The Reincarnation of Peter Proud

by Max Ehrlich

  After a while he heard the Voice. For the first time.

  “Look, Marcia. I didn’t mean what I said back there.”

  He listened, stunned, feeling his flesh crawl. The Voice was that of a stranger, deeper than his, with a different timbre. There was a kind of coarseness to it, a slurred quality, and the suggestion of teeth chattering—from the cold of the lake, of course. It had a slight accent. New England?

  “I’m sorry. I mean it. I’m sorry.”

  The tone was apologetic, contrite. Yet a subtle insincerity underlay the words.

  “I was drunk. I didn’t know what I was saying. I hate myself for what I did to you back there.” A moment of silence. Then: “I love you, Marcia. I always have.”

  Cold. Disembodied. Coming out of the lake he remembered so well.

  “There’s another long pause here,” said Nora.

  He waited. Of course he knew what was corning next. He was ready for it, and yet not ready for it.

  “No, Marcia. No. NO!”

  The scream was pure agony. High-pitched, primal, eerie.

  “Oh, my God,” said Peter again.

  After that, nothing but silence. He felt sick. Sick to his soul. Nora turned off the machine.

  Chapter 8

  He knew practically nothing about reincarnation. He was vaguely aware that in the East people believed in it as part of a religion. In the West it was considered nonsense. If you believed in it you were considered a crackpot. Many of the students were into it. They spoke glibly and knowingly of good and bad karma. What you did in some past life had a lot to do with who you were and what you did in this life. And the way you conducted yourself in this life definitely influenced your status and behavior in the next.

  He had no instant guru to brief him on the subject, but all the student bulletin boards on the campus told him where to go.

  The bookshop, called The Tree of Life, was located on Melrose Avenue. Peter expected to find some little psychedelic type of shop, a hole in the wall staffed by eccentrics in beards and robes. Instead, he found a big, well-lit and tastefully decorated bookshop swarming with customers. Apparently it was one of the occult centers of Southern California. There were three large rooms crammed with books, and a couple of lecture rooms where periodically mediums, astrologers, clairvoyants, tarot readers, healers, and witches scheduled lectures at modest fees. There was even a lecture scheduled by a self-styled Saucerian, for buffs who believed in flying saucers. Here you could get readings on your past lives at twenty-five dollars a session. Or get your aura read. Or learn to cure by the laying on of hands. Or learn about hypnotism, numerology, spiritualism, palmistry, ESP, psychokinetics, and of course yoga. Some of the mediums advertised special deals. A glass of champagne, discounts on certain books, and three readings, all for fifty dollars. At a long table in the rear, the patrons could sample three exotic blends of tea, all on the house.

  The bookstore was decorated with wicker screens, Hindu paintings, cabalistic symbols, and signs of the zodiac. It sold such exotic items as handmade Tibetan incense, Black Mesa High Altitude Indian Incense, red ginseng, handmade bamboo flutes and Tibetan prayer flags, natal charts and malas—sandalwood prayer beads, cedar and lavender meditation pillows and pads.

  What surprised Peter was the fact that the customers were not all longhair. There was a liberal sprinkling of ordinary-looking people: men in business suits, housewives and matrons, well-groomed young girls who looked like stenographers or private secretaries to establishment bosses.

  He went up to one of the clerks at the main counter. She was young and fresh looking and wore Benjamin Franklin glasses. She could have been a clerk at Brentano’s.

  “What can I do for you?”

  He felt embarrassed. “I’m interested in something on reincarnation.”

  She smiled at him. “So is everybody else. Reincarnation’s very big these days. We just can’t get enough literature on it.”

  She told him to go to the rear of the shop and then turn right, where he would find three shelves on reincarnation. As he did so, he passed one of the lecture rooms. The door was partly open, and he could see that a lecture was going on. The speaker was wearing black robes and a priest’s collar. He wore a pointed goatee, his eyes were penciled so that they looked slanted, and he was totally bald. His audience listened in awe as he declaimed:

  “I am a disciple of the Black Pope. The absolute head of the Church of Satan. We believe in the powers of the devil.

  “You know why people have all these hang-ups today? Because they’re denying themselves the pleasures of life they deserve. They’re guilt-ridden, man, repressed. But in the Church of Satan, there is no guilt. The only sin is not to sin. To sin is to act natural. Virtue is bullshit. Love is a loser. The Black Pope issues encyclicals. He says man should enjoy himself now instead of waiting for his reward in heaven. The Black Church is a religion based on self-indulgence. Go on out. Eat, drink, be merry. Screw all the rules. Men, screw any girl you want, your mother, anybody. Girls, screw any man you want, including your father. Open up. Give your soul to Satan. Live! And don’t let anyone con you with this bullshit about Love. There has never been a great love movement in history that hasn’t wound up killing countless numbers of people to prove how much they loved them. Every hypocrite who ever walked the earth has had pockets bulging with love.”

  The audience laughed. The speaker grinned at them. Then he saw that the door through which Peter was watching was open, and he ordered it shut.

  Peter selected two books and came back to the front of the shop.

  The same girl waited on him. As she checked out the books she said, “Would you be interested in a reading of your past lives?”

  He stared at her. “I don’t understand …”

  “You seem into the subject. I just thought you might like to see a good clairvoyant. Sometimes, if you have hangups, they can really help you clear them up.”

  “I don’t know any clairvoyants,” he said.

  “I do. It’s part of my job here. I know who the charlatans are. Whenever I hear that a new medium has set up practice, I go and have a reading. You see, I happen to know all about the past lives I’ve lived. And, of course, I know what’s happened in this one. I check these people out, and if they don’t read me right, then I never recommend them to the people who come into the shop. You might say I’m a kind of occult policeman. A lot of disturbed people pay out their hard-earned money to have their lives charted for them. You know, to show them what decisions they should make. We have clients come in here who are pretty close to flipping their lids. If they don’t get truthful readings, there’s no telling what they might do. Now, if you want a good clairvoyant, I can recommend one to you.”

  “I don’t know. I haven’t thought about it.”

  “She’s marvelous when it comes to reading past lives. Her name’s Verna Bird. She’s a real psychic, absolutely authentic. The number one clairvoyant in California, maybe in the whole country. Would you believe all the movie stars consult her? I mean the really big ones. And people fly in from all over the country to see her.” The clerk reached into a drawer. “This is her card. You can keep it. She’s very busy, so you can’t just walk in. You have to make an appointment by telephone. You can mention my name, if you like. Say you talked to Janet at The Tree of Life.”

  Chapter 9

  He listened to the tape again and again.

  The voice of X taunted and tormented him. Sometimes he thought of X as an obscene aberration of himself. At other times, X was a separate entity, another person entirely who had somehow found a home in his, Peter Proud’s body. When he went to bed he was aware that X was standing somewhere in the wings, ready to step onto the stage of his unconscious. Just before he dropped off to sleep, he began to plead with X: Give me a break tonight. Stay out of my sleep. You and Marcia. Please….

  Then, horrified, he would suddenly realize what he was doing and stop. He would lie there trembling, in a cold sweat. Here he was,
babbling to the creatures of his hallucinations as though they were alive and could hear him. This, he thought, was the beginning; he was well on his way to becoming some kind of zombie. Ever since his conversation with Sam Goodman, he hadn’t been the same. Fear had sucked at the marrow of his bones. He felt he was beginning to slip down into some deep, dark abyss. He became increasingly irritable. Things seemed out of focus; he found it hard to concentrate. He suffered from lapses of memory. Insomnia began to plague him. He fought sleep in order to avoid further confrontation with X.

  He tried hard not to panic. The frightening part of it was the fact that no one could help him. Staub, Goodman, Tanner—no one. His disease was terminal, with no apparent cure—unless he could somehow exorcise these strange companions of the night.

  He took out the card the clerk at the Tree of Life bookshop had given him. And he thought, why not? It’s sure to be a lot of crap, but what can I lose? He’d read all about the great clairvoyant Edgar Cayce and the miracles he’d come up with. Unfortunately, Cayce was long dead, so you had to make the best of what was around. Patronize your local psychic.

  The house was located high on Laurel Canyon, near Mulholland Drive.

  It was a three-story affair of pink stucco. The style was Hollywood Castilian: red tile roof, overhanging balconies with rusty wrought iron twisted-grill railings; a huge swimming pool, empty of water, its walls and bottom cracked and stained with time; a neglected garden overgrown with weeds. The place was a relic of the thirties. He wondered whether some of the old stars had once lived in this house. Harold Lloyd, or Laura LaPlante, or Carole Lombard. It had that marvelous museum look about it.

  There was no bell. He discreetly tapped the knocker on the huge oak door, which was opened by a woman in her middle forties. Her face was plain, her dress frumpy, almost old-fashioned. She peered at him through steel-rimmed glasses.

  “Miss Bird?”

  “Uh, no,” she said. “I’m Elva Carlsen, Miss Bird’s secretary.”

  He introduced himself, and she led him down a dark corridor to a small, windowless waiting room dimly illuminated by a single small table lamp.

  “Please sign the register.”

  She opened a thick registry book and offered him a pen. Peter signed his name.

  “Now, then,” said Miss Carlsen briskly. “What kind of life reading do you wish?”

  “I don’t know.” Then, feeling a little ridiculous: “What kinds are there?”

  “There’s the ordinary life reading. That’s thirty-five dollars. There’s the reading of past lives, with a past lives chart. Fifty dollars. And then there’s the Spiritual Healing reading. That includes not only your past lives, but a spiritual message from Miss Bird on your present problems. That’s seventy-five dollars.”

  Live it up, he thought. Go for broke.

  “I’ll take the Spiritual Healing readings.”

  “I think that’s wise, young man,” said Elva Carlsen. “Very wise. We have so many problems these days. So many. You wouldn’t believe the people who come in here looking for help. Now, if you’ll wait a few moments, I’ll see if Miss Bird is ready to receive you.”

  She bustled off, and Peter surveyed the room. The furniture was old-fashioned, Grand Rapids style—upholstered, with antimacassars. Peter was vaguely disappointed. He had expected something more exotic, like lithographs of Indian deities, statuettes of Buddhas, astrology charts, psychedelic sunbursts, incense—anything to illustrate that A Mystic Lives Here.

  He knew that Miss Bird could afford a much more elaborate establishment than this. Her fees for her readings were obviously fat. Such fees would be normal, or perhaps above normal, for any respectable psychiatrist. He assumed that this simple and humble setup was calculated. Edgar Cayce had been a simple and humble man, living in very plain surroundings. And Verna Bird, he understood, was a disciple and admirer of Cayce’s. If you are an apprentice to the master, you emulate the master. The difference was that Cayce had taken very small fees for his “readings,” and sometimes nothing. Verna Bird, on the other hand, apparently knew a good thing when she had one.

  His attention was caught by a series of photographs on the wall. They were pictures of some of Hollywood’s motion picture stars—the really big ones, the ones whose names were currently seen on marquees all over the country. And each of them was gratefully inscribed with a testimonial. “To Verna, who saved my life”; “To the marvelous Miss Bird, who showed me the light”; “To Verna, God bless you. How can I ever thank you, darling?”

  They were interesting as testimonials go, and in their own way impressive. Yet Peter was somewhat skeptical. Actors and actresses dealt in superlatives. For them everything was larger than life. He would have felt somewhat more reassured if the testimonials had been from scientists or bankers or lawyers, or other more pragmatic types. He himself didn’t expect any miracles from Miss Verna Bird. He was a drowning man clutching at any straw.

  The secretary came back into the waiting room.

  “Miss Bird is prepared,” she said. “Please follow me.”

  They went down another dark corridor and entered Verna Bird’s consultation room.

  The room was large and bright. Two big windows faced out toward the overgrown garden and the empty swimming pool. The furniture itself, as in the waiting room, was standard and drab. There were shelves full of books, a desk, and a chaise longue. A tape recorder stood on the table. The only two unusual items were a pair of live Siamese cats, both standing on the desk, staring at him fixedly, and a small altar sitting on a movable tea table in the corner. At least he assumed it was an altar of some kind. It consisted of a small marble slab with a candle on each end, one red, the other white. In all other respects, the room was the kind you might find in any middle-class suburb anywhere.

  “Verna, this is Mr. Proud. Peter Proud.

  Verna Bird smiled at him. “What a strange and lovely name. I’m glad you’ve come to see me, dear.”

  Peter mumbled something about being glad to be there. The clairvoyant was a tall woman—perhaps six feet tall—and thin. She stood straight as a ruler. She was in her late fifties, Peter guessed, with bright blue eyes and dyed red hair piled up cloudburst style. She wore a long, flowing red housecoat and jeweled red sandals.

  “Sit here, dear.” She indicated a chair opposite the chaise longue. “Make yourself comfortable. You may take off your shoes and loosen your tie if you like. We’re very informal here.” She smiled at her secretary. “Aren’t we, dear?”

  “We certainly are, Verna.”

  He sat down, feeling a little ridiculous. He felt stiff, like a character in a Victorian English comedy. Any minute he expected them to wheel out tea and cakes à la Arsenic and Old Lace. You’ll sleep well in the cellar, my dear, after you take a little of this elderberry wine. What an idiot he was to have come here.

  One of the Siamese cats startled him by suddenly leaping to the top of a bookcase from the desk. It arched its back, staring down and spitting at him. It was a beautiful animal, black, with agate blue eyes and the classic feline profile you saw on those Egyptian cat symbols.

  “Stop that, Yang. You’re being rude.” Verna Bird smiled at Peter. “You mustn’t mind, dear. You aren’t unique. He’s simply hostile to everybody. Isn’t that true, Elva?”

  “Yes, dear. It’s true.”

  “They’re beautiful cats,” Peter said inanely.

  “Aren’t they?” beamed Verna. “My pride and joy. This one’s Yang. But you already know that. The other one’s Yin.”

  “Elva,” said the clairvoyant, “Before we have our reading with Mr. Proud here, do I have another scheduled for this afternoon?”

  “Yes. One more.”

  “Damn,” said Verna Bird. “I had a date at the beauty parlor to get my hair done. It’s such a mess. Now I’ll have to cancel it. You’ll have to schedule another appointment, dear.”

  “I will. I’ll take care of it later.”

  Verna Bird turned to Peter. “I’m sorry, de
ar. Women’s talk.” Then: “Now, do you feel you’re ready?”

  “Yes.”

  “All right. I want you to simply sit in that chair. Feel perfectly relaxed. It’s hard for me to sense his vibrations when the subject is tense. Try to feel in harmony with the world. At peace. You may ask any questions you wish when there’s something you don’t understand. But do not ask them unless it is important. Do you understand?”

  “Yes.”

  “Very well, Elva. Let’s begin.”

  She lay down on the chaise longue and kicked off her sandals. Meanwhile, her secretary set up the tape recorder. She took a cartridge of tape from its container and marked the container “Reading #1877. Peter Proud.” Then she added the date and placed the container on top of a pile of other boxes. Each was labeled with the name of the subject, the number of the reading, and the date. Apparently they kept an extensive tape file on all readings. Then she went to the comer and brought the tea table carrying the portable little altar and set it carefully in front of him. From his seated position he was now looking through the space between the candles and directly at Verna Bird lying on the chaise.

  “The red candle represents Evil,” said the clairvoyant. “And the white candle, Love. Love and Evil. God and the Devil. And man eternally caught between these two passions.”

  There was a subtle change in Verna Bird’s voice. It had become deeper, more resonant, vibrant. Her eyelids had already begun to droop. Her hands hung limply by her sides. He felt like several kinds of damn fool now, sitting here like some superstitious oaf, staring at her through the area between the two candles.

  Now Elva Carlsen took charge. She put her finger to her lips, signaling Peter not to say anything at the moment. She went to the windows, drew the blinds, and pulled down the shades. It was now pitch black in the room. Then the secretary lit the candles.

  The flames sputtered for a moment, then burned steadily. Peter stared at the clairvoyant. He was startled. Suddenly she seemed transformed into someone else entirely. She was sprawled on the chaise watching him. Her eyes had become two blue jewels set into two dark holes in the pallid face. They were almost hypnotic. He felt uncomfortable in their stare. They seemed to bore straight through him, through his flesh and somewhere beyond that. She lay absolutely still; not a muscle moved. It seemed to him that she had even stopped breathing. She looked like someone in rigor mortis. The red housecoat fell in symmetrical folds about her. It all looked as though both the body and the drape of the garment had been carefully arranged, for a certain theatrical effect, by a film director, or perhaps by a mortician.