Richard_Matheson-_What_Dreams_May_Come

home, RichardDreams May Comethe ReaderINTRODUCTION TO a novel is—almost without exception—unnecessary. This is my tenth published novel and the thought of writing introductions to any of the preceding nine never even occurred to me.this novel, however, I feel that a brief prologue is called for. Because its subject is survival after death, it is essential that you realize, before reading the story, that only one aspect of it is fictional: the characters and their relationships.few exceptions, every other detail is derived exclusively from research.that reason, I have added, at the conclusion of the novel, a list of the books used for this research. As you will see, they are many and diverse. Yet, despite their wide variation with regard to authors and times and places of publication, there is a persistent, unavoidable uniformity to their content.would, of course, have to read them all to prove this to yourself. I urge you to do so. You will find it an enlightening—and extraordinary—experience.MATHESON Calabasas, California August 1977in that sleep of death what dreams may come, when we have shuffled off this mortal coil, Must give us pause.

—Hamlet, Act III, Sc. 1MANUSCRIPT YOU are about to read came into my possession in the following way.the evening of February 17, 1976, our doorbell rang and my wife answered it. Several moments later, she returned to the bedroom where we were watching television and said that some woman wanted to see me.got up and walked to the front hall. The door was open and I saw a tall woman in her fifties standing on the porch. She was well dressed and holding a large, bulky envelope in her hands.

“Are you Robert Nielsen?” she asked.told her that I was and she held out the envelope. “This is for you then,” she said.looked at it suspiciously and inquired what it was.

“A communication from your brother,” she replied.suspicions increased. “What do you mean?” I asked.

“Your brother Chris has dictated this manuscript to me,” she said.words angered me. “I don’t know who you are,” I told her, “but if you possessed the least knowledge about my brother, you’d know that he died more than a year ago.”woman sighed. “I know that, Mr. Nielsen,” she said, tiredly. “I’m a psychic. Your brother has communicated this material to me from—“stopped as I began to close the door, then quickly added, “Mr. Nielsen, please.”was a sound of such genuine urgency in her voice that I looked at her in surprise.

“I have just undergone six exhausting months transcribing this manuscript,” she told me. “I didn’t choose to do it. I have my own affairs to deal with but your brother would not let me be until I wrote down every word of his communication and promised faithfully to bring it to you.” Her voice took on a desperate tone. “Now you have got to take it and give me peace.”that, she thrust the envelope into my hands, turned and hurried down the path to the sidewalk. As I watched, she got into her car and drove off quickly.have never seen or heard from her again. I do not even know her name.have read the manuscript three times now and wish I knew what to make of it.am not a religious man but, like anyone, would certainly like to believe that death is more than oblivion. Still, I find it difficult, if not impossible, to accept the story at face value. I keep thinking it is nothing more than that: a story., the facts are there. Facts about my brother and his family which this woman could not possibly have known— unless one goes on the premise that she spent months of laborious—and expensive—research in uncovering them before writing the manuscript. In that case, what is the point of it? What could she have gained from such a course?questions, in my mind, about this book are manifold. I will not enumerate them but permit the reader to form his own. Of only one thing I am certain. If the manuscript is true, all of us had better examine our lives. Carefully.NIELSEN Islip, New York January, 1978blur of rushing images

“BEGIN AT THE beginning” is the phrase. I cannot do that. I begin at the end—the conclusion of my life on earth. I present it to you as it happened—and what happened afterward.note about the text. You have read my writing, Robert. This account may seem unlike it. The reason—I am limited by my transcriber. My thoughts must travel through her mind. I cannot surmount that. All the grains will not pass through the filter. Understand if I appear to oversimplify. Especially at first.of us are doing the best we can.God I was alone that night. Usually, Ian went to the movies with me. Twice a week—because of my work, you know.night he didn’t go. He was appearing in a school play. Once again—thank God.went to a theatre near a shopping center. Cannot get the name through. A big one which had been divided into two. Ask Ian for the name.was after eleven when I left the theatre. I got in my car and drove toward the golf course. The tiny one—for children. Cannot get the word through. All right. Spell it. Slowly now. M-i-n … i-a … t-u … r-e. Good. We have it.was traffic on the—street? No, wider. Av … e-nue? Not exact but good enough. I thought there was an opening and pulled out. Had to stop, a car was speeding toward me. There was room for it to move around me but it didn’t. Hit my left front fender, sent me spinning.was shaken but had on my belt. Not belt. H-a-r-n-ess. I would not have been too badly injured. But a van came up and hit the right rear fender of my car, knocking me across the middle line. A truck was coming in the opposite direction. Hit my car straight on. I heard a grinding crash, the shattering of glass. I hit my head and blackness swept across me. For an instant, I believed I saw myself unconscious, bleeding. Then came darkness.was conscious again. The pain was dreadful. I could hear my breathing, an awful sound. Slow and shallow with sporadic, liquid sighs. My feet were icy cold. I remember that., I sensed a room around me. People too, I think. Something kept me from being sure. Sidayshin. No, re-do. Spell slowly. S-e-d-a-t… sedation.began to hear a whispering voice. I couldn’t make out the words. Briefly, I could see a form nearby. My eyes were closed but I saw it. I couldn’t tell if the form was male or female but I knew that it was speaking to me. When I couldn’t hear the words, it went away.pain began, this one in my mind, increasing steadily. I seemed to tune it in as though it were a radio station. It was not my pain but Ann’s. She was crying, frightened. Because I was hurt. She was afraid for me. I felt her anguish. She was suffering terribly. I tried to will away the shadows but I couldn’t. Tried in vain to speak her name. Don’t cry, I thought. I’ll be all right. Don’t be afraid. I love you, Ann. Where are you?instant, I was home. It was Sunday evening. All of us were in the family room, talking and laughing. Ann was next to me, Ian beside her. Richard next to Ian, Marie on the other end of the sofa. I had my arm around Ann, she was cuddled against me. She was warm and I kissed her cheek. We smiled at each other. It was Sunday evening, peaceful and idyllic, all of us together.felt myself begin to rise from darkness. I was lying on a bed. The pain was back again, all through me. I had never known such pain before I knew that I was slipping. Yes, the word is slipping.I heard a ghastly sound. A rattling in my throat. I prayed that Ann and the children were not around to hear it. It would terrify them. I asked God not to let them hear that horrible noise, protect them from that horrible noise.thought came to my mind then: Chris, you’re dying. I strained to draw in breath but fluids in my windpipe kept the air from passing through. I felt thick and sluggish, trapped in density.was someone by the bed. That form again. “Don’t fight it, Chris,” it told me. I grew angry at the words. Whoever it was, they wanted me to die. I fought against that. I would not be taken. Ann! I called to her in thought. Hold on to me! Don’t let me go!, I slipped. My body is too badly hurt, I thought in sudden dread. I felt the weakness of it. Then a strange sensation. Tickling. Odd, I know. Ridiculous. But that was it. All over me.change. It was not a bed I lay on but a cradle. I could feel it rocking back and forth, back and forth. Slowly, I began to understand. I wasn’t in a cradle and the bed was still. My body was rocking back and forth. There were tiny, crackling noises deep inside me. Sounds you hear when pulling off a bandage slowly. Less pain now. The pain was fading., I fought to re-establish pain. In seconds, it was back, worse than ever. Agonized, I clung to it. It meant I was alive. I would not be taken. Ann! My mind cried out, pleading. Hold on to me!was no use. I could feel life draining from me, heard the sounds again, much louder now; the tearing of a hundred tiny threads. I had no sense of taste or smell. Sensation left my toes, my feet. Numbness started up my legs. I struggled to recapture feeling but I couldn’t. Something cold was drifting through my stomach, through my chest. It stopped and gathered icily around my heart. I felt my heart thump slowly, slowly, like a funeral procession drum.knew, abruptly, what was happening in the next room. I could see an aged woman lying there, gray strands of hair across her pillow. Yellow skin and hands like bird claws; cancer of the stomach. Someone sat beside her, speaking softly. Daughter. I don’t want to see this, I decided., I left that room and was in mine again. The pain was almost gone now. I could not restore it no matter how I tried. I heard a humming sound—yes, humming. Still, the threads kept tearing. I felt each severed thread end curling in.cold “something” moved again. It moved until it centered in my head. Everything else was numb. Please! I called for help. No voice; my tongue lay paralyzed. I felt my being drawing inward, totally collected in my head. Mimbins were compressed—no, try again. M-e-m-b-ranes. Yes. Pushed out and toward the center all at once.began to move out through an opening in my head. There was a buzzing noise, a ringing, something rushing very fast like a stream through a narrow gorge. I felt myself begin to rise. I was a bubble, bobbing up and down. I thought I saw a tunnel up above me, dark and endless. I turned over and looked down and was stunned to see my body lying on the bed. Bandaged and immobile. Fed through plastic tubes. I was connected to it by a cord which glistened with a silver light. Thin, it joined my body at the top of my head. The silver cord, I thought; my God, the silver cord. I knew that it was all that kept my body living.came now as I saw my legs and arms begin to twitch. Breath had almost ceased. There was a look of agony on my face. Again, I fought—to go back down and join my body. No, I won’t go! I could hear my mind cry out. Ann, help me! Please! We have to be together!forced myself down and stared at my face. The lips were purple, there was dewlike sweat across the skin. I saw the neck veins start to swell. The muscles of my body had begun to twitch. I tried with all my will to get back in. Ann! I thought. Please call me back so I can stay with you!miracle occurred. Life filled my body, healthy color suffusing the skin, a look of peace across my face. I thanked God. Ann and the children wouldn’t have to see me as I’d been. I thought that I was coming back, you see.so. I saw my body in a sack of many colors, drawn up by the silver cord. I felt a dropping sensation, heard a snapping noise—as though a giant rubber band had broken— felt myself begin to rise.flashback then. Yes, that’s correct. A flashback; just as in the movies but much faster. You’ve read the phrase and heard it many times: “His whole life flashed before him.” Robert, it’s true. So fast I couldn’t follow it—and in reverse. The days before the accident, back through the children’s lives, my marriage to Ann, my writing career. College, World War Two, high school, grammar school, my childhood and my infancy. 1974-1927 every second of those years. Each movement, thought, emotion; every spoken word. I saw it all. A blur of rushing images.dream of dreamingSAT UP on the bed abruptly, laughing. It had only been a dream! I felt alert, all senses magnified. Incredible, I thought, how real a dream can be.something was wrong with my vision. Everything was blurred as I looked around. I couldn’t see beyond ten feet.room was familiar; the walls, the stucco ceiling. Fifteen feet by twelve. The drapes were beige with brown and orange stripes. I saw a color television set hung near the ceiling. To my left, a chair—orange-red upholstery like leather, arms of stainless steel. The carpeting was the same orange-red.I knew why things looked blurred. The room was filled with smoke. There was no odor though; I found that odd. Not smoke; I suddenly changed my mind. The accident. My eyes were damaged. I was not dismayed. The relief of knowing I was still alive transcended such concern.things first, I thought. I had to find Ann and tell her I was all right, end her suffering. I dropped my legs across the right side of the mattress and stood. The bedside table was made of metal, painted beige, a top as in our kitchen. Spell. F-o-r-m-i-c-a. I saw an alcove with a sink. The faucets looked like golf-club heads, you know? There was a mirror hung above the sink. My vision was so blurred I couldn’t see my reflection.started moving closer to the sink, then had to stop. A nurse was coming in. She walked directly toward me and I stepped aside. She didn’t even look at me but gasped and hurried toward the bed. I turned. A man was lying on it, slack-jawed, skin a pasty gray. He was heavily bandaged, an array of plastic tubes attached to him.turned back in surprise as the nurse ran from the room. I couldn’t hear what she was shouting.moved in closer on the man and saw that he was probably dead. How come someone else was in my bed though? What kind of hospital would put two patients in the same bed?. I leaned in close to look at him. His face was just like mine. I shook my head. That was impossible. I looked down at his left hand. He wore a wedding band exactly like the one I wore. How could that be?began to feel an aching coldness in my stomach. I tried to draw the sheet back from his body but I couldn’t. Somehow, I had lost the sense of touch. I kept on trying until I saw my fingers going through the sheet, then pulled my hand back, sickened. No, it isn’t me, I told myself. How could it be when I was still alive? My body even hurt. Proof positive of life.whirled as a pair of doctors rushed into the room, stepping back to let them at the body.of them began to blow his breath into the man’s mouth. The other had a highp—spell. H-y-p-o-dermic; yes. I watched him shove the needle end into the man’s flesh. Then a nurse came running in, pushing some machine on wheels. One of the doctors pressed the ends of two thick, metal rods against the man’s bare chest and he twitched. Now I knew that there was no relationship between the man and me for I felt nothing.efforts were in vain. The man was dead. Too bad, I thought. His family would be grieved. Which made me think of Ann and the children. I had to find and reassure them. Especially Ann; I knew how terrified she was. My poor, sweet Ann.turned and walked toward the doorway. On my right was a bathroom. Glancing in, I saw a toilet, light switch and a button with a red bulb next to it, the word Emergency printed beneath the bulb.walked into the hall and recognized it. Yes, of course. The card in my wallet said to take me there in case of accident. The Motion Picture Hospital in Woodland Hills.stopped and tried to work things out. There’d been an accident, they’d brought me here. Why wasn’t I in bed then? But I had been in bed. The same one the dead man was in. The man who looked like me. There had to be an explanation for all this. I couldn’t find it though. I couldn’t think with clarity.answer finally came. I wasn’t sure it was correct— but there was nothing else. I had to accept it; for the moment anyway.was under anesthetic, they were operating on me. Everything was happening inside my mind. That had to be the answer. Nothing else made sense.what? I thought. Despite the distress of what was taking place, I had to smile. If everything was happening in my mind, then, being conscious of it, couldn’t I control it?, I thought. I’d do exactly what I chose. And what I chose to do was find my Ann.I decided that, I saw another doctor running down the hall toward me. Deliberately, I tried to stop him as he hurried past but my outstretched hand passed through his shoulder. Never mind, I told myself. In essence, I was dreaming. Any foolish thing could happen in a dream.started walking down the hall. I passed a room and saw a green card with white lettering: NO SMOKING— OXYGEN IN USE. Unusual dream, I thought, I’d never been able to read in dreams; words always ran together whentried. This was completely legible despite the general blurring which continued.’s not exactly a dream, of course, I told myself, seeking to explain it. Being under anesthesia isn’t like being asleep. I nodded in agreement with the explanation, kept on walking. Ann would be in the waiting room. I set my mind on reaching her and comforting her. I felt her suffering as though it were my own.passed the nurses’ station and heard them talking. I made no attempt to speak to them. All of this was in my mind. I had to go along with that; accept the rules. All right, it’s not a dream persay—per s-e—but it was easier to think of it as one. A dream then; under anesthesia., I thought, stopping. Dream or not, I can’t walk around in my patient’s gown. I glanced down at myself, startled to see the clothes I was wearing when the accident occurred. Where’s the blood? I wondered. I recalled an instant vision of myself unconscious in the wreckage. Blood had been spraying.felt a sense of eggs—no! Sorry for the impatience. E-x-u-1-t-a-t-i-o-n. Why? Because I’d reasoned something out despite the dullness of my mind. I couldn’t possibly be that man in the bed. He was in a patient’s gown, bandaged, fed by tubes. I was dressed, unbandaged, mobile. Total difference.man in street clothes was approaching me. I expected him to pass me. Instead, to my surprise, he put his hand on my shoulder and stopped me. I could feel the pressure of each separate finger on my flesh.

“Do you know what’s happened yet?” he asked.

“Happened?”

“Yes.” He nodded. “You’ve died.”looked at him in disgust. “That’s absurd,” I said.

“It’s true.”

“If I were dead, I wouldn’t have a brain,” I told him, “I couldn’t talk to you.”

“It doesn’t work that way,” he persisted.

“The man in that room is dead, not me.” I said, “I’m under anesthesia, being operated on. In essence, I’m dreaming.” I was pleased by my analysis.

“No, Chris,” he said.felt a chill. How did he know my name? I peered at him closely. Did I know him? Was that why he’d appeared in my dream?; not at all. I felt distaste for him. Anyway, I thought (the idea made me smile despite my irritation) this was my dream and he had no claim to it. “Go find your own dream,” I said, gratified by the cleverness of my dismissal.

“If you don’t believe me, Chris,” he told me, “look in the waiting room. Your wife and children are there. They haven’t been told yet that you’ve died.”

“Wait a minute, wait a minute.” I pointed my finger at him, jabbing at the air. “You’re the one who told me not to fight it, aren’t you?”started to reply but I was so incensed by that I wouldn’t let him speak. “I’m tired of you and tired of this stupid place,” I said. “I’m going home.”pulled me from him instantaneously. It was as though my body was encased in metal with a distant magnet drawing me to itself. I hurtled through the air so fast I couldn’t see or hear a thing.ended as abruptly as it started. I was standing in fog. I looked around but saw nothing in any direction. I began to walk, moving slowly through the mist. Now and then, I thought I caught a fleeting glimpse of people. When I tried to see them clearly, though, they faded off. I almost called to one, then chose not to. I was master of this dream. I wouldn’t let it dominate me.attempted to distract myself by making believe I was back in London. Remember how I traveled there in 1957 to write a film? It had been November and I’d walked in fogs like this more than once—“pea soup” is a good description. This was even thicker, though; like being underwater. It even felt wet., through the fog, I saw our house. That sight relieved me in two ways. One, the very look of it. Two, the way I’d gotten there so quickly. That could only happen in a dream., an inspiration came to me. I’ve told you how my body hurt. Even though it was a dream, I still felt pain. Accordingly, I told myself that, since the pain was dream-eng-e-n-dered, it wasn’t necessary that I feel it. Robert, with the thought, the pain was gone. Which caused another sense of pleasure and relief. What more vivid proof could one require that this was dream and not reality?remembered, then, how I had sat up on the hospital bed, laughing, because it had all been a dream. That’s exactly what it was. Period.was in the entry hall without transition. Dream, I thought and nodded, satisfied. I looked around, my vision still blurred. Wait, I thought. I’d been able to dispel the pain, why not the vision?happened. Everything beyond ten feet was still obscured by what appeared to be a pall of smoke.whirled at the clicking noise of claws across the kitchen floor. Ginger was running into the front hall; you recall, our German Shepherd. She saw me and began her rocking, bouncing run of joy. I spoke her name, delighted by the sight of her. I bent to stroke her head and saw my hand sink deep into her skull. She recoiled with a yelp and scuttled back in terror, bumping hard against the kitchen door jamb, ears pressed tight to her head, hair erected on her back.

“Ginger,” I said. I fought away a sense of dread. “Come here.” She’s acting foolishly, I told myself. I moved after her and saw her slipping frantically on the kitchen floor, trying to run away. “Ginger!” I cried. I wanted to be irritated with her but she looked so frightened that I couldn’t be. She ran across the family room and lunged out through the flap of the dog door.was going to follow her, then decided not to. I would not be victimized by this dream no matter how insane it got. I turned and called Ann’s name.answer to my call. I looked around the kitchen, seeing that the coffee maker was on, its pair of red bulbs burning.glass pot on the heater plate was almost empty. I managed a smile. She’s done it again, I thought. In no time, the house would be per—p-e-r-me-at-ed with a reek of burning coffee. I reached out to pull the plug, forgetting. My hand went through the wire and I stiffened, then forced back amusement. You can’t do anything right in dreams, I reminded myself.searched the house. Our bedroom and the bathroom, lan’s and Marie’s rooms, their connecting bathroom. Richard’s room. I ignored the blurring of my vision. That was unimportant, I decided.I found myself unable to ignore was an increasing lethargy I felt. Dream or not, my body felt like stone. I went back inside our bedroom and sat on my side of the bed. I felt a twinge of uneasiness because it didn’t shift beneath me; it’s a water bed. Forget it, a dream’s a dream, I told myself. They’re insane, that’s all.looked at my clock-radio, leaning close to see the hands and numbers. It was six fifty-three. I looked out through the glass door. It wasn’t dark outside. Misty but not dark. Yet how could it be morning if the house was empty? At this time, they should all be in their beds.

“Never mind,” I said, struggling to get it all together in my mind. You’re being operated on. You’re dreaming this. Ann and the children are at the hospital waiting for—new confusion struck me. Was I really in the hospital? Or had that been part of the dream too? Was I actually asleep on this bed, dreaming everything? Maybe the accident had never occurred. There were so many possibilities, each one affecting the next. If only I could think more clearly. But my mind felt numb. As though I’d been drinking or taken sedation.lay down on the bed and closed my eyes. It was the only thing to do; I knew that much. Presently, I’d wake up with the truth: a dream in the hospital while under anesthesia or a dream in my bed while asleep. I hoped it was the latter., in that case, I’d wake up to find Ann lying by my side and could tell her what a crazy dream I’d had. Hold her lovely warmth in my arms and kiss her tenderly and laugh as I told her how bizarre it is to dream of dreaming.black, unending nightmareWAS EXHAUSTED but I couldn’t rest, my sleep broken by Ann’s crying. I tried to rise, to comfort her. Instead, I hovered in a limbo between darkness and light. Don’t cry, I heard myself murmur. I’ll wake up soon and be with you. Just let me sleep a while. Please don’t cry; it’s all right, sweetheart. I’ll take care of you., I was forced to open my eyes. I wasn’t lying down but standing in a mist. I started walking slowly toward the sound of her crying. I was tired, Robert, groggy. But I couldn’t let her cry. I had to find out what was wrong and end it so she wouldn’t cry like that. I couldn’t bear to hear her cry like that.moved into a church I’d never seen before. All the pews were filled with people. Their forms were gray, I couldn’t see their features. I walked down the middle aisle, trying to understand why I was there. What church was this? And why was the sound of Ann’s crying coming from here?saw her sitting in the front pew, dressed in black, Richard on her right, Marie and Ian to her left. Next to Richard, I could see Louise and her husband. All of them were dressed in black. They were easier to see than the other people in the church yet even they looked faded, ghostlike. I could still hear the sobbing even though Ann was silent. It’s in her mind, it came to me; and our minds are so close I hear it. I hurried toward her to stop it.stopped in front of her. “I’m here,” I said.looked ahead as though I hadn’t spoken; as though I weren’t there at all. None of them looked toward me. Were they embarrassed by my presence and pretending not to see? I glanced down at myself. Perhaps it was my outfit. Hadn’t I been wearing it a long time now? It seemed as though I had although I wasn’t sure.looked back up. “All right,” I said. I had difficulty speaking; my tongue felt thick. “All right,” I repeated slowly. “I’m not dressed correctly. And I’m late. That doesn’t mean …” My voice trailed off because Ann kept looking straight ahead. I might have been invisible. “Ann, please,” I said.didn’t move or blink. I reached out to touch her shoulder.twitched sharply, looking up, her face gone blank.

“What’s wrong?” I asked.crying in her mind abruptly surfaced and she jerked her left hand up to cover her eyes, trying to repress a sob. I felt a numbing pain inside my head. What’s wrong? I thought. “Ann, what’s wrong?” I pleaded.didn’t answer and I looked at Richard. His face was tight, tears running down his cheeks. “‘Richard, what is going on?” I asked. My words sounded slurred as though I were drunk.didn’t answer and I looked at Ian. “Will you please tell me?” I asked. I felt a stab of anguish looking at him.was sobbing quietly, rubbing shaky fingers at his cheeks, trying to brush away the tears that fell from his eyes. What in the name of God? I thought.I knew. Of course. The dream; it still continued. I was in the hospital being operated on—no, I was asleep on my bed and dreaming—whatever! flared my mind. The dream was continuing and now it included my own funeral. I had to turn away from them; I couldn’t stand to watch them crying so. I hate this stupid dream! I thought. When was it going to end?!was torment to me to be turned away when, just behind me, I could hear Ann and the children sobbing. I felt a desperate need to turn and comfort them. To what avail though? In my dream, they mourned my death. What good would it do for me to speak if they believed me dead?had to think of something else; it was the only answer. The dream would change, they always did. I walked toward the altar, following the drone of a voice. The minister, I realized. I willed myself to feel amused. That might be fun, I told myself. Even in a dream, how many men receive the chance to listen to their own eulogy?saw his blurred, gray outline now, behind the pulpit. His voice sounded hollow and distant. I hope he’s giving me a royal send-off, I thought, bitterly.

“He is,” said a voice.looked around. That man again; the one I’d seen in the hospital. Odd that, of everyone, he looked most clear to me.

“Haven’t found your own dream yet, I see,” I told him. Odd, too, that I could speak to him without effort.

“Chris, try to understand,” he said. “This isn’t a dream. It’s real. You’ve died.”

“Will you get off that?” I began to turn away. •fingers on my shoulder once again; solid, nearly pinching my flesh. That was odd too.

“Chris, can’t you see?” he asked. “Your wife and children dressed in black? A church? A minister delivering your eulogy?”

“A convincing dream,” I said.shook his head.

“Let go of me,” I told him, threateningly. “I don’t have to listen to this.”grip was strong; I couldn’t break it. “Come with me,” he said. He led me to the platform where I saw a casket resting on supports. “Your body is in there,” he told me.

“Really?” I said. My tone was cold. The casket lid was shut. How could he know I was in there?

“You can see inside it if you try,” he answered., I felt myself begin to shake. I could look in the casket if I tried. Suddenly, I knew that.

“But I won’t,” I told him. I twisted from his grip and turned away. “This is a dream,” I said, glancing across my shoulder. “Maybe you can’t understand that but—“

“If it’s a dream,” he interrupted, “why don’t you try to wake up?”whirled to face him. “All right, that’s exactly what I’ll do,” I said. “Thank you for a very good suggestion.”closed my eyes. All right, you heard the man, I told myself. Wake up. He’s told you what to do. Now do it.heard Ann’s sobbing getting louder. “Don’t,” I said. I couldn’t bear the sound of it. I tried to back off but it followed me. I clenched my teeth. This is a dream and you are going to wake up from it right now, I told myself. Any second now I’d jolt awake, perspiring, trembling. Ann would speak my name in startled sympathy, then hold me in her arms, caress me, tell—sobbing kept on getting louder, louder. I pressed both hands against my ears to shut it out. “Wake up,” I said. I repeated it with fierce determination. “Wake up!”effort was rewarded by a sudden silence. I had done it! With a rush of joy, I opened my eyes.was standing in the front hall of our house. I didn’t understand that.I saw the mist again, my vision blurred. And I began to make out forms of people in the living room. Gray and faded, they stood or sat in small groups, murmuring words I couldn’t hear.walked into the living room, past a knot of people; none of them were clear enough for me to recognize. Still the dream, I thought. I clung to that.walked by Louise and Bob. They didn’t look at me. Don’t try to talk to them, I thought. Accept the dream. Move on. I walked into the bar room, moving toward the family room.was behind the bar, making drinks. I felt a twinge of resentment. Drinking at a time like this? I rejected the thought immediately. A time like what? I challenged my mind. This was no special time. It was merely a depressing party in a bleak, depressing dream., I caught glimpses. Ann’s older brother Bill, his wife Patricia. Her father and stepmother, her younger brother Phil, his wife Andrea. I tried to smile. Well, I told myself, when you dream you really do it up right, no detail overlooked; Ann’s entire family down from San Francisco no less. Where was my family though? I wondered. Surely I could dream them here as well. Did it matter, in a dream, that they were three thousand miles away?was when a new thought came to me. Was it possible that I had lost my sanity? Perhaps the accident had damaged my brain. There was a thought! I clutched at it. Brain damage; weird, distorted images. Not just a simple operation going on but something complex. Even as I moved unseen among these wraiths, scalpels might be probing at my brain, surgeons working to restore its function.didn’t help. Despite the logic of it, I began to feel a sense of resentment. All these people totally ignoring me. I stopped in front of someone; faceless, nameless. “Damn it, even in a dream, people talk to you,” I said. I tried to grab him by the arms. My fingers moved into his flesh as though it were water. I looked around and saw the family-room table. Moving there, I tried to pick up someone’s glass to hurl it against the wall. It was like trying to grip at air. Anger mounted suddenly. I shouted at them. “Damn it, this is my dream! Listen to me!”laughter was involuntary, strained. Listen to yourself, I thought. You’re acting as though this is really happening. Get things straight, Nielsen. This is a dream.left them all behind, starting down the back hall. Ann’s Uncle John was standing in front of me, looking at some photographs on the wall. I walked right through him, feeling nothing. Forget it, I ordered myself. It doesn’t matter.bedroom door was closed. I walked through it. “This is insane,” I muttered. Even in dreams, I’d never walked through doors before.aggravation vanished as I moved to the bed and looked at Ann. She was lying on her left side, staring toward the glass door. She still had on the black dress I had seen her wearing in the church but her shoes were off. Her eyes were red from crying.sat beside her, holding her hand. Tears ran slowly down his cheeks. I felt a rush of love for him. He’s such a sweet and gentle boy, Robert. I reached forward to stroke his hair.looked around and, for a moment which seemed to stop my heart, I thought he was looking at me, seeing me. “Ian,” I murmured.looked back at Ann. “Mom?” he said.didn’t respond.spoke again and her eyes moved slowly to his face.

“I know it sounds insane,” he said, “but… I feel as if Dad is with us.”looked at Ann quickly. She was staring at Ian, her expression unchanged.

“I mean right here,” he told her. “Now.”smile was one of straining tenderness. “I know you want to help,” she said.

“I really feel it, Mom.”couldn’t go on, a great sob racking her. “Oh, God,” she whispered, “Chris …” Tears filled her eyes.dropped beside the bed and tried to touch her face. “Ann, don’t—” I started. Breaking off, I twisted from her with a groan. To see my fingers sink into her flesh …

“Ian, I’m afraid,” Ann said.turned back quickly to her. The last time I’d seen such a look on her face was on a night when Ian had been six and disappeared for three hours; a look of helpless, incapacitated dread. “Ann, I’m here,” I said, “I’m here! Death isn’t what you think!”caught me unaware. I didn’t mean that! cried my mind. I couldn’t take it back though. The admission had been made.fought against it, straining to repress it by concentrating on Ann and Ian. But the question came unbidden and I couldn’t stop it. What if that man had told the truth? What if this wasn’t a dream?struggled to retreat. Impossible; the way was blocked. I countered with rage. So what if I had thought it? What if I’d considered it? There was no proof of it beyond that brief consideration.. I felt vengeful justification. I began to touch and prod my body. This is death? I challenged scornfully. Flesh and bone? Ridiculous! It might not be a dream—that much I could allow. But it was certainly not death.conflict seemed to drain me suddenly. Once more, my body felt like stone. Again? I thought.mind. I thrust it from my mind. I lay down on my side on the bed and looked at Ann. It was unnerving to lie beside her, face to face, her staring through me like a window. Close your eyes, I thought. I did. Escape through sleep, I told myself. The evidence isn’t in by any means. This could still be a dream. But God, dear God in heaven, if it was, I hated everything about it. Please, I begged whatever powers might attend me. Release me from this black, unending nightmare.know I still exist!, SUSPENDED, RISING inches, then descending in a silent, engulfing void. Was this the feeling of prebirth; floating in liquid gloom?, there’d be no sound of crying in the womb. No sense of grief oppressing me. I murmured in my sleep, wanting to rest, needing to rest, but wanting, too, to wake for Ann’s sake. “Honey, it’s all right.” I must have spoken those words a hundred times before waking.eyes dragged open, the lids feeling weighted.was lying by my side, asleep. I sighed and smiled at her with love. The dream had ended, we were together again. I gazed at her face, sweetly childlike in repose. A tired child, a child who’d wept herself to sleep. My precious Ann. I reached out to touch her face, my hand like iron.fingers disappeared inside her head.woke up with a start, her gaze alarmed. “Chris?” she said. Again, that momentary leap of hope. Shattered when it quickly grew apparent that she wasn’t looking at me but through me. Tears began to well in her eyes. She drew up her legs and clutched her pillow tightly in her arms, pressing her face against it, body shaking with sobs.

“Oh, God, no sweetheart, please don’t cry.” I was crying too. I would have given up my soul if only she’d been able to see me for a minute, hear my voice, receive my comfort and my love.knew she couldn’t though. And knew, as well, the nightmare hadn’t ended. I turned from her and closed my eyes, desperate to escape in sleep again, let the darkness pull me far from her. Her weeping tore my heart. Please take me away from this, I pleaded. If I can’t comfort her, take me away!felt my mind begin a downward slide, descending into blackness.it was a dream. It had to be. My life was unreeling before me, a succession of living pictures. Something about it struck me. Hadn’t I experienced this before, more briefly, more confusingly?was not confusing in the least. I might have been a viewer in an auditorium, watching a film entitled My Life, every episode from start to finish. No, amend that. Finish to start; the film began with the collision—was it real then— and evolved back toward my birth, each detail magnified.won’t go into all those details, Robert. It’s not the story I want to tell—it would take too long. Each man’s life is a tome of episodes. Consider all the moments of your life enumerated one by one with full description. A twenty-volume encyclopedia of events; at the very least.me discuss it in brief then, this display of scenes. It was more than a “flash before my eyes.” I was more than just a viewer; that became apparent very soon. I relived each moment with acute perception, experiencing and understanding simultaneously. The phenomenon was vivid, Robert, each emotion infinitely multiplied by level upon level of awareness.essence of it all—this is the important part—was the knowledge that my thoughts had been real. Not just the things I said and did. What went on in my mind as well, positive or negative.memory was brought to life before me and within me. I could not avoid them. Neither could I rationalize, explain away. I could only re-experience with total cognizance, unprotected by pretense. Self-delusion was impossible, truth exposed in blinding light. Nothing as I thought it had been. Nothing as I hoped it had been. Only as it had been.plagued me. Things I had omitted or ignored, neglected. What I should have given and hadn’t—to my friends, my relatives, to Mom and Dad, to you and Eleanor, my children, mostly Ann. I felt the biting pang of every unfulfillment. Not only personal but in my work as well— my failures as a writer. The host of scripts I’d written which did no one any good and, many, harm. I could condone them once. Now, in this stark unmasking of my life, condoning was impossible, self-justifying was impossible. An infinitude of lacks reduced to one fundamental challenge: What I might have done and how irrevocably I fell short of almost every mark.that it was unjust; not that the scales were forced out of balance. Where there had been good, it showed as clearly. Kindnesses, accomplishments; all those were present too.trouble was I couldn’t get through it. Like the tug of a building rope pulled from a distance, I was drawn from observation by Ann’s sorrow. Honey, let me see. I think I spoke those words, I may have only thought them.became aware of lying by her side again, my eyelids heavy as I tried to raise them. The sounds she made in sleep were like a knife blade turning in my heart. Please, I thought. I have to see, to know; evaluate. The word seemed vital to me suddenly. Evaluate.drifted down again; to the isolation of my visions. I had left the theatre momentarily; the picture on the screen had frozen. Now it started up again, absorbing me. I was inside it once again, reliving days long gone.I saw how much time I had spent in gratifying sense; again, I will not give you details. Not only did I re-discover every sense experience of my life, I had to live each unfulfilled desire as well—as though they’d been fulfilled. I saw that what transpires in the mind is just as real as any flesh and blood occurrence. What had only been imagination in life now became tangible, each fantasy a full reality. I lived them all—while, at the same time, standing to the side, a witness to their, often, intimate squalor. A witness cursed with total objectivity.always the balance, Robert; I emphasize the balance. The scales of justice: darkness paralleled by light, cruelty by compassion, lust by love. And always, unremittingly, that inmost summons: What have you done with your life?added mercy was the knowledge that this deep, internal review was witnessed only by myself. It was a private re-enactment, a judgment rendered by my own conscience. Moreover, I felt sure that somehow, every act and thought relived was being printed on my consciousness indelibly for future reference. Why this was so, I had no notion. I only knew it was.something strange began to happen. I was in a cottage somewhere, looking at an old man lying on a bed. Two people sat nearby, a white-haired woman and a middle-aged man. Their dress was foreign to me and the woman’s accent sounded strange as she spoke to say, “I think he’s gone.” “Chris!”’s tortured crying of my name ripped me from sleep. I looked around to find myself in swirling fog, lying on the ground. Standing slowly, every muscle aching, I tried to walk but couldn’t. I was on the bottom of a murky lake whose currents swelled against me., I felt hungry. No, that’s not the proper word. In need of sustenance. No, more than that. In need of something to add to myself, to help me re-assemble. That was it. I was incomplete; part of me was gone. I tried to think but found it beyond my capacity. Thoughts trickled in my brain like glue. Let go, was all I could think. Let go.saw a pale white column of light take form in front of me, a figure inside it. “You wish my help?” it asked. My mind was not perceptive enough to tell if it was male or female.tried to speak, then, from a distance, heard Ann call my name again and looked around.

“You could be here for a long time,” said the figure. “Take my hand.”looked back at it. “Do I know you?” I asked. I could hardly speak, my voice sounding lifeless.

“That’s not important now,” the figure said. “Just take my hand.”stared at it with vacant eyes. Ann called my name again, and I shook my head. The figure was trying to take me from her. I wouldn’t let it do that. “Get away,” I said. “I’m going to my wife.”was alone in fog once more. “Ann?” I called. I felt cold and fearful. “Ann, where are you?” My voice was dead. “I can’t see you.”began to draw me through the mist. Something else attempted to restrain me but I willed it off; it wasn’t Ann, I knew that, and I had to be with Ann. She was all that mattered to me.fog began to thin and I found myself able to advance. There was something familiar about the landscape in front of me: broad, green lawns with rows of metal plaques flush with the surface, bouquets of flowers here and there, some dead, some dying, some fresh. I had been here before.walked toward a distant figure sitting on the grass. Where had I seen this place? I wondered, trying hard to recollect. At last, like a bubble forced up through a sea of ooze, memory rose. Vaughn. Somebody’s son. We’d known him. He was buried here. How long ago? the question came. I couldn’t answer it. Time seemed an enigma beyond solution.saw, now, that the figure was Ann and moved toward her as quickly as I could, my feelings a blend of joy and sorrow; I didn’t know why.her, I spoke her name. She made no sign that she had seen or heard me and, for some inexplicable reason, I now found myself unsurprised by that. I sat beside her on the grass and put my arm around her. I felt nothing and she did not respond in any way, staring at the ground. I tried to understand what was happening but there was no way I could. “Ann, I love you,” I murmured. It was all my mind could summon. “I’ll always love you, Ann.” Despair began to blanket me. I gazed at the ground where she was looking. There were flowers and a metal plaque.Nielsen/1927-1974. I stared at the plaque, too shocked to react. Vaguely, I recalled some man addressing me, trying to convince me that I’d died. Had it been a dream? Was this a dream? I shook my head. For some reason I could not fathom, the concept that this was a dream was unacceptable. Which meant that I was dead. Dead.could such a shattering revelation leave me so incredibly apathetic? I should have been screaming with terror. Instead, I could only stare at the plaque, at my name, at the year of my birth and the year of my death., an obsession started gathering in my mind. / was down there? Me? My body? Then I possessed the power to prove it all beyond a doubt. I could travel down there, see my corpse. Memory flickered. You can see inside it if you try. Where had I heard those words? I could see inside what ?came. I could descend and look inside the casket. I could see myself and prove that I was dead. I felt my body easing forward, downward.

“Mom?”looked around in startlement. Richard was approaching with a thin, young man with dark hair. “Mom, this is Perry,” he said. “He’s the one I told you about.”stared incredulously at the young man.was looking at me.

“Your father is here, Richard,” he said, calmly. “Sitting near the plaque with his name on it.”struggled to my feet. “You can see me?” I asked. I was stunned by his words, his gaze directly on me.

“He’s saying something I can’t make out,” Perry said.looked at Arm, anxiety returning. / could communicate with her; let her know I still existed.was staring at the young man, her expression stricken. “Ann, believe him,” I said. “Believe him.”

“He’s speaking again,” Perry told her. “To you now, Mrs. Nielsen.”shuddered and looked at Richard, speaking his name imploringly.

“Mom—” Richard looked uncomfortable and adamant at once. “—if Perry says that Dad is here, I believe him. I’ve told you how he—“

“Ann, I am here!” I cried.

“I know how you feel, Mrs. Nielsen,” Perry interrupted Richard, “but take my word for it. I see him right beside you. He’s wearing a dark blue shirt with short sleeves, blue checkered slacks and Wallaby shoes. He’s tall and blond with a husky build. He has green eyes and he’s looking at you anxiously. I’m sure he wants you to believe he’s really here.”

“Ann, please,” I said. I looked at Perry again. “Hear me,” I entreated him. “You’ve got to hear me.”

“He’s speaking again,” Perry said. “I think he’s saying— near me or something.”groaned and looked at Ann again. She was trying not to cry but couldn’t help herself. Her teeth were set on edge, her breathing forced and broken. “Please don’t do this,” she murmured.

“Mom, he’s trying to help,” Richard told her.

“Don’t do this.” Ann struggled to her feet and walked away. ”Ann, don’t go,” I pleaded.started after her but Perry held him back. “Let her get used to the idea,” he said.looked around uneasily. “He’s here?” he asked. “My father?”didn’t know what to do. I wanted to be with Ann. Yet how could I leave the only person who could see me? Perry had placed his hands on Richard’s shoulders and turned him until he faced me. “He’s in front of you,” he said. “About four feet away.”

“Oh, God.” Richard’s voice was thin and shaking.

“Richard,” I said. I stepped forward and tried to grasp his arms.

“He’s right in front of you now, trying to hold your arms,” Perry told him.’s face was pale. “Why can’t I see him then?” he demanded.

“You may be able to if you can talk your mother into a sitting.”the excitement Perry’s words created in me, I could stay with him no longer; I had to be with Ann. His voice faded quickly behind me as I started after her. “He’s moving after your mother,” he said. “He must want to—“could hear no more. Anxiously, I followed Ann, trying to overtake her. Whatever a sitting was—a seance?—Ann had to consent to it. I’d never believed in things like that, never even thought of them. I thought about them now. Perry had seen me, actually seen me. The thought that, with his help, Ann and the children might also see me, perhaps even hear me filled me with elation. There’d be no grief then!groaned with sudden dismay. A mist was gathering again, obscuring my view of Ann. I tried to run but my movements grew increasingly labored. I have to reach her! I thought. “Ann, wait!” I called. “Don’t leave me!”have to move on, it seemed as though I heard a voice say in my mind. I wouldn’t listen to it, kept on moving, slower, slower, once more on the bottom of that murky lake. Awareness started failing. Please! I thought. There must be some way Ann can see me and be comforted to know I still exist!presence is invalidWAS WALKING up the hill to our house. On each side of the driveway, pepper trees were stirring in the wind. I tried to smell them but I couldn’t. Overhead, the sky was overcast. It’s going to rain, I thought. I wondered why I was there.front door was no more solid to me than air as I went inside. I knew, then, why I’d come., Richard and Perry were sitting in the living room. Ian must be in school, I thought, Marie in Pasadena at the Academy.was lying at Ann’s feet. As I stepped into the living room, she lifted her head abruptly and stared at me, ears drawn back. No sound this time. Perry, who was sitting on the sofa next to Richard, turned and looked at me. “He’s back,” he said.and Richard looked automatically in my direction but I knew they couldn’t see me. “Does he took the same?” Richard asked anxiously.

“Just as he did in the cemetery,” Perry answered. “He’s wearing the outfit he had on the night of the accident, isn’t he?”nodded. “Yes.” He looked at Ann; my gaze was fixed on her. “Mom?” he said. “Will you—?”cut him off. “No, Richard,” she said quietly but firmly.

“But Dad was dressed like that the night of the accident,” Richard insisted. “How could Perry know that if he—?”

“We know it, Richard,” Ann interrupted again.

“I’m not getting it from you, Mrs. Nielsen, take my word for it,” Perry told her. “Your husband is standing right over there. Look at your dog. She sees him.”looked at Ginger and shivered. “I don’t know that,” she murmured.had to make her see. “Ginger?” I said. Always, when I’d spoken her name, her tail would thump at the floor. Now she only cringed, eyes fixed on me.started across the room toward her. “Ginger, come on,” I said. “You know me.”

“He’s walking toward you, Mrs. Nielsen,” Perry said.

“Would you please—?” she started, then broke off, startled, as Ginger lurched to her feet and ran from the room.

“She’s afraid of him,” Perry explained. “She doesn’t understand what’s happening, you see.”

“Mom?” Richard said when she remained silent. How well I knew that stubborn silence. I felt compelled to smile despite her lack of inclination to believe in my presence.

“He’s smiling at you,” Perry said. “He seems to understand your inability to believe he’s here.”’s expression grew strained again. “I’m sure it’s obvious to you that I’d like to believe it,” she said. “I just can’t—” Breaking off, she drew in breath with effort. “You … really see him?” she asked.

“Yes, Ann, yes, he does,” I said.

“He just said Yes, Ann, Yes,” Perry told her. “I can see him; just as I described him in the cemetery. Naturally, he doesn’t look as solid as we do. But he’s very real. I’m not getting information from your mind. I can’t even do that.”pressed the palm of her left hand to her eyes. “I wish I could believe,” she said, miserably.

“Try, Mom,” Richard said.

“Ann, please?” I said.

“I know it’s hard to accept,” Perry said. “I’ve lived with it all my life so I take it for granted. I could see disincarnates when I was a baby.”looked at him with sudden distaste. Disincarnates? The word made me sound like a freak.

“I’m sorry,” Perry said to me, smiling.

“What happened?” Richard asked and Ann lowered her hand to look at Perry curiously.

“He looked at me with a frown,” Perry said, still smiling. “I must have said something he didn’t like.”looked at Ann again. “Mom, what do you say?” he asked.sighed. “I just don’t know.”

“What harm can it do?”

“What harm?” She gazed at him, incredulous. “To let myself hope that your father still exists? You know what he meant to me.”

“Mrs. Nielsen,” Perry started.

“I don’t believe in survival after death,” Ann interrupted him. “I believe that, when we die, we die and that’s the end of it. Now you want me to—“

“Mrs. Nielsen, you’re wrong,” Perry said. He was supporting my presence yet I felt offended by his self-assertive tone. “Your husband is standing right in front of you. How could that be if he hasn’t survived?”

“I don’t see him,” Ann responded. “And I can’t believe it just because you say he’s here.”

“Mom, Perry’s been tested at UCLA,” Richard said. “He’s been authenticated any number of times.”

“Richard, we’re not talking about college tests. We’re talking about Dad! The man we loved!”

“All the more reason—!” Richard said.

“No.” She shook her head. “I just can’t let myself believe it. If I did, then found it wasn’t true, I’d die myself. It would kill me.”, no, I thought in sudden distress. Once more, that draining exhaustion had come upon me. Whether it was caused by the effort of wanting so badly for Ann to believe or by her continuing sorrow, I had no idea. I only knew I had to rest again. Things were starting to blur before my eyes.

“Mom, just try?” Richard asked her. “Aren’t you even willing to try? Perry says we might see Dad if we—”

“Ann, I have to He down for awhile,” I said. I knew she couldn’t hear me but I said it anyway.

“He’s speaking to you, Mrs. Nielsen,” Perry told her. “Now he’s leaning over you.”tried to kiss her hair.

“Did you feel that?” Perry asked.

“No,” she said, tensely.

“He just kissed your hair,” he told her.breath caught and she started crying softly. Richard jumped up, moving to her quickly. Sitting on the arm of her chair, he pulled her against himself. “It’s all right, Mom,” he murmured. He looked at Perry critically. “Did you have to say that?” he asked.shrugged. “I told you what he did, that’s all, I’m sorry.”exhaustion was increasing rapidly now. I wanted to remain, to stand in front of Perry, let him read my lips. I didn’t have the strength though. Once again, that stonelike feeling overwhelmed my body and I turned away from them. I had to rest.

“Do you want to know what he’s doing now?” Perry asked. His tone was peeved.

“What?” Richard was stroking Ann’s hair, looking upset.

“He’s walking into your bar room. Starting to fade. He must be losing strength.”

“Can you call him back?” Richard asked.could hear no more. I don’t know how I made it to our bedroom; the transition was unclear. I only remember that, as I lay down, I thought: Why do I keep getting exhausted when I have no physical body?opened my eyes. It was dark and still. Something pulled at me, compelling me to stand.difference in the way I felt was instantly apparent. Before, I’d felt weighted. Now I felt as light as down. I almost seemed to float across the room and through the door.’s voice was speaking in the living room. I wondered what he was saying as I drifted down the back hall. Had Ann consented to the sitting yet? I hoped she had. All I wanted was to know that she was comforted.moved across the family room and into the bar room., my steps had frozen and I stared in horror toward the living room.myself.mind could not react. I was struck dumb by the sight. I knew that I was standing where I was.I was standing in the living room as well. Dressed in identical clothes. My face, my body. Me, without a doubt.how could that be?wasn’t in that body, I realized then. I only observed it. Staring, I moved closer. The figure of myself looked corpse-like. There was no expression on its face. It might have been a figure of me in a wax museum. Except that it was moving slowly like a winding down automaton.tore my gaze from it and looked around the living room. Ann was there, Richard, Ian and Marie; Perry, talking to the figure. Was it visible to all of them? I wondered, sickened. It was such a hideous sight.

“Where are you?” Perry was asking.looked at the cadaverous form. Its lips stirred feebly. When it spoke, its voice was not my own but a hollow, lifeless muttering as it said, “Beyond.”told my family. He addressed the figure once again. “Can you describe where you are?”figure didn’t speak. It shifted on its feet, eyes blinking sluggishly. At last it spoke. “Cold,” it said. “He says it’s cold,” Perry told them. “You said we’d be able to see him,” Marie said in a tight voice.looked at Ann. She was on the sofa, sitting between Ian and Marie, her body looking collapsed. Her face was white and masklike, she was staring at her hands.

“Please make yourself visible to everyone,” Perry said to the figure. Even now, his tone was arbitrary. The figure shook its head. It answered, “No.” I don’t know how I knew it but I did. The figure wasn’t speaking of its own accord. It merely parroted what Perry’s mind was feeding it. It wasn’t me in any way. It was a puppet he’d constructed with the power of his will.moved to Perry angrily and stood in front of him, blocking off his view of the figure. “Stop this,” I told him. “Why can’t you manifest yourself?” he asked.stared at him. He couldn’t see me anymore. He was looking through me, at my waxlike effigy. Just as Ann had looked through me.reached out and tried to grab his shoulder. “What have you done?” I demanded.had no awareness of my presence. He kept speaking to the figure as I turned to Ann. She was bending forward now, shaking, both palms pressed across her lower face, eyes haunted, staring sightlessly. Oh, God, I thought in anguish. Now she’II never know.figure had responded with its witless voice. I looked at it, revolted by the sight.

“Are you happy where you are?” Perry asked. The figure answered, “Happy.” “Have you a message for your wife?” Perry asked. “Be happy,” mumbled the figure. “He says be happy,” Perry said to Ann. With a gagging sound, she struggled to her feet and ran from the room. “Mom!” Ian hurried after her. “Don’t break the circle!” Perry cried.stood up, incensed. “Break the circle? You… ass!” She ran after Ian.looked at the figure standing in our living room like a faded mannequin. Its eyes were those of a catatonic. “Damn you,” I muttered. I walked to it suddenly.my astonished loathing, I could feel its flesh as I grabbed for it. It was dead and cold.seized me as it grabbed my arms, its icy fingers clutching at me. I cried out, harrowed, and began to struggle with it. I was wrestling with my own corpse, Robert, my dead face inches from me, my dead eyes staring at me. “Get away!” I shouted. “Away,” it repeated dully. “Damn you!” I screamed. It muttered, “Damn you.” Horrified, my stomach wrenched by nausea, I jerked free of its numbing touch.

“Look out, he’s falling!” Perry cried. Suddenly, he fell back on the cushion of the chair he sat on. “He’s gone,” he murmured.was. As I’d pulled free, the figure had started toppling toward me, then, before my eyes, dissolved in midair.

“Something pushed him,” Perry said.

“For Christ’s sake, Perry.” Richard’s voice was trembling.

“Could I have a drink of water?” Perry asked.

“You said we’d see him,” Richard said.

“A drink of water, Richard?” Perry asked.looked at him closely as Richard stood and moved toward the kitchen. What was wrong with him? How could he have been so right, then so completely wrong?turned toward the kitchen, hearing the gurgle of the Sparklett’s bottle being tapped. Why had Richard become involved with Perry in the first place? I wondered. I knew he’d only meant to help but now things were worse than ever.back, I sat beside Perry. “Listen,” I said. He didn’t move, hunched over, looking ill. I reached out and touched his arm but he didn’t react.

“Perry, what’s the matter with you?” I demanded. He stirred uncomfortably. An idea struck me and I repeated the question in my mind.frowned. “Get away from me,” he muttered. “It’s over.”

“Over?” If I could have throttled him, I would have. “What about my wife? Is it over for her?” Remembering, I repeated my words in thought.

“It’s over,” he said through clenching teeth. “That’s it.”started to think a further message but, the instant I began, I stopped. He had shut himself off, enclosing his awareness in a carapace of will.looked around as Richard returned and handed Perry a glass of water. Perry drank it in a long, continuous swallow, then sighed. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I don’t know what happened.”gazed at him bleakly. “What about my mother?” he asked.

“We can try again,” Perry told him. “I’m sure—“stopped him with an angry sound. “She’ll never try again,” he said. “No matter what you tell her now, she won’t believe you.”rose and walked away from them. I had to leave; abruptly, that was clear to me. There was nothing more I could do. The thought came overwhelmingly:this moment on, my presence is invalid.is moreTRIED TO move away from the house, to go on; somewhere, anywhere. Yet, even though the heaviness was gone, even though I felt immeasurably stronger, I was still unable to break free. There was no way I could leave: Ann’s despair held me in a vise. I had to stay.the instant of my thinking that, I found myself inside the house again. The living room was empty. Time had passed. I couldn’t tell how long though; chronology was beyond my grasp.walked into the family room. Ginger was lying on the sofa in front of the fireplace. I sat beside her. She didn’t even stir. I tried to stroke her head in vain. She slept on heavily. The contact had been broken and I didn’t know how.with a defeated sigh, I walked to our bedroom. The door was open and I went inside.was lying on the bed, Richard sitting next to her.

“Mom, why won’t you, at least, allow for the possibility that it might have been Dad?” he was asking her. “Perry swears he was there.”

“Let’s not talk about it anymore,” she said. I saw that she’d been crying again, her eyes red, the flesh around them swollen.

“Is it so impossible?” Richard asked. “I don’t believe it, Richard,” she told him. “That’s all there is to it.”the look on his face, she added, “Perry may have certain powers; I’m not denying that. But he hasn’t convinced me that there’s anything after death. I know there isn’t, Richard. I know your father’s gone and we have to—“couldn’t finish, her voice breaking off with a sob. “Please let’s not talk about it anymore,” she murmured.

“I’m sorry, Mom.” Richard lowered his head. “I was only trying to help.”took his right hand and held it; kissed it gently, pressed it to her cheek. “I know that,” she murmured. “It was very dear of you but…” Her voice trailed off and she closed her eyes. “He’s dead, Richard,” she said after a few moments. “Gone. There’s nothing we can do about it.”

“Ann, I’m here!” I cried. I looked around in wretched anger. Was there nothing I could do to let her know? I tried in vain to pick up objects from the bureau. I stared at a small box, trying to concentrate my will on moving it. After a long while, it hitched once, but, by then, I felt exhausted by the effort.

Date: 2015-04-20; view: 630