Hologram: A Haunting Read online

  Then she saw the face at the single window high up on the barn’s façade. The face from the news articles: Claude Reichart’s face. Even in her dream she recognized that this haunting visage was the same she had witnessed that first day in the window of the coach house.

  Her heart contracted, and she reached out to the boy in the window, the boy with the huge sorrowful eyes, like those in the old Keane prints. Her mouth opened to call, to scream, but her efforts were voiceless. Her world spun, its bottom dropping out. This was the same sense of losing someone precious to her that she had experienced in her previous dreams. It was a depthless heartache.

  Suddenly, the dream shifted, as dreams so inexplicably do. She was in the barn’s hayloft, staring down a ladder to where a man moved about in the gloom. She was afraid to go down, afraid to approach the man. He seemed sinister, dangerous.

  She lay down, curled herself into a ball, sniffing at the familiar smell of hay, feeling a bit more secure.

  The dream jumped again. She was on her feet. Dark smoke was billowing up the opening that held the ladder she could no longer see. She could not go down.

  The heat was intense. She was coughing now, choking. No flames yet up here. But soon, she prayed, they would be climbing to the hayloft in their attempt to reach her.

  No—they would not reach her in time. She was going to die, she knew it!

  She stumbled to the window. She wiped at the filthy glass, tried to pound at the panes, tried to break them. But whose hands were these? Whose arms?

  Why, they were a child’s!

  She looked down, seemed to see a crowd of faces looking up at her. Did they see her? Wasn’t anyone going to help her? If the window somehow opened, could she jump? They’re going to think I started the fire!

  She looked straight down to the ground.

  The smoke, the heat, the vertigo overtook her now, and she felt herself falling . . . falling . . .

  But it was the pain of her skin being singed by the flames that danced around her that awakened her, her head snapping back against the high back of the wicker chair.

  She had perfect recall and knew immediately what had happened. Reading the article had prompted her to tap into the 1911 memories of the fire. First, as in all previous dreams, she experienced Alicia Reichart’s memories. But then—and this made her shudder—she had somehow tapped into Claude’s, as well.

  These were not merely imaginings inspired by the article. They were full of details not in the article, details that made her believe she had envisioned the scenes as they unfolded in life ninety years before. The most haunting of these new details was the presence of the man on the first floor of the barn, a man she somehow knew to be responsible for the fire and for Claude’s death.

  This seemed to validate the notion of a dual unity—mother and son. Meg became aware of the familiar smell of decaying violets—the odor she had experienced often after the dreams, during and after the balcony mishap—even Kurt had smelled it!—and after the death of Bernadine Clinton. It was no doubt Alicia Reichart’s favorite flower or fragrance.

  But now—acrid, stronger, and more disturbing—came the smell of ash, something burnt. Meg had been aware of it only once before—the night she climbed the stairs following the apparition of the boy that had chased Rex. It made sense now and her stomach revolted at the realization. It was Claude’s smell—that of human ash, burnt flesh. A little boy burnt to death.

  Did the commingling of the two very separate smells further underscore the dual unity theory?

  Meg went to the bedroom to find a business card she thought she had tossed into the top drawer. She said a little prayer of thanks that it was there—and that a home number was scribbled on the back.

  She hurried to the dining room, picked up the phone and started to dial.

  She paused before finishing, thought a moment, and hung up.

  She picked up the phone and dialed a different number.

  “Ravensfield Hospital.”

  “The Emergency Room, please.”

  No verbal response, just a click. Then ringing.

  A woman picked up. “ER.”

  “Wenonah Smythe, please.”

  She was on the line in a few seconds.

  “Listen, Wenonah, would it be a terrible hardship for you to come out here? To stay overnight?”

  “Why?” Wenonah sounded worried. “What’s happened?”

  “Nothing much, yet anyway.”

  “Where’s Kurt?”

  “He was here, but he’s gone back to the condo.”

  “I see.”

  Meg knew Wenonah was trying to fill in the pieces without probing too much. “It’s not as bad as you think—between Kurt and me.”

  “Oh.”

  “I just need you here.”

  “Are you in danger?”

  “No, I don’t think so.”

  “You don’t sound all that convincing. Can I come after my shift—we’re swamped with crazies here. Full moon, you know.”

  “That’s fine,” Meg said. “You’re off at eleven?”

  “Yeah—but I’ll have to stop at home and grab some clothes.”

  “No,” Meg blurted. “I’ll supply you with whatever you need. Please come out directly after work.”

  “Listen, Meg, I could try to get off now— ”

  “No, no! That’s okay. See ya soon, Win.”

  “Bye.”

  Meg picked up the business card, turned it over, and quickly dialed again.

  “Hello?”

  “Dr. Peterhof? I mean Krista.”

  “Yes?”

  “Meg Rockwell.”

  “Meg! How good to hear from you!”

  “I’m sorry to call you at home—and so late. I didn’t wake you, did I?”

  “Goodness, no! What is it, Meg?”

  “Well, I know you’re going to think me odd, but I need some clarification on the dual unity thing.”

  “Okay . . . are you all right?”

  “Yes, if you could just explain it again— ”

  “Certainly. Dual unity is a transpersonal relationship that connects one on a very deep level with another. The experience can occur with mothers and their babies, or during periods of great emotion or shock. Yoga can help facilitate it, as well as certain drugs. It’s possible for one person to feel as if he—or she—is someone else.”

  “Might one identify with someone dead?”

  “Undoubtedly.”

  “I see.”

  “In a weaker form this element of the holotropic mind is probably more of an empathy.”

  “And in the strongest form?”

  “Well, I suppose it could almost become a kind of possession.”

  “And might someone identify with more than one person or—ghost?

  Simultaneously?”

  “Yes, absolutely. In fact, I went to Dachau a few years ago and experienced a rather common form of this dual unity, myself. I walked up and down rows of razed cellblocks, crying hysterically. The sense of loss and grief I felt is indescribable, Meg. Unspeakable. For the time I was there, I felt the terrible pain of those tragic souls who suffered and died there. For a time, I became them.”

  Meg let out a little gasp.

  “Are you all right, Meg?”

  “Yes—fine.”

  “That sort of transpersonal experience doesn’t usually last too long. Mine was gut-wrenching while it did, I can tell you.”

  “I know.”

  “You know? You’ve had such an experience? Recently?”

  “I’ve discovered quite a bit about the Reichart mother and son.”

  “The child prodigy?”

  “Yes. And just tonight I read the account of the
boy’s death. He died tragically in a fire.”

  “Without fulfilling his incredible musical promise, of course.”

  “Yes.”

  “Did the mother witness the death?”

  “Yes. After reading the article, I fell asleep in a chair, something I never do. I dreamt about the fire first in the mother’s viewpoint, then in the child’s. I felt the mother’s horror and helplessness, as well as the boy’s fear and physical pain. These feelings stayed with me long after I awoke. They are with me now, the feelings, I mean.”

  Meg waited for Krista to respond. The pause was a long one.

  “Krista, are you there?”

  “Yes, yes, I am. I’m sorry. Your story just turned my arms into gooseflesh. I don’t like it, Meg.”

  “Why?”

  “Well, for one thing, you say you never nap in a chair.”

  “So you’re thinking I was kind of . . . used?”

  “I don’t know. I just don’t.”

  “I told you about the smells that accompanied the two—dead flowers with the mother and burnt ash with the son. Tonight, both smells were here after the dream. That’s why I needed to talk to you about the dual unity concept.” Meg drew in a breath. “So you think it’s possible?”

  “Are you there alone, Meg?”

  “Yes.”

  “Your husband?”

  “Oh, he had his own experience and decided to head for the city.”

  “Marriage problems?”

  Meg paused before responding. “Not unfixable.”

  “Meg, perhaps the conservative thing for you to do would be to join him.”

  “I expect that might happen next week.”

  “No, I mean tonight.”

  “Why?”

  “We’re sailing in uncharted waters for the most part. I’ve told you that before. Your openness may have tapped you into the tragedy of these two lives. Or perhaps these two . . . ”

  “Ghosts? You were going to say ghosts rather than spirits.”

  “I was.”

  “Because ghosts don’t know that they’re dead— ”

  “And they operate on negativity. They aren’t angels, Meg. You’ve done your homework, and what you’ve found is that there was enough negativity in the circumstances of their deaths to power a small city. Chances are they want something.”

  “What?”

  “I haven’t a clue.”

  “But you think I might be in danger?”

  A long pause, then, “Yes.”

  Meg took a deep breath. “There are still things I want to know. And I have an idea where to look.”

  “What? Where?”

  “The what I don’t know. Maybe it’s just a matter of learning how I can reassure these—ghosts—in order to put their souls to rest.”

  “You’re out of your depth here, Meg. What makes you think you can do that?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “And the where?”

  “In the coach house. It stands on the same foundation as the barn in which the boy burned to death. I’ve had an aversion to the place since we moved here. But now I want to go in. I have to, for some reason.”

  “Listen to me, Meg, it’s not a good idea.”

  “But it springs from my impulse voice, Krista, the one you told me about.”

  “You may only think that. It may spring from . . . their . . . influence. Wait until your husband is there with you.”

  “That may be a long time. Oh, don’t worry, Krista. My friend Wenonah is coming to spend the night. I won’t be alone.”

  “Good. That’s something at least.”

  “Yes, well, thanks, Krista. You have helped.”

  “I’m glad. But remember my caution. I’m serious!”

  “I understand.”

  “I hope to see you soon. It doesn’t have to be in a professional environment, either.”

  “I’d like that. Bye, Krista, and thanks again.”

  “Goodbye.”

  Meg looked at her watch. It was 10:45 p.m. Wenonah wouldn’t arrive for a good hour. Meg went into the bedroom for a sweater. The walk from the house to the coach house was a short one, but she vividly recalled the chill that had gone through her the last time she was in that building.

  Doctor Krista Peterhof allowed ten minutes, twenty, then a half-hour, to go by. The sick sensation in her stomach would not let up.

  Meg’s situation was more than disconcerting. Krista’s mind kept picturing Meg as a splashing swimmer treading water—comfortable on the sun-drenched surface—and oblivious that the water activity had attracted dark, shadowy things below. Menacing things for which she was no match.

  Krista’s own impulse voice got the best of her. She went to the phone book.

  She had been rude in their last conversation, she knew. Still, she had to voice a warning to someone.

  It took only a minute to find the listing for K. Rockwell on Pine Grove Avenue.

  Krista drew in breath and dialed.

  “Hello?” The voice at the other end was sleepy and unfriendly.

  TWENTY-THREE

  We are not just highly evolved animals with biological computers embedded inside our skulls; we are also fields of consciousness without limits, transcending time, space, matter, and linear causality.

  Stanislav Grof

  Meg unlocked the side door that led to the verandah and stepped out. The balcony above protected her from the light, misty rain. It was dark. The full moon was a prisoner of the clouds and haze.

  The columned porch had no steps or other point of entry, so if she were to go out to the coach house she would have to retrace her steps and exit the side door at the rear of the house. If she were to— ”

  Meg realized now that she was giving herself an out, a chance to reconsider her decision.

  She stood at the north end of the verandah, facing the darkened coach house, one hand upon the balustrade, the other holding closed the sweater. Did she dare go in? What would she find?

  As she stood there, her gaze fastened on the dilapidated coach house, bits of the most recent dream flashed in her mind like a strobe light. In the lighted moments she saw not the coach house, but the original barn; not the two pairs of upstairs windows, but a single aperture. The building was ablaze. Meg felt as if she had one foot in the present and one foot in 1911.

  Immediately, instinctively, she knew she was standing on the very spot on which Alicia Reichart had stood, helplessly watching the fire and smoke overcome her son.

  Meg shuddered. How terrible it was, she thought—no, she seemed somehow to know, the empathy was so great—to watch one’s own child die in so horrible a way. Her hand moved to her belly.

  The moment passed. The experience seemed to heighten Meg’s desire to go into the coach house. She turned around now and passed through the door leading into the dining room.

  The key to the coach house padlock was on a huge ring of keys she and Kurt had been given upon the closing. She thought she had remembered Kurt’s saying that he had put them in her grandmother’s buffet. She looked through the antique that had fitted so snugly into the alcove, absently thinking what a shame it would be to have to move it out.

  The ring was not in either of the two top drawers. Neither was it in the pair of cabinets beneath, nor in the wide, heavy drawer at the bottom. But as she stood up, she saw the ring sitting atop the buffet, big as life. She knew it had not been there a minute before. Or had it?

  Meg picked up the ring and moved quickly to the rear now and stepped out of the side door into the drizzle and dark. Still no moon. The resounding effect of the ring of keys as she walked reminded her of a tintinnabulation of a tambourine.

  It took only a minute or two to arrive at the over
hang of the coach house door. The entrance was situated in the front, facing the drive, and to the left of the dilapidated, inoperable, double garage doors.

  She fumbled through the keys, searching for the likely one for an old and rusty padlock. Several looked promising but didn’t fit.

  The dampness seemed to penetrate her skin. Her heart was racing. Why did she feel such urgency? Why did she feel like an interloper on her own property?

  The fifth key turned.

  The lock clicked, opened.

  Meg removed the padlock, pulled open the door, and placed the lock—key and ring still attached—inside on the second stair.

  She closed the door behind her.

  She paused, peering up at what she knew was a long, straight, steep staircase. It was fully dark at the top, eerily silent.

  Damn! She had not thought to bring a flashlight. Too bad, she wasn’t about to go back for one.

  Meg remembered now that they were paying a tiny separate electric bill for the place, and her hand reached for a nearby wall switch. It was round and mounted on the surface of the wall. It was old and loose to the touch. Meg flipped up the switch.

  The bulb in a pot metal fixture at the top of the stairs flashed on, illuminating the dirty and well-worn stairs. Almost at once, the bulb sounded an alarming buzz, flickered momentarily, and went out, plunging the stairwell once again into darkness.

  Meg had the presence of mind to turn the switch off. No sense in having the thing short out any more than it had. It could be dangerous. Going back for the flashlight was still a possibility, but she didn’t want to afford herself the very real temptation of a full retreat.

  Taking hold of the wooden banister to the right, she pulled herself slowly up the stairs.

  At the top and to the left, a window provided a view of the backyard. She peered down into the gray and black mist, barely discerning white stepping stones leading to the alley. She felt her vertigo pull at her and looked away.