Hologram Read online

  At night she carefully secured the four entrances on the ground floor, as Kurt had done the first nights and as he had cautioned her to do. The front door had the standard key lock, but Meg noticed that it also had a hook and eye lock. Extra security, she thought, as she attempted to guide the hook into the eye—but the two would not connect. It seemed as if the doorframe—or the house itself—had settled, throwing the hook out of alignment with the eye. Determined, she struggled and struggled with it until the undersides of her right hand became red and sore. She gave up at last, telling herself the extra security was not needed.

  She fell into bed that night exhausted. Before falling off to sleep—which came quickly—she cautioned herself against such strenuous activity in the future. This was her first pregnancy, and she had to remember that she was thirty-seven years old. The house was important, but not nearly so much as the child, her child. She started to think of possible names, but she had scarcely considered a few girls’ names when sleep came, sometime before eleven.

  At one a.m. Meg came suddenly awake.

  She lay there, curious about what had awakened her. Something had, she knew. Had Rex jumped onto or off the bed? She looked down to the foot of the bed. The streetlight in the alley sent a diffused multi-textured light through the stained glass panels above her head. Rex was still there at the foot of the bed, seemingly in the same position as at bedtime. And Meg knew his habits, too: he was not the nocturnal type and often slept the whole night on the queen-size bed.

  Rex was staring back at Meg with wide, bewildered eyes. Was there fear in them?

  Meg lay back and listened.

  Nothing.

  She turned on her side now, settling in for sleep.

  And she was nearly asleep when she heard it.

  A light tapping. Three or four times.

  Instinctively, she reached up behind her head, thinking the headboard was too close to the wall.

  She realized her mistake immediately when her knuckles struck the plaster wall. The headboard had not been attached yet; the box spring and mattress still sat flush on the floor.

  What was it then?

  Tap . . . tap . . . tap . . . tap.

  Fear threatened to rise up within her, but Meg held it down. The noise seemed to be coming from within the wall; however, she would not believe it. She got up, fully awake now, and peered out the window, thinking—hoping—that it was a tree branch or a cable lashing against the wood siding of the house. Something.

  She could see nothing.

  Was it a wire rattling within the old wall? Kurt had said the old wiring was still in place and would have to be replaced. Or perhaps an old gas pipe had come loose. The house had been erected during a time when both gas and electric were used for lighting, especially in the houses of the wealthy.

  Tap . . . tap . . . tap . . . tap.

  Meg put her ear to the wall.

  Was it a mouse? No—mice scratched within walls. They didn’t tap.

  Meg could see that the hair on Rex’s back was standing straight up. He stood up now, his back humped high.

  The cat sensed something—what? Meg shivered as a chill rippled through her.

  Tap . . . tap . . . tap . . . tap.

  Rex meowed in a kind of whine, jumped, and ran from the room.

  Meg’s inclination was to run, too. But she stayed and her initial fear gave way to irritation. The tapping stopped, but it was an hour before she was able to fall back to sleep.

  Then, at four a.m., there came another cluster of tapping. Meg lay there unmoving, awake but with eyes closed. She told herself that ignoring them made them less real. Within the half hour, they ceased. Just the same, she didn’t sleep the rest of the night.

  As she unpacked and cleaned the next day—her body tired and mind cloudy—she tried not to think of the tapping, its source or meaning, if meaning it had. She didn’t tell Kurt about it when he called. She tried to think of other things—things that needed doing, her parents’ reaction to the house, caring for a newborn.

  In the afternoon she went to collect the newspaper from the front porch. Passing through the one heavy mullioned door into the vestibule, she undid the lock and tugged at the matching front door. It didn’t budge. She couldn’t figure it. Was it stuck? Her gaze moved up now, above her eye level, and she saw that the hook had been neatly placed into the eye.

  She stood stunned for what must have been a full minute before she attempted to dislodge the hook. She was unsuccessful; it held fast. She went to find a hammer and one quick upward swing did the trick. She would not use the lock again. The house, it seemed, had an abundance of mysteries.

  On Tuesday, despite her exhausted state, Meg was nervous with anticipation and couldn’t get to sleep. One a.m. came and went without incident. She breathed a sigh of relief and eventually fell asleep—but not before suddenly remembering what writer it was who wrote about houses that possessed personalities and powers all their own. It was E. M. Forster in his masterpiece Howards End. She had done a paper on it in a college British Lit. class.

  At three a.m. precisely, however, she was awakened by the same four-tap clusters. She lay there listening, her heart pounding with a mix of emotions. Fear. Desperation. Anger. And the paralyzing thought that buying the house had been an impulsive mistake—that she should have listened to Kurt.

  Tap . . . tap . . . tap . . . tap.

  She could not help but think that someone, something, was making a fool of her. Someone was watching her! She sensed it. Her mind was in a ferment. What is happening? Who or what is doing this?

  She tried not to move.

  The tapping stopped—only to resume at five a.m.

  Meg got through Wednesday by keeping busy and trying not to think about the coming night. Every fiber, every cell within her, communicated that something uncanny and terrible had only just begun. For everything that she unpacked, she feared that she would be repacking it all too soon. Was it possible that the house that had seemed to welcome her was now turning against her?

  Had it not been for her pregnancy, Meg would have taken a sleeping pill Wednesday night. The measure turned out to be unnecessary, though. She was so physically and emotionally spent that she did fall asleep, sometime before midnight.

  Meg’s radio alarm went off at seven a.m.

  Her eyes opened, testing the light. There had been no noise, she was certain. She had slept soundly though the night. Sighing in relief, she rose and went about preparing a good breakfast. She dared to hope she had heard the last of the foreign sounds.

  The tapping did not come on Thursday, either. Meg had given herself over to a deep, confident slumber. In the morning she luxuriated in a kind of half-sleep.

  Eventually, the strains of music penetrated her consciousness. The sounds of a piano. She reached over to press the ten-minute snooze alarm. As she opened her eyes, she suddenly realized that the room was fully dark and that the clock read five-ten, not seven a.m., the time she had set.

  As her sleepy mind attempted to grasp this fact, she realized something else: the music did not stop when she pressed the snooze button.

  Her eyes opened wide now and she pulled the radio to her ear, knocking a glass of water to the floor in the process.

  The piano music was not coming from the radio.

  Terrified, immobile, Meg could only listen.

  The music—something familiar and light and at low volume—Debussey?—seemed to be coming from within the wall behind Meg’s head.

  Yes, she knew this piece. It was Debussey’s LeMer.

  Kurt’s train, the 6:20, was several minutes late. Extra minutes of nervous anticipation before it finally arrived. Meg breathed deeply as she saw Kurt sight the car, then wave. At the Chicago condo, he had changed from his typical dark suit to khaki dockers and a blue chambray shirt.

  She prayed that he would see no change in her. If I am careful, she thought, watching his six-foot frame lope toward the Saturn, he won’t notice anything amiss. God bless him, he
’s not the type to notice.

  Meg had decided not to tell Kurt anything. She would let fate chart the course.

  One of two things would happen. Either the phenomenon would continue, and Kurt would bear witness to it himself—or it would cease—yet, if it did, for how long?

  If only it were some aberration that would not recur. Ever.

  “Hi!” Kurt was beaming as he folded his legs into the passenger seat. “Boy, what a week! Am I ready for a slow weekend in Hammond!”

  “Is that something like a slow waltz in Cedar Bend?”

  “Huh? Is that a book or something?” He leaned over and kissed Meg.

  She laughed. “Never mind.”

  “Another literary allusion of yours? You should have been an English teacher.”

  “ Yes, it was an allusion, but not very literary, I’m afraid. And maybe I will teach—down the line.”

  “Wouldn’t surprise me. What’s to eat? I’m starved. They had overcooked cod in the cafeteria today, and I couldn’t eat it.”

  “I haven’t exactly been tied to the kitchen—no, I take that back. I have—but not with food. Mostly cleaning and stocking the shelves. We’ll eat out if that’s okay.”

  “What choice do I have?” he asked, reaching over and squeezing her knee.

  They drove to a well-recommended Chinese restaurant in nearby Calumet City. The Szechwan entrees were perfect. Meg, in keeping with her condition, ordered a moderately zesty chicken and pea pods dish rather than one of her extra hot selections. Predictably, Kurt ordered his Egg Foo Young, which he proclaimed the best he ever had. He was in a chatty mood and brought her up on hospital politics.

  Meg could not enjoy her food and his hospital anecdotes were more annoying than interesting. She unconsciously tuned him out and found herself thinking about what she had been through—and what the night might bring.

  If the tapping or music recurs, how will Kurt take it? she wondered. Will there be a fight? How angry will he be that I didn’t tell him about the occurrences immediately?

  And that face! Thought of the pale face at the coach house window on the first day gave her a start. Will Kurt forgive me that even then I was certain that someone—something—lurked in the coach house?

  A thought occurred to Meg now that she had been holding at bay all day: What if there was some connection between the recent happenings and the coach house apparition? The thought brought up gooseflesh on her arms and destroyed her appetite. She told herself that there was not some entity within their new home—but with little conviction.

  “What’s wrong, Meg?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You went a bit pale.”

  “Did I? This is a lot spicier than I expected.”

  “Well, let’s send it back.”

  “No, I’m quite full, anyway.”

  She watched Kurt across the table, imagining ways in which she—or the house itself—might reveal the—what? Paranormal?—events to him. It took little imagination to know that he would demand that they move out at once.

  The thought of losing the house cut through to her heart. Despite the tapping, the piano music, the child’s face, and her fear of whatever was behind these things, she realized that she was not about to give up the house. Her guess was that many people would not have lasted the week, yet she was prepared to dig in.

  Her pregnancy gave her pause, however. She had hoped to carry the child in a healthy and stress-free environment. Was that going to be possible?

  Kurt finished his meal, talking at some length about the business of running a hospital, the necessaries of running a business, things that already seemed distant, unimportant, and dull to Meg. She listened absently, and her hesitation about the child passed in deference to her attachment to the house. The bond to the house was mysterious but strong as steel.

  She could only wonder about and fear Kurt’s reaction when it all came out.

  At home, Kurt approved of the refrigerator and went on to rave about the kitchen. “You’ve managed to find a place for everything in this tiny space. It’s a damned miracle, Meg. It looks like a real kitchen.”

  “The floor is no miracle, Kurt. This 70s linoleum is crap.”

  “Okay, new floor. I’ll start a list.”

  “Good!”

  “But tomorrow you cook, sweetie pie.”

  “Fine, just drop the sweetie pie crap. I’ll cook. Something nice and fattening. How about lasagna?”

  “Lasagna on Saturday night. For that I’d submit to a night of blissful bondage.” He gave Meg a good-natured pinch.

  “You’re bad.” Meg laughed. “But bondage here may not be very blissful.”

  “What?”

  “Nothing.” Good God, she thought. What had made her say that?

  “Another allusion? Okay, I got it! Something to do with Of Human Bondage? By . . . by – ”

  “Somerset Maughan.”

  “Yeah!”

  “No.”

  “Shit!” Kurt looked crestfallen. “What, then?”

  Meg shrugged. She thought Amityville Horror, but didn’t voice it. “Sorry. No allusion.”

  When Friday night passed without incident, Meg dared to become cautiously elated. A part of her brain tried to convince her that it had been her imagination all along. She didn’t buy it, of course, but prayed that it had been only an aberration.

  On Saturday Meg and Kurt worked on putting the first floor in order. During the week Meg had mentally positioned every chair, table, floor lamp, and now she took advantage of Kurt’s help in actually placing each piece. She rewarded him by cooking. Their initial formal meal in the dining room, complete with flowers and candles—and her best lasagna—went well.

  Meg found herself trembling when it came time to go to bed. Two nights without incident was too much to expect. The moment of truth was at hand, and she lay in bed, waiting for Kurt and worried more about his reaction to the occurrences than she did the occurrences themselves.

  Kurt brought two candles into the room, placed them on the dresser, and climbed into bed.

  “What’s this?” he asked.

  “What?”

  “This!” he said.

  “It’s called a nightgown. I was chilled.”

  “Well, I’ll warm you up. No nightgowns on the weekend. That’ll be the rule—at least as long as I’m in the city during the week.”

  Kurt buried his face in Meg’s shoulder and neck, his mouth moving to her ear then her mouth. His kiss was warm and welcome.

  Pulling away slightly, he said, “Take it off, Meg.”

  Meg obeyed. Slowly, she gave herself over to Kurt and her own desire.

  Kurt fell asleep first, and she, too, fell into a sound sleep by midnight.

  Again, no occurrences.

  Kurt and Meg drove to Sunday brunch at an old roadhouse in Union Pier, a Michigan/Indiana border town now reenergized by a younger generation. Returning, they spent a slow, relaxing day at home, doing little real work, and taking an afternoon walk through the neighborhood.

  Sunday night made for turnabout and Kurt cooked. Salad, pork chops, baked potatoes, and green beans. Meg was effusive in her compliments, thankful for the way they were interacting, content in the mundane details of living a quiet existence with someone. She would miss Kurt come Monday, she realized.

  They retired early.

  When morning came—again without drama—Meg charged into the day with her old enthusiasm. After returning from dropping Kurt at the train station, she started taking apart the upstairs, room by room, box by box. In the afternoon she went to the River Oaks Shopping Center and did some shopping for the baby’s room, stopping at the Marshall Field’s coffee shop to treat herself to decaffeinated coffee and a delectable pasta salad. Full of mayonnaise, she thought, but what the hell, it’s worth every ounce I’ll have to carry—and shed later.

  In the evening, Meg had to consciously slow her pace, forcing herself to sit and watch some old post-war Ingrid Bergman film on the Cla
ssics cable network.

  She went to bed before it ended and fell promptly asleep, tired and happy. She felt that there would be no tapping, no music, because she willed it so.

  And so it was. No tapping. No piano music. Was it some kind of psychic premonition? Or had she willed the occurrences out of existence?

  But on that April spring night, the dreams began.

  FOUR

  Meg found herself walking down an unfamiliar street, her eyes cast down. She watched mesmerized as her voluminous skirt, dark and heavy, moved forward by the thrust of her legs, then back.

  Forward, then back.

  The air was hot and wet with humidity. The skirt was cumbersome, too, and she began to feel flushed, then faint.

  Still, she watched the skirt move, as if by a mechanical motion.

  Could this be her skirt? It was so long! Why, she could not see her legs, or even her ankles! Only her shoes, shoes she had never seen before, more like boots they were, fastened to her feet by rows of buttons.

  Meg watched as if through a kind of tunnel vision over which she had no control. She was unable to lift her head or turn it to see around her.

  Her pace accelerated.

  She moved as if she were in some terrible hurry, as if she were running from something, or someone. Faster and still faster—what was the rush? Why couldn’t she slow down? She felt as if she were about to fall, as if the slightest misstep would send her sprawling onto ground.

  Where was she going?

  Her feet passed over bricked squares, then hard earth, bricks then earth. She walked, it seemed, for miles—yet her camera-like vision recorded no progress.

  She heard a din of traffic, voices, activity. But her line of vision seemed locked in a downward perspective.

  Meg pressed on despite the heat, despite her fatigue—not because she wanted to—but because she was being drawn—against her will—away from or toward something. She was no more than a marionette.

  At last, a clue. A paper flyer lay at her feet. She was past it in seconds, however, without having had the time to focus on it. Why couldn’t she look around her? Why couldn’t she stop?