“Seth material” search engine (Jane Roberts)

(She was almost crying. “Easy, hon,” I said, hoping the sound would quiet her.

(“I don’t know,” Jane said, then suddenly jumped on the couch and threw up her hands, eyes still closed, in the obvious grip of urgent strong emotion: “I don’t know —slam—slam brakes!” Jane cried and yelled out, almost hysterical. I sat beside her, not knowing whether to continue the notes or try to bring her out. My touch on her shoulder helped; her crying subsided but continued as she called to me. I remembered reading that gifted mediums will actually live through experiences; that although obviously under great stress, they are actually safe.

(I thought that a coldblooded attitude, so talked loudly to Jane, and she answered between sobs that she was trying to continue without being overwhelmed. But then another wave of intense emotion swept over her: “Ah, hon... trying to control it ... I get Evelyn! Find Evelyn!” And crying, Jane repeated the name over and over.

(“I’m still in the car,” she said, “and it sits on the bank...” Her voice rose toward crying again but controlled this. “People are coming, but it seems like they’ll never get here. I don’t know.”

(Whisper: “I know.... Evelyn. We’re gone.” The mouth was odd again. “I can’t yell. I think—they’ll think I’m dead because I can’t talk... Bury,” Jane shouted, almost crying, “bury! My mother... Mary Benedict.” [Later, Jane wondered if she hadn’t been shouting the name Barry, a man’s name; this was speculation; she wasn’t sure.]

(“There were two cars,” Jane cried out, glasses thrown aside. Mouth odd. “So quiet ... am I dead? Right there... arm’s funny.” Now she rubbed her lower left arm; she cried out, voice rising almost to a scream: “I was driving. Can’t make out—!” Jane burst into tears. “Papa, Papa, Papa...” I spoke to her loudly but it did no good. “I... Papa should know it wasn’t my fault. Brakes bad... I can’t decipher...”