AND I'LL BE WITH YOU BY AND BY by Avon Swofford
GREG wasn't sure he knew exactly what he had invented. The machine was an accident, an attempt to use biofeedback and alpha waves. He liked to tinker with outlandish projects to counter the monotony of repairing household appliances. It wasn't a business exactly; he was more of an odd-jobman the local people called in to fix whatever wasn't still under warranty. He didn't make a lot of money, but he had plenty of free time and a fully stocked workshop that was deductible.
By late afternoon he had decided he'd put in enough work on electric toasters and had started working on his newest project. It wasn't much to look at: just a jumbled assortment of circuit boards, transistors, and wires. He had the headset on and was concentrating on the oscilloscope when suddenly he felt the presence of others. He worked to tune in the strange communications and then heard Oliver.
He knew immediately it was Oliver, not from the tone of voice—there was no voice—but somehow from the feel of the thoughts. After ten years, he still remembered; and in particular, he remembered Oliver's death.
His hands trembled as he removed the headset and took several deep breaths. He felt weak as he stood up from the worktable. Oliver's presence brought back painful memories. He had been riding in the car with Oliver when the accident occurred. Greg had come through without a scratch, but Oliver never regained consciousness, never spoke to Greg again—until now.
He went to the window and looked outside. Maybe someone had called to him, someone who sounded like Oliver. But the field was deserted and he could see no one through the barren trees lining the distant highway. He turned back to the machine. Something had triggered those memories. Somehow Oliver had come back to him.
He returned to the table and picked up the headset, not wanting to put it on again, yet unable to ignore the force of Oliver's presence. He had to know. Slowly he slipped it on.
At first he felt nothing; then Oliver was there. This time the thoughts were distinct.
"Oliver?" Greg asked.
"I'm here," Oliver answered. Greg felt no emotion, just a quiet sense of waiting. Oliver was giving him time, but there was also a sense of urgency to his thoughts.
He forced himself to relax and, as he concentrated, Oliver's presence became more concrete. He could almost see his friend: not a dim memory from ten years ago, but a clear image of Oliver at eighteen with long blond hair and dark eyes. He hadn't changed.
"How can I be talking to you? You died." Even as he said it, he could feel the fear. Oliver evidently felt it too and responded with alarm.
"Don't go—I have to talk to you."
"But you're dead." Greg spoke as if somehow Oliver had to be convinced. "You can't be here."
"I am," Oliver answered. "I'm here. Somehow you've managed to reach us."
Greg could feel a strange eagerness in Oliver's voice. "Us?" he asked.
"Us—those of us who are here."
What? Greg's question was unvoiced but Oliver understood.
"Dead, I suppose. Changed," he answered impatiently. "I can see you. I can see my parents and my brother. Can you imagine what it's like, waiting, begging for a chance to communicate? You've got to get in touch with my parents. Bring them here."
"Who else is there?" Greg asked, his mouth dry at the thought that now ran through his head.
"I don't know—everyone, I suppose. Why are you so slow? I don't want to talk to you. Go. Get the others now."
The harshness in Oliver's voice frightened Greg so much he reached up and yanked the headset off. The commands had been almost mesmerizing, and the eerie way Oliver stared—his dark eyes never blinking, never wavering from Greg's face—unnerved him. He felt chilled even though the shed was well heated. Shivering, he hugged himself tightly and then glanced around the room to reassure himself nothing had changed. He had been so involved in the conversation that he'd lost all sense of time and place. Now it seemed odd to find himself back in familiar surroundings—odd, yet comforting.
He leaned back and gazed at the cluttered table almost in awe. Whatever it was he had built here was special, something uniquely his. He wished suddenly that his father could see it. Surely this would have impressed him. "Probably not," he said aloud and reached over to turn off the machine. He hesitated. Better leave it on, he thought. He wanted another opinion. Someone else should try it. It wouldn't do to break the connection. Oliver wouldn't like it. It was a quick thought, almost a subconscious one, but it frightened him and he pulled his hand abruptly from the switch, stood up and left the shed, closing the door behind him.
He walked across the driveway to the house, which was almost as rickety as the shed. It was a two-story building with peeling yellow paint and a wide veranda on both sides. It needed work but it had promise. That's what Beth had said. All old houses in Savannah had promise. Besides, she had added, there was a chance that this one had survived Sherman's army; surely it deserved their help.
History was Beth's hobby, just as electronics was Greg's. He didn't care much about Sherman's army. But the price was right, it was far enough from downtown Savannah, and the shed had been thrown in free. Greg had used the remainder of the inheritance money left by his father to buy it. So far, it had definitely been worth the investment.
He picked his way carefully through the jumble of old furniture and half-empty paint cans on the back porch. The encounter in the shed had taken longer than he realized and Beth was already home. He could hear her humming in the kitchen. She had taken off her winter coat, but her head was still hidden by a wool cap and scarf. The sight of her comforted him and he leaned against the doorjamb watching her unpack the groceries.
She was the practical one, always ready to deal with any situation. She'd come down from New Jersey to go to school and they'd met in an English class. He liked her immediately. Not her looks; she was a bit overweight and her hair hung straight and shapeless, but her briskness and efficiency impressed him. By the end of the semester, they were living together.
"What'd you bring me?" he asked.
"Middle of the month trip," she said, not looking up from the paper bags. "Nothing special, no meat, no ice cream. Sorry." When he didn't respond, she looked up and saw him staring. "Are you all right, Greg? You look tired."
"Been working out in the shed. I've stumbled onto something a bit weird. I thought maybe you could help."
"A problem—with your electronics? I don't know anything about that stuff," she said.
"It's not electronics, it's more like psychology."
"That's supposed to be my specialty." She sat down and took off her scarf and cap. "What's up?"
He didn't speak immediately. She sensed his confusion and waited.
"Well, I've been working with the brain waves, biofeedback, that sort of stuff," he said finally. Beth nodded. "But what I got is different from anything I've ever felt. It's—" He paused, uncertain how to proceed. "I seem to be in communication with an old friend of mine. But there's just one problem. He's dead. He died almost ten years ago."
"What?" She drew away from him slightly, her eyes narrowing as she watched him. "Greg, that's—"
"No, listen," he interrupted. "It's true. At least it appears to be. I was working with the frequencies and suddenly I felt him. At least I thought I did," he finished lamely. Beth studied his face for a moment.
"Were you thinking of him before you turned on the machine?" she asked. Gratefully, Greg relaxed. At least she wasn't laughing.
"No, I haven't thought about him in years. But as soon as I hit that frequency, I knew it was him. The feeling of him was so strong. I honestly don't think I could have imagined it."
"The mind is tricky. You can remember a lot of things."
"That's why I want you to try it. You didn't know him, so you shouldn't be able to feel him like I did."
She was silent for a moment, then stood up. "All right," she said. "Let's give it a try."
"Right now?" Greg realized he didn't want to go back to
the shed now that it was getting dark. That shouldn't have made any difference, but it did.
Beth saw his hesitation. "It really spooked you, didn't it?"
"Spooked is the right word." He tried to laugh off his concern and his own. "It's not that important. Let's have dinner first."
"No, let's do it now," she said. "I want to know what's bothering you."
"All right," he agreed reluctantly and picked up his coat. He didn't want to go back outside. The shed seemed cold and forbidding. But she was right. He had to know what was out there. Whatever it was, she could handle it. He was sure of that. The thought made him even angrier at himself for holding back and he stepped out ahead of her, leading the way across the driveway.
When Greg reached the shed, he turned on all the lights, even the outside floodlight. Still, it seemed dark.
"Do you feel anything?" he asked.
"A little chilly," she answered, laughing. He smiled awkwardly in return and went to get the headset. Beth took it and settled easily in the tattered blue armchair next to the worktable.
"Relax," he said. It was unnecessary. She was relaxed. He was the one who was tense. She slipped on the headset and Greg leaned against the worktable to watch her. As she concentrated on the images, her face was blank and her eyes stared into the distance as if she were in a trance. Disturbed, Greg reached over and turned off the machine. He couldn't wait any longer; he had to have her reaction.
She wasn't angry or surprised that he had cut the connection. Rather, she appeared thoughtful as she removed the headset.
"Well?" he said impatiently while she sat silently, playing with the earphones.
"You say you know him?" she asked.
"You did talk to him then? There is something there?"
"Oh, there's something there all right. Someone, perhaps. The interesting thing is that you seem to know him. To me he's a stranger. The machine must affect the subconscious in different ways."
"It's not the subconscious. It can't be. You talked to him. It must be outside the mind of the person who uses it."
"It would appear that way, I'll admit," Beth said. "But I'm not willing to believe it yet. Communication with the dead, mediums, esp and all that garbage—this isn't the way it's supposed to work." She looked up at him. "Did he tell you anything about himself?"
"No," Greg said. "I guess I didn't really ask. I was so stunned to feel him in my mind like that. And to recognize him."
"Well, I asked some pretty specific questions, but he wouldn't answer. He's very anxious to get through to us, though. He wants his parents."
"Yeah, he mentioned that."
Beth leaned back in the armchair, still holding the headset. She seemed somewhat distracted.
"Do you want to talk to him again?" he asked.
"No," she answered quickly, and he realized that she did indeed share his sense of uneasiness. "I don't understand what we have here. I can't believe it and yet I can't deny it. We appear to be involved with some sort of telepathic communication."
"But with what?"
"That's what's frightening, isn't it," Beth said as she carefully laid the headset on the table. "You could accept it if it were with someone alive, but a ghost?" She stood up and moved away from the table, staring at the machine with obvious distaste. "And that's not all, Greg," she said. "Oliver knew who I was but I don't know him. I don't like the fact that he has the advantage."
"He's dying to get in touch with us," Greg said.
"Ha ha. Very funny. By the way, does the name 'Diangelo' mean anything to you?"
"It's Oliver's name. His last name."
"Did you ever mention that to me?"
"Hell no. I haven't thought about him in years."
"Well, there's some kind of transference going on, either between you and me or between me and Oliver." Greg picked up the headset and laid it on top of the machine. He felt vulnerable in front of it, as though it were silently watching. "Let's go back to the house," he said. Beth nodded and turned toward the door. Greg stared at the machine for a moment longer before reaching behind it and pulling the plug. As he went out, he padlocked the door. Beth waited outside and they walked back to the house silently, her arm in his.
As they got ready for bed, Beth seemed quiet and pensive. The distant attitude Greg had sensed in her earlier had not diminished, yet she didn't mention Oliver again.
Finally, as they lay together in the darkness, he reached for her, but she pulled away. He sighed and lay down again.
"Tomorrow we'll know for sure," she said.
"What do you mean 'tomorrow'?" he asked.
"I asked Oliver to contact my brother. See if he's around up there."
"You what?" He sat up and stared at her. "You can't do that."
"Don't get upset, Greg." Puzzled, she looked at him. "Ben died when I was very young, about ten or so. I never knew him. Think about what a chance it is—I can finally meet my younger brother." She sounded as impatient as Oliver had. Greg began to shake his head in the dark. They were getting into this too fast.
"It can't hurt," she said. "Look, Greg, maybe it's just some sort of transference from your mind to mine. If so, then we'll know by tomorrow. But if it's not, then you will have bridged the widest gap there is. Everything will change."
"That's what I'm afraid of," he said softly. There were some gaps better left open, he thought. Beth didn't notice his hesitation. She sat up and kissed his shoulder.
"Tomorrow I'll talk to my brother and you'll call the Diangelos for Oliver. Then maybe he'll be in a better mood to answer our questions."
He said nothing and she lay back down and closed her eyes. He could only remember Mrs. Diangelo and the agony in her eyes as she had sat quietly at the funeral. Mr. Diangelo had cried. How could he tell them their dead son wanted to talk to them? What if he was wrong?
Beth was gone when Greg woke up. It was early, just barely daylight. He got up quickly and put on some clothes.
The machine was already on and she was sitting in the armchair. Her eyes were vacant, but tears streamed down her cheeks. Alarmed, he took off the headset and smoothed her hair. She seemed reluctant to return to reality and he waited patiently, stroking her head gently. When she finally spoke, her voice was trembling.
"I talked to Ben, my brother. Greg, it was really him. He's hurt—and angry. He never got a chance to live. I got everything after he died. He didn't even get to know my parents. I'm sorry, Ben. I'm truly sorry." She pulled away from him and hid her face in her hands. He sat on the edge of the chair and tried to comfort her. She pushed him away.
"Give me a minute. I'll be all right."
While he waited, Greg gingerly fingered the headset and then slowly put it on. The presence was different this time. It was not Oliver.
"I wasn't through talking to her yet. Put her back on. I want to talk to her, not you." The voice was eerie in his head. It had the feeling of a child, yet there was a harshness to it, a cold demanding tone that belonged to an adult. Oliver had been annoying, but this thing was worse, much worse. He snatched off the headset without even bothering to answer the child.
"Let's get out of here," he said. Beth nodded and he helped her back into the kitchen.
"I'm sorry I got so upset. It's all right now." She smiled wanly. "It was Ben, Greg. I'm sure of that."
He thought of the cold voice in his head and almost shuddered. Beth caught his feelings.
"He's not like that," she said. "At least that's not how I remember him. It's just been too hard on him— watching us, seeing me grow up as an only child, taking what he thought was his. It must be hard on all of them. It's part of our vanity. We don't think about life going on without us. But it does, of course, and they have to watch it."
"Is that all they do? Just watch us? Don't they have anything else to do? Why can't they leave us alone?"
She was silent for a moment. "We have to get the Diangelos for Oliver. I promised. He won't let me talk to anyone else unless I get them."
"Greg, I have to."
"Beth—" he began, but she interrupted.
"You can't stop me, Greg." Then she turned and left. After a moment, he followed.
He watched Beth closely for the rest of the day. At first she ignored him, then angrily began to exaggerate her actions, waiting for him to catch up with her when she headed toward the back of the house. Once, she sarcastically invited him into the back bathroom with her when, not realizing her destination, he had followed her right to the door. After that, he left her alone. He couldn't prevent her from using the machine. In her own way, she was growing more obsessed than he was.
He retreated to the den and stared blindly at the TV until she came in with dinner. At first he thought it was a peace offering, until he saw a slip of paper on the tray beside the food.
"What is it?" he asked.
"The Diangelos' phone number," Beth said. "I'll call them if you don't want to."
"Where did you get it?"
"Oliver told me," she said.
"Where did he get it?" Greg asked.
"If he can see them, then I guess he can see their phone too," she said.
"Yeah."
She sat beside him on the couch and lay her head on his shoulder. She seemed so tired.
"All right, I'll call the Diangelos," Greg said. "I don't think it's right, but I'll do it."
He waited until she fell asleep and laid her gently on the couch. Grabbing his hat and coat out of the hall closet, he left, not stopping to put them on until he got to the car. He had to get away, to get out of the house and out from under Oliver's eyes.
He drove aimlessly for a while and finally ended up where he had always run to as a child. Down to the Savannah River, to Factor's Walk, where the tourists and the boats paraded by.
It was growing dark and the shops were closing. During the summer there were marching bands and street musicians, but now the walk was almost deserted. The sun had dropped behind the tall waterfront buildings, leaving a dirty grey light on the walk. The tide was high and the Savannah lapped gently against the wooden pilings lining the street.
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