I’m not a psychic, but I have witnessed what could be considered psychic phenomena. I don’t astral travel (knowingly), don’t remote view (although I
think I’ll look into remote viewing) don‘t do tarot carts, Ouija boards, etc. I do meditate, mainly to relax and clear my mind.
What I do is use “intuition”. While I can’t say it’s accurate in the “paranormal” world, I have used intuition extensively in my work with computers
and other technical equipment. In fact, intuition has been the primary skill I have used in my career, and it has been very good to me. I am a very
While meditating, images come to my mind, sometimes very vivid ones, but I don’t actually “see” them with my eyes. So they are just as likely to be my
imagination as anything else.
I was touched by this story (but admittedly hadn’t really been specifically interested in it until today) and, since I came to ATS with an interest in
“paranormal” things, decided to think about this case and see what came up. I took a nap, trying to think back on what happened, looking for clues to
where she can be found, then woke up with a bunch of impressions I had not expected. Frankly, it is extremely unnerving, and I’m not sure I want to do
this ever again. Ever.
When I woke up, I wrote a LOT of things down, including impressions of the murder itself. I don’t intend to post them here. I just can’t do that. It
feels like I was in the murderer’s head, sort of, and that’s absolutely terrifying to me. I don’t think I want to go back there, and I hope to God
this is all just my imagination. That would be very reassuring if this is all bull.
“Impressions” is the best way to describe it. I know this is probably all just my imagination and a bunch of nonsense, and the reality is probably
completely different, but consider this a benevolent enough forum to post some of this stuff here just to see if any of it matches what might be found
later. I thought about just keeping the file and not sharing it, but what the hell. It’s not like anyone here knows my real name anyway and in the
interest of science, blah blah blah.
DISCLAIMER: So with the explicit understanding that this is all probably nothing more than an exercise in morbid thinking, and no warranties expressed
or implied, and purely in the interest of tasteless parlor entertainment and tabloid-grade speculation and hopefully inviting minimal ridicule, no
matter how well deserved, those are my terms.
I belted this out not in chronological order and didn’t do much editing, mainly rearranging things, so it may sound sort of bizarre. Here it is (some
of it, anyway).
It was the husband. They argued when she told him about the baby. He didn’t want it and was terrified. His life was imploding. He snapped and
“dissociated“. He went “silent” on Lori and that scared her. She was afraid because he went “glassy-eyed”. He went into the kitchen, she was in the
bedroom, crying He felt like he was watching a movie.
There’s more, but I’m not going to post it. Let’s skip ahead.
She laid there sort of on her left side for a long time on top of the bed. Later, when he came to get her he wrapped her in the blanket and sheets.
They were completely soaked in blood.
She was wearing a red or dark pink tank top and black pants. No shoes. He didn’t think to put shoes on her feet.
He left the apartment and went to the car. It’s a small silver passenger car, rounded, four doors, maybe an import. He emptied some things from the
trunk, a cardboard box and some things in white plastic grocery bags. He also cleaned out the front of the car, there was some trash in it. He put the
trash in one of the plastic bags. He threw everything away into the apartment dumpster.
He got into the car and went to the store. He parked way out in the parking lot. It was evening, starting to get dark but still light out. It was a
store like Home Depot, a big home improvement store with a gardening department. He got the shovel and gloves there, some big dark plastic trash bags
and two green plastic tarps. Someone may remember him buying these things, but he paid cash so there would be no record he was there.
In the parking lot, he unfolded one of the tarps and laid it out in the trunk.
(Fast forward -- he carried her body out of the apartment wrapped in the bedding, with the tarp around the outside, and put her in the trunk of the
silver car. It was night.)
He drove to an area west of town, but not next to any homes or businesses. If was far from the apartment. He went west, not into the mountains. The
mountains are east. He went away from the mountains to the west, west of town. He went to a place where it was flat with low rolling hills in the
desert, not the mountains.
It was dark, and he was driving on a dirt road. Dust in the headlights, and sagebrush in the dark. It was like a movie to him. He was wearing the
gardening gloves while he was driving, he had worn them ever since he carried her out of the apartment and put her in the trunk. He was wearing
gardening gloves with little plastic grip nubs on them. They were light green.
There were no buildings standing where he stopped, but there was debris off the road, it had caught his eye, rusty sheet metal and pieces of old gray
wood, boards with rusty nails and 2x4’s. Tarpaper, ripped tarpaper. There was a shack there before but it had been torn down. Corrugated sheet metal,
galvanized but rusting in small pieces, 2 feet or so, like patches pulled apart, no real big pieces. He left the car on the road. He didn’t pull off.
No one was around. There were no lights around.
There are cans and broken bottles on the ground, all colors of glass: white, brown, green, in little pieces like jewels, scattered with silver cans,
beer cans. There’s a lot of sagebrush, big bushes in clumps with clear sandy dirt between the clumps. It was dark, no moon, and not many stars, but a
clear night. There is amber light from the city in the sky, behind. The north is to his right as he faces away from the city.
He walked past the ruins of the shack, looking for a place. It was dark but he could see. He didn’t use a flashlight. He was still wearing the gloves.
He walked to a dry wash about 60 feet past the shack, it was flat on the bottom and sandy. He decided to bury her there.
He buried her near where the shack had stood, but not right next to it. Maybe 60 feet away. There’s a dry wash with sand near it. He buried her in the
wash. The sand was shallow, only about 6 inches deep with dirt underneath. No big rocks.
He went back to the car and got the shovel. He dug the grave with a short, square-bladed shovel, the kind with a cross-handle at the end. The shovel
was new, he’d just bought it that night, at the same place he bought the tarp. He paid cash. The blade and handle are green and the handle is
The grave is very rectangular. This is a strong impression, that the grave is a very rectangular hole. He dug it carefully with the square-bladed
shovel and was going to dig it much deeper, but became scared while he was digging. He was suddenly afraid someone would see him as the dirt piled up
high -- it was making a big pile, bigger than he expected -- and know what he was doing, so he rushed it. The grave is about two feet deep, but
carefully dug. He was acting very deliberately and mechanically throughout this. He could not look at her face.
He did not carry her very far from the car, but it was still a long way to carry her, maybe 100 feet. It was dark and he didn’t use a flashlight. He
didn’t think about foot prints and left foot prints, lots of foot prints.
She was wrapped in the bloody bedding inside the tarp. He rolled her out of the tarp and into the grave. She fell face-down into it. He didn’t want to
see her face as he buried her.
The dirt over the grave is very flat, and it is dirt, with a little sand mixed in and spread from around, but it‘s mostly dirt.
He smoothed the grave over very carefully, spreading the dirt around and trying to make it look flat as possible. He was ambiguous, he didn’t want the
grave to be found but he did. He didn’t want her laying there forever. He could see the outline of the rectangular grave, though, and worried. So he
put some pieces of the shack over it, pieces of the sheet metal. Corrugated sheet metal, galvanized silver but rusting. He scattered them over the
grave to hide it.
He threw the shovel into some brush, not very far from the grave site but not right next to it. Maybe 100 feet away, on the same side of the road as
the shack. The shovel is in a big clump of sagebrush, about waist high. You would have to look closely to see it even in the daytime.
He threw the gloves into some brush not very far from the grave, but farther than the shovel. Opposite the car from the grave, on the other side of
the road. He made a point of walking far off the road and threw them into a big clump of sagebrush. Both gloves together.
He drove off. There was a lot more that needed to be done.
That’s where I’d like to stop. You can probably tell from the point of view of this story why I don’t want to do this anymore. Even though it’s
probably utter fiction, I cried the whole time I wrote this.