Hologram: A Haunting Read online

  “Just a decade or two ago your dreams would have been described as mystical or mysterious or paranormal. But, now, Meg, the science of the holotropic mind provides answers.”

  “So, some force—or someone—can access me, and in a way kind of possess me?”

  “There is such a thing as transpersonal consciousness, and it is infinite, but I must caution you—it’s uncharted territory.”

  “Transpersonal consciousness? Then you’re not writing off my dreams as coming from my vivid imagination?”

  “They could be imagined, perhaps, but from what you’ve described, I find it unlikely.”

  “Might I be bringing these things upon myself? Like the governess in The Turn of the Screw? Are you familiar with that story?”

  “Yes, I adore Henry James! And his brother William made a name for himself in science.”

  “Many critics believe that the ghosts in that story are conjured up as a result of the deep psychological needs of the governess.”

  “Could be Henry’s brother gave him some ideas for that little masterpiece. I won’t fully discount that idea, but your dreams of that house and Hammond seem to suggest the transpersonal. Carl Jung’s theory is that there is a personal unconscious unique to each person’s experience and a collective unconscious that files away the experiences of everyone in one reservoir. Meg, you are part of the collective unconscious, but it is independent of you.”

  “And time?”

  “Time doesn’t matter a bit. Time is a linear thing that we grasp onto, but it doesn’t exist in the holotropic mind. With the use of hypnosis or drugs, people have moved back in time—to their experience in the womb, and—if you can believe it, even before that—into previous generations.”

  “Seriously?”

  The doctor nodded. “However, people who believe in reincarnation, people who remember parts of what they think are past lives may merely be accessing the transpersonal world, tapping into another’s life in another era and another place—as if he or she—had been that person.”

  “So that would debunk the reincarnation theory?”

  The doctor shrugged. “It would seem so.”

  “Okay, what about the specifics of my—my situation?”

  “Ah, the occurrences. Like I said, Meg, this science, the world of the transpersonal, is new and uncharted. I may call it a science, but others may not be so generous. Some solicitously call it a theory. Some discount it altogether. Anyway, in your case, many variables exist. This woman—Alicia— ?”

  “Reichart.”

  “Alicia Reichart. Did you bring the picture?”

  “Yes.” Meg took it from her purse. “It’s just a copy—here, she’s the one in the lower left.”

  The doctor took the picture, stared at it, appraising the figure Meg pointed out. “Yes, she was a very forceful personality. She just jumps right out at you, doesn’t she? Her strong vibration is evident.”

  “Vibration?”

  “Yes, each of us possesses a certain vibration, some individuals very positive, some very negative.”

  “I see.”

  “Yours, I would guess, is very positive. May I keep this picture for your file?”

  Meg nodded. “I have another.”

  The doctor placed the picture on her desk, then sat drumming the fingers of both hands on her chair’s armrests. “Let me say this first, Meg. I can assure you that I think you are a sane and rational person. I’ve no doubt of that. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise. And you are very, very sensitive—and that is what opened you to the transpersonal world.”

  “Then you do think that’s what’s going on with me?”

  “This is what we know: the woman in the picture there was the original occupant of the house. She had a son with a very promising future—but who somehow died at the age of nine. How did he die?”

  “I don’t know. It was one of the things I wanted to ask Mrs. Clinton before— ”

  “All right. But death at that age is tragic, whatever the circumstances. This is the stuff of strong, strong feelings. Emotions, electric emotions that may cross the borders of time, may cross borders of people, so to say.”

  “And these emotions may have found a fixation in me?”

  The doctor’s eyes lifted, creasing her forehead. “Possibly. You said you felt an affinity to the house right away?”

  “Oh, my God, yes! The first day. I had to have it. That is, except for the coach house. I have yet to go back in there. We plan to tear it down.”

  “Ah, the coach house, where you saw the young boy in the window?”

  “Yes.”

  “Is the coach house as old as the house?”

  “No, we were told there had been a barn there originally.”

  “On the very spot?” the doctor inquired.

  “Yes, they used the same foundation for the coach house.”

  “And the boy’s image you saw on that first day, was it— ?”

  “The same as I encountered on the balcony? Yes, I think so.”

  “What scares you about the coach house?”

  “I felt a cold there pass through me, and I just knew it was evil. I just knew.”

  “And the figure Mrs. Clinton said she saw?”

  “Alicia.”

  “So it seems we have two forces.”

  “Yes.”

  “You’ve seen the boy, but you haven’t seen a picture of him yet?”

  “Correct.”

  “And we know what Alicia looks like. Mrs. Clinton did identify her?”

  “Yes . . . then, they are, Claude and Alicia . . . spirits?”

  “We’re moving out of my area of expertise. I do know that some psychics differentiate between spirits and ghosts. Spirits have passed on to the other side, another dimension. On the other hand, ghosts seem to be unaware they have died.”

  “Unaware?”

  “Yes, and as such, they appear to be more real than spirits that have ascended to a higher level after death.”

  “I’ve never heard that.”

  “You saw the real image of the boy. You were able to see him, perhaps, because he remains on this lower level, closer to our dimension. Whatever the case, you are dealing with forces, energy fields.”

  “Forces that are parts of the transpersonal world.”

  “Everything is a part of that world, Meg. Everything.”

  “Do these forces travel together, or is it just coincidence that mother and son—if that’s what they are—are both suddenly making appearances? Is one aware of the other?”

  “I can only make a conjecture, but in a sense the two forces may be one force.”

  “How is that?”

  “In the study of the holotropic mind there is the notion of a dual unity. I say notion now; it’s not an absolute. A dual unity is a very strong transpersonal connection between two people. It’s the sense of two people becoming one, yet maintaining separate identities. Like a couple very much in love for fifty years.”

  “Or like twins?”

  “Yes. An even better example would be a mother and child during pregnancy and the breastfeeding stage.”

  “But this is a nine-year-old child.”

  “True enough. But you have a mother who had great hopes for her son. To see them dashed, perhaps even witnessing his death, too, that trauma could have made manifest the keenest sense of duality.”

  Meg’s head was swimming. “And so I’m left with two spirits—or with one force that might comprise a—dual entity?”

  The doctor produced a nod that wasn’t a nod and a shrug that wasn’t quite a shrug.

  No absolutes there, Meg thought. She tried to sort through her confusion. To what good purpose had this meeting accomplished? She glanced at he
r watch. “I think my time is up, Doctor Peterhof.”

  “I booked you last. That left it open-ended. First visits are always an uncertainty—not that you’ll need another visit. Listen, why don’t we go downstairs to the coffee shop for a bite. We can try to clear up loose ends while we eat. I’m famished.”

  “Well—I— ”

  “Can you take a later train?”

  “I suppose so.”

  “Good! It’s settled.”

  The outer office was empty. The secretary had gone home. Meg wrote out a check for the hour and the doctor closed up.

  Conversation over their meal was polite and touched on topics as bland as the vegetable lasagna Meg was picking at. The doctor finished her roast pork special and ordered spumoni when the waitress brought coffee. Meg took a pass on dessert.

  “We’ve been chatting away, Meg, but don’t think I’m unaware that we haven’t come back to your situation.”

  “Predicament is more like it.” Meg put down her fork. “You know, I think I understand most of what you’ve told me—it’s just that, well, I don’t know that it’s helped me.”

  “I hope that I’ve helped in two areas, Meg. First, in my listening and believing. Second, and this is related to that, I guess, is that I can vouch for your sanity.”

  Meg gave a little laugh. “Oh, I don’t know. Not everyone would. I’ve been willingly staying in that house alone.” Meg took a breath. “But what about the bad things that have happened—Juan’s fall and Bernadine’s death?”

  “Ah, there is that. You feel guilt.”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “You shouldn’t. You didn’t ask for any of this. You just thought you were getting a house.”

  “Yes, not one with sprits or ghosts. Doctor, any idea which one I’m dealing with?”

  “Spirits or ghosts? No, you might think about hiring a psychic.”

  “Really?”

  “Really.”

  “You said there’s a difference in the way they may appear, but is there a difference in behavior?”

  “Oh, yes, the spirits are usually benign, even supportive.”

  “And ghosts?”

  “They’re to be feared and avoided, Meg. They can be quite malignant. Look Meg, I don’t wish to scare you but what you’ve described to me are out of body experiences. OBEs, they call them. It’s also called astral projection, whereby the astral body leaves the physical body and moves to the astral plane. Some people have this occur to them at a near death experience or during illness.”

  “With me it was the house.”

  “And what may have come with that house.” The doctor paused, then continued: “Some people deliberately practice astral projection.”

  “Sweet Jesus—why?”

  The doctor shrugged. “Who can figure people, living or dead? Maybe it’s the dare or the challenge, like surfers seeking out the most dangerous waves on earth.”

  The spumoni arrived for the doctor. Licking her lips, she took up a spoonful. “Delicious. Ah, it’s good to be alive, I say.” She looked at Meg now. “I’m thinking, Meg, that you want me to tell you what to do. Oh, you wouldn’t stand for advice from a friend or husband—and you might not listen to my advice, either—but you’re seeking it, nonetheless. Yes?”

  Meg smiled. “I can see that you’re very good at what you do, Doctor.”

  “Please, I asked you to call me Krista. Not because we’re chums now—although I hope we are, this has been delightful—and not because I’m going to tell you what to do, because I’m not—at least in reference to staying at the house. You need to make that choice yourself. But I am going to caution you.”

  “Yes?” Delightful? Not a word Meg would use to describe their interview.

  “Some say we all project in our dreams, and you may have unconsciously experienced these OBEs, but you’ve not been aware of them before moving into the house?”

  “I have not.”

  “Then it is possible you are being deliberately drawn into the astral plane.”

  Meg’s heart seemed to pause for several beats. “That’s possible?”

  “According to the people who have learned the art of projection, yes. They claim that there are lower and higher levels on the astral plane. On the lower level, or dimension, the lost souls—or ghosts—and other dark entities are found. It’s a kind of hell in which every imaginable evil lurks. They operate on low vibrations and feed on those souls who might wander in. Some experienced travelers claim that in weak and fearful moments they were literally dragged into this dimension.”

  Meg’s heart was racing now. “How do they get away?”

  “Those who have experienced such abductions say that they will it, that they deliberately call light or abundance or God into their life, and that they are released.”

  “Good God,” Meg whispered. “And the higher dimension?”

  “All good reports. Beings there thrive on high emotions, high vibration, goodness, and light.”

  Meg felt a shiver run up her back and her whole body followed suit and shook.

  The doctor seemed to ignore the effect these things had on Meg. She continued: “Now, I want to tell you about a man in my field and the conclusion his life’s work brought him to.”

  “All right.”

  “His name is Abraham Maslow. He came to believe that the psyche of man is not so terribly dark and forbidding—like, say O’Connor in Heart of Darkness. He believed that the psyche is the fountain from which creativity and self-actualization spring and flow. He wrote of the inner core of a person as having “impulse voices” that have to be heeded, that one should rebel against fear, weakness, and indecision. It is this inner voice that you must accept, Meg. It comes from your core. Accept it and embrace it. You’ll then know what to do.”

  “Sort of like Dorothy in The Wizard of Oz?” Later, Meg would wonder what made her say such a thing. Had she meant it facetiously because of the strangeness of this interview and what she was expected to believe? Had she meant it at face value? Or was it a mix of the two?

  Krista Peterhof laughed nonetheless. “Exactly! Listen to yourself. Isn’t that what Dorothy learned? You see, literature and science do mix.”

  The next day, while eating a lunch of tomato soup and crackers, Meg sat in the first floor den absently watching some cable talk show she had never seen before. It wasn’t long before the soup cooled and she was drawn into the program.

  The host was speaking with an English woman who had recurring dreams and memories that placed her in Ireland a generation before—as a mother of a large family. The husband was alcoholic and abusive, and the parenting fell squarely on her shoulders alone. She was dying of cancer, however, and her greatest concern was for her children. She could not bear leaving them behind. Yet, she did die.

  The Irish woman had died with the kind of strong, electrically charged emotions that Krista said take on a life of their own.

  After years of these dreams, the English woman, in her twenties now, traveled to Ireland for the first time. She located the town that she knew so well only from somewhere within, then she found the very house in which the Irish mother had lived and died. Neighbors remembered the family. The English woman found out that her own birth preceded the mother’s death by several years, so reincarnation seemed impossible.

  The English woman went on to search out the children of the woman, who were older than she. Appearing on the show were some of these children who—while very skeptical at first—had confirmed details of the memories and dreams as perfectly descriptive of their mother’s life. Further, they had come to believe that traits of the mother somehow resided in this woman that was younger than they. How strange! And, clearly, a bond now existed between the English woman and the Irish siblings.

  The show emphasized me
rely the mystery and strangeness of the situation. There was no guest—no professional—to offer any kind of scientific hypothesis or logic to explain it. If only Dr. Krista Peterhof had been there, Meg thought, the theory of the holotropic mind and the concept of the transpersonal world would have offered the only logical solution to the mystery. And that woman’s mind would have been eased after so many years of wondering. She had tapped into the emotional angst of that dying woman.

  Meg realized now that her own mind had been eased—at least to the extent that she could understand the science of it. But she still had a growing curiosity and desire to discover the full truth about Alicia and Claude.

  And—science or no—remaining in her heart was a well of fear over what she might find—and what they might do.

  EIGHTEEN

  Meg was waiting outside the Calumet Room when Miss Millicent arrived.

  “My, you are anxious to start today, child.”

  “Yes,” Meg said. She could tell that beneath the cheerful greeting, the woman had been shaken by Bernadine Clinton’s death. Meg had called her the evening before with the news. Of course, she said nothing to her—just as she had said nothing to the nursing staff—about the appearance of Alicia in the room.

  The two women embraced. It was something that came naturally, and later Meg would not remember which of them had initiated it. Drawing back, she looked for some trace of suspicion or accusation in the lines of the old woman’s face, but found none. Just grief for her friend’s death and concern for Meg.

  More guilt.

  They talked briefly about Bernadine Clinton, then Miss Millicent went about her duties and Meg resumed her microfiche research. Her mind remained distracted, but she moved fast, nonetheless. Too fast, she worried—she might be missing something important.

  Yet, she did make discoveries.

  She found several articles detailing Claude’s talent at the piano and appearances he had made. Mendelson and Debussy were cited as composers he admired. He often played their works, as well as some of his own. No pictures accompanied the articles.