The Reincarnation of Peter Proud

by Max Ehrlich

  “Well? What did I say?”

  “You might as well hear it from the tape. Verbatim.”

  Bentley turned on the tape recorder. First, the parapsychologist’s voice asked Peter a few routine questions. His name, address, age. His interests outside of teaching. Then, suddenly:

  “Now, Pete, you are still asleep. Deep asleep. Now we are going to turn back. We are going to move back through time. And through space. When I speak to you next, you will be eight years old. You will be eight years old, and you will be able to answer my questions. Now you are eight years old. You go to school now, don’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “What school?”

  “Larkin School.”

  “Who sits in front of you?”

  “A girl. A girl with black hair.”

  “What is her name?”

  “Elizabeth.”

  “Elizabeth what?”

  “Rhodes.”

  “And who sits next to you?”

  “A boy.”

  “His name?”

  “Ernie. Ernest Harris.”

  “Who is your teacher?”

  “Miss Ellis.”

  “What does she look like?”

  “Red hair. Fat. And she has a wart on her cheek.”

  “What is your favorite subject?”

  “Indians.”

  “You like to study Indians?”

  “Yes.”

  Peter listened to the tape, startled—not only because he was able to remember these long-forgotten details, but because his voice had changed. It was that of an eight-year-old boy—high, a little squeaky. He shivered a little.

  The tape went on.

  “Now, Pete, when did you first learn to play tennis?”

  “When I was seven.”

  “We are going back, Pete. When I talk to you next, you will be a year younger. You will be seven. You understand?”

  “Yes.”

  “Now you are seven.”

  “Yes.”

  “How are you learning to play tennis?”

  “I take lessons.”

  “Who is giving you lessons?”

  “A tennis instructor.”

  “What is his name?”

  “Corrigan. Mr. Corrigan.”

  “Do you play well?”

  “Very well.”

  “How well?”

  “The tennis instructor was surprised. He said he couldn’t believe it.”

  “Did he say anything else?”

  “He said it was—uh—there was a word he used.”

  “What was the word?”

  “Incredible.”

  “You mean, he was surprised at how well you learned?”

  “Yes.”

  “Whom did he say this word to?”

  “My father.”

  “Can you tell me what else he told your father?”

  “He told my father that my form was terrific. He asked my father whether I had ever played before.”

  “And what did your father say?”

  “He said no, it was my first time.”

  “And then what did Mr. Corrigan say?”

  “Well, he shook his head. He used this word—incredible. He said I must have been born with a tennis racket in my hand.”

  “He said that? Those were his exact words?”

  “Yes.”

  Pete glanced at Bentley. He had no memory of this conversation. He remembered Corrigan only vaguely. The tape went on:

  “Now you are six. Do you understand? You are six years old now.”

  “Yes,”

  “Do you remember your friends?”

  “Yes.”

  “What are their names?”

  “Joe Morris. He has freckles and blue eyes. Steve Marks. He’s dark and kind of fat. Ollie Peters. He’s the biggest, and can run the fastest. Jimmy Drummond. He’s Scotch.”

  “What kind of games do you play?”

  “All kinds.”

  “Is there one you like best?”

  “Yes.”

  “Which one is that?”

  “Cowboys and Indians.”

  “Where do you play that?”

  “Around where I live. Pacific Palisades. Thirty-two Vista Street.”

  “Which do you play—cowboy or Indian?”

  “I always play the Indian.”

  “Why?”

  “I like it. I like being an Indian. All my friends want to be cowboys.”

  “Are you any particular kind of Indian?”

  “Yes.”

  “What kind?”

  “A Seneca.”

  “You know about Senecas?”

  “I know a lot of tribes. But when I’m an Indian, I’m always a Seneca.”

  Peter sat frozen, listening. God, it was weird. He had forgotten about these kids years ago. About the games they played, and their names. He wouldn’t have remembered them in a million years. But there they were, coming out of his mouth now. In a six-year-old voice.

  The tape went on:

  “Now, rest and relax for a little while. I will not ask you any questions for a while. But I want you to go back by yourself now. You are going back into time and space. Now you are five years old. You are five years old. Think about the time you are five years old. Think about some scene then. Think about something that happened to you then.” A pause. And then: “Now you are four. You are four years old. Think about something that happened to you then. You don’t have to tell me about it; just think about it. Now, go back a little more. Turn back, turn back. See yourself when you were three years old. You are three years old now. What do you see when you were three years old?”

  The voice was babyish.

  “I have a puppy dog.”

  “A real puppy dog?”

  “No. It’s a toy.”

  “What does it look like?”

  “It’s black. And it has a bushy tail. And little red eyes. And a white collar.”

  “What is its name?”

  “Blackie.”

  “Where are you now?”

  “In a car with my father and mother. I’m holding Blackie. We’re riding in the car.”

  “And then what?”

  “I lean out the window. And Blackie falls out of the car and on the road. And then another car runs over it.”

  “What do you do?”

  “I cry.”

  “Now you are two years old. Two years old. See yourself as two years old. Now, go back further. You are one year old. One year old. Think of something that happened when you were one year old. Think about it a little while. All right. Now, keep going back and back and back in your mind. Go back to when you were born.”

  No answer. And Bentley’s voice again:

  “Think. Go back to the day you were born. What do you feel?”

  “I am very tiny. I am curled up. In a dark place. I cannot see …”

  Suddenly Bentley stopped the tape. He showed Peter a photograph.

  “Look this picture of you with a Polaroid. Thought you might find it interesting.”

  Bentley had apparently opened the blinds in order to get enough light to take the picture. It was very clear. Peter was curled up on the couch in the posture of a fetus.

  Then the parapsychologist turned on the tape recorder again. And Bentley’s voice:

  “Do you hear anything?”

  “I hear a noise inside of me. Something beating. My heart. And I hear another noise. The same beating sound. Outside of me.”

  “Your mother’s heart?”

  “Yes.”

  “And then what?”

  The squeaky little voice suddenly became filled with terror.

  “Something is gripping my head. Cold. Hard. Squeezing. It starts to pull me out of the dark, warm place. Everything hurts me. I like the dark, warm place. I don’t want to leave it. I keep moving forward. It’s hard to breathe. Then I come out head first. Something lifts me up, holds me by the legs. I hurt all over. I start to cry. There’s something around my neck. I beg
in to choke. I can’t breathe. Then they take it away….”

  Peter listened, amazed. Suddenly he remembered a conversation his mother had had long ago with friends. He had been only a child then. They had been talking about someone’s pregnancy, and his mother had remarked that Peter had been a forceps baby and had been almost strangled by the cord which had become caught around his neck.

  Then Bentley’s voice came in. It was still calm. There was no feeling or urgency in it.

  “Now you’re going to go further back. You’re going back, back, back. Before you were in that dark, warm place. Yes, you can do it. You can go back, back, further back. Look into your memory. It is before this life you are about to begin. Look back into some other lifetime, some other time, some other place. You will remember certain things, things that happened. You will be able to tell me about them. Think now. Long ago. What do you see?”

  There was a long silence. Suddenly, a voice:

  “A lake. I see a lake.”

  Peter almost jumped from his chair. Now he heard the voice of X. The transition was startling.

  “You’re at this lake?”

  “Yes.”

  “What is your name?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Try to think. What is your name?”

  A pause. Then: “I don’t know.”

  Bentley’s voice was insistent. “Try. Try to think. Try to think.”

  “I don’t know. I don’t.” X sounded querulous. “I don’t know my name.”

  “All right. You are at the lake.”

  “Yes.”

  “What is the name of the lake?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Try to think.”

  “I don’t know.”

  “All right. Are you there alone? Or with someone?”

  “With someone.”

  “Who?”

  “Marcia.”

  “Marcia who?”

  I don’t know.”

  “What is her last name?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “All right. Tell me what you do know.”

  “It’s night. I come out of the cabin. I’m naked. The wind is cold. I shiver a little. But then, I hardly feel it …”

  “Go on …”

  “The moon is out. It’s almost full. I feel good. Very good. I walk down to the dock. I do a little war dance …”

  From this point on, the voice of X related the entire incident, down to the last detail—just as he, Peter Proud, had dreamed it again and again. Right up to the hideous end. There was a pause of several minutes.

  He felt entirely different, separate from X. They were two different people. After the moment of birth a stranger had come into the picture. A familiar stranger, but a stranger, nevertheless.

  Then Bentley’s voice broke in:

  “Is there anything more? Can you go even further back?”

  There was a pause. Then:

  “I see an automobile.”

  “Yes?”

  “I’m driving this automobile. The top is down. There’s a girl beside me. She’s singing.”

  “Where are you driving this car?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “What is the girl’s name?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “What is your name?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “All right. Go further back. What else do you see?”

  X then related, in succession, the Baby Dream, the Tennis Dream, the Prison Dream, the Tower Dream and all the others, right up to the Tree Dream. In none of them did he come up with any names, any new facts. The Tree Dream would be the last possibility.

  Bentley’s voice took on even greater urgency. “Now tell me what you see.”

  “I see a tree.”

  “Yes? Where is this tree?”

  “It’s in a kind of park. Just outside a town.”

  “What is the name of the park?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “What is the name of the town?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Try.” Bentley’s voice persisted. “Try to think.”

  “I don’t know the name of the town. I don’t know.”

  “You were there. You must know.”

  “No.” The voice became querulous again. “I don’t know. I don’t know.”

  “All right. What do you see?”

  “I am there. And with a girl.”

  “The girl is Marcia?”

  “No. Some other girl.”

  “What is her name?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “How old are you now?”

  “I’m young.”

  “How young?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “What are you doing?”

  “I’m carving my initials—and hers—in the bark of the tree.”

  “What are the initials?”

  “I don’t know. I can’t see them.”

  “Try to see them.”

  “I can’t, I can’t see them!”

  After a few minutes of silence, Bentley turned off the tape recorder.

  “Well, that’s that. Nothing we can use. Nothing new. Not a name anywhere, not a clue.”

  “Why couldn’t I remember anything else?”

  “I don’t know.” The parapsychologist took out the spool of tape and slammed shut the cover over the machine. Clearly he was disappointed. “We can only theorize. Obviously, you developed a deep resistance, even under hypnosis, to opening yourself up. For some reason, you didn’t want to open the door. Or in another sense you didn’t want to open a Pandora’s box. Afraid, perhaps, to explore this weird mystery, to reveal yourself to yourself. Afraid, perhaps, that it would be too much to handle, that you might go insane …”

  Peter was still stunned by what he had heard on the tape. All the names he had remembered, right up to the day of his birth. And after that, nothing. I’ll just tell you so much and no more, X had said. If I don’t want to remember, there’s nothing you can do about it.

  “Look,” said Bentley reluctantly, “we could try again. Maybe we can get you down into a deeper stage….”

  It was easy to see that Bentley didn’t have much hope in this possibility.

  “You don’t really think it would work, do you?”

  “If you pin me down to it, no.” Then, hopefully, “But there is another method we might try.”

  “Yes?”

  “Electroshock.”

  “Shock treatments?”

  Bentley nodded. “There’s a theory that applied electroshock before hypnosis may produce some interesting results, change some memory patterns temporarily, so that the patient evidences less resistance. Of course we’d experiment with a very mild current …”

  “Experiment? You mean, this hasn’t been tried on anyone before?”

  Bentley hesitated. “Well, yes. It has.”

  “On whom?”

  “On schizophrenics.”

  Peter stared at the parapsychologist. “I don’t think I’m a schizo, Hall.”

  “I didn’t say you were,” Bentley said hastily, “It’s just something we might possibly consider.”

  “No. I don’t want to be anybody’s guinea pig. And I don’t intend to have my brains scrambled to prove anything.”

  “Okay,” said Bentley. “I don’t blame you. I guess I was reaching a little. Let’s forget all that and try to get this monkey off your back another way. We’ll try suggestion hypnosis. Suppose you come in tomorrow morning, same time.”

  “You think there’s a chance …?”

  “I don’t know. In hypnotherapy, it’s foolish to make any predictions. We’ve had some success with certain traumas involving certain sleep disturbances, amnesia, and the like. All we can do is try.”

  After his patient had gone, Hall Bentley went to a cupboard and poured himself a drink. He felt very tired and very depressed.

  Christ, he thought, what a letdown. For a while his hopes had soared, especially
when he had found out that his patient was able to go, first, into a trance state and, second, into regression. For a while he had believed that here, on this day, Peter Proud would turn out to be the living proof of reincarnation. That here history would be made, that they would shake the world. The prospect was a thousand times more exciting than walking on the moon.

  But his patient had come up zero.

  He had pursued this wraith hopefully for years. But it always came down to the same roadblock. Theories, conjecture, even a certain logic. But no hard-nosed proof. At this moment he was convinced that there never would be any. And anybody who really thought so was only deluding himself.

  If you believe it’s so, fine. But just try proving it, doctor.

  The next morning, Bentley put Peter under hypnosis again. When he had gone under, the parapsychologist began:

  “You have been having these dreams. The same dreams. But they are really hallucinations. They are harmful. They are nightmares that hurt your sleep. They exhaust your energy. Now, you must get rid of them. You have had enough of them. You will forget all about them. They never existed….”

  Miraculously, the dreams vanished.

  Night after night passed dreamlessly. Peter awoke feeling rested, completely refreshed. The man he thought of as X had apparently died for the last time. He no longer walked the streets of the mysterious city, or played tennis, or drove the big Packard, or counted money in his prison.

  In time, he began to dream again. But these dreams were different, the kind everybody had. Dreams identified with childhood memories or authority figures. Dreams in which the cast of characters was familiar: his father, his mother, his friends, Nora. And in locales he recognized in present memory.

  In time, the hallucinations themselves became one big dream, a series of nightmares he had had at one time. Now and then he would refer to the notebook he had kept. He could read about them now in a curious, detached way. Their content seemed the wildest fantasy.

  He became his old self again. He worked well teaching, doing his research. He completed four chapters of his book. His appetite was good. He played even more tennis than before, and his game and reflexes were much sharper. It seemed to him that he had twice as much energy as he had ever had before. He felt marvelous. And at peace.

  His relationship with Nora improved. He knew it had been badly shaken recently—that, in fact, she had been on the verge of leaving him. He knew he hadn’t been easy to live with. She had gone along with him, but it had been an ordeal for her, too. And their sex life had suffered. Now everything was normal again.