I was to later learn that Jessie was her name.
Now she lay silently before me. A broken discarded rag doll body where once a vibrant woman existed.
As I silently hovered in a remote viewing state of mind over her corpse I force myself to look around, to not the location and to describe it. I knew I was up high, a plateau looking down. A fast downwards movement to a chasm below.
The location was warm, rocky, sandy and the top location where she now lay was fringed by a smattering of trees or vegetation. If this wasn’t now a grave it could under normal circumstances be a peaceful location. But now, it was the scene of Jessie’s demise, her story book if you wish and within its pages I could peel back the layers of time and see the last fleeting images of her life play out like a surreal play in my mind.
I see her face, she’s angry, agitated and something else. Fuzzy, no wait I know this feeling, I’ve seen it before she’s high or drugged. I can feel the fringes of her mind, her thoughts, her anger, all swathed in a warm fuzziness, a numbness. Then I see past her and the outline of another person forms, she not alone – its a man, he too is agitated and angry.
My position shifts and I move deeper within them both, they are in a relationship, they are close and know each other well. They were sexual. There has been an argument, a drug fuelled rage emanates form them both, but more from him.
Another shift and another flash of imagery fills my mind, I’m now in Jessie, looking up, feeling pain, a dark shadowed life is bearing down upon me, the pain, a tightness, and anger all mixed with a hopeless frustration.
I then snap to and write ‘strangled’ on the page. The person I have been blindly tasked with finding is dead. She was strangled by a man she knew well. He drove her to this sweet, beautiful remote location like a lover would, but then turned and then unlike a lover he left her, lonely and abandoned to the elements.
Another shift and I see her body again, its laid downwards in an awkward position, a shape unnatural for the human form. There’s not much left now, she’s been dead a while and nature has helped her sink into the landscape. A few bones and ragged remains are left exposed.
For the next hour I force myself to move around the location. I try to sketch form above – finding the shape of the dropping cliff-like edge and I follow it with lines on the paper, as if every line of my pen is a signpost to her location, a yearning need within me to help bring her home.
I sketch the location, I move to the side and sketch it, then I move myself way up high above the terrain. From here I see a forked road atop a mountain or cliff with a jagged drop. The location is remote, no visible structure, no people, quiet, lonely.
Inside I am detached, but there is a part of deep inside that always cries, the frustration of seeing a person’s last moments, their pain, their last gasps as emotions weep from their eyes. I remain detached, I observe, I want to help and try to use this amazing tool to record every piece of data. I look around and try to grasp every word, every little sketch in hope that any of it, all of it will help the police, will help her loved ones by leading them to her final resting place and to end the pain and torment that must come with just not knowing. It must be this single thing that must kill the family from the inside out. It’s why I do this, it’s why I watch like some addicted voyeur of the abnormal. I live in hope that just one word, one written sentence will signpost to a missing loved one.
After an hour of grasping at invisible thread of intuitive data that seem to float in my mind – as real as catching snowflakes, I write ‘end’ there is no more I can do here, today. I’m drained, its hard, emotional but detached. But I wouldn’t be human if i didn’t resonate and empaphise in some way when connected to the minds of those I hunt.
I scan my 17 pages of remote viewing data, that included falling chains of words that snake across and down the pages like ragged snakes & ladders in words, doodles and sketches of a natural location, that under any other circumstance would be considered ‘pretty’.
Then I type a summary of my data, my impressions into something more formal. I add this my summary, my remote witness testimony to a police information sheet and pass the whole file along to my handler, who will collate with many other psychic excursions, into a report and onto the police.
It’s now that I get my feedback file, until now all i knew was that I was working a missing persons target and the random number I use as a starting point, which for me was the day’s date. I open the feedback with a sense of wanting but also with a sense of trepidation. A part of me want to be accurate, wants to validate my intuitive impressions, wants to revel in the amazing ability and what we can do. Then there’s a deeper part of me, one that empathizes for the missing person and all those who work tirelessly to try to bring her home, to end the suffering.
The feedback gives the project form, it now has a name – I won’t use her full name but She is called Jessie, born in Canada in 1984, Last seen at an address in Las vegas, Nevada. Thought to be in the sex industry and that this may be the reason behind her disappearance.
My first thoughts are great – my data matches. Then as the excitement of hitting yet another RV target fades and quickly is replaced with the hope that just one small piece of what I and other provide MAY lead the investigators in a new direction or give them a thread, a lead, a chance to bring her home. After all is that too much to ask for all the years or work, for sharing the pain and anguished look from these unfortunate people, I don’t think so. So God, if you are out there – take note. Until then I like many others, turn up, look into faces of the departed and will keep on sharing whatever scraps of information we can.
There is always hope.