wake up. I wanted out. I couldn’t take it anymore. LET ME OUT!

I woke up screaming, unable to breathe, my eyes wide with terror. The pain . . . so painful . . . in my chest . . . in my head . . . so painful . . . more screaming . . . make it stop. Still today I can recall this and remember the pain with complete clarity.

My mom ran into the room and looked at me with worry and fear in her eyes. She grabbed my arms and pulled me close as her voice shook with uncertainty, What’s wrong, what hurts?

I couldn’t stop screaming, the pain was intense and wasn’t like anything I’d ever felt before. My mom yelled for my dad to call 911 and I found myself writhing in pain. My next conscious memory was of paramedics holding me down, then strapping me to a gurney. Why weren’t they stopping the pain, the pain, the pain? MAKE IT STOP! I screamed. At least I thought I had said it out loud.

I missed the ambulance ride and more in the cloud of pain. I then recall people working over me, poking, prodding, and testing in the emergency room. They finally gave me pain medicine, which coursed through my veins causing my fear and panic to slip through the welcomed shade of rest. The pain dulled and I was able to fall into a fitful sleep. I didn’t dream. Through a fog I could hear things in the room. I heard the doctor come in to speak with my mother, who was hanging on by her last thread of sanity. I heard him say they couldn’t find anything medically wrong with me that would have explained my symptoms. He suggested I see a psychiatrist. My mother broke down crying but reluctantly agreed . . . anything to help me, and I fell back into the haze.

By the next morning my pain had subsided and I was released to my mother’s care pending an appointment with a shrink. I was exhausted, I just wanted to go home but was afraid to go back to sleep and . . . no, I couldn’t think about what I had seen anymore.

Thankfully no more dreams. My mom called the school, explaining, "She’s . . . sick." I heard the confusion in her voice.

I went to the psychiatrist that day, explained what had happened, that I woke from a dream in extreme pain that I truly felt physically. My head . . . my chest . . . I shuddered when my memory of the pain flooded my consciousness again. I was not in pain today.

He asked if anything else had been going on, boyfriends (ha!), family, school? Well I couldn’t tell him about the outline I saw around John because that was just crazy. So I said no. He spoke with my mom, chalked it up to normal teenage stress, hormones, possibly some attention-seeking . . . quack . . . but he didn’t think anything was seriously wrong. I was starting to wonder if I was crazy, or, if not already there then at least on my way.

As we drove home my mom listened to the radio, we didn’t talk, and I stared blankly out the window. What the hell was that, I thought. The pain was real, I think, but then I wasn’t so sure.

Suddenly my concentration was broken, my heart sped up, my breathing was shallow and ragged. I felt dizzy. On the radio . . . my school . . . a shooting . . . a lot of kids dead . . . and the shooter . . . a student. Dizzy . . . and then everything went blank.

I woke up a few minutes later to find that my mom had stopped the car and was calling out my name. I had fainted or maybe hyperventilated myself into unconsciousness. Was it a dream?

Then she started crying. I’m sorry honey, your friends . . . she said.

What? What, what happened? I tried to slow my breathing and concentrate. I didn’t want to pass out again.

There was a shooting at your school, a student, I don’t know the details. Oh my God . . . if you had been there! Her words were difficult to understand as she buried her head in her hands to sob.

How many? Did they die? Who did it? A sudden pain in my stomach, and I knew who but was trying to grasp at reality and put the pieces together. The outline around John, the feeling of impending doom, the dream . . . kids . . . faces . . . red . . . loud noises. Then the pain, and I shuddered once more.

We need to go to the school mom. My friends. I really didn’t have friends to worry about but I wanted to see the aftermath myself.

No! she exclaimed, Haven’t you been through enough? No! I’m taking you home.

We went home and I immediately turned on the news. Breaking news, less than one hour ago a student opened fire on fellow classmates in a massive shooting . . . . The words trailed off as I tried to think this through, feeling more aware and more in control. The student suspected of being responsible for the shooting is a senior attending the school . . . the student’s name is being withheld until the investigation has been completed . . . . Again they trailed off but my breathing had become ragged, shallow, dizzy. No, I can’t faint, I thought, not now, get ahold of yourself. Reports coming in, I tuned back in, three students shot and killed, one in the head and two others in the chest. Was this what my pain was about?

The identities of the victims will be withheld until the families can be notified, the reporter continued. But didn’t I already know who they were? Didn’t I see their faces . . . feel their pain? What do I do with this? Do I tell someone? Am I right or am I crazy?

Then they showed him, John, on camera, his head tucked between two police officers . . . in shame? Hands were behind his back in cuffs.

Then I saw it again, even on TV . . . the darkness that encircled him was wider and darker than it had ever been before. Had I seen this coming? Okay, that is crazy.

I ran out the front door, not bothering to say good-bye to my mom. But she heard me and screamed after me, Stop! But I couldn’t. I needed to see what had happened for myself.

I jumped into my car, sort of a heap but it was all I could afford. I had just gotten my driver’s license and bought a stick shift . . . ugh. I was still so slow at this. I was able to get it going, shifting and grinding the gears, and lunging forward just to get up to the speed limit. I made it to the school as some of the families arrived, the families of the children, my classmates. Would they be the faces from my dream?

My brother, Tim, a San Francisco police officer for four years already, was there. He saw me and his eyes were wide with concern. Go home, he hollered at me. I saw the worry on his face but shook my head at him and looked away . . . moron. He needed to focus, he was not a very good cop. I moved through the crowds of onlookers, some of them staring in bewilderment and others crying for the kids they knew and those they didn’t. I knew the back entrance to the building well, since that was how I often slipped out of class to avoid talking to anyone. It was unguarded and I let myself in. I knew where to go.

I felt the heat inside me rise as I got closer. It’s the same room, I murmured to myself. My breathing quickened and I peeked around the corner waiting for one of the officers to step away from the entrance. I saw my opening as a mother came running in, pushing past the police screaming, My baby, my baby! My heart ached and tears welled up in my eyes. I tried to shake it off, I needed to focus . . . to see.

The officers rushed to hold back the grieving mother and I snuck into the room. I stopped suddenly, unable to breathe.

There it was, just as I had seen it. All of it. The three faces, the three classmates . . . Gayle Alexander . . . Tori Cunningham . . . Jeff Whiten. All of them, just as I had seen their faces in the dream. I clutched my chest and, suddenly feeling dizzy, I fell against the wall, trying to brace myself and not look away. I needed to know this. Gayle, shot in the head twice, maybe three times? She lay in a large pool of blood on the floor. Tori, shot in the chest, maybe once. Blood was splattered like a Rorschach behind her on the wall and she was slumped in a heap in the corner. Jeff was the worst. He must have put up a fight. Several obvious wounds, his t-shirt shredded in pieces. He had left a trail of blood behind him as it looked like he was trying to get out of the room. How could this be? How could I have known this? Could I have done anything? What would . . . ?

Hey! an officer yelled at me. I tried to turn my head but the room was spinning . . . had I stopped breathing?

He rushed over, grabbed me before I fell, and carried me out to the ambulances. Keep her out! he ordered.

Ambulances? Oh no, not again. I tried to take deep breaths and recover so that I could avoid yet another ride to the hospital, where surely this time they would lock me away.

I stood up carefully. Good, my feet were working, my legs still a little wobbly, but I convinced the EMTs that I was all right. They were too busy to worry much more about me. I walked slowly back to my car, past the onlookers, crossing the caution tape. Odd . . . caution tape . . . could it really keep anyone out?

I got to my car and broke down. I cried so hard that I wasn’t sure I was making sound anymore. By the time I looked up, the parking lot was half empty and I was drained. I drove home, the car grinding and lurching most of the way. As I walked in, my mom and dad ran to me with a mixture of sadness and concern in their eyes.

I’m sorry you lost friends, honey. It’s not fair, my mom said. Friends? Funny, that hadn’t been what I was so shaken about. Sure I’d known them all since kindergarten and was sad anyone died. But friends? No.

Honey, can I do anything for you? my dad asked.

No, I replied looking at both of them. Fear and sadness covered their faces, and I had a sudden rush of shame welling up inside. Should I say that I had known, that I could have done something?

My parents . . . Diane and Russ Alcosta. I’ve been told my whole life how our last name means the one who walks along the coast. The coast being San Francisco, my dad would always add. Having heard this story about a hundred times, I would roll my eyes . . . again. My family has been here since the beginning, my father always told us. We built this city and won’t leave ’til they’ve burned the whole thing down.

They are the epitome of a Beaver Cleaver family. My dad, an attorney with the San Francisco District Attorney’s office. I wondered calmly if he would be prosecuting John. My mom, the stay-at-home mom, PTA all the way.

It hadn’t always been like this for them. My parents used to be very active alcoholics, throwing parties almost every night and passed out late at night . . . every night. They were Monday through Saturday atheist alcoholics and Sunday withdrawing Catholics. They both got help right before they had me and have been sober, Alcoholics Anonymous, model parents ever since.

I knew the story very well, they retold it to me hundreds of times when I was growing up, as if trying to make sure I wouldn’t choose the same rocky path. They were . . . are loving and good parents. But how would they respond to me telling them my truths? Ugh . . . more psychiatrists.

I hugged them both and walked to my room. I just wanted to sleep.

I woke up feeling a little weak and sore. I got dressed for school and wandered to the kitchen. Dad had gone to work and mom walked in as I was eating breakfast.

I looked up to say good morning and stopped suddenly. My mom had a white outline. She paused in the doorway and looked at me, a little stunned, even nervous and asked, You okay honey?

Yeah mom, I finally got out. Come on Megan, pull yourself together. I’m fine. Then I looked back down at my Cheerios. My mom paused for a minute, as if waiting for something. Then she turned and walked out. I glanced up to watch her walk away, white light and all.

School was equally painful, everyone walking around me with various shades of light and dark, everyone with their own marker. But for what? Good or bad?

I couldn’t look. I didn’t want to know.

I hung my head, not making eye contact, wishing I was blind. It would be years before anything, or anyone, would make me want to look up to greet society again.

2. Warmth

I survived high school and started college. I was terrified to move away from home. Over the next few years, I had unwillingly developed, no perfected, seeing the outlines on people. I felt as if I could sense a dark outline near. Maybe I was crazy. But I would turn away, walk away, do whatever I could to avoid seeing . . . knowing.

Occasionally I had to look up and was awe-struck by the fact that everyone had this kind of aura around them. They were different shades, sometimes switching between light and dark. I had no idea what that meant, but I didn’t really want to analyze it.

I hadn’t had another dream since high school and prayed I never would again. I went to college, did my homework, and just like high school . . . no friends.

I was in my senior year and about to graduate as a nurse. I had always wanted to be a nurse. My dream job was to work in an emergency room, saving lives.

As I passed by my favorite old building on the campus, a beautiful red brick building, worn, but loved by weather and time, I saw it . . . him. An amazingly bright aura that stopped me in my tracks. I had never seen anything like it before and it shimmered like bits of colored sunlight dancing on the water.

I felt myself pulled toward it, my heart racing, breath quickening, palms sweating. I got within twenty feet of him and it hit me like a gust of hot wind and I closed my eyes. My breathing stopped.

As I regained my composure, I slowly started breathing and opened my eyes. He was a rugged looking guy, but somehow soft. He looked at me with the bluest eyes I’d ever seen. My breath quickened as he smiled a smile that could melt any ice-cold heart . . . even mine. I noticed one crooked tooth, a smile just shy of perfect. I took a deep breath and felt the flush on my checks. My heart sped as he put something down and started walking toward me. His blonde hair ruffled slightly in the breeze as he approached. I watched as he drew closer and closer, stopping just in front of me, easily eight inches taller as me and at least twice as wide, all muscle.

Just then I felt it . . . a wave of heat, smacking me in the face, forcing me to gasp. He chuckled, probably drawing his own conclusions from this. I quickly thought the heat must be connected to this very different aura. Different . . . but beautiful. For the first time in my life I felt safe and at ease. And very warm. I had a sudden urge to remove my sweater. My distraction caused by the aura and heat quickly dissipated as he spoke.

Hi, he said with the sweetest smile. He held out his hand.

What was I just thinking about? Doesn’t matter.

Hi, I was barely able to utter and I reached out to shake his hand. My hand warmed and softened in his as he reached with his left and grasped my hand in his.

He looked curiously at me, or confused, trying to figure out if I was nothing short of a moron, and chuckled, I’m Luke. You a student here?

Uh, yeah. You? My IQ was dropping by the second.

He smiled bigger and chuckled. I became aware that he was still holding my hand, No, maintenance department. I work here.

I wish I could say it took more than that, but it didn’t. We spent every day after that together. I couldn’t get enough of him . . . in any way. The way he looked at me . . . touched me . . . but more so how I felt with him. I had never felt so at ease or comfortable in my surroundings. I also noticed that I still had the same anxious, nervous, don’t fit in feeling when I wasn’t with him.

We married the following year after graduation. I got my first nursing job working in an emergency room. Night shift, but it was worth it. Life was amazing. Three children came . . . all girls . . . over the years. First Alexandra, or Alex, now fourteen and a brunette like me. It took us many years to have our next child but then came Trina, now eleven and a redhead—we don’t know how that happened. Then right away Abigail, seven and a blonde, the spitting image of my husband.