A Ghost for a Clue

by C L R Draeco

  I shoved my hands into my pockets and shook my head. Truth just sat there, watching me.

  “Mom’s strange, huh?”

  I managed a chuckle. “You can say that again.”

  “So, I’m strange too?”

  “No, of course not. You’re awesome.”

  “I’m scared.”

  “Of what? All this talk about ghosts? Phew!” I waved a dismissive hand and moved to the boy’s side. “It’s just a bunch of talk.”

  Truth looked at me with big trusting eyes. “He wants me to go with him.”

  “Who?”

  “The ghost. To make Tor happy.”

  Jesus. What other delusions had Triana fed him? “Hey, there’s no way your sister would be happy about you going away with anybody.”

  “But she’s coming too. He wants me to go so Tor will wanna go.” Truth trembled. “She’s gonna lose her blood.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Tor’s gonna die.”

  I nearly jerked as a cold wave wrapped around my head and crept down my shoulders. Something about those words coming from a child made them frightening.

  Tears fell from his eyes. “Can you stop it? I’m scared!”

  “Hey, hey.” I reached into my pocket for a handkerchief. “It’s okay. It’s just a dream.” I probably said it to reassure myself as much as the boy.

  Just as I held my handkerchief up to Truth’s face, his nose began to bleed. “Oh, Christ.” I dabbed nervously at the bright red trickle, staining the white linen.

  “It’s like that.” Truth pushed my hand away to look at the handkerchief at arm’s length. “I seed her blood wiped like that. Then she died!”

  “You mean, you saw . . .” I cleared my throat uneasily and shoved the handkerchief into my pocket, away from his view.

  “Don’t tell anyone. Promise?” Truth wiped his tears on the back of one hand. “I don’t wanna be strange.”

  23

  Nosebleeds

  I leaned close, forearms perched over Truth’s bed rail, and did my best to take the little boy’s mind away from blood and ghosts and sickness. “Do you want to be an astronaut someday?”

  “Uh-huh.” Truth snuggled into his hospital pillow.

  “Me too. As far back as I can remember, I always thought, between Earth and outer space—being out there was the more wonderful place to be. But you know what I think now?”

  He nodded. “You can bring Tor with you so she won’t die.”

  I stiffened. “Okay, mate. Time to sleep.” I needed more practice making up bedtime stories.

  The door swung open, and Torula strode in, looking as healthy and fearless as she always did.

  “Have you been suffering nosebleeds lately?” I asked.

  She flashed a flicker of a frown. “What?”

  “Truth’s nose just bled. And he says the same thing’s happened to you.”

  A smile curled her lips. “He also said my friend, Thomas, was teaching him how to fly a kite.”

  I narrowed my eyes. “What else have you been hiding?”

  “What do you mean, ‘What else?’”

  “You never told me you were claustrophobic.”

  “Oh, that.” She shrugged away my concern. “It’s no big deal. Mom insists it’s treatable. I just never bothered.”

  “I should’ve guessed.” My mind sifted through all the years we’d known each other. “That’s why you hate elevators.”

  She chuckled. “Which is also why I know how clumsy you are at taking the stairs.”

  How could she think this was funny? “You haven’t answered if you’ve had a nosebleed.”

  She shook her head. “When it comes to hyperwill visions, things can get misleading. At the greenhouse earlier. When I saw Thomas holding Truth in his arms? I heard a voice in my head asking if I’d be happier if Truth came with me.”

  “What? That’s exactly what—” I glanced at the little boy, though he looked fast asleep, there was still a chance he might be taking this all in.

  The door opened, and Triana glided in, flinging her shawl over her shoulder.

  “Let’s take this outside,” I said. As Torula and I walked out, a syrupy smile spread across Triana’s face.

  Gleaming white walls stretched on either side of the door, a thick rail of polished wood serving as a decorative wall guard. Torula leaned against the rail, crossed her arms, and averted her gaze, as though there were things written in her eyes that she didn’t want me to see.

  “There’s more, isn’t there?” I said, leaning again the opposite wall, mimicking her stance.

  She bit her lower lip before answering. “While I was in the FR3 . . . I saw myself get shot in the face.”

  I lurched away from the wall before I got a hold of myself. Okay, get a grip. Stop reacting to these hyperwill transmissions as if they were real.

  “Thomas was showing me how he died, and I saw blood gushing from a wound between my eyes. I had to consciously tell myself it wasn’t really me. It’s possible he showed Truth the same thing, and now he’s confusing Thomas with me the same way I confused you with him.”

  I cracked my neck and forced myself to find a logical frame of mind. “Two people, misinterpreting a similar vision. I guess that’s possib—”

  “Misinterpreting a vision.” Torula shoved herself away from the wall. “You’re so obstinate. Why can’t it be an honest-to-goodness message meant for me? Thomas is trying to tell me something. What if he’s asking for help? He could be dying.”

  “Whoa. I’ve heard of the living dead. But never the dying dead.”

  “Thomas is alive. Why can’t you see it?” She gestured towards Truth’s door. “The hyperwill’s survival is still dependent on metabolism. Thomas is obviously feeding off Truth’s energy.”

  “Obviously feeding? Shouldn’t you put that up for peer review or something?”

  “Think mistletoe, Bram. Like a plant living off a host, making it weak.”

  “Can you please stop thinking of streaming data as a living thing?” I glanced towards the nurses’ station down the hall, fearing my voice might have carried that far. I lowered my tone. “There’s no chance of it being alive, Spore.”

  “Truth has conversations with it. And it’s not like how the average child plays and talks to a toy or imaginary friend. Every visit leaves him exhausted. And over time, it’s made his platelet counts drop.” Her eyes glinted at me. “Roy told me the communication link probably gets all its power from the transmitter. Like passive RFID. What if with each apparition—each time the hyperwill connects with Truth—it makes Thomas stronger and Truth weaker?”

  “Hey, that won’t happen. It can’t happen.”

  “It’s already happening.”

  I shook my head to reassure her, even though her argument caused enough of a dent to trigger doubt. After all, she was using my own theory against me.

  She marched over and planted herself in front of me. “You heard what Tromino said in there. Mom made the brain’s energy transfer sound like a fuel cell. And it’s true. Even in plant life, the electrical gradient provides important motive forces in cellular activity. It works similarly in the human brain by pumping ions into or out of a cell generating ion gradients across the membrane to establish an electrochemical differential.”

  I gave a slow, deliberate nod, then laid a hand on her shoulder, gently pushing her—and her argument—back across the corridor and against the opposite wall. “And maybe Truth’s weakness is because of some pathological reason that just hasn’t been determined yet. It doesn’t have to be a parasitic ghost.”

  She broke free and strode towards the door. “I need to talk to Mom. I have an idea.”

  “I don’t think I want to know.”

  “I want Tromino to examine Truth’s brain activity. And the only chance of him doing that is if Mom forces him to do it.”

  24

  Of Gods And Ghosts

  “So has the deed been done? Has the question been popped?” T
riana flung out the questions as soon as Torula swung Truth’s hospital door open.

  “Mom . . .” Torula shook her head.

  “Bram?” Triana looked at me, brows raised and furrowed.

  “Torula just wants to ask you something.”

  “Yes, yes! My goodness, yes.” Triana hugged her daughter. “You have my whole-hearted, unabashed blessing. I’d gladly go look for the hospital chaplain right now.”

  Truth giggled and clapped his tiny hands.

  “Mom,” Torula said, easing out of the embrace. “I just want you to ask Tromino to monitor Truth’s brain waves while he’s sleeping.”

  “What?” The bubble of bliss around her mother collapsed. “Is that all the two of you talked about?”

  Torula sighed. “You made a good point about the brain acting like a power source, and I’d like Tromino to see that.” She gestured towards me. “And Bram.”

  “Bram?” Triana eyed me and took a step closer. “Are you telling me, despite all that’s happened, you’re still having difficulty accepting the reality of ghosts?”

  I shrugged.

  “I’m not surprised,” she said. “You have the same problem about God.”

  I glanced at the suggestible toddler in his bed who tilted his head, as though waiting for my answer. “I . . . don’t see the connection. Millions of people who believe in god don’t believe in ghosts. And vice versa.”

  “But for someone who thrives in mathematics, proving a soul has left a dead body should be simple. You just need to compute for the energy corresponding to information that made up its consciousness from E=mc2 after it leaves.”

  “Whatever gave you that idea?”

  “A physicist. Tromino’s father. And as for God, I would have thought you’d leave the door ajar for that one.”

  The puzzle I’d glanced at so briefly on the Deltoton website suddenly came into focus. What was masquerading as God in Einstein’s equation? I shoved the reminder aside and shook my head at Triana. “Are you saying you believe in God?”

  “Given that we can neither prove nor disprove its existence beyond question, wouldn’t you say it has a fifty-fifty chance? So why slam the door in God’s face?”

  This time I glanced at Torula, hoping she’d butt in. But she just tilted her head too and waited for my answer. “Well,” I rubbed the stubble on my chin, “there’s a lot of evidence that he isn’t standing there at all. And if he was, he should be able to walk right through it, or make it disappear altogether.”

  Triana narrowed her eyes, turned, and paced away. “Obviously, you’re burdened with preconceived notions about how a god ought to be. Someone who answers prayers. Designs creatures intelligently. Omnipotent. Omniscient.”

  I pursed my lips, recalling why, as a kid, I’d always avoided talking with Triana. “Why call anything less than that a ‘god?’”

  Triana drew her shawl over her shoulders and faced me again. “Maybe you need to relax your filters. What if God didn’t make the world but simply made it work the way it does and is more of a tinkerer than a designer. An organizer rather than the ruler of chaos. A cold mathematician instead of a benevolent creator.”

  “Mom, could you stop picking on Bram and focus on Truth?”

  “I am focused on your brother.” Triana mussed up the little boy’s hair. “Why do you think I’m pushing you and Bram to find out exactly what it is we’re dealing with? Even if I’m convinced it’s a ghost, I don’t know what a ghost is. Nobody does. Millions of people have seen one, experienced it, and described it. But all the definitions are guesses. Just like all god-believers are guessing what a god must be like. Both gods and ghosts might be lonely, not immortal, and aching to communicate with us. Or they could be beyond the control of space and time, can read our minds, and once in a while, help us with our problems. Nobody knows for a fact. Because faith in legends does not equal fact. So stop dillydallying and go study it.”

  “I’m completely on your side, Mom,” Torula said. “Which is why I need you to ask Trom to study Truth’s brain wave activity.”

  Triana placed slender fingers against her temple and shook her head. “The closing aria has begun, and you’re still hoping to buy tickets. I wanted to rule out sleeping disorders early on, so I’ve already run the test, and there’s nothing abnormal in his PSG results.”

  “PSG or PSD?” I asked.

  “PSG. Polysomnogram. It’s multi-parametric, covering EEG, EMG, EOG, ECG, EIT among others.”

  “That’s a lot of Es,” I said. “I guess that means you’ve covered everything?”

  “The problem doesn’t happen while he’s sleeping. It’s when he’s idle but awake,” Triana said. “When he’s asleep, his brainwaves go all the way down to delta. That keeps him safe.”

  The door opened, and Tromino strode into the room, making me lose my train of thought.

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “What keeps him safe?”

  “Below one, going up to about four hertz,” Triana said. “Those are delta waves. That’s a safe region for Truth. Beta waves, at 13 hertz and above—like when Truth’s solving a puzzle—that’s also beyond Thomas’ territory.”

  Tromino cleared his throat. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but are you discussing the G-H-O-S-T?”

  “Ghost!” Truth cried. “That spells ghost.”

  “Very good, darling,” Triana said.

  Tromino glowered at us. “Am I the only responsible adult in this room?”

  “Right,” Torula said. “Let’s go outside.”

  Mother and daughter walked out with me to stand in a huddle in the all-white corridor. As soon as the door closed behind us, I asked, “Why do you consider those frequencies ‘safe?’”

  “Thomas’s visits most likely happen when Truth’s brainwave patterns include a combination of theta and alpha waves,” Triana said. “That puts his brainwaves at four to seven hertz pushing into alpha, which is eight to twelve hertz. Theta is like deep meditation, or the moment just before we fall asleep. Alpha is a relaxed state like when you unplug yourself from the world for a while. Slow your breathing, or close your eyes and relax. That’s alpha. Adults go through these same wave patterns during the hypnopompic and hypnogogic states.”

  “When we’re waking up or falling asleep,” Torula translated for me.

  “But for kids as young as Truth,” Triana said, “they can just shift between theta and alpha all day long. Like in a persistent daydream state.”

  “That sounds like what it was for me in the FR3,” Torula said. “The booth where they captured my signal. I was awake, but it’s like I’d detached from the real world somehow.”

  “You were at what’s called the alpha-theta border.” Triana declared it without a hint of doubt. “I’m convinced that’s where Walt Disney was when he thought of Mickey Mouse. And where J.K. Rowling was when she thought of Harry Potter. You know they were both sitting in trains, daydreaming? Train rides can do that. And bus and car rides too. You get lulled into a half-in half-out state of consciousness at the alpha-theta border. It’s where intuition and creativity lie.”

  “That would be somewhere between . . . seven and eight hertz?” I asked.

  Triana nodded.

  A tingling sensation rose up the back of my neck. Hitting 7.83, maybe?

  Torula gasped and clasped my arm. “The Schumann resonance.”

  I gazed at her and let a smile tug at one corner of my mouth. “I swear you can read my mind.”

  She flashed me back a coy smile.

  Triana eyed us both and folded her arms. “It upsets me to see this.”

  “To see what?” I asked.

  “You two are such emotional clods—so immersed in science, you dodge everything that can’t be predicted. Come with me.” Triana marched off down the hall. Torula and I exchanged puzzled looks before following suit, jogging briefly to catch up with her.

  “Do you know what the thalamus is, Bram?” Triana tossed the question over her shoulder as we paraded down the bright white
corridor.

  “A part of the brain?”

  “It’s the part that translates information for the cerebral cortex to read. It also regulates the sleep states. While it shifts between stages, it disengages.” Triana took a turn around the nurses’ station. “In grownups, it lasts a few seconds. Something like . . . being in between gears. It takes it a while to shift.”

  Triana led us into the stairwell. “It just idles for about five to twenty-five seconds on silent phase. When the thalamus is disengaged like that, that’s when the adult brain is most vulnerable and open to electromagnetic influences from the outside. That happens each time it shifts through the five stages of sleep.”

  “And it’s different for Truth?” I asked, measuring my steps as we hustled down the stairs.

  “Kids his age can hover all day between alpha and theta waves, making him vulnerable even when he’s wide awake.”

  “Where are we going?” Torula asked after we’d gone down two flights.

  “A quiet place filled with concentrated emotions.”

  Jesus. Is she taking us to the morgue? I glanced around for a Fire Exit—and realized we were in it.

  Triana exited the stairwell, walked down a hallway, and stopped at the arched doors of the hospital chapel.

  Torula balked. “Mom, this isn’t funny anymore.”

  “Really? I think watching the two of you is so laughable, it’s irritating. A couple of highly intelligent individuals who can’t hear anything beyond what they’re thinking.” Triana pushed open one of the chapel doors. “Perhaps in here, you’ll finally listen to what you’re feeling.” She backed away and commanded her daughter—with a tilt of her head and a flick of her eyes—to walk through the doors. Torula complied, albeit slowly.

  I hung back, not wanting Triana to be misled about my next move. “There’s a chance I would be asking her to come away with me. If she agrees—”