by Lee Baldwin
Interview with a Mirage
Arnold Friedman is frustrated. Appointed lead investigator for General Solberg’s mass hallucination inquiry into the Pentagon appearance, now he’s had to assign half his team to the Fish Jump event. Inevitable spread of rumors describe an apparition, the appearance of a small lake on a conference table, observed by in-room and remote attendees. He shouldn’t be investigating, he was part of it. But Solberg is in a hurry. The pace of events makes Friedman apprehensive, protocol impossible to maintain. Assistants in the last hour have texted him links to recent cases of odd public behavior. Rising mass hysteria? Friedman, with every ounce of his will, tries to tell it no.
Of the eighty-four men and women in Solberg’s meeting, Friedman’s people have so far debriefed thirty-six. Each responded to a polygraph interview in two parts: a fixed list of questions, then conversational questions developed ad lib based on their initial replies. So far, except for the normal variations in descriptive and observational abilities, Friedman is ready to be convinced that they're talking about a real event. But what kind of real?
Pentagon police had blockaded the corridor before the Fish Jump meeting broke. They were likewise ready at the remote meeting rooms. The coded alert they received mentioned a possible psi-attack in the main conference room and connected video rooms. Without knowing the nature of the incident, the Pentagon force had procedures in place.
Participants are separated into groups and led to six meeting rooms, where they sit under armed guard, not allowed to converse. Briefcases and bags are quickly searched. All bottled liquids are being analyzed for hallucinogenic substances. Electronic devices are sequestered. The conference room itself is undergoing a thorough evidence inventory.
Friedman, behind one-way glass observing yet another subject interview, feels he could quit now, with reliable results. With no outliers among the first three dozen subjects, he’s certain that a genuine paranormal event took place in the main conference room. He’d seen it himself, from the back of the room, watched everyone react. No imagery of the event has so far been found on any of the sequestered phones, tablets, or cameras. The remote video link captured only static.
In a nearby meeting room, Chris Strand waits with a dozen others for his preliminary debrief. All are edgy, impatient, wanting to hurry and get on with their top priorities. General Solberg sticks his head in, motions Strand out of the room. The police make a move to stop them.
Solberg says, “No, this debrief was my order. We’re going to talk in the corridor for a minute. Not about the event, other things.”
One of the police escorts them, stands watchful nearby as Solberg whispers to Strand. “Chris, I need Next History on the whale migration immediately. Every inference must be documented. We need to know why whales are moving. We have a guess they are headed for the lat and long marked on the Antarctic blue.”
Strand’s eyes widen, he scratches the back of his hand. “We’ll make it priority, Ralph. Can we acquire any coded military transmissions?”
“As soon as you get through with your debrief, meet me in my office. It's a temporary one on Seven. I’ll put you in touch with my chief of security.”
“Of course, Ralph. Can you expedite me out of this inquiry?”
Solberg shakes his head. “Damn, son, I’d have to countermand my own order. I’m participating too, surrendered all my electronics, feel naked. I made you VIP, so please bear with it. And as soon as you get any indication of what the whale thing means, pull me in face-to-face. In fact, face-to-face will be the only way the team communicates. Absolutely nothing electronic in reference to it.”
Solberg turns away, two uniformed officers hurry to keep up as he walks swiftly down the polished corridor. The Pentagon cop ushers Strand back inside the silent conference room. Fortunately, the Navy debrief team is interviewing ranking officers and VIPs first. Strand barely sits before his name is called. He’s led through a side corridor guarded by five PFPA in SWAT gear holding semi-automatics. Soon Strand is in what amounts to a polygraph room, a mirrored wall, a straight-backed wooden chair before a small table. Across from him is a pleasant-looking woman in Navy blues.
“Good afternoon, I am Elizabeth Goodwin. I will be asking you a few questions in our protocol, you’ll then be allowed to leave.”
Strand nods. While the interviewer has a steady demeanor, Strand can tell she is troubled.
“Place your palms on the two tablets, Mr. Strand. It’s all you have to do.”
Strand does so. “This is your equipment?”
Goodwin smiles. “It is quite sensitive. Full name, please?”
“Christopher Walker Strand.”
“Occupation?”
“President and CEO of Next History, a Delaware corporation. General Solberg and the Department of Defense are among my clients.”
Routine questions follow, about his birth date and place, today’s date and time. Qualifying questions he alone would know from personal history.
“Thank you. Now, referring to the events in conference room GL-1121 this morning, were you aware of anything out of the ordinary?”
“During the course of a meeting in GL-1121, there appeared on the table a water surface I took to be a lake. A ten-pound fish jumped. A Greenback Cutthroat.”
“Greenback Cutthroat, sir?”
“A trout. I happen to feel that fish was very far from home.”
“Explain, Mr. Strand.”
“It’s a western species of trout, if I recall correctly.”
“How can you be so specific?”
Strand smiles. “I vacation out West, with friends.”
“You mentioned a lake.”
“Yes, the entire surface of the table took on the appearance of a freshwater lake.”
“Freshwater, sir?”
“Had a marshy look. Also it smelled like fresh.”
“You smelled something sir?”
“Before the fish jumped, the air in the room changed. It was pleasant, like a spring day in the woods. There were bugs above the water. Mosquitos. Wild grasses.”
Goodwin asks interpretive questions about the smells and aromas, the behavior of the water, the jumping fish, how long the event lasted. She asks trick questions, prodding him to supply details he had not mentioned or observed. Finally they are done.
“Thank you Mr. Strand. You may retrieve your belongings through that door. General Solberg thanks you for your service. He cautions you to not speak of this event outside of his teams.” As Strand leaves, a burly PFPA ushers another man into the chair he has just vacated.
“Full name please,” Goodwin says behind him. Strand closes the door. Gathering his belongings under the watchful eyes of four police, Strand stops cold, looking at a mark on his hand. He looks away, tries to recall clearly. Yes the memory comes, from Solberg’s meeting. He rubs the irritated flesh. Something that was not there when he found his way to his place at the big table.
On the back of his hand, an angry red mosquito bite.
Unwilling to Admit
Without knowing how she does it, Tharcia Harrison is a person who’s prepared for life to come at her, although in quirky fashion. At age 11, she watched a friend tumble headfirst from high in a tree. She uttered a mental scream, No! as she watched the girl plummet down, and reached imaginary hands over a 10-yard gap. The girl got up and climbed the tree again. The year after, Tharcia threw a screaming fit before her mom drove to the airport for a weekend in Las Vegas. She was absolutely certain her mom should not fly that day. Mom would not listen, and left Tharcia in tears with her sitter. The ten minutes that scene consumed, plus a traffic delay near the airport, caused her mother to miss the flight. The jet skidded off the runway landing in Vegas, dozens injured.
Tharcia occupies a comfortable wingback chair in her psychologist’s office, although a soft couch is available. Tharcia prefers to have her eyes at the same level as Dr. Gloom, her private name for Dr. Kristina Novak. She’s kicked off her shoes, folded her legs bene
ath her.
“How are you feeling this week, Tharcia? Any changes in your mood?”
Tharcia shrugs. “About the same. Taking what you gave me.”
“And how is your sleep?”
“The new stuff lets me sleep most of the night. But wild dreams come, sometimes.”
“You want to tell me about those dreams, Tharcia?”
“It's embarrassing. Well, one is. The other is just odd.”
“This is a private, safe space for you my dear. You don't have to talk about it if you don't want to, but it might show the way to helping you.”
“Help me with what? What do I need help with?”
“You want to reconcile with your mother. You told me that.”
“Mm. Reconcile is not the word.”
“Then what is?”
“I want to tell her how she hurt me, why I’m angry. Tell her my shit face to face.” For a second, Dr. Novak sees before her the pleading expression of a young girl. But quick as she blinks, it’s the untroubled face of a beautiful woman intent on hiding something. Total lockdown.
“Now, Tharcia, when you first came to me, you were talking about ideas that were a little… unusual. We discussed those, remember? We agreed there is no way, now, that you and your mother can be together, correct? Is that still your mission, or do you have another goal?”
Tharcia considers. Outside the window birds flit among a tree’s low branches. What she visualizes is seeing her mom alive, telling her everything, making her listen. It’s too mixed up in her head to explain. She’s fully rational, understands what it means that her mother is dead. But she’s having these dreams. Vivid. Other realities leaking in. Perhaps unwise she’s mentioned those. Her whale dream? No. Too precious, too new. Not for now. She’ll divert, using one of Dr. Gloom’s favorite words.
“Okay,” Tharcia says. “In this one dream, I woke up in a dark place surrounded by lots of people. Everyone was naked.”
Dr. Novak sits a little straighter. “You were naked too?”
“I'm not sure. I wasn't aware of looking at myself. Anyway I noticed the bodies around me, and it seemed that lots of ‘em were dead. Some were waking up from their own dreams, same as me. There was fear, longing, despair. These people were all lined up for some kind of processing and there were many souls waiting in line, some crying. The air was red and there were demonic winged things flying around. And in this place, I now felt it was a factory, we were laying dead bodies on an escalator after peeling off the skins. This was supposedly to release their souls. The skins were tied into big bundles and demons took them away with forklifts. Demons with big teeth were eating my flesh before it was removed. I felt filthy, I felt worthless to be naked with them. I woke up with tears.” She dare not mention the gross thing forcing her mouth open.
Novak holds out a tissue. Tharcia doesn’t notice she’d begun to weep while relating the dream.
“It has an effect on you.”
Dabbing her eyes she nods yes.
“What do you think is happening in the dream?”
“Lust?”
Dr. Novak nods. “That could be one aspect. Animalistic and carnal desires could mean the dream is completely sexual.”
“Being eaten alive? Doesn’t seem sexy to me.”
“Biting during intercourse is a deep drive, the lovers wish to consume each other. The crocodile brain, earliest developed brain function. Were the demons using their mouths on you sexually? Or were they consuming your flesh?”
“They had big teeth sunk into my legs.”
“Well, if you consider yourself on your own now, unattached, the fact there were so many people present in the dream might show that you want to be promiscuous. Or be the center of attention.”
“I don’t like it.”
“In dreams, we often play all the parts. So, when you see someone else in a dream, this can show your response to aspects of yourself. If the demon is eating you, perhaps you see yourself as desirable.”
“I don’t like it.”
“It?”
“Being the center of attention. I prefer to stay on the side of things.” Still, in Tharcia’s heart of hearts, she holds a mental image of herself at center stage, able to command a room, happy within herself.
“Thank you. Did you feel fear in the dream?”
“No. It was like a movie. I only got emotional when I woke up.”
“Emotional about what?”
“It was my mom. It was like she had been processed there before. She wasn’t in the dream but I was trying to find her. I cry about her easily. I defend against it by being super mean sometimes.” Tharcia’s own words surprise her. Never before has she articulated the thought. Knows she’s purposely difficult for other people.
“Mean to who, Tharcia?”
“People. Friends.” She speaks the name almost grudgingly, in a small voice. “Clay.”
To the psychologist it looks like Tharcia has for the moment shrunk to the size of a small girl abandoned on a busy street, waiting for her father to take her safe home. She has said little about the man she lives with, was close-mouthed about the relationship except that it is non-sexual, an old friend of her mother’s. Possibly this Clay is the father, but he is never the issue, always kind, supportive, always taken for granted, a known quantity that is safe but not central to her search.
Dr. Novak wants to talk about her sexuality, interested in the fact that the girl has loved only females since becoming sexual in mid-teens, no sex with males. Wants to examine why she separated from her girlfriend. Novak senses an even larger truth kept from view, but the girl maintains stubborn focus on anger toward her mom.
Tharcia’s overpowering conscious desire is to know where her mom is, which must be hell, all the bad things she did. To her, to Clay, and others. Tharcia is certain her mom is a demon by now. There are spells to summon demons. She is getting closer.
If that doesn’t work she has another plan. It fills her with fear. She believes she will see her mother when she herself dies. Deeply fascinated about the other side of death, at dark moments she wills it to be soon. She can’t tell the shrink she thinks of killing herself, for that or any reason. The doctor is bound by law to report any patient who claims they might hurt themselves or someone else, and Tharcia is not up for anyone meddling in her life. In that moment she senses deep the hollow void within her, where her mother once lived. She’d watched through weeks and months as her mom’s memory grew small with distance, until it fit completely inside her head. Horror unreal. Locked in iron bars of unforgiving anger, Tharcia’s shoulders clench. The doctor comforts her with soft words.
“I can tell you about my twin dream,” Tharcia says.
“Our hour is almost up. We’ll cover that next week.”
“Mm. It’s short.”
“Okay, then tell me.”
“I am walking toward a mirror and see myself. I do all the stuff people do to check out it’s a reflection, like wave, move my head. I get to the mirror and step toward the edge. What comes out behind the mirror is me.”
“Is it another reflection?”
“No. She has different hair, a different face. She talks to me. She says I’m her secret…”
“Interesting. However I have an emergency call. I’ll make a note to start with that next time.”
Tharcia has a shopping list. Leaving the psychologist’s office, she stops off at the Sacred Grove bookstore on Soquel before heading up the hill. Although the place is billed as a metaphysical bookstore, she’s on the hunt for ritual items. Specially-dressed, custom-poured beeswax candles, local incense, oils, chemical powders. She is keen on tracking down crystals and spiritual altar pieces. She’d also ordered a grimoire, The Key of Solomon. A copy has finally arrived. During her time in the shop, she fills several bags.
Listening to French lessons on her CD, Tharcia drives quickly up the hill. She needs to build a temple.
Hallucination or Technology
General Solberg is at that m
oment debriefing Dr. Friedman in his temporary swing space office. Friedman has interim findings from the Fish Jump meeting interviews.
“We confiscated all water bottles and have analyzed all fluids. No hallucinogens or other psychoactive substances were present. Our initial assessment and triage of the attendees points to a shared experience, something observed in the room. General, this was no hallucination, no psychogenic fugue, it was something closer to telekinesis or remote viewing. Perhaps events at a distance were observed as taking place in the room, on top of the conference table.”
“How about Shackleford’s thesis, the high frequency gravitational thought waves? Did you test that model?”
Friedman groans inwardly. He hasn’t allowed Dr. Shackleford anywhere near his subjects or the data. Yet. “Folie à deux is French for ‘a madness shared by two’ or shared psychosis. A psychiatric syndrome in which a delusional belief is transmitted between individuals. Some call it shared psychotic disorder although I feel the term misleading. There are documented cases of people suffering from psychosis, either independently or imposed by a thought leader. Psychosis from electromagnetic fields or water-borne substances. Specters, UFOs, antiphotons, ghostly presence, all that sort.”
“And?”
“Eighty-seven percent of the subjects reported no unusual sensations after the event seemed to be over.”
“Shock and surprise?”
“What I mean by that General, is no dizziness or fainting spells, no sense of deja-vu, no sense of forgetfulness or not knowing what day or time it was. All subjects took it as an actual event with no boundary shock or discontinuity.”
Solberg shakes his head. “What I’m getting, Arnie, a highly extreme event actually happened.”
“Sir, that is a valid conclusion. Reality is being messed with, not people’s heads. What’s more, the floor near the table is wet, it squished when we walked on it.”
“Tangible illusion.”
“Just so. We tested the oxygen concentration of the air, inspected the HVAC ducts right back to fresh inflow air. We ruled out anoxia, which can cause sensory distortion and hallucinations.”