Hologram: A Haunting Read online

Bernadine’s nails dug painfully into Meg’s hand. “A—Alicia,” she said.

  “You saw . . . ” Meg started to say.

  But there was no need. The head fell back, the hand loosened and slipped away.

  It was another five minutes before a nurse’s aide came in, chattering mindlessly about her busy day and wasn’t it nice that Bernie had a visitor and my wasn’t that the smell of dead flowers in the room but how funny that there weren’t any flowers at all in the room.

  The young woman was fully up to the bed before she realized Bernadine Clinton was dead.

  SIXTEEN

  It was Wednesday and Kurt hadn’t spoken to Meg since she dropped him at the train station Monday Morning. He sat at his desk now, listening to the phone ring in Hammond.

  Where the hell is she? The message machine came on and he hung up. He had left the shrink’s information on it on Monday night. He had called several times Tuesday, but she didn’t pick up or call back. By calling the house to access messages on the machine, he could tell that she had gotten them: they had been erased.

  Until now, a day had not gone by without their speaking. He would try again later.

  Kurt felt as though things were spinning out of control—as if he were losing control of his own life. He didn’t like it.

  His wife had become obsessed with this house—and now it was dawning on him that it might even be a threat to their marriage.

  He was too practical to spend time regretting having bought the damn thing. How was he to have known? Or Meg? Or anyone?

  Now is what mattered. Dump it—even at a loss—and move on without looking back. It was the proverbial white elephant.

  On the third try of the day, about 1:30 p.m., Meg picked up.

  “Meg?”

  “Yes.”

  “My God, Meg, I’ve been worried! Why haven’t you called back?”

  “Sorry.”

  “Sorry?—But why—?”

  “I’ve been busy, Kurt.”

  He was taken aback by her coolness. “This is crazy, honey. I’m your husband.”

  “Oh?”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Never mind. I’ve been upset.”

  “About putting the house on the market?”

  “That’s part of it.”

  “Mrs. Shaw called to say the For Sale sign disappeared overnight.”

  “Did it?”

  “You know it did, Meg.”

  “I didn’t know. It was there yesterday.”

  “And you didn’t take it down?”

  “No.”

  Kurt sighed in exasperation. He would get nowhere on this subject, he could tell. “Okay, listen, Meg, I know moving is upsetting you. Believe it or not, I like that place, too.”

  “Do you?”

  “Yes, of course. But it’s—it’s not for us. You’ll get past it, sweetheart. You’ll rebound.” He heard what sounded like a long sigh at the other end. “Meg?”

  “A woman died yesterday, practically in my arms.”

  “What? Oh, my God, Meg!” He drew in breath. “Who?”

  “Her name was Bernadine Clinton and she was a wonderful soul. She deserved a better end.”

  “I’m so sorry. It must have been a terrible experience.”

  “It was. And I’m to blame.”

  “You! This was one of your calls, right? And you just happened to be there. Shitty luck, that’s all it was.”

  “No, she wasn’t one of my calls.”

  “Well, who was she?”

  Kurt listened silently as Meg told him about the research and the lead that took her to Bernadine Clinton.

  “Well, it is terrible, Meg. But you couldn’t have known. And the woman had to be old, yes?”

  “Nearly a hundred.”

  “Jesus Christ!”

  “But she was fine when I went into her room. She felt something—saw something. Just like Juan did. That was my fault, too.”

  “That’s ridiculous! Now listen to me, Meg. I want you to pack some clothes, get in your car, and come into the city now.”

  “I wouldn’t want to cramp your style.”

  “Huh?”

  “I’ve got unfinished business here. I’ve started something, and I intend to finish it. There are two.”

  “Two?”

  “Spirits. Ghosts.—Whatever! It’s not just the boy; there’s a woman, too.” She spoke quickly and with precision, as if the words had the power to hurt him. It wasn’t like Meg at all.

  “Meg, please get out now. Today. You can’t stay there alone.”

  There was a pause at the other end. He thought for a moment she was going to agree.

  “You could take a day or two off,” she said.

  “God, no! I wish I could, but it would cost me my job. Seriously. You have no idea how intense it is here. You thought there was a money crunch when you left? You should see it now. I’ve been working overtime, sans pay, thank you, every night. There’s unbelievable pressure for me to perform.”

  “You mean to cut.”

  “You got it.”

  “Was a time when hospitals were about people, sick people in need.”

  “I know that. But we can’t always go back. Listen, I’ll be out Friday as usual—unless you’ll reconsider and— ”

  “No.”

  “Well, what are you going to do?”

  “See that psychoanalyst for one thing. See where that goes.”

  “Do you think that’s wise?” Damn it to hell. Kurt just wanted the house with its spirits to go away, just go away. And he felt somehow that George’s friend would not be a step in that direction. If only he hadn’t told her—

  “I don’t know what good she might do,” Meg was saying. “I’ll let you know afterward.”

  Kurt knew that tone: Meg would not be dissuaded from staying at the house. He glanced at his watch. He was already five minutes late for a board meeting.

  “Listen, Meg, I’ve got to run. Big pow-wow. Listen to me, we’re taking only what we need and moving back to Chicago this weekend.”

  Silence.

  “Meg?”

  “I heard you.”

  “That gives you two days. Be careful.”

  “I will.”

  “Okay. Good luck with the psychoanalyst. Really. Bye, Meg.”

  “Bye.”

  “Love you, Meg.”

  He listened now, but the wire had gone dead.

  SEVENTEEN

  Most people live—in a very restricted circle of their potential being. They make use of a very small portion of their possible consciousness, and of their soul’s resources in general, much like a man who, out of his whole bodily organism, should get into the habit of using and moving only his little finger.

  William James

  Meg sat on the South Shore train staring vacantly out the window. Clouds had come in late morning and still clung to the skyline, so she wore her light raincoat over one of the few dresses that still fit comfortably through the midriff. She would have to start buying maternity clothes soon, she knew, but doing so was not high on the priority list.

  She was thinking about her conversation with Wenonah. The suspicion about Kurt that Wenonah raised—followed closely by the death of Bernadine Clinton—had left her numb. But now—with the train speeding toward her appointment with the psychoanalyst—she was forced her to examine her reactions.

  How had things come to this? Did she still have a marriage? A real one?

  Had Kurt been unfaithful? Is that why he was willing to stay in the city through the week? He had not commuted a single weeknight, something he would have been doing regularly had the condo sold. Oh, she knew the kind of hours he had b
een putting in over and above, but still . . .

  She wondered again about his past, his first marriage. Why hadn’t it worked? Had he been unfaithful then?

  He certainly seemed to want this marriage to work. He had pursued her without allowing for the possibility of a refusal. Following their marriage, he had been attentive to her—even as recently as the weekends in Hammond. And he seemed excited about becoming a father.

  But the temptations are out there, Meg thought. Wenonah had described Valerie Miller perfectly. Valerie owned the condo across the hall from Kurt’s. She was a steamy blonde, all right, cool to other women, but with the opposite sex she was full of an Eartha Kitt verve and vibrato. As phony as a reality show. Had she seen Kurt’s weeknight bacheloring as open season? Meg didn’t put it past her for a moment.

  And what about Kurt? Was he susceptible to a modern Calypso? Or to any other woman? What are his ethics?

  Drops of rain were hitting the window now and beading into designs, but Meg hardly noticed. Truth was, she felt a sting of guilt for her own part. Guilt that she had not insisted he come out on some of the weekdays. She had to admit to herself that—except for those moments when the forces in the house held her in fear—she had absolutely relished those days alone in the house, and on weekends secretly looked forward to Mondays when she would drop Kurt at the station.

  And there was that old, old sense of guilt, too, that in her heart she had never cleared away the remnants of Pete Stoltmeyer—and that Kurt couldn’t compete with a memory. Intellectually she knew she had to put the past—and Pete—to rest. Intellectually she knew she could not compare someone in the present to what she remembered of someone two decades previous.

  But, emotionally, well, she had not caught up yet.

  Valerie Miller. So, what if it was true? Conceding—for the moment—that it was true and that Kurt had been behaving badly, had violated their marriage vows, could she forgive him? Would she?

  When Wenonah had first told her, cautioning her that it was merely circumstantial evidence, she would have said no, she would not forgive him. But time had tempered her judgment—now she thought that she could put it in the past, had to, in fact, for she herself was guilty of a more subtle duplicity. . . . And the child would need a father.

  Meg suddenly became aware of lightning outside and heavy rain whipping against the train’s windows. She watched the drops as they struck, rolled, coalesced, and were wiped away by the wind.

  She thought of Bernadine Clinton. I have so much to answer for. She was certain that Bernadine would be alive had it not been for her visit. Yet, how could she have known? Yes, Bernadine had said that she was just waiting, biding her time. And the woman sounded prepared, little knowing that Meg was her Angel of Death. Yet, those last moments—no matter how short—must have been ghastly.

  Why had the spirit of Alicia Reichart materialized to literally scare Bernadine Clinton to death? At that moment?

  Meg thought she knew—it was to prevent her from learning about the lives of the Reicharts. She had gone to see Bernadine for first-hand information about the Reicharts, and the woman must have had a wealth of it to give. But now she would be taking it to the grave.

  Or most of it. What had she learned? Meg took stock. That Claude Reichart was a nine-year-old who played the piano with talent beyond his age and that his mother had great hopes for him. That an accident of some kind had cut Claude’s career and life tragically short.

  At the moment of Bernadine Clinton’s death, however, more questions were left unanswered: How did little Claude die? How did Alicia deal with the loss of her prodigy son? What was her life like afterward? What happened to the twins? Her husband Jason? What was Alicia’s final fate?

  Meg was convinced that it was no coincidence that Bernadine passed away when she did. It was part of a scheme. Alicia Reichart’s scheme. She had heard of spirits attaching themselves to a person so that even if a haunted house was left behind, the haunting continued. Meg shivered. My God, she thought, has this happened to me?

  She sensed—knew—that Bernadine Clinton’s death was part of something implicitly evil. And I, too, had a part in it.

  What was she to say to the Clinton family members at the funeral services on Monday?

  The rain was letting up as Meg emerged from the Randolph Street station. She didn’t bother to open her umbrella. The Michigan Avenue address was not far away.

  She had been given the last appointment of the day, and at precisely 4 p.m., she was shown into Doctor Krista Peterhof’s office.

  The doctor came around her desk, shook hands with Meg, and introduced herself. Her Germanic accent was scarcely noticeable.

  The two exchanged pleasantries and comments on the rain. The doctor then asked Meg to take a seat.

  “No couch?” Meg asked, then immediately regretted the joke. She was nervous. She had never been in therapy, not that she considered this visit therapy. She was here for information.

  “I have one there by the window, if you prefer.”

  “No, no. I wasn’t serious. It’s just the image one has.”

  The doctor smiled, sitting now in the winged back chair that matched the one Meg settled into.

  Doctor Peterhof was in her fifties, Meg guessed, a bit plump but very agile. She wore a tailored gray suit and a white silk blouse, its rounded collar at the neck. Her silvered black hair was pulled back and wound into an amazing single braid that fell well below her waist. She smiled now and her Germanic features, not really pretty, gave the illusion of prettiness. She waited for Meg to speak.

  “Now that I’m here, I don’t know where to begin.”

  “It doesn’t matter. Relax. What one thinks is the beginning often isn’t the true place to begin. Isn’t there some Dickens novel that begins with, ‘I am born.’?”

  “Great Expectations—no, wait—David Copperfield.”

  “Yes, that’s right. Well, I’m certain Mr. Dickens thought that that was the very beginning, but it certainly was not.”

  Meg smiled tentatively. A bit of psycho babble, she thought. Still, the literary reference gave their exchange a leavening quality.

  “It was a way for the character to get started,” the doctor was saying. “A beginning.”

  Meg nodded. “Since I have only an hour of your time, I’d rather start with my marriage and bring you quickly forward to the house and dreams that I told about briefly on the phone.”

  “Good!” The doctor took up a notebook and positioned it in her lap. She took a silver pen from its holder on the desk.

  And so Meg began. It took her half an hour to bring the story up to date. When she finished—with the details of Bernadine Clinton’s death—she was fighting back tears.

  The doctor looked up from her notes. Her face seemed to have softened. “You’ve been through quite a lot in a short timespan.”

  Meg nodded, thankful for the warmth in the doctor’s hazel eyes.

  “And you wish for me to shed some light?” the doctor asked.

  “Yes, of course, if you can.”

  “I may be able to offer some logical reasons for some of what’s been happening to you. It’ll take some explaining. Of course, logic is relative to one’s experience—and to an openness to believe. And to learn. You see, proof is often vague or nonexistent. And some of what you’ve described to me is difficult to explain.”

  Meg was anxious to get to specifics. “What I find most disturbing, besides Bernadine Clinton’s death, are the dreams.”

  “The lucid dreams? Ah, now there I may actually have an explanation.”

  “Really?” Meg blinked in surprise. She had found the dreams the hardest to fathom. Even the materialization of Claude and Alicia seemed logical by comparison.

  “Yes. But some of the other manifestations, I feel—like the tappings,
the music, and the sightings—while they very well may be connected to concepts in my studies of the holotropic mind, they’re really in a vague and mysterious area.”

  “The paranormal?”

  “It would seem so.”

  “I see. Doctor, is it possible that I’m accessing someone else’s dreams?”

  The doctor smiled. “Absolutely—as well as their hopes and disappointments. ”

  Meg felt a quickening in her heart. “How?”

  “Do you understand the concept of a hologram?”

  “Well, on the most basic level, maybe.” Meg laughed. “Don’t assume too much with me when it comes to science.”

  “You’re more into literature, I’ll wager.”

  “Yes.”

  “I thought so. Now, I’ll try to explain a hologram. A hologram is used as a good analogy to a relatively new science of the universe.”

  “So the universe may be seen as a hologram?”

  “Exactly! To achieve a hologram, a photographer will split a laser light, arranging for the first beam to strike the item being photographed while the second interferes with the light of the first as it is reflected off the item. This makes for what you see as a hologram, a very clever image in dimensions.—Still with me, Meg?”

  “Yes, I think so.”

  “Good! Now here is the analogy: each of our own realities is like a projected holographic image. Matter and consciousness are parts of a whole. You see, our bodies and our minds are parts of a whole. Within you, Meg, is a microcosm of the universe. You may not know how to consciously access the universe, but it is possible. Sometimes it’s done with hypnosis or drugs, like LSD.”

  “And the reverse is true?”

  “That other elements of the universe can access you?” The woman’s pencil-thin eyebrows arched. “You are a quicker study than you let on. Yes, absolutely! Of course, some people are more sensitive, more receptive, than others.”

  “Like me?”