This time settling into Moira’s studio was easier. Much like our first visit with her, the day was sunny, the room was calm, she was inviting, and the mood of the room was peaceful. Meeting with her was like seeing a friend again and after exchanging our greetings, we were able to get started quickly. Moira asked us to say Cheryll’s name out loud and she once again closed her eyes and held smooth rocks in her hand to channel the energy. Bridget and I sat with pens in hand, ready and eager to make notes of what Moira would see and say.
“I see Cheryll walking up a street and I see her somewhat bored, like kicking a rock as she is walking, and she was stopped by someone…and she does seem to recognize the person.” She paused.
I couldn’t help but ask, “Can she tell you who it is?”
“Again, I’m feeling like it could be a neighbor, like someone she had seen….but didn’t know well….and, I sense that she’s leery of him.”
“We talked last time about her being put in a car….” Bridget said, as Moira continued.
“Yeah, she IS put into a car and I get the strong sense that there are two people….hold on, I’ll come back to that….but before she’s in the car, I see her being somewhere else. Would that make sense?”
“It’s possible,” I replied. “What is the place?“
“I keep feeling like it’s a basement. It’s dark and unfinished and has dark, cinderblock walls. One of the walls has a thick, white marking on the wall, like a stripe or a patch.” As Moira explained this she gestured with her hand, moving it vertically as she described seeing a white stripe or patch.
“What about the floor? Carpet? Concrete? Dirt?” I asked.
“It’s concrete. I don’t know, but it feels like it’s a basement and then she was put in a car to be taken somewhere else….outside. I’m still seeing that she was killed outside.” As I scribbled notes, my mind was racing to ask another question, but I didn’t have a chance. Moira continued.
“And the murder weapon is not a knife. It seems to be metal, longer, like a tool…I don’t know what it is, but it’s not used as a weapon necessarily, I just keep feeling like it’s a tool. I see a stabbing motion with it though.” Moria’s arm moved down and back up and down again as she showed a stabbing motion.
“So, not like a pocket knife?” Bridget asked.
“No, it’s bigger. I’m seeing a long, metal rod, a little thicker than rod though, something that looks like it’d be a tool.” I underlined the word “tool” in my notebook since Moira had repeatedly referred to that word in her description.
“Can we go back to the two people?” I asked, referring to what Moira had begun to say earlier.
“Yeah….let me see….” Moira shifted in her seat while she held on to her rocks as if to revisit the scene she’d seen earlier. “One of them killed her and there was an accomplice. One guy seems really slimy. I don’t know how else to describe him, but he just feels really gross.” Moira shifted in her seat when she said those words as if she was uncomfortable. “Could he have lived across the street or near her house?” she asked with a look of confusion. It felt like she was asking herself that question, or possibly Cheryll, or maybe us. I hesitated for a moment, not sure if I should answer. Moira continued, “I feel like he was living close too and by close I mean on the street or a nearby street or somewhere that’d make him close to her.”
“It’s possible,” I replied simply, knowing that at this point, any scenario could be possible.
“I’m feeling like this person just appeared….She was walking, and there he was, possibly in a car or on foot….she was walking so maybe he saw her or she had walked past him…or he was even watching or waiting…but I’m seeing a street,” Moira gestured on the table in a horizontal line, “and I think that’s why she was startled….and leery.” The way Moira said the word “leery” was in a manner as if she was struggling to talk.
“And I’m still feeling like there are two,” she added affirmatively. “One killed her and the other helped, but there were two people in the car when they put her in it and I’m seeing her mouth covered as if to keep her quiet.”
“Can you see what they’re wearing?” Bridget asked and I looked at her with a nod. Good question, I thought.
“One is wearing jeans, a lighter colored pair. And his pants are ankle high. The other is wearing darker colored pants. I see him in a shirt and tie. I don’t think he was actually wearing a shirt and tie, but that indicates to me that he was dressed for work or was in some sort of work attire. Those dark pants might have had something to do with his job. I think this might be the slimy guy I’m sensing and I feel like he may still be alive.” With those words I wrote “A-L-I-V-E” in capital letters on my paper. This word is so rarely connected to anyone in Cheryll’s case that I had to write it in capital letters to actually believe I heard Moira say it. Also, I found myself flipping back to my notes to see that interestingly the clothing description was similar to what Cheryll’s friend, the empath, had described as well.
As if she knew what I was thinking or had the same idea herself, Bridget shared with Moira, “There is a friend of Cheryll’s who has had visions of her being taken to an outside murder scene. She explains that it feels like she is watching the two guys from behind them, seeing them handle Cheryll. What can you sense about that?” As Bridget talked, Moira nodded as if she knew what Bridget was describing.
“She should absolutely trust what she sees. I think this is a way for her to be the eyes of what happened. It’s interesting to hear that she sees it from behind them. To me, she’s watching these two guys taking charge of what is happening to Cheryll.” As she uttered those words, an uncomfortable pall of heavy silence blanketed the room.
Bridget finally spoke. “Is there anything else you sense or see?”
“I can tell you that I am feeling nervousness. It’s like someone has become very nervous. It could be the police or someone who knows more or someone like the slimy man who was involved. But someone is nervous.”
We finished up our session with Moira and left that day with some new things to think about. Could there really be a secondary location like the basement Moira described seeing where Cheryll was before New Hope Road? The retired detective we spoke to theorized about a second location as well. Could someone who was involved in the crime still actually be alive? The answer to this was, and is, both exhilarating and very frightening at the same time.
One afternoon the phone rang. It was my husband. “The car is done. I’m on my way home from work. Get the kids ready and when I get there we will go pick it up.” He knew I would be happy to hear those words. After having spent three days sharing a vehicle, our second car was finally fixed. So, we loaded our family into our one vehicle and made the drive to the nearby town of Latonia, Kentucky to pick up our other vehicle from the repair place. I had never been to that particular business, so I waited in the car with the kids while my husband went in, paid the bill, and got the keys. After a few moments, he started the newly repaired vehicle and pulled away from the curb, with me following behind. We began our drive back home– he alone in the car in front of me, while I was in the vehicle behind him, complete with the chorus of kids’ voices arguing about what we’d be having for dinner and whose turn it was to pick the meal and who was actually the most hungry. In the midst of the background noise, I found myself once again thinking of Cheryll as we sat at a traffic light. Then, a very strange feeling came over me. I can only explain it by comparing it to that sensation you get when you feel like someone is looking at you. Slowly, I turned my head to look out of the driver’s side window and there, on the street, was a quaint and old, but very well kept white building with black shutters. My eyes moved toward an old-fashioned sign hanging from the front of the building and saw the words, “Connley Brothers Funeral Home.”
For a moment, I felt the air leave my lungs, feeling stunned to see the building I had only ever read about in old newspapers. It was the funeral home where Cheryll’s services were held back in November of 1971. Once again, as my thoughts had drifted to her, Cheryll found a way to let me know she was near. I felt a slight smile come over my face for a couple of seconds, then I felt that smile slowly recede, remembering how solemn her funeral service had most likely been. In my head, almost like a prayer, I whispered, “Hi, Cheryll,” hoping like always, that maybe she’d hear me.