The Unbelievable Death of Joseph Goldberg

by Oliver Franks

  He fixed his gaze onto the bench and began painting. His hands, fingers and mind were perfectly aligned as he composed the external scene, capturing the precise light and shade of the day. He had painted the same scene differently hundreds of times, and each day it was unique – the flowers, the sky, the configuration of leaves and branches on the trees, the way the wind brushed the grass and crops in the fields beyond. His fingers worked unconsciously while his conscious attention fixed entirely on the empty bench. He stared intently at that spot as he painted, waiting for her.

  The painting was more than half done when the figure finally morphed from nothingness into shimmering being on the bench, the beautiful, translucent woman, dressed in white, her golden hair floating as if in a sea of crystal-clear water. She looked at him, smiling with eyes of green fire, her lips moving silently, always with that slight sadness about her.

  There she is!

  Gerald’s spirit soared. He took special pleasure in the knowledge that he and only he could see her. He painted his subject vigorously onto the canvas, until the skin of his fingertips became hard and the old blisters stung and reopened. He knew that soon the sanitorium staff would come out and carry him back to his room.

  *****

  While Gerald painted his canvas, he could not hear, but the woman he saw sat on that garden bench was talking about him to an unseen colleague.

  “As you can see,” she said in a monotone voice. “He’s severely disturbed. Yet he paints me well. He paints me every time, in fact.”

  In truth she was several thousand miles away and several hundred metres deep, under the Sierra Nevada desert, inside a dark, purpose-built metal chamber. Her name was Dr Lucy O’Connor and she sat in what those who worked in her facility referred to as ‘the chair’. She had a series of electrical wires attached to her head, arms and body, and was wearing a sleek metal visor that covered her eyes.

  “Does he ever try to talk to you?” enquired General Matthew McDonnell, the greying, late middle-aged man in the tight green military uniform who sat alongside her in the chamber in another chair, similarly attired with wires and visor. He was Dr O’Connor’s new superior, to whom Dr O’Connor was reluctantly demonstrating all the workings of her experiment.

  “No,” she replied cautiously, “but even if he did, right now we could only establish an extremely unstable aural connection. The signal would be poor, and we’d have to boost it a great deal to hear properly, with associated risks for both sender and receiver. His paintings, however, are quite accurate. We’ve been able to surreptitiously acquire one or two from the psychiatric facility. If you take a look you’ll see. The likeness is undeniable. He is some painter, at least.”

  “He didn’t see me, though?”

  “No. The receiver only ever sees one. That’s as far as we have been able to extend the field, apparently.”

  It was lucky they were both wearing visors, thought Dr O’Connor, for she was a terrible liar and her eyes always gave her away.

  “Still, that’s brilliant,” said the General softly. “Fantastic…”

  “It’s a start,” she said, affecting the tone of somebody who had long ago lost any sense of wonder. “It means we may finally have a way to reach those poor souls who were previously unreachable.”

  The General grunted, stroking his chin in thought. Dr O’Connor took that as the signal to end the demonstration. She removed her apparatus, stood up and removed it from the General also.

  “Thank you,” said the General.

  “My pleasure,” said Dr O’Connor, hoping he’d leave now.

  “One more question, if that’s alright?”

  “Of course,” said Dr O’Connor.

  “You said you’ve not been able to establish two-way vocal communication. But in terms of the instructions you’ve been giving, have you tried any others? Other than just getting him to paint you?”

  “No,” Dr O’Connor sighed, she had feared this question. “We only connected with Gerald due to his acute symptoms and his artistic gift. It’s that level of focus, the attention to detail while he paints, which allowed us to establish the connection. Although the chair facilitates an extreme state of suggestibility in the mind of the subject, asking him to do anything else at this point could cause him to lapse, both in terms of his ability to receive, and his own personal mental state, which is extremely fragile—”

  “But you could ask him to do anything? Or show him anything? He’d take it all in?”

  “Well,” Dr O’Connor breathed deeply. She had to tread carefully. “There is no technical reason why not. Any subject reaching the hyper-aware state is capable of receiving whatever the sender renders in the field. Whatever our mind places there. Ethically, though, we’re already walking a very fine line. Once we start actively changing their behaviour—”

  “No no…” the General shook his head briskly, “you’ve got that all wrong. This is a military project now. The strategic import is potentially game changing, we mustn’t worry ourselves with any minor collateral damage. Active messaging is essential. We can’t rely purely on the subjects performing existing routines and hobbies. We must develop stronger capabilities, with military applications. You must test that ASAP.”

  Dr O’Connor nodded in feigned agreement but was overcome with revulsion. It was going too far, the use of mentally destabilized subjects. Even her own modest experiments had caused issues, preventing some subjects from proper recovery, even worsening their conditions. She had made her peace with that in the name of medicine and progress. But imagine what Gerald would do if his ‘imaginary’ friend started telling him to do strange things, things he’d never normally contemplate? For one thing, the Sanitorium staff would quickly pick up on it.

  “Very good,” said the General.

  He stood to leave, then paused, looking searchingly at the pensive Dr O’Connor.

  “So,” he said. “What’ll be your next step with him now?”

  “Next step?” she said, lost in thought.

  “What are you going to get the subject to do?” he said. “This… Gerald.”

  “I’m not sure,” she said, perhaps a little too honestly. “Perhaps we could experiment with different locations, unusual ones, or with different activities. More physical ones. Sports perhaps?”

  The General shook his head and let out a dismissive laugh.

  “Listen,” he said. “There’s a good reason I’ve been put in charge here. We’re not just jerking around, you know?”

  For a moment he paused, seeming to consider his next words carefully.

  “There’s a war coming,” he said in a hushed voice. “Sooner than anybody knows. The nation is in danger.”

  “My God…” said Dr O’Connor, breathlessly.

  The General nodded grimly. “I can’t go into details but let’s just say we need all the strategic edges we can get. This project has excellent potential to shift the balance. But it still needs work. We need to go a lot further to make it happen. So, let me make this easy for you. You’re to get this Gerald to do something completely out of character. Sports won’t cut it. It has to be something… dangerous. Something there’s no way he would do otherwise. Now, let’s see, he’s clinically insane, but if I recall he doesn’t have a violent background or anything like that, does he?”

  “No…” said Dr O’Connor, struggling to keep her voice level. She actually felt quite close to Gerald, she realised. He was a lost soul, and a delicate one. He possessed a great artistic sense, a spirituality that was quite unique.

  “Well then, perfect,” said the General. “Let’s get him to do something violent.”

  “What?” said Dr O’Connor, barely masking her disgust.

  “Yes, that would be most direct.” The General stared into the distance, eyes glazed. “Maybe if he can try to escape, or attack one of those crazies in there with him, or the guards. Or, better still, kill one of ‘em. That would do it.”

  Dr O’Connor felt her blood run cold.


  “If you could see your face,” said the General, laughing. “I’m perfectly serious. Our situation demands bold action.”

  The doctor’s mind raced. No, no, she couldn’t stomach this. This was too much. She’d joined this project based on its therapeutic potential, for the betterment of mankind… she understood that war meant exceptional circumstances, but the way he was talking, God knows what it would end up being used for. What if he discovered some of the things she knew it was capable of, the things she’d been keeping to herself? It could turn into a horror show.

  The General was glaring at her, waiting for an answer. She felt utterly in turmoil.

  “You do realise,” she said, forcing some composure, “that if we get him to do something like that, we’ll most probably lose him entirely? He’ll either go over the edge, or the facility will put him on stronger treatments, his mind will become dulled. He’ll be useless to us.”

  The General’s face contorted. He chewed his bottom lip as if he was eating a sour piece of fruit.

  “Possibly,” he said, “but it will also push us to the next level. We’ll have to find more subjects, plenty of ‘em. Gerald is only one. I want this thing working on normal folks, not just on weak folks, you know. On soldiers and spies in the field, people with training. We need to see how far we can go.”

  Dr O’Connor hardly realised how defensive her posture had become. She was stood with her arms folded and her eyebrows furrowed staring at this man who was asking her to cause someone vulnerable to act against their own interests, to cause harm to others. She was being asked to give birth to a weapon with the most frightening and awful potential she had ever conceived of.

  The General glared at her, awaiting her answer in this most uncomfortable of moments, and another thought occurred to her, equally as disconcerting. This project she had begun was reaching a stage where she could feasibly be replaced. There were many others suitably qualified, closer to the military, more eager to please and with far lower moral standards than hers. No, she thought, there comes a time when you have to act, when enough is enough.

  “Alright sir,” she said. “I understand. You can count on me. I’ll report back tomorrow with the results.”

  “Excellent,” said the General, nodding with a triumphant little grin.

  Finally, he turned and left the room.

  Dr O’Connor sat for some time, sighing, resting her head in her hands, elbows digging into her thighs, rubbing her temples with her fingers, figuring out her plan. When it finally dawned on her what she must do she very nearly was brought to tears. It was only the vague thought that a colleague might enter the room and question her that enabled her to hold it back. Cry when it’s done, she thought to herself.

  Decided, she threw herself into the task. It wouldn’t be easy, it would require stretching all the capabilities they had developed to the limit, past what she had told anyone else she suspected it could do. It was comforting to know the General would get the fullest demonstration possible, just as he wanted.

  Well, not exactly as he wanted.

  *****

  Gerald slept well that night. He always did on days when the white lady appeared. The effort of painting her faithfully, the emotion of seeing her (really seeing her again!), was both tiring and rewarding.

  He enjoyed the afternoons after a painting. He could relax, even though he was surrounded by the disturbed and the infirm. He found that showing his painting off was soothing to everyone. It wasn’t just he who glowed in the satisfaction of achievement, the others all seemed to draw from it too, to admire the work, to admire her, and to take some confidence from the fact that he had successfully completed another painting. Perhaps one day they too could create something worthwhile, could work again. It was merely a dream for some, but a noble one.

  So Gerald slept well, and slept early. He watched the moon sinking under the hill tops through his window, bulbous and white and almost full, and drifted off, if not content, then at least comfortable. For him, that was not something to hold lightly.

  *****

  “Gerald,” the voice awoke him.

  He opened his eyes to the sudden blackness of his little room, breathless, fearful, clutching at his sheets.

  “Gerald,” he heard the soft voice call again. A female voice. Her!

  A terrible blinding light flashed into being, searing down on him from above. As his eyes adjusted to the light, he saw her there in the illumination of the ceiling. Not her body, just her face, huge and shimmering and sad, with eyes that were inhuman somehow, pinprick pupils that frightened him to the core, and hair that floated and bounced as if in thick water.

  “Gerald, you must listen to me.”

  She was an apparition, he now was certain of that. He had been painting a ghost! And the fear he felt at that thought was immeasurable, crawling over his skin, gnawing inside his heart like a smouldering piece of charcoal.

  “Do not be afraid,” she said. “We are all creatures of the same life force. We are the same. You must listen to me. You must join me, Gerald. Join me and leave this world, leave the pain. There are things we must do together. Important things. I need you Gerald.”

  “Who are you?” he said, emboldened by her words.

  The ghost appeared to hesitate for a moment, then the answer came.

  “I am she they spoke of when you communed with my brethren in the mountains.”

  Gerald felt dizzy as he processed these words. Surely not? Had she followed him all this way? Was this the same lady he had been painting? But she looked Western. Aryan. And the High Priestess was patently not. Yet perhaps that was just his mind playing tricks? Who knew the physics behind apparitions? Perhaps you never saw what was truly there, perhaps it truly was all in the mind.

  “Do not think too deeply now, my Gerald,” she said. “We have not the time. Trust in your feelings.”

  “What must I do?” he said.

  “Follow me now. Do exactly as I instruct. I have a way for you to reach me. It will be painless and swift, do not fear. Then you can join me. Join us.”

  *****

  Dr O’Connor led Gerald through the final steps as dispassionately as she could. Part of her felt truly evil, a cold-blooded murderer. It was as if she was instructing her own child to enter a gas chamber.

  She played mercilessly on the priestess theme. It paid to know your subjects. This allowed her to exert an almost God-like power over Gerald. It ended well for Gerald though, she knew. Far better than it would have done had the General got his way. They would have toyed with him for weeks, for months even. For as long as they could. His last days would have been an agony of violence and madness. A torture.

  Gerald swallowed all the pills as she instructed, drank them down with water, treating it as a sacred rite, as she instructed. The opiate effects were swift and overwhelming. He was on his knees now, faced with the awe-inspiring vision of an ancient, legendary, revered spiritual leader floating before him, magnificent, multi-coloured, shimmering. She became his own personal angel, leading him to a glorious afterlife.

  “Thank you, my lady…”

  Gerald uttered his dying words faintly, from deep in his throat. He wore a blissful smile as his eye lids closed for the last time, his body toppling over in ecstasy and in death.

  Strapped into the chair many miles away, deep underground, Dr O’Connor ripped off the visor and the wires. Throwing them to the floor, she rushed over to the small adjoining bathroom and vomited hard into the toilet. On her knees, staring at the putrid orange and red soup that had erupted from inside her, she took a breath and laced her hair over her ears, composing herself.