Katherine's Prophecy

by Scott Wittenburg

  Emily thought it over then said, “I guess it’s possible. But how do you explain the whole Porter family being there? I’ve never dreamt of Nancy before.”

  “How do you know it was Nancy you saw? Did you see her face? For that matter, have you ever seen her face in a picture? I’m assuming that you haven’t.”

  “No, on both counts. Nancy and the little girl were just sort of ‘there’—more a vague presence than anything else. But I know it was them! They appeared with Clem, so it’s safe to assume that it was Clem’s wife and Clem’s child.”

  “Whose child?” Lenny prompted.

  Emily knew what Lenny was implying. “All right, then. The little girl was either Clem’s child or John Hoffman’s. Either way, it had to have been Katherine.”

  Lenny eyed Emily curiously. “I think it’s interesting that you just referred to Katherine as being Clem’s child all of a sudden. Could it be that maybe you’re beginning to change your mind about a few things?”

  Emily shook her head in frustration. “God, I don’t know, Lenny! Of course I want to think that Grandma Katherine was truly Clem’s child, but it’s all so confusing. All I know for sure is that I hate John Hoffman, and I find it inconceivable that someone so lecherous could have fathered my grandmother. I guess I’m trying to convince myself that Clem was Katherine’s father in spite of the weighty evidence against it. He was a good man. And Nancy was a good woman. Katherine just had to be his daughter!”

  “Then why don’t you simply believe it? Just tell yourself you know it’s true on the basis of your instincts. That’s what this dream was all about—it’s so obvious! Just forget about John Hoffman and he’ll go away!”

  “It’s not that easy, Lenny. This has been going on practically all of my life, don’t forget. I can’t just suddenly snap my fingers and make it all go away.”

  “I realize that, Emily. But you need to try and be a little more optimistic. I still think that this dream was trying to tell you something—something positive.”

  Emily sighed. “Maybe so. But there are a couple of other things that really have me baffled. Like, what do you think Clem meant when he told John Hoffman that ‘maybe’ he was alive? And what was the ‘scheme’ he was referring to?”

  Lenny shook his head. “I have no idea. That part has got me stumped.”

  Emily grinned wanly. “Is Doctor Freud losing his touch?”

  “Hey, I never claimed to be a trained psychologist, you know! I’m just trying . . .”

  Emily cut him off with a kiss. Then she said, “I know, honey. You’re just trying to help me. And I appreciate it. I love you so much.”

  Lenny hugged her, glancing over at the clock. “I can’t believe that it’s nearly four in the morning. How do you feel now? I’m wide awake.”

  “So am I.”

  “I don’t know about you, but I could use a beer.”

  “Me, too. Why don’t you wait here and I’ll go down and get us one.”

  “Sounds like a winner to me.”

  “I’ll be right back.”

  Emily stood up and Lenny watched her admiringly as she threw her robe over her shoulders then left the room. Emily Hoffman was as close to perfection as was humanly conceivable and he still found it hard to believe all that had transpired between them in the short span of less than two days. They’d met, fallen in love, all but totally committed themselves to each other, and made love all in the course of thirty-six hours . . !

  Is this really happening? he thought.

  He recalled their lovemaking and a smile came to his face. Had he ever felt so at ease and satisfied in all his life? No, he’d never even come close. It had been so incredibly different with Emily. So passionate, so . . . perfect!

  The key was the undeniable fact that they were in love with each other. That’s what had made it so wonderful. They’d been sharing something very intimate and personal, consummating all the emotions they felt for each other. The bond was now complete. Two had become one, and everything from here on out would be a mutual venture . . .

  Somehow, they had to eradicate these nightmares, he thought. They were the single entity that could threaten their bliss—the proverbial fly in the ointment.

  Just then, Emily came into the bedroom carrying a pair of ice-cold Rolling Rocks. Cassie darted in from behind her and leaped up onto the bed beside Lenny.

  “Looks like you’ve got yourself a new bed partner there,” she said with wink as she handed Lenny a beer.

  Lenny patted Cassie’s head and took a slug of beer.

  “No problem—just as long as she leaves some room for her ‘mommy.’”

  Emily went over to her dresser and opened one of the drawers then took out a fresh candle and replaced the nearly spent one.

  “That’s better,” she said, returning to the bed.

  Lenny reached over to the nightstand, took a cigarette from his pack and lit up.

  “Mind if I have one of those?” Emily asked.

  “I didn’t know you smoked,” Lenny said, handing her the pack.

  “I have one every now and then. I used to smoke like a chimney when I was in college, but I more or less quit after I dropped out,” she explained.

  Lenny watched her pensively as she lit up a cigarette. Then he said, “I want to go see the old house.”

  Emily looked at him in surprise. “Why this, all of a sudden?”

  He wasn’t really sure himself. “I was just thinking. Maybe we could find something there, something you might have overlooked. It’s a stab in the dark, I realize, but what the hell? I’m curious about it anyway.”

  Emily shrugged her shoulders. “I don’t mind. But I may as well tell you now, I’ve been through every square inch of that house with a fine-toothed comb over the years and all I’ve ever found was a fork and Clem’s pocket watch. So don’t get your hopes up.”

  “Have you got that watch handy? I’d like to take a look at it.”

  “It’s in my purse. Hold on and I’ll go get it.”

  Emily left the room. Lenny had no idea why he was suddenly so interested in seeing the old Porter house, other than to satisfy his curiosity. The same was true with the pocket watch. Mere curiosity. But he felt a sudden urgency for some reason. Maybe “desperation” was a better word. He felt like he had to at least make some kind of attempt to free Emily from these nightmares—even if it meant grabbing at straws. One thing was certain. He sure as hell wasn’t going to just sit around on his hands while she continued being haunted in her sleep by a bunch of fucking dead people . . .

  “Here it is,” Emily said as she reentered the bedroom. “I’ve polished it up a bit.”

  She turned on the bedside lamp then handed the Lenny the watch.

  The instant the watch touched his hand, Lenny felt strange. It felt hot; nearly too hot to hold. It also seemed to vibrate, and he felt a tingling sensation that started in his hand then spread throughout his entire body.

  “Jesus, Emily! Did you just blowtorch this thing or something?”

  She looked at him, puzzled. “What do you mean?”

  “The thing’s hot! Didn’t you notice?”

  “Why, no, I didn’t. Let me see,” she said, eyeing him skeptically.

  Lenny handed the watch to Emily. “Be my guest.”

  “Lenny, it is not hot. A little warm, maybe, but I wouldn’t call it hot. What’s the matter with you?”

  He felt a sudden wave of panic—that same sort of panic you feel when someone tells you that something is not as you know it is, and you think you might be losing your mind.

  “Give it back to me,” he demanded, hoping that he’d only been imagining.

  Emily handed it back to him. It still felt hot, and again he felt the tingling sensation. Surely, he thought, he wasn’t imagining this!

  “Well?” Emily said, peering at him expectantly. “Does it still feel hot?”

  Lenny started doubting his faculties and felt a little foolish. Maybe it was just his imagination; it certainly
wouldn’t be the first time.

  He shook his head, grinning sheepishly. “No,” he replied.

  Emily looked relieved. Lenny ignored the heat and tingling as he turned Clem’s pocket watch over in his hand and examined it. He pulled up on the stem and the lid popped open, revealing its face. It was while he was watching the tiny second hand racing around its circular path that he became aware of the ticking.

  “Did you wind this up recently?” he asked Emily.

  Emily too, noticed the ticking as it became a sudden audible presence in the room. “Why, no,” she replied uneasily. “In fact, I’ve never been able to get it to run. The knob won’t even turn—it’s frozen up.”

  Lenny tried turning the knurled knob. It wouldn’t budge. “Well, it’s running now,” he declared.

  “That’s impossible!”

  He gaped at her. “Don’t tell me I’m imagining this, too!”

  Emily managed a smile. “No, it’s running—no doubt about that. But why?”

  “Hell if I know. Maybe it’s been moved around just enough to jostle the mainspring into action. It’ll probably peter-out in a few seconds,” he said a little nervously.

  Emily sat down beside Lenny and together they watched the tiny second hand ticking its circular course. They watched for two complete revolutions, but it didn’t relent. Lenny observed the minute hand and saw that it had advanced two increments. He continued staring fixedly at the second hand for another minute, his palm becoming increasingly warmer, the continuous electrical impulses shooting throughout his nervous system.

  “It isn’t stopping, Lenny,” he heard Emily say. Her voice suddenly sounded distant. He continued staring, trancelike, at the face of the watch. The steady ticking sound was soothing; the tingling sensation was no longer a discomfort. It had instead become a pleasant buzz; sort of like the buzz from a hit of speed back in the old days . . .

  “Lenny?” Emily’s faraway voice echoed in his ears.

  Tick. Tick. Tick. The minuscule second hand was truly a man-made marvel, he thought. A relentless workhorse that would stop at nothing. Precision in its most pristine state. Poetry in motion. What a tiny, wondrous miracle! Marking off fractions of time accurately, without reservation or bias toward those whom it served. Counting seconds down for the pessimist—tallying seconds up for the optimist.

  He stared at the sweeping second hand and recalled the last time he’ had held this trusty old watch in the palm of his hand, watching time go by with such intensity. He’d been sitting at his wife’s side in their four-poster bed, his hand placed on her huge, swollen tummy. He’d been timing her contractions; counting the time in between, and the duration of each one. It had been agonizing watching her lie there with clenched teeth and perspiring face, knowing she was in such pain. His only comfort had been in the prospect that all of this agony she was enduring would eventually yield them both a well-deserved reward—a beautiful baby boy or girl. It mattered not which one.

  When the contractions came only five minutes apart, he’d gazed at his wife with a mixture of panic and joy; and she had somehow managed to return a warm, knowing smile. What a strong, beautiful woman! he thought. There was little time left. He’d have to saddle up that old mare and ride lickety-split into town to fetch the doctor . . .

  “Lenny!”

  Emily’s voice startled him, snapping him out of it. He turned and looked into her frightened eyes, feeling a sudden and intense dizziness.

  “My God, what’s wrong with you?” she cried. “I’ve been shouting at you for five minutes!”

  Lenny felt as though he’d just awakened from a deep sleep. Once he became aware of his surroundings, he struggled valiantly to compose himself. He stared at Emily, hoping not to alarm her, and mumbled, “I guess I sort of drifted off.”

  “Drifted off? You were way out in left field somewhere, Lenny! And your eyes were wide open. What in the world were you thinking about?”

  Lenny knew somehow that he had to play it down.

  “Nothing in particular. Really! I just sort of got hypnotized by this crazy watch, I guess.”

  “Lenny! You’re not leveling with me,” Emily accused.

  He smiled weakly and shrugged. “That’s all there is to it. I just went blank. That’s the truth!”

  He knew that Emily wasn’t buying this, but God love her, she didn’t push it. “You scared me, you know. I kept saying your name over and over, but you wouldn’t respond. You just kept staring . . . It was frightening.”

  Lenny threw his arms around Emily and kissed her. “I’m sorry.”

  Then he placed the watch in her hand. “Here, take this thing. It’s spooked!”

  Emily looked at the watch and then at Lenny. “Are you superstitious?”

  He chuckled. “Hell no! It’s just that . . .”

  They both noticed the silence at the same time. Together they looked at the watch and then at each other.

  “The watch has stopped running, Lenny,” Emily half-whispered

  “I see that,” he said nonchalantly. “I told you the crazy thing’s spooked. Why don’t you just put it away?”

  “But Lenny, aren’t you the least bit curious why it stopped running?”

  He grinned. “Not really. But for those of us who aren’t superstitious—it’s most likely sheer coincidence.”

  Emily tugged at his sleeve. “One of these days, I’m going to . . .”

  “Sock me? You already have, remember?”

  They both laughed. Lenny took a gulp of his beer then said, “It’s going to be daylight soon. What do you say we eat some breakfast then go out to the house?”

  He hoped he didn’t sound overly anxious.

  Emily shrugged. “Fine with me. It’s a beautiful walk, if nothing else.”

  Lenny let her skepticism slide by. “Great. Uh, we’ve got a little time to kill in the meantime,” he said, staring at her partially exposed breasts.

  “Now what could we possibly think of doing in the meantime?” Emily purred.

  CHAPTER 22

  He didn’t like this. It was scary. It reminded him of that day in the studio—the day of the accident—when he had been photographing Heather Thompson and she suddenly appeared as his Dream Lady through the viewfinder of his camera.

  That had been weird enough.

  But this was even weirder. Much weirder.

  Lenny stared pensively at his coffee mug and took a drag off his cigarette, glancing briefly over his shoulder at Emily. She was still at the stove cooking breakfast, impervious to his thoughts.

  The implications of what had occurred earlier in Emily’s bedroom were staggering; yet he still had no idea how to perceive them. Didn’t have a clue. All he knew for certain was this: there was a little voice in his head that told him not to let Emily know what had happened. It was the same little voice that had been telling him all along not to mention anything to her about his Dream Lady.

  There was a reason for this. He didn’t know what that reason was, but it was nevertheless there.

  Lenny played the incident over again in his mind. It all started happening while he’d been staring at the pocket watch that had once belonged to Clem Porter, Emily’s great-grandfather The watch had been hot; so hot that he’d barely been able to hold it in his hand. It had also vibrated, making his nerve endings tingle as though he’d taken hold of two bare wires hooked up to a low-voltage power source. He soon recalled having held that very same watch on another occasion. He’d been sitting in bed at his wife’s side, timing her contractions. She’d been in heavy labor in fact, and he realized that he was going to have to ride into town to get the doctor so that he could deliver their baby. He was going to have to leave his wife all alone and in pain while he flew into town on horseback, located the doctor then flew back home with the doctor in tow, praying that they wouldn’t be too late . . .

  Lenny remembered it all quite clearly now, as clear as a bell. But there were just a few little snags in this profound recollection that he’d had
. . .

  He had never been married. He had never had a pregnant wife. And he sure as hell had never had to rely on a fucking horse as a means of transportation!

  Not in this life, anyway . . .

  But in another life.

  Apparently, his past life.

  Lenny took another drag off his cigarette. This had been no vision, he thought. Nor had it been an hallucination. It had been a flashback—a vague, fleeting memory of something that had happened a long time ago. But not while he’d been living on this earth in his present incarnation as Lenny Williams, struggling photographer. But instead, in his past life as . . .

  Who?

  He didn’t know.

  At least, he couldn’t be sure.

  This is way over my head, he thought. It defied logic.

  Gotta look at this pragmatically, rationally.

  The flashback had been real. The events in the flashback had been real. And Clem Porter’s pocket watch had been the obvious factor that had brought on the flashback. These were facts, not theories or illusions. And based on these facts, it was safe to venture a hunch: The reason that Clem’s pocket watch had triggered the flashback was either because he had once existed in another life as Clem Porter, or he had once existed in another life as somebody else.

  Reincarnation . . . Wasn’t that the word for it?

  Of course, he could jump to conclusions and assume that he’d once been Clem Porter—after all, it had been Clem’s watch—but he didn’t have enough facts to confirm it. In fact, he didn’t know squat about this kind of weird shit; much less what in the hell brought on a psychic experience or whatever they’d call what had happened. For all he knew, he could have once been the person who had assembled Clem’s watch at the factory. Or perhaps the jeweler who had sold it to him. Or for that matter, any number of people who might have once come in contact with the watch throughout its existence as a watch.

  Whatever the case, he was scared as hell. He remembered that once he had snapped out of this psychic mode, all he’d wanted to do was get Clem’s pocket watch out of his sight and promptly forget that anything had ever happened. But he could feel another part of himself chipping away, urging him to get to the bottom of all of this in spite of how damn scary it was. And that was precisely why he now felt the compulsion to go out to the old house; to the place where the owner of the watch had once lived . . .