I've always had paranormal experiences. Most people with a brain, actually do have experiences that can only be described as "otherworldly." I think calling the spiritual world the "otherworld" is kind of silly. Obviously those spirits are not in another world, but in our world, so it just gets me confused. Always has, always will I expect. I don't mean to sound conceited or anything, but I come from a really smart family. My mother and father are both genius's in their separate fields. I took a test that detectives take that tests your deduction skills (try saying that 5 times fast!), and I scored really really high. I don't know exactly what my iq score is, but my best friend has an iq of 206, and he suspects mine to be around the same area. Apparently, a lot of writers actually have a fair amount of investigative skills that are part of our inquisitive nature, so I shouldn't be surprised really. I mean, you only have to look at Sir Arthur Conan Doyle (whose also the father of much of our modern forensics), or Agatha Christie to understand what I mean.
What does any of this have to do with the Doctor? Everything. It has Everything to do with that man. That impossible, crazy, ridiculous man, who fussed over me more than my own mother. I was born with a genetic disorder known as VCFS. It greatly inhibited my motor skills, and my speech abilities. VCFS is a rare genetic disease, similar to Autism where part of your 22nd chromosome is deleted. Of course one of the resulting symptoms is schizophrenia, so you could just be hearing a story from another crazy person. But aren't those stories the best?
Anyways, my father left when I was born. I don't know why, no one's ever told me. I suspect the Doctor knows, even though he's never said anything. So, I grew up with my mom and my grandparents. My mom worked a lot, and so did my grandfather. My grandmother watched soap operas like Days of our Lives, and Young and the restless, so she may as well have been working. I was by myself a lot as a child. So, I learned to like it. It was the only way I could cope with it really. I had this old, basic playground set on the farm, that my grandpa had set up some years back. I don't remember now if it was for me, or if it had just always been there. Yes, we lived on a farm in Minnesota. I know, not the most mysterious place for a story, but bear with me.
This farm was like any ordinary farm. It had a large wooden barn. It had a modest three-story country house. It also had meadows, and corn fields, and sheds, and graineries, and extra sheds for tools, and water storage tanks. I suppose it was bigger than most farms, but I didn't realize it when I was a child. The farm was encased by a fence of walnut trees that helped to reduce the wind in Minnesota.
I was wearing a bright pink coat, it was large and puffy, because it was a kid's coat. I had a pair of dark pants, and a pair of sneakers. I had long, dark brown hair that was really soft, and smooth, and shiny. I had a few marks on my skin from when I got chicken pox, but my skin was smooth in general, and had a porcelain doll like coloring to it. Not once, but twice I got the chicken pox mind you. Impossible you say? Not with my immune system. I also had large, almond shaped eyes. My eye color was a sort of honey and chocolate shade. It was like a light golden brown, or amber color. Yeah, amber, let's go with that.
I was playing by myself, as usual. I was always by myself. Even at school, or daycare I was by myself. My grandpa had gone out to work in the fields, so I was wandering around the farm like I usually did. Playing with blades of grass and avoiding the large crabapple tree that always glared at me. My grandfather's large metal shed was where I first heard it. A voice, a voice calling out to me. Telling me to come with it. This is where our story starts.
The voice had a disembodied sound to it. It was everywhere, I could hear it everywhere, but I couldn't see the mouth it was coming out of.
"Come with me, I'm over here." The voice said. I turned instinctively, to the direction of the largest metal shed. As a child that particular shed had always frightened me. Just like the crabapple tree there was an unwelcome feeling to it.
"Come with me, I want to love you." The voice said. That's when I stopped walking and held the bottom of my pink jacket with my hands tightly. I didn't believe it. No one wanted to love me. My grandparents weren't the sort of loving people that you would expect them to be. They weren't cruel or unkind. They were like royalty though. They were very cold, and always polite.
"Come with me, don't be alone." The voice said again. What made me listen to the voice in the first place, was that it sounded like my mothers voice. I looked around the farm to see if my mom had come home early or something. She worked at UPS so she usually came home late. Her black Nissan Altima wasn't in the driveway. So, I ran back inside the farmhouse. I opened up the door screen and the door behind it.
"Hey Grandma, did my mom come home early or something?" I asked my grandmother.
"No, why?" she responded. I nodded once to myself. That voice was using some sort of disguise, or trick.
"Never mind." I called back.
"Your grandpa should be back for lunch, then we can eat together all right?" my grandma called.
"Ok." I said cheerily, as I hopped back outside. I walked over to where the shed was.
"Whoever you are, you aren't my mom. I won't go with you, you should just leave." I said simply. I didn't hear any response so I went back to playing like I normally did. Then I heard a weird humming noise coming out from behind the shed. I walked down the waterlogged grassy slope that was a shortcut to behind the barn...
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