As I move toward the back of the house, I feel the vibration shift. A great room opens into the kitchen. The spaces remain elegant, with white furniture and pale walls, but these rooms actually feel lived in. Cathedral ceilings crossed with black beams draw the eye toward the grand staircase and its Spanish-style iron railing.

 

This is where the house comes alive.

 

Everything is still spotless, but here the furniture shows signs of use. Framed family photos line the walls. Not candid snapshots, but professional portraits staged to look candid. The father ruffling a young boy's hair. Two boys with their arms around each other. The entire family stretched out on their stomachs in the grass, chins in their palms, smiling warmly at the camera.

 

Most of the emotional residue here says this is the heart of the home. This is where the family gathered.

 

As I walk deeper into the room, I begin to feel pockets where the energy grows denser and darker.

 

I push away the lighter emotions and focus only on whatever could have led to someone's death.

 

The heavier energy pulls me forward.

 

Dark, thick…brooding.

 

If energy could brood, that’s exactly how this house feels.

 

This darkness permeates the entire room. The brooding feeling I sensed at the front door suggests it has been here for a long time.

 

Running my gloved hand along the wall, feeling the vibration of the house. The sensations are drawing me toward the staircase leading to the second floor.

 

As I get closer, I spot the pool of blood. This is where the woman died.

 

The emotional atmosphere matches death, but doesn't feel chaotic, the way murder scenes usually do. I snap a few photos and keep moving. Part of my process is saving the actual murder scene for last.

 

Something draws me back through the house toward the kitchen area. The energy there feels more chaotic.

 

Pausing in the kitchen, I glance over at Bowers. He nods. That’s his way of telling me forensics has already processed the area and I’m free to explore. 

 

Quick visions emerge. Ghostlike impressions imprinted on the energetic field of the house. None of them connected to tonight's events.

 

The woman and her husband.

 

Two men arguing, possibly the husband and the older son.

 

Then a younger boy. Maybe twelve or thirteen. Quiet. Withdrawn. He watches the arguments but never speaks. His energy doesn’t match the dark, brooding emotions saturating the house.

 

At the kitchen table, terror suddenly crashes into me. It hits like a tidal wave.

 

My heart races. My hands shake. My stomach twists.

 

Consciously, I remind myself these aren’t my feelings. They belong to the victim.

 

A woman, the mother, based on the photos, and the oldest boy.

 

She’s terrified.

 

While they sat at the kitchen table, she was genuinely afraid of him. They weren’t arguing. He was doing most of the talking, assertive, even forceful. She could feel his aggression building beneath the surface. She tried to stay composed. Tried not to provoke him. Though all she really wanted was to run.

 

The vision fades.