This story came to me last year, after having a dream about, seeing through the eyes of Patrick Jane, the death of his daughter over and over. Having him relive this day and woundering how he could stop Red John once and for all. This dream haunted me severial more times, just continuing where it left off. So I wrote it down and kept adding to it. At the begining of this year I finally finished the dream, not what I thought was going to happen but it is a dream after all, it's what my mind came up with.

Then my grandmother past away at the end of the summer in Aug, and I decided to reread and post this dream for all to read, if they chose to. I hope I did this dream (and my grandmother, who I never got to tell that I write stories and poems) justice, just like my other ones. This dream came to me only in my aunts house in Fl. Her backyard was wooded with a small wooden bridge like area, that's where my imagination began. This is my first attempt of a mentalist story, so all feedback is welcome. I just hope that someone will enjoy it. I hope that the title fits it, I couldn't think of another one.

Red-runs

by missteff (one of my pen names) 2012

Oh the horror this house has known. If the walls could talk they tell you all the horror they saw

I fell in love with the little out of the way, old two story wooden barn-like house in the woods.

one that was sucluded from all the busy highways and noises of the city. Just me and the

wild life live out here, down this dirt road. Everyone thought it was strange that I wanted this

house but I did. I did everthing to get this house, I MEAN EVERYTHING.

The golden rays sliced through the back windows hitting the wooden floor as I opened the door.

Sweat dripping off my face, I swipe my hand cross my face and rub it on my pants. I just want to lay down

but there is still more work for me to do before the sunsets, when does it ever end? The phone on the wall

rang but I ignore it.

"Go away people!" I yelled in my gruff voice, like the phone itself was going to answer me back. The door to

the old cellar creaked like my bones felt. It was so loud that I thought the wood was going to creak apart.

With my flashlight in hand I desended on, the stairs moaned as I made my was down the musty wooden

planks to the dirt floor. I pulled the little chain like string, the single dangling lightbulb hanging from the

rafter, lit just enough light to see a circle of light in the room under it.

"I'm back," I called. From the darkness I could hear the shuffling, chains rattled and a muffled female

voice tring to say something to me. Oh, well, I still had work to do. I went to the opposite wall and

opened, my office as I called it, another door, this one leading to a concreated area filled with computers

and long stainless steel tables. I slid the chair back, touched the mouse and the computer hummed to life.

now to begin. I began to type. I hope that you like this Patrick Jane, and I hit the send button.