Alice Hickey:
Between Worlds

March 2000, Sarasota

Justin Spring

Alice Hickey: Between Worlds – The first time I saw Alice Hickey I didn’t know she was Alice Hickey. She was just a bony, gray-haired old woman rummaging through the same large bin of tomatoes.

You’d remember her though. She was a type. Twenty-five years ago, you’d see women like Alice on a regular basis—women who’d been living here long before the palmetto scrub was paved over with malls. Crackers would be the correct description. They’d drift into town late Friday night from the farms and ranches for groceries, and they were all business. Just like Alice: long, straight hair, weathered face, bony hands, don’t talk to me.

I was about to give up on finding anything that even resembled a ripe tomato when a voice inside my head whispered, “Blood Eggs.” For some reason, I don’t know why, I looked up at the old woman. I never got past her eyes. They were almost colorless, like high, thin air. I couldn’t stop looking at them. It was like she was looking right through me—or I was looking right through her, I couldn’t tell which, but the effect was unnerving. I tried to look away, but she stepped closer and whispered, “You haven’t found anything, have you?” To which I stammered back something like, “No, I haven’t.”

No sooner had I said it than her face seemed to simplify itself—that’s the best way I can describe it—and then her eyes seemed to get larger, and then I heard a voice inside my head say very clearly, “Not yet.”

Right then my mind stopped. I instinctively knew the voice was not of this world. There was no thinking involved in coming to that realization. I simply knew. Then, suddenly, I was myself again, looking at an old, bony woman who kept asking me, “Are you OK?” as if I had just stumbled, or slipped.

I nodded yes, or at least I think I did, but before I could say anything else she strolled out of the market as if nothing had happened. That was the last time I saw her until four years later when Diane Randall called and told me someone by the name of Alice Hickey wanted to see me.

I would have liked to dismiss what had happened at the market as some kind of neural short circuit, but I couldn’t. Although I don’t consider myself particularly psychic, I am familiar with psychic voices. My own come to me in times of stress or high creativity. I view them as guides, interior companions. This voice, though, was not a companion’s voice. It was a psychic voice of an entirely different order. I had immediately felt its authority, its truth, and had instinctively bent to it.

Yet I couldn’t help thinking—as crazy as it sounds—that it had somehow come from the old woman, which was impossible. How could she have spoken to me from inside my mind? Supposedly only aliens can do that, and she was anything but that.

The only explanation that made any sense at all was that the old woman had somehow triggered, or caused the voice to erupt in my head, but that was just a stab in the dark. There was nothing in my experience that could explain what had happened.

To add to my mystification, I didn’t have the slightest idea what, “Not yet.” meant. I knew it wasn’t about the tomatoes. It had to have been about something else, but what?

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304 Pages

Alice Hickey:
Between Worlds

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