Pretty little thing, hidden away from the world.

Buried so deep, no one will ever find her!

There was that song again. So familiar. As with the last time, I felt a fluttering in my stomach. I am probably nervous about being back in this shed, I thought.

As I entered the dream, I felt formless, as if I were materializing slowly into existence. Once again, as I looked around, I noticed that there were no victims in the shed. I could see the contents of the box spread out across the counter, this time one or two teeth sat on top of different stacks of photos and newspaper clippings.

Sick! He’s organizing his trophies! I turned away, and as I did I felt myself floating out of the shed door. This was the first time that my dreams would take me outside of this sick place. I allowed myself to be led by some unseen force towards a well-worn forest trail.

My shapeless form followed the trail until it opened up to a clearing. I drifted towards a nondescript car, faded blue and small. There’s was a sudden flash of blinding light, and in an instant my surroundings had changed. Now I was in a small, neat house. I wandered around aimlessly, trying to find any clue as to why I was here. Was this the house of one of that man’s victims?

I glided slowly towards the mantle over the clean fireplace to look at some framed pictures. Odd, I thought. There are no children in these pictures. No young girls. The only one in every single picture is a small, petite woman with a kind face. I was stumped. I had no idea who this woman was. She was unlike any of this guy’s victims; while they were all in their early teens, she looked to be in her early 50s. From what I could gather from the photos, she didn’t seem to be married and loved the outdoors.

My gaze was drawn to her, though. For some reason, I couldn’t take my eyes off of her. She was a rather plain woman, but she looked strong. It was obvious that she loved to hike, as most of her photos showed her decked out in hiking gear and grinning from ear to ear. Her body was toned and lean, but her face made you feel like you could trust her.

I continued looking around the house, hoping to find some answers as to who this woman was. A small placard caught my eye. It was hung neatly behind the couch, right in the middle of two more photos of the woman on some hiking trip.

TO COMMEMORATE THE WINNER

OF OUR ANNUAL

BEST EDITOR/REPORTER AWARD

REBECCA SINCLAIR

It appeared that this woman had won an award for her performance working for the local newspaper. I turned towards the coffee table, where there was a neatly folded copy of the day’s paper. The date read: March 5, 1971. This seemed like not too long ago, yet I knew that it was exactly 50 years before present day. I jumped out of my skin when I heard someone softly singing that song again:

Pretty little thing, hidden away from the world.

Buried so deep, no one will ever find her!

I swung around sharply, but no one was there. All that was there was an open window. I could feel panic start to set in. I hurried to the window, thinking that I might see someone running or hiding, but there was still no one. My eyes surveyed my surroundings frantically, trying to see any small movement. Then my heart dropped.

In the driveway was the same blue car from the woods. This was the car that was outside of the shed! I felt myself reeling. Why was the car here? Where was the man? Was he in the house somewhere, hiding? Or was he connected to this woman in some other way? I tried to calm myself down so that I could process the information I had just gathered.

I could feel myself settle on the couch. This is the opposite of what I want to do! Why can’t I control my body? As I sat down, I realized that I could see my legs. I could also see my hands. What? The last couple of times I couldn’t see any part of my body. Just shadow.

I was completely helpless in what was happening. It was like watching a movie from the first-person point of view and not being able to control what was happening. I sat for what felt like forever, and then I began walking towards the back of the house. I made my way into a small washroom and looked in the mirror. I was her. I was Rebecca Sinclair.

Okay, I thought. This still doesn’t explain anything. She is just some random lady who is unconnected to these murders. So why was I being shown this? None of this makes any sense! And why is the car from the woods here?

***

Suddenly, I was back in my own bedroom. This was the first time that I wasn’t violently woken up by some gruesome discovery. Rather, it was a calm, normal awakening. Sarah was still laying beside me, sleeping peacefully, so I quietly got up and tiptoed to my living room.

I sat heavily onto my couch, thinking about how crazy I must be. Did I truly believe that this had anything to do with past lives? What if they had been jumping to conclusions? It was very possible that the dreams had been mere coincidence.

I decided to run with this thought. If it was all a coincidence, and none of it was real, then maybe Rebecca Sinclair didn’t exist. And maybe she was just a figment of my imagination. As I was thinking this, scoffing to myself, I pulled my laptop onto my lap and searched that name. I am not sure whether what I felt in that moment was fear or excitement.

What came across my screen were dozens upon dozens of newspaper articles written by a Rebecca Sinclair. One article drew my attention. It was titled “Rebecca Sinclair wins best editor/Reporter award”. Pictured was none other than the woman who had been in every picture in that house.

Yup. She was real. I sighed and continued scrolling through the articles. I felt my heart lurch as I came across that same image from before: the shed. I clicked on the image, which took me straight to the article associated with it. In bold print were the words “Shed of notorious murderer found, no suspect in custody”. And who was the author?

None other than Rebecca Sinclair. I read the article hungrily, the puzzle finally coming together. Rebecca must have been the reporter for these cases. That explains why her car was in the woods near the shed.

May 15, 1965. A breakthrough in the recent murders of

at least 4 young girls. Pictured above, you can see a storage

shed used to carry out these grizzly murders. As of right

now, no suspects are being looked at.

The murders seem to all be linked to this shed, as

articles of clothing worn by the victims were found in a

receptacle within. The shed is not listed as belonging to any

person, so there are currently no leads as to who could have

committed these heinous crimes.

More updates will follow as evidence is uncovered.

All I could do was stare blankly at the page. I was a little upset and confused; This had won an award for best reporter? There was practically no information that could be considered helpful to anyone following the case. There was no mention of the trophies, no indication that police were looking into the matter, nor was there any call to ‘contact if you may no something about the case.’

I was mystified as to why I was being shown this woman in my dreams. Was she the person with whom I was connected? If so, what was so important that this was being revealed to me now? There were so many unanswered questions, and none of them were being answered online. I was at a loss. I looked at the time on my laptop, which read 9:13 a.m. I knew that the only way for me to figure this out was to let my dreams show me what I wanted to know, but it would be a very, very long time before I would be able to sleep again. Now it was just a waiting game.