It was not the cold of the room that took her now—it was an inner bone-piercing chill that violently shook her.
It came back to her, one of Wenonah’s acquired bits of ghost trivia: one of their pranks, she said, was to tamper with a victim’s bedclothes.
Meg listened absently as Kurt sang softly in the shower. She would say nothing to him, she decided.
Victim.—Is that what I am?
She tried to control her shaking, the rapidity of her heartbeat. The spirit, ghost, poltergeist—whatever the hell it was—had overstepped another boundary.
The boundary of touch.
NINE
The bar, close to Wrigley Field, was a familiar one, but Kurt felt stiff and uncomfortable.
The waitress placed two draft beers on the wood-grained formica table, smiled prettily at the regular customers, and disappeared into the late afternoon crowd.
“What are your hopes for the Cubs this year, Kurt?”
“Oh, I don’t know. Haven’t thought much about it.”
“Yeah? Since when? Hey, you do have hopes? Last year’s results didn’t put you off?”
“Not likely. When has it ever? I’ve always got hope. That way we’re left with something at the end of the season.”
The two laughed. Raising his stein, Kurt surveyed George Ringbloom’s long, handsome, honest face. He wondered if he was doing the right thing. Had he miscalculated? Hell, he needed to talk to someone. And who better that a psychiatrist? But maybe it shouldn’t be a friend and coworker. Maybe it shouldn’t be someone who knows Meg.
“Okay, Kurt, I get the sense that you didn’t suggest a beer after work to divine a winning season for the Cubbies. What’s up?”
Kurt flushed. He tried to laugh it off. “It hasn’t worked yet, has it? The Cubs, I mean.” He felt foolish now. “No, George, I . . . I— ”
“How’s Meg? How does she like Hammond?”
Kurt inwardly winced. God, psychiatrists are good at cutting to the chase.
“Problems of the marriage variety?”
“Not really.” George Ringbloom had seen Kurt through an ugly divorce a decade previous. He knew Kurt well, and Kurt didn’t want him to think his marriage to Meg was a rerun of the first failure. “The problem is rather—that is, extremely unusual. And, yes, it does concern Meg.”
George finished a hearty gulp and set his glass down. The hazel eyes seemed rounder. “Now you take one, too. And then I’m all ears.” He winked. “I won’t even put you on the clock.”
“Thanks!” Kurt laughed, lifting his glass. He knew there was no going back now. He took a long drink, then started his—Meg’s—story: the face at the window, the tappings, the piano music, the dreams. Even as the story unfolded in his laconic manner, it didn’t take as long as he’d imagined.
George listened without interruption, and his face had taken on a ponderous expression by the time the tale was told.
“Well— ?” Kurt pressed. “Meg thinks it’s a ghost or poltergeist or some damn thing.”
“And you?”
“Me?”
“Do you believe?”
“No. I mean, I don’t know. Maybe if I had experienced even one of those things, it’d be different. But I haven’t.” He paused, drawing in breath. “George, can there—are there such things?”
“Ghosts? Well, this is hardly my field of expertise, Kurt. Unless you think it’s all coming from within Meg.”
Kurt felt traitorous and ashamed, yet he asked, “Is that possible?”
“Kurt, our minds are capable of some very powerful and strange things, but most of what you’ve described seems to be tied into this old house. You know, I’d love to see it.”
“So there are hauntings.”
“Some are harder to prove than others.”
“George— ”
“Do I believe?” George set down his glass and leveled his most professional gaze at Kurt. “Yes, absolutely.”
Kurt felt the breath go out of him. He became strangely dizzy. Ghosts are possible, he thought. My God, I own a Goddamn haunted house.
Now he realized George was still speaking.
“—what’s really interesting, Kurt, in fact, damn fascinating, is those dreams. Very unusual. And they seem almost a separate issue from those other phenomena.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, they reflect an inner sort of happening as opposed to occurrences that can be perceived by the senses.”
“The music and tapping?”
“Yes.”
“I see. And the dreams may be separate from the physical haunting, if that’s what it is?”
George shrugged, hesitant to continue.
“There must be a connection, yes? Hey, dreams are in your realm, George, let’s face it. You know my next question.”
“What’s causing them?”
Kurt nodded. “Exactly.”
“I don’t think dreams of this type are up my alley. If I thought Meg was subconsciously creating them— ”
“You don’t?”
“Not with the kinds of things in them you’ve mentioned—things out of a long ago past.”
“Then where are they coming from?”
“Different experts will give you different theories.”
“Like what?”
George carefully set down his empty glass, eyeing Kurt. “How much of a believer are you, Kurt?”
“In what?”
“The unseen, the unexperienced.”
Kurt could feel the tightness of his own smile. “Not much of one, I suppose.” He shifted in his seat. “Let’s get back to the experts you’re talking about.”
George cleared his throat. “Some might cite reincarnation.” He deliberately paused, checking Kurt’s reaction.
“Oh, come on,” Kurt laughed. “Meg said something about that, too. It’s rubbish.”
“Look, I’m just telling you what some avenues of investigation might be.”
“You’re playing devil’s advocate? You don’t seriously believe— ”
“I’ve learned not to not believe, Kurt. It works well in my line. In any line, for that matter.”
The waitress came and filled their glasses.
Kurt stared off into space for a moment then collected himself. “Okay, what’s another possibility?”
“That it’s a mystery none of us will crack.”
“That’s a cop-out.”
George laughed. “Often it’s the truth, but you’re right, the experts would never get noticed or paid for their services if they were always truthful.”
“So? That’s it?”
“No.” The keen hazel eyes held Kurt’s. “Do you know what a hologram is, Kurt?”
“Yeah, sure. It’s one of those things that has—well, it’s like a photograph with dimensions to it. Meg gave me one of those Fossil watches with a train hologram. You turn it and it seems to be in motion.”
George nodded. “There’s this new theory—actually not new at all—it’s just that it’s caught the imagination of the New Age crowd. Anyway, it likens our very reality to that of a hologram. I’m not sure I can explain the makings of a hologram, but here goes: A hologram is achieved by splitting a laser light into two rays using a splitter. The first beam hits the item being photographed, say a table, while the second interferes with the light of the first as it is reflected off the item. The resulting photograph is a hologram.”
“So how do we fit into the picture?”
“Well—and this is really cool stuff—according to one of Einstein’s compatriots, a guy by the name of Bohm—I think—our individual realities are like a projected holographic image. The larger picture, the universe, is like the hologram itself.”
Kurt struggled to digest the information.
“Look,” George said, recognizing Kurt’s confusion, “our immediate experience is one of three dimensions. No stretch there. But the holographic theory is that matter and consciousness are part of a whole. Within each of us, our be
ings, is a reflection of the whole.”
“Oh, kind of like DNA? The Jurassic Park thing? With a tiny bit of DNA you could produce the whole?”
“Right, except that from us comes the whole damn universe. We are—in essence—microcosms of the universe. Each of us has, so it goes, the potential to access every aspect of the world beyond our mere senses. Our psyches are reservoirs of knowledge and experience that are literally boundless.”
“Okay, okay. I’m trying to keep up. I think I see where you’re going with this. So, these dreams—they very well could be someone else’s?”
George smiled and nodded. “You got it, buddy.”
“You’re saying we all have access to one another’s dreams, thoughts?”
“I suppose you could say that. It probably happens more than we think. We’re all part of one collective unconscious.”
“But Meg’s dreams—they’re out of some other time period. They belong to someone who must be dead, has to be.”
“Ah, my friend,” George said, smiling, “time plays no real role in this equation. The linear aspect of time is important only to us who live and experience in the here and now. In the collective unconscious, there is no time.”
“No time? I don’t get it.”
“My fault, I’m sure. I don’t often have to explain this stuff.”
“But do you believe it, George?”
“It makes as much sense as anything else. Yes, I guess I do.”
“Then these dreams can be like— ”
“Transferences,” George interposed.
“Transferences from one person to another, from one time frame to another?”
“It’s not impossible, Kurt.”
“I think I understand, but I just can’t buy it.”
“Listen, I’ve got a great friend downtown, a psychoanalyst. This is her area, not mine. She writes and lectures on the holotropic mind. She’s become quite the darling of the New Age crowd here in Chicago.” George took a pen from his jacket pocket. “It wouldn’t hurt for you—and Meg—to see her.”
Kurt gave a dismissive wave of his hand. “I don’t think so. What we should do is sell the frickin’ house. It’s the house, George!” Kurt studied his friend. “Or—do you think it’s Meg that’s the channel for this stuff?”
George finished writing on a cocktail napkin. “Could be a combination of the two. Here, here’s her name. I don’t have the number, but she’s on Michigan Avenue. You should look her up. This stuff is incredibly fascinating.”
Kurt bristled. “Not if it’s screwing up your life, George! Believe me, I’d rather be talking about the Cubbies.” Kurt pushed the napkin into his inside suitcoat pocket.
That’s all I need, he thought, to go home to Meg with the news she’s to see a psychoanalyst.
TEN
Meg was driving.
The car, a two-seater, jerked into motion and gyrated along the dusty city street. Its vibration and high, whining hum suggested a speed higher than that at which images of houses and storefronts on either side moved lazily by, as if she were on an old steamship.
Meg’s gloved hands were fastened tightly to the steering wheel. Black fabric enveloped her arms to the wrists, where the sleeves—held with columns of cloth-covered buttons—disappeared into the openings of the black leather gloves.
The car passed some of the stately homes of the city founders. Some were massive rectangles of granite while others were intricate wonders of Victorian or Greek Revival architecture. Then came a business district of foundries, bottlers, printers, bakeries, groceries, and—into a downtown area now—department stores.
Oddly enough, it was daylight and yet Meg saw no movement on the streets or sidewalks. Not a living soul stirred. Not even a dog or cat.
Where was she going?
She had no idea, yet the sense of urgency and repressed panic was clutching at her heart, tightening her throat, drying out her mouth and lips. She attempted to accelerate further. She desperately needed to be somewhere.
Where?
Find someone.
Whom?
The car sped along at a higher speed now. Meg looked to the speedometer and blinked at what she saw. It read 18 mph.
Could that speed be correct?
Meg looked up at the road to find that a human form had suddenly appeared a hundred feet in front of her. Her heart leapt within her chest.
The fast approaching figure was that of a child.
Meg felt her foot moving, as if in slow motion, to the brake pedal. Gripping the wheel, she thrust her whole leg forward, horrified to realize it had no effect. The car would not slow and she was bearing down on a small figure in a blue cap.
The child’s head lifted. Under the cap’s bill, the eyes were adjusting, focusing. He looked into the cab of the car, into Meg’s eyes, and comprehended at once his incontrovertible fate.
Meg opened her mouth to scream as the car struck—pitching slightly upon impact—and rolled right over the boy.
As Meg struggled to scream, to give voice to the horror she had just perpetrated, she came awake with a start, clammy and breathless.
She had dreamt every night. The dreams offered a variety of scenarios: a night at an old-time stage play, a game of lawn croquet, a formal picnic in a manicured park with men in suits and fully draped women carrying parasols. In each dream she felt the same sense of urgency, the same fears tightening her chest as with iron bands, the same premonition of imminent loss.
The loss of a child.
The house was warm, but Meg shivered violently now. She was chilled to the marrow.
She wiped cold perspiration from her brow.
She lay staring at the ceiling, asking herself the now familiar questions. What are these dreams? What do they mean?
Her heart raced. Why is this happening to me? She was convinced that these lucid dreams were not hers. How could they be? Within them she experienced a Hammond of old, a world completely alien from the city she knew. Are they warnings? Of what? Is my child in danger?
And lately, after waking from the dreams, as now—or even in just passing through a hallway or taking the stairs—she would detect the smell of rotting flowers. It was strong enough now to force her to the side of the bed. She needed to go about the business of the day. She needed to forget. Yet, more and more, she sensed that she was on a collision course with whatever force it was there in the house. The thought scared the hell out of her, made the tiny hairs at the nape of her neck tingle and rise. With each day that went by, each dream, she felt herself moving inexorably closer to something, to seeing, to confronting this—entity that possessed the house and commandeered her own dreams, substituting visions of terror.
Kurt was right in thinking they should cut their losses and move. The dreams—and the other phenomena—most certainly had come with the house. And she knew that the settings for the dreams were right there in Hammond, a Hammond of long ago. She should listen to Kurt, the practical one, and pack it in. There would be other houses.
But by the end of the week Meg had steeled herself despite her fears. She resolved not to be driven off by the unknown. Some part of the house still welcomed her, still cradled her in the warmest and most comforting way. When she sat in the bay, when she ascended the stairs to the first landing where the twelve-foot stained glass windows caught the western sun, when she stood at the French doors surveying the balcony and street below, feeling the breezes and even daring to incite the old vertigo—these were the moments that she felt complete peace, happiness, and at one with the house. These were the moments when she would risk everything—even her marriage—to keep the house.
Meg worked hard to clear her mind of the dark fears, tried to ready herself for what was to come.
In fact, she opened herself to it as if to a secret lover, as long as it didn’t prove to be a demon lover. She dared the force to communicate, to make itself known, to materialize.
At least that way, she reasoned, it will be under my terms. Such wa
s her logic in her strong moments.
But what would be the consequences should some figure actually appear to her as she turned a corner or entered a room? How would she react?
She trembled at the thought.
Thoughts of the baby gave her the strength to fight off the dark possibilities.
My baby. I will have my baby and the house. I will.
“Any occurrences?” Kurt asked even before she had pulled out of the station lot.
“Occurrences?”
“You know exactly what I mean, Meg.”
Each day, by phone, she had assured him that the house was quiet. Lying in person was more difficult. “No, Kurt. I told you.”
“Any dreams?”
“None to speak of.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means none.” Meg braked at the light.
Kurt pressed the issue. “What about the dream in which you were holding on to a child’s hand?”
“No, I haven’t had that one for a while.” This at least was the truth. The light changed and Meg accelerated. “Why do you ask?”
“Oh, nothing. Never mind.”
At that moment a softball rolled out onto the street and a young boy came chasing it. Meg panicked at once. Her dream of running down a young boy instantly replayed itself in her mind.
“Slow down,” Kurt cautioned.
Meg slammed on the brakes and the car immediately screeched to a stop.
“Jesus Christ, Meg!”
“Sorry.” She was aware of her own heart’s racing.
“You nearly put us through the windshield. It’s a wonder we’re not sitting here with the airbags in our faces.”
“I said I was sorry.”
“You overreacted. You don’t usually drive like that. Are you all right?”
“Yeah, sure.” Kurt was right. There had been plenty of time to slow. And the boy, it seemed, had not even intended to go darting into the street. Meg had given him a good scare, nonetheless. He stood frozen in movement, huge eyes on the car.
Meg motioned him to retrieve the ball. He quickly did so and beat a hasty retreat.
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