Hologram: A Haunting Read online

  “She is a fine young woman, Mr. Rockwell.”

  “That I know, Doctor. Can—can you tell me what went on in your session, what your assessment is?”

  There was a pause at the other end before the doctor spoke. “Meg is stable, if that’s what you mean. I can say that much.”

  “Yes, but— ”

  “As for what went on in the session, it is not my policy to speak to others—even husbands, Mr. Rockwell—about a patient’s session.”

  “But this is rather unusual, wouldn’t you say, Doctor Peterhof? I mean, she’s not really a patient even, is she? She went to you for information about the holographic thing.”

  “Yes, that’s true.”

  “She told you about the spirits? The dreams?”

  “She did.”

  “Did you advise her?”

  “I think she should tell you what went on. This is a case in which I would neither try to persuade nor dissuade. Why aren’t you asking her, Mr. Rockwell?”

  Too embarrassed to admit he and Meg were at odds, he avoided her question. “Don’t you think that she may be putting herself and the baby in danger?”

  “I doubt that, Mr. Rockwell. And if that is what you think, what are you doing in Chicago?”

  Kurt was stunned by the question. And angry. “Because I have a job to maintain, Doctor.”

  “I see. So do I, Mr. Rockwell, and I am even now keeping a patient waiting, so you must excuse me. Let me just tell you that Meg is empowered to study her options and make the right decisions for herself. Goodbye, Mr. Rockwell.”

  “What do you mean— ” he blurted loudly.

  But the woman had already hung up.

  The Chevy Caprice was comfortable. At ten miles over the limit, Kurt sped off the Dan Ryan onto the Bishop Ford Expressway. He wished he could call Meg. The hospital had issued him a cell phone, but he seldom took it from his desk drawer. He had little use for it, and besides, it would do little good because Meg had turned hers in when she quit the hospital. He vowed now to start using his as a matter of course, and he would get one for her, as well.

  His blood pressure had come down a bit. What had that pompous doctor meant, he wondered, about Meg’s being empowered to make decisions for herself? She claimed she hadn’t advised her, yet somehow she seemed to imply that she had empowered Meg. What the hell did it mean?

  Something, too, about his meeting with Wenonah was eating away at him. Okay, so he didn’t convince her, so what? It didn’t matter. She would at least urge Meg to leave the house.

  But it did matter. He knew what was wrong—he hadn’t convinced her he was truthful because he hadn’t felt truthful. And Wenonah, whatever her faults, was as perceptive as radar.

  His thoughts went back to that night at the White Hen.

  Valerie Miller had always been flirtatious toward him, and with Meg’s living out in Hammond and his staying in the city during the week, she took the first opportunity that came along.

  In the White Hen it had been her move, he assured himself. She was downright pushy. Gee, it’s so sad that, well, here we are buying our own little deli dinners, and we have nothing but TV for company, not even pets, and here we are living on the same floor, for goodness sakes and, well, wouldn’t it be enjoyable and perfectly innocent if we shared a bite to make up for the loneliness of the night?

  Kurt wouldn’t lie to himself. He was no more innocent than she. He had played the game, too, dropping off his briefcase at the condo and changing into dockers and a polo shirt before knocking on the door across the hall.

  He knew exactly what Valerie had in mind. However, as the evening went on, he began to feel differently.

  It wasn’t that Valerie became annoying or unattractive in any way. She was vibrant and sexy.

  But she wasn’t Meg. He loved Meg, more now than before they were married. Being with Valerie—it was like, what was the point? What was he doing there? How would he feel afterwards? Would it be worth it? He knew the answer.

  Fortunately, the woman wasn’t quite pushy enough and gave him time for second thoughts, time to formulate and execute a retreat. He played the wide-eyed innocent, going on with their share-a-meal game ad nauseum—until he could make a hasty exit.

  She hadn’t spoken to him since.

  So he could shout his innocence. And he was innocent. But not completely. Wenonah had read the guilt that morning; he was sure of it.

  Meg must have read it, too.

  Kurt concluded that he would have to let out the whole story, sparing nothing.

  The house, Mrs. Shaw, the Robbins were second in priority. His main concerns now were Meg, her safety, her view of him, and their child.

  Things will turn out okay, he told himself as he turned off the expressway.

  Kurt Rockwell was not one for premonitions, but something deep within gnawed at him, telling him things would not turn out okay at all. Not at all.

  TWENTY

  It rained on Monday in Hammond. The funeral for Bernadine Clinton was pitifully small. And sad. Few relations, fewer friends.

  Meg sat with Miss Millicent. It was all she could do to stay to the end. Despite Doctor Peterhof’s reassurance, she still felt a sense of personal responsibility for the woman’s death.

  In the afternoon Meg arrived at the Calumet Room, having completed the last two health care visits. Allowing for the possibility that she would be returning to Chicago, she had purposely taken no others this week or the next. And then there was the more immediate need to solve the riddle of the house and the Reichart family.

  The pressure from Kurt to move would be great. She had not written off the marriage even though she had seen in his denial—felt it, too—something phony. What was it? And the phone message he had left about the weekend meetings—was there any truth in that?

  Meg knew one thing for sure: they had a child on the way. Somehow, they would survive the crisis. They must.

  She attempted to clear her mind, settling into her usual spot, thinking only how much she needed results. Today. The first order of business was to find out about Alicia’s demise, then retrace her steps through her research, looking for more specifics on Claude’s death. There had to be more than a simple obit.

  A little after two o’clock, she found the obituary of Alicia Reichart. She had died November 12, 1934, at the age of fifty-four. Her death notice merited several lines, and was included in the section that noted the passing of city and national figures. No picture.

  After detailing her marriage into the prestigious Reichart family, the account saved the shocker for the end of the single paragraph. Mrs. Reichart died at the LaPorte County Asylum, after a stay of eleven years.

  Meg’s stomach tightened. Sweet Jesus! She felt suddenly sick to her stomach. And in her mind’s eye, she pictured the woman hanging from knotted bed sheets strung over pipes that ran along the ceiling of her tiny cell. She didn’t know why this vision came to her, didn’t know whether it could actually reflect the woman’s end. How could it?

  And yet, Meg believed it.

  She was overcome with the sense of tragedy, wrongs done, opportunities lost. After so much tragedy, she thought, to spend the final decade of one’s life in an insane asylum! Meg struggled to take in breath.

  Then the thought: What kind of a spirit or soul evolves from such a life, such losses, and such an end? Not a spirit, Meg thought, remembering her talk with Krista Peterhof. A ghost.

  What was she to expect from the ghost of Alicia Reichart?

  Kurt arrived at the house with fifteen minutes to spare before Mrs. Shaw and the Robbins were due.

  The sign was missing again.

  Meg wasn’t home. No surprise there. Probably at the library.

  He was glad for her absence. The proposal would be written, signed, and th
e sale in the proverbial bag by the time she got home. No catches, thank you.

  The house was cool and quiet. Rex strutted by toward the kitchen and his food, ignoring Kurt, almost making a point of it. “Little beggar,” Kurt mumbled.

  Of course, Meg had to sign the proposal, too. But that would be done only in his company, with no chance of the deal being scuttled.

  Smooth as good bourbon, this wretched experience would be over.

  Kurt walked the length of the house now—past Rex, crunching at his bowl—to the enclosed rear stairwell that ran from the basement to an outside door off the drive, to the kitchen door, and then to the second floor. He went down and opened the basement door, red as a fire hydrant. He didn’t bother to close it behind him—he had closed the kitchen door, preventing Rex from wandering down into the labyrinthine basement.

  Most of the seven or eight rooms were piled with stuff. Just looking at what needed to be done in order to move back to Chicago was daunting and depressing. He would try to arrange for the movers to come next week. He would have to rent storage, to be sure. He walked through the laundry room, then into the furnace room, pulling the strings that lighted the bare bulbs. He came to the coal room at the front of the house. It was damper than he remembered, downright cold, in fact. His shoes made a crunching sound as he crossed the floor made up of crushed bits of coal delivered decades before.

  He saw the For Sale sign leaning against the front wall. The light from the glass block window above it revealed it to be in the same spot he had found it on the Friday before. Finding no string for the light, he reached up to turn the bulb in the porcelain socket above him.

  At his touch the bulb flashed on for just a moment before it flared—and exploded. Shards of fragile glass rained on and about him.

  “Holy Shit!” Kurt cried, pulling his hand back to safety. He was blinded for a few seconds. The thing had scared the hell out of him. He was certain he hadn’t been too rough—the thing had simply come apart in his hand like an eggshell.

  How to explain it?

  Brushing glass bits from his hair, he moved forward now, stepping on the crunching, grinding glass. He was lucky he hadn’t been cut.

  He had no sooner grasped the sign and turned around when he heard a noise from one of the other rooms.

  The laundry room. The washer had come on.

  “Meg?” he called. Had she come in?

  She would certainly be aware that he was there. The Caprice was in the driveway. The other basement lights were on. Was she trying to give him a good scare? Was she being funny? If so, it was a poor joke.

  “Meg!”

  He walked slowly now back through the windowless furnace room. It was dark here—the light he had turned on near the hot water heater had gone out. He reached up and let out a cry. The broken bulb there cut through the underside of his fore finger. He pulled it back and instinctively sucked at the blood. How had this bulb been broken? He felt the hackles at the back of his neck rise.

  He passed quickly out and into the laundry room. Here there was moderate light afforded by the glass block windows over the ancient laundry tubs. The bulb here, too—burning a few minutes before—had gone out. He heard the sound of glass grinding under his shoes and knew that bulb had met the same fate as the other two. How could they all have exploded at the same time? Was there some science to it he was ignorant of?

  The stink of dead flowers was in the air, but there was more to concern him now. Kurt stood staring stupidly at the washer. Set on Cold wash/Cold rinse, it was filling up with water.

  “Meg!” he screamed. But he sensed she was not to blame.

  He cautiously walked to the machine.

  Was this some strange electrical short going on? Dare he even touch it? Would he get a shock—or worse?

  Nonsense, he thought, summoning the strength to reach for and slowly lift the lid, the lid he was almost certain had not been down when he passed through the room a few minutes before.

  He peered inside.

  Water only, filling fast.

  Weird. He reached out to pull the Stop button.

  His hand had not quite connected with it when he saw the timing knob for the dryer—just to his right—turn, slowly, steadily, its gears clicking as it rotated.

  At the sixty-minute mark, the knob pressed in toward the control panel, then was released, setting the dryer in motion.

  Kurt stood there dumb, heart pounding like a hammer in his chest, his mind fending off panic as he listened to the washer start to agitate now.

  What the hell is happening here?

  The initial fear started to dissipate as he thought how absurd this all was. Here he stood watching two machines with lives and wills of their own. And Mrs. Shaw with his ticket out of Hammond would be arriving any minute. The thought buoyed him now, and he reached out to shut down the machines.

  His hand moved toward the four-way receptacle, then stopped.

  Neither the washer nor the dryer was plugged in! He looked to the floor behind the machines. The cords lay useless on the cement.

  Suddenly, above the din of the two machines, he heard a high, melodic sound from above—in the dining room. The doorbell.

  Mrs. Shaw! The repetition of the ringing told him that it had likely been rung a couple of times already.

  Kurt sprinted now for the back room and the stairway.

  The red basement door loomed in front of him like a stop sign. It was closed. Fully closed! He knew he hadn’t closed it. Who had? Someone—something—had closed it!

  He stopped in his tracks, heart pumping, pounding.

  What the hell is at work down here?

  “What’s going on?” he shouted.

  He heard the doorbell sound again.

  He rushed the door. Just as he reached the darkened brass handle, he heard a noise on the other side.

  The sound of the bolt being slid into place.

  His face pulsed hotly. What is happening?

  “Meg!” he called.

  No response.

  “Who’s there?” he shouted.

  He knew the door had been bolted on the other side, yet he instinctively reached and pulled just the same.

  Locked. He pulled again. A strong door, strong lock.

  The doorbell chimes had gone silent, he realized.

  Mrs. Shaw! He had to get her attention before they left.

  He turned and ran again into the laundry room, into the furnace room, slowing a bit now in the dark, and then into the coal room.

  He ran to the glass block window, calling out the real estate woman’s name. He pulled a plastic milk crate to the window, turned it on end—dumping out papers and books in the process.

  Standing on the crate, he struck at the window.

  “Help!” he shouted. “Mrs. Shaw! Down here!”

  When he paused and put his face flush to the window, looking to the right, he could see a bit of the front porch. He could see the red of a woman’s shoe.

  He called out again.

  And again.

  His knuckles were sore from rapping against the window. The glass was thick, too thick.

  Panic rising within him, he jumped from the crate and searched for something that would resound against the glass blocks. He found a rusty pair of grass shears.

  Climbing onto the crate again, he looked before he started striking. He saw feet descending the few stairs at the front porch, then disappearing as they moved down.

  They were leaving!

  Good God, don’t leave!

  He bashed the clippers against the window, simultaneously screaming at the top of his lungs.

  The old metal against the thick glass made more noise than his hands had done, but the trio had already moved too far away. He cou
ld make out their blurred figures now—two women and one man—down on the sidewalk near the street.

  In a rage Kurt threw the clippers across the room. He cursed violently.

  He turned to the window again, motioning wildly with his arms. Just look back! Just one of you look back, just once. You’ll see. You’ll see!

  The figures fell into profile now and were moving away to their cars.

  “Don’t leave, damn it! Don’t leave!”

  He stopped waving, fully spent. He slowly turned around, his back slumping against the cold wall.

  What am I in for now? He looked about at the shadows and a kind of despair he had never known took over. Here I am, a prisoner in my own basement, he thought, and the Robbins are off to frickin’ Disneyland. We’ve lost the sale.

  As if punctuate his thought, the plastic crate beneath his feet shot out from under him now with some unnatural force and flew like a cannonball against the opposite wall.

  Kurt crashed to the coal-strewn floor.

  TWENTY-ONE

  The discovery of Alicia Reichart’s 1934 obituary prompted Meg to backtrack to the years 1908 to 1911. She wanted more on Claude.

  The Calumet Room would close soon. The ten-minute warning had already come.

  Suddenly the Reichart name caught her eye. In a 1910 article on what constituted the society page, the talents of Claude Reichart, the pride of his parents and their hopes for the future were all enumerated. It was much like the other article Meg had found previously. But with a difference—here there was a picture, fairly crisp.

  Meg sat forward in her chair, rigid and chilled to the bone.

  She recognized the little angelic bespectacled face as the one she had seen in the coach house window on the day she and Kurt had first viewed the house. She was absolutely certain. And it was also the face of the boy—spirit or ghost?—who had chased Rex upstairs and out onto the balcony.

  “Five minutes,” whispered Miss Millicent, startling her. “Find something, my dear?”