Chapter 1

My father died unexpectedly, while on one of his trips abroad. It was without any warning, for he was in incredible health for a man of 50 years old.

The powers that be insisted there be an official investigation, including an autopsy, but no foul play was found and no exact means of death was found.

My Dad, Jim Knox was an artist when he was alive. I was the first person to go back into his workroom and looking around, I found something interesting – An unfinished charcoal drawing of my mother Marilyn!

I took it to her, showing it and she said that she never posed for it.

My Dad traveled around the world and then came home and put out many pictures of his travels in charcoal, conte, graphite, line, pen and ink, and watercolors and the occasional Tempera and Acrylic.

He was quite successful for a living artist – it will be interesting to see how his paintings and pictures will be valued now that he’s gone.

Looking around in his work area I found an unopened package of canvases, not really canvas – sort of a cardboard, poster board amalgamation. It was a package of 24 canvases, and I put the package on an easel and opened it.

I couldn’t read most of the writing on it – it being in some Sanskrit type and language. I know a number of languages, but I never learned whatever this package said.

Fortunately, I found a small amount of English, in the form of a list,

1. Choose your medium

2. Speak Clearly when reciting your memory

3. Say ‘locked’ when complete

My sister had walked in and asked, “Stevie, what are you doing?”

I told her what I found and together we thought we would try this.

I turned the cover over to the first off-white canvas two feet across and three feet down

“Charcoal,” I said.

“My sister when she was eight years old!”

Immediately and inexplicably, smudges started appearing on the blank canvas in front of us. Very slowly it became the diagram of a person – after two minutes you could see that it was a perfect representation of my sister when she was eight years old. The picture even seemed to glow a bit.

Her now long black hair was in pigtails; her smile was infectious – she was in her favorite shorts and a borrowed shirt from me. It was from a concert I went to with a friend.

“Wow - what just happened, Stevie – is it ghosts, or the devil?”

“Candy, it’s the exact picture I had in my head of you at eight years old – it’s from my memory.”

Candy was a nickname she’s had since she was very young - her given name is Cassandra.

“Can I try one?” she turned to me and asked. She always was excitable.

“Sure, why not,” I said back to her.

She cleared her throat and said, “My brother when he was 14.”

Nothing happened.

“You forgot to choose a medium, Sis?”

“Oh,” she said, “Watercolor!”

Again, from about six different places on the canvas, both shapes and colors took form.

Ten minutes later, there was a perfect picture of me from 13 years earlier. I was wearing my basketball jersey spinning a ball on my finger.