mean? Why was he so mad at her?
Would Daddy come after us? Was he mad at us, too?
“No!” would come the muted voice of my mother. “Stig—no—please!”
“You’re NUTHIN, you bitch! Nothin! DO YOU HEAR ME?”
My anger at the neighbors fueled a growing self-hatred. Why wasn’t I already a grown-up? I would fight him! I would save her! I fantasized about grabbing him and throwing him to the floor, screaming at him to leave her alone! Get out and never come back! We hate you!
On Saturday nights, the unaffordable colonial house that my parents had acquired “just for you kids” became an inescapable prison. My brothers and I were literally trapped inside with no place to hide. From the time I was five years old—when I had first witnessed the abuse—I kept praying that my Dad would stop drinking, or that my Mom would somehow turn into a superhero and save all of us . . . or involve someone who could. But as the weeks slowly turned into months, and the months unfolded into years, it became apparent that no one was going to come to our rescue.
One particular Saturday night, after consuming a whole bottle of Greek Ouzo, my father went berserk. No more Ralph Kramden . . . he literally snapped. I had never seen such a look of hatred on anyone’s face as he lunged at my mother. Bellowing and cursing at the top of his lungs, he tore after her as she tried to get away. Like a madman, he thundered up the curved staircase in close pursuit, and we heard them disappear into the inner sanctum of the master bedroom. As a terrible commotion ensued, we kids sought the little refuge open to us in our rooms. Unfortunately, mine was right next door to theirs.
As time dragged on, his explosive, throaty blustering went from aggressive to downright ferocious, and it struck an ominous chord inside of me. Although this kind of melodrama was typical for a Saturday night in our household, on this particular occasion I was truly worried for my Mom. I was too scared to just sit and listen, and I was too scared to act. What should I do? As if maneuvered by a force outside of myself, I acted upon my recurring I’m-going-to-save-my-Mommy fantasy.
Emboldened, I snuck out of bed and silently tiptoed into the hallway. Their door was ajar. I had to be extra careful; I didn’t know what my father might do if he saw me spying on them. His voice was at fever pitch. I peaked inside, my heart pounding. The room was shrouded in semi-darkness; muted slivers of light from the outside streetlamp filtered through the closed blinds, casting a spooky glow. Light was reflected by the pale green ceramic handprint that I had made for them at school—now being used as an ashtray—that sat on the dresser close to the bed. Seeing it scorched and filled with cigarette butts made me feel hurt that they thought so little of my gift.
Then . . . as my eyes adjusted to the dim light, I was stunned by what I saw. I couldn’t believe it! My father was straddling my mother in their bed . . . and he was choking her! He was trying to strangle her! Both of his large hands were tightly clutching her throat, and the muscles in his arms were taut with effort. He was so enraged that he was banging her head against the mattress like she was a rag doll.
“I’m going to KILL YOU, you bitch! You’re NUTHIN! Do you HEAR me? NUTHIN!”
My mother was wildly scratching at his arms, hoarsely protesting, and kicking her legs in a futile attempt to knock him off of her. All the while, my father was screaming at her in a fury unlike anything I had ever seen. I stood, paralyzed, my mouth open in shock. Horrified, I quickly withdrew and jumped back into my bed.
I thought my heart was going to explode! What should I do? I wasn’t strong enough to fight him! He was going to kill her! I loved her more than anything—I can’t let him do that! She’s my Mom! Who would take care of us? Should I call someone? I didn’t know the phone numbers of any other grownups in the family. Should I call the police? My Mom never called the authorities—or anyone else—about my Dad, so maybe it wasn’t the right thing to do? If I did nothing . . . would her death be my fault?
With tears streaming down my face, I sat quivering, ashamed, and very angry at my cowardice. I wanted to save her, but all I could do was shrink under my ruffled covers. I worried about my younger brothers and hoped they were okay. I was too frightened to be found in their bedrooms should my drunken father come looking for one of us. He could easily kill any of us kids if he tried.
“You’re NUTHIN’!” continued the guttural shouting from down the hall. “You and those kids will always be NUTHIN!”
“No, Stig, please—”came my mother’s raspy reply.
I stuck my head under my pink blanket and covered my ears. The drunken raving went on . . . and on . . . and on. I had never been so scared, and my head began to pound unmercifully. Almost as if I had been knocked out, I fell into an exhausted, trance-like sleep. The moment I dozed off, my first psychic dream began.
Chapter 3
Psychically Witnessing the Speck Murders
In my mind’s eye, I saw a confusing kaleidoscope of indistinguishable sound and swirling color. Then, it rapidly crystallized into a clear and vivid picture, like a movie. However, unlike any film I had ever seen, I was actually a spectator in the movie as an unseen observer. I knew I was dreaming, but at the same time, I also had the ability to think and rationalize.
As the dream unfolded, I found myself standing in the living room of a large residence. A dark-haired, very petite girl who appeared to be in her early twenties was tidying the kitchen. She was surprised by several light knocks on the front door. Confused, she glanced at the wall clock. It read 11:06. Already dressed for bed, she had obviously not anticipated a visitor so late at night.
When the girl tentatively opened the door, she was confronted by a tall, young man with blond hair and badly pockmarked skin. Waving a gun at her, he pushed his way inside and quickly closed the door behind him. The girl’s eyes popped open in surprise and she staggered a few steps back.
Oh, no! I thought. This is a very bad man. I just know it!
“Where’s everybody else?” he asked quietly, in a slow drawl.
From the hallway, another girl cautiously peeked into the room, having heard the raps on the door. She was wearing cotton babydoll pajamas that were flowered and had puffed sleeves . . . just like mine! When she saw the man wielding a gun and threatening her roommate, her dark eyes widened in fear.
The intruder quickly slipped off his jacket and threw it across the back of a chair. There was a large, graphic tattoo on his left arm that read, BORN TO RAISE HELL. He immediately herded both girls down the hallway and into a back bedroom. I followed after them as if propelled by some unseen force. The big dormitory-style room held several sets of bunk beds. Three other girls were fast asleep in their beds.
“Ya’ll do what I say,” he said calmly. “I won’t hurt you. I just need money.” The man’s voice woke the sleeping girls, who screeched in unison when they saw the armed intruder. A few of the girls ran to hide in the closet.
“I want everybody here,” he told the girl in the babydoll pajamas, gesturing impatiently toward the floor with his gun. “Front and center. Ya’ll gimme your money and I’ll leave.”
The girl hesitated for a moment, nodded nervously, and scurried to the closet. She knocked softly on the door and urged her roommates to come back out. They emerged with obvious
