Hologram: A Haunting Read online

  Meg spent more than an hour with Clara and her daughter, developing a program that would meet all her physical and psychological needs. She left feeling something that she hadn’t felt at her hospital job in some time: helpful. Truly helpful.

  She was feeling powerful again. “Good things will come of this,” she whispered to herself as she walked to her car.

  Meg went home, had a bite of breakfast, and went upstairs to the little bedroom she had fashioned into an office. Her only call of the day had been successfully completed, and now she meant to do the required paperwork. When she finished she would go to the library and follow through on Wenonah’s advice.

  Meg knew about the pitfalls of paperwork at the hospital, but that paled in contrast to the volume of reports and forms that had to be completed for one simple home care visit. And then there were the orders to be placed for a hospital bed, meals, physical therapy and the rest. She had to call Denise Clooney twice for clarifications. Never mind, she thought, I’ll get the hang of it and things will go faster.

  It was well after three o’clock before she finished. She made some soup for herself, then prepared to go to the library.

  Hammond Public Library was a modern building situated in the shell of what once had been the most thriving section of downtown. Meg pulled into the parking lot. It was a functional building, winner of no architectural awards.

  “I just moved to the city,” Meg told the tall man at the counter.

  “You’ll want a library card.”

  “Well, yes, I guess I do, but I’d like to find something out about the city and perhaps my house.”

  “Your house?”

  “Yes, you see, it’s a 1910 building and I thought maybe I could dig something up on it.”

  “Oh, I think you’ll want to see Miss Millicent for something like that.”

  “Miss Millicent?”

  “She runs the Calumet Room, top of the stairs. I think she just went up. A little lady with wild hair and red glasses.”

  “Thank you.” Meg turned away.

  “Wait, Miss! You’ll want your application.”

  “Oh, yeah, sure.” Meg took the form and made for the stairs.

  Meg found the woman just closing the door under the sign that read Calumet Room. Except for errant wisps, a plastic rain cap held captive her thinning henna hair. No younger than eighty, Meg thought.

  She introduced herself and stated her mission.

  “My, my, my,” the woman clucked. “Oh, yes, I suspect I can be of considerable help to you.” She clucked again. “But the Calumet Room is closed today, my dear.”

  Meg’s eyes had already read the posted sign that gave the hours as two to four on weekdays only. “I see.”

  “You thought you’d find something out today?”

  “Well, yes, I did.”

  The woman’s forehead crinkled in anticipation of helping someone use the resources in her care. Meg thought the woman was about to make an exception.

  “It’s so nice,” the woman was saying “to see you young people coming into the old neighborhoods and taking an interest in our history. This was a wonderful town, I can tell you. What street did you say you live on?”

  “I didn’t.—Springfield Street. 33 Springfield Street.”

  “Springfield? The big white southern-looking one?”

  Meg nodded. The woman’s mind was quick.

  “Greek Revival?”

  “Yes.”

  “Oh, my dear, the old Reichart place.”

  “Reichart?”

  “Oh, yes, A very powerful family at the turn of the century, I should say. Lawyers and later, relatives that were judges. Powerful folks. My church elders whispered about some tragedy that went on there, but I was too young to take notice. A bit of a mystery, that. They sold it eventually and it’s changed hands several times in recent years. Oh, I’m sure you can resurrect some rich history, little anecdotes, you know. My dear, we’ll have great fun going through it.”

  “Then you’ll help me?”

  “Of course, child! But not today.” Miss Millicent looked at her watch. “Landsakes, it’s getting late and I have a train to catch.”

  “Oh.”

  “Don’t look so disappointed. We must put off our fun only for now—what did you say your name was?”

  “Meg—Meg Rockwell.”

  “Rockwell? Not a Hammond name.” The old woman winked behind her red-framed glasses. “Until now, my dear.—Now I must be off!”

  Meg was mentally adjusting the time of her home care visit for the next day so she could get to the library by two. “I’ll stop by tomorrow, then. Two o’clock sharp.”

  “Oh, goodness me, I won’t be here.”

  “But the sign— ”

  “This is my vacation week, had to take it, you see. Only just stopped in for my umbrella on the way to the station. My sister in South Bend is ailing. Poor Bridget, eighty-five, you know. Older sister. Getting up there, wouldn’t you say? I should be back next week, Mary. We’ll get down to business then.”

  Meg was crushed. She would have to wait a full week. “Isn’t there someone else who could give me access to the Calumet Room?”

  The woman’s eyes widened, her offense magnified by the thick lenses. “I should say not!” she declared. “The Calumet Room is in my sole care, has been since ’55. The room will be locked until the day I return, young lady.”

  “I see.” Was the woman a bit daft? She hadn’t even gotten her name right.

  “Ah, I can see you’re anxious to find things out. What is it you’re looking for?”

  “I—I don’t quite know.”

  “Then it can’t be that important.” The woman’s hand patted Meg’s. “Why, just think how much more interesting it will be after you’ve had to wait a bit.”

  Meg was still considering the little setback when she arrived home. There were things to be found out, she was certain. Secrets closed to her now for at least a week.

  The red light on the answering machine was blinking.

  “Hello, there,” came the unusually serious voice. “I . . . I have something to tell you, Meg. Call me.”

  Meg was feeling suddenly too tired, too deflated to deal with anything else. Probably some politics at the hospital, and that was the last thing she wanted to hear about.

  She went into the bedroom to lie down. Perhaps tomorrow she would return Wenonah’s call.

  EIGHT

  A human being is a part of the whole called by us “Universe”—a part limited in time and space. He experiences himself, his thoughts and feelings as something separated from the rest—a kind of optical delusion of consciousness.

  Albert Einstein

  By Friday, Meg was fending off real panic.

  The week had been hell. The intermittent tappings had come on Monday and Wednesday, the piano music on Tuesday and Thursday. At least, she mused, the spirit appreciated variety.

  Spirit? What spirit? Whose? To what end was it making itself known? Meg had been too afraid to try to reciprocate contact. Wenonah had told her the tappings were likely signals, but a paralyzed Meg had been unable to bring herself to tap back.

  And the dreams—the dreams were coming every night. The dreams belonged to someone else, had to! Why else the dated streets and clothing?

  But what if these dreams somehow were harbingers of some danger to her? To her child? This seemed a real possibility.

  Meg had become convinced that Wenonah was right: she had to tell Kurt.

  Yet how does one tell her husband that the house they bought—a house he did not want initially, or perhaps at all—is a haunted house? It sounded to Meg like a premise for a Chevy Chase movie.

  But there was nothing funny here. Bizarre, yes. And frightening.
She had never in thirty-seven years given any real consideration to ghosts, or spirits, or poltergeists. Now, however, she knew with certainty there could be no other possibility: the house held a spirit.

  Meg sat in the bay brooding. She did not look forward to picking Kurt up at the station. How would she tell him? Over dinner? After dinner? Before? Should she cook? Should they eat out? Where?

  Her mind played out a dozen scenarios—all the way through to the telling of the story. Each scenario led to a kind of dead end, for she could not imagine Kurt’s reaction.

  She had no control over Kurt’s reaction, she decided finally, so she worked only on her part—the telling.

  Meg’s attention was taken up by an old Buick that slowed down and stopped across the street. A woman in a dark coat got out of the car, her gaze fixed upon the house. Meg noticed now that the woman had a camera in her hand. In less than thirty seconds, the picture of the house was snapped and the woman was on her way.

  This was not a wholly uncommon experience. White and architecturally significant, the house stood out on the block, like a castle on the heath. Meg had seen others taking pictures of it, as well. It had made her so proud, but she felt a bit less so now.

  Her mind came back to the thought at hand and her heart raced. She settled on telling Kurt over comfort food at a new restaurant, a locally famous glorified hamburger joint in Highland, a town to the east of Hammond. It would be good to tell him in public. Kurt would be more likely to listen, she hoped, to respond less quickly, less emotionally. And if an embarrassing scene ensued—well, they need not go back to the restaurant.

  The hardest part of the telling would be the beginning. Meg wondered how she should initiate the subject, sounding out several possibilities in her mind. Kurt, what do you think of ghosts? Or, Did you know an unseen dividend came with the house? Or, I suppose I must look like I’ve seen a ghost.

  But it wasn’t funny. None of it was. And she knew—if he believed her—Kurt would find none of it funny.

  When Meg turned the Saturn into the station lot and heard the shrill whistle of the 6:20 and the clanging bells as the gates came down, she still had not decided on the approach.

  She set her jaw and breathed deeply as she watched the train doors slide open, disgorging commuters.

  Wenonah Smythe picked up the telephone.

  She was exhausted. The flu was going around at work and she had been talked into working doubles through Thursday. It would be good money, she figured.

  Each midnight she came home to find no return message from Meg Rockwell, and she admitted to herself she was relieved. It was such an easy thing to put off, telling your best friend to keep an eye on her husband while she goes about the business of bearing his child.

  Men! Wenonah dialed the Indiana number. Her physical exhaustion weakened the mental defenses she had built and thoughts of André came back unbidden. Gone two years now. No word since. Not a Goddamn card. Five years washed away. Screw him!

  She heard the phone ringing in Hammond.

  They had been happy years, those years with André Dubay. A French citizen, he had studied in Chicago and interned at Ravensfield, where they had met. They had fallen in love, lived together the last three years of their relationship.

  They had let nothing bother them; the interracial thing just didn’t seem to matter. Seem to, Wenonah thought. She should have suspected something a year before the end, when he went back to France for two weeks without having asked her to go.

  Although usually outspoken, she had not said anything. She just didn’t want to upset the proverbial apple cart. How she had longed to go! But she wanted to be asked.

  Then, three days before the trip, he told her he wished she were going—but by then it was too late, of course, too late for tickets, too late for a leave from the hospital, too late, she knew for the asking to be genuine. It was a manipulation.

  Wenonah listened absently to the continuing ring at the other end. In hindsight, Wenonah came to believe that the trip was an exploratory mission to determine how she might be accepted by André’s family. Or not accepted. She knew he didn’t want to live in the United States, and on occasion they had talked of marriage—sometime in the future—and settling in France.

  André was different when he got back. There was no more talk of their going to France. The writing was on the wall, but Wenonah chose not to read it until those ugly few weeks before he returned to France permanently. Without her.

  Wenonah could not remember how long she had let the phone ring. Long enough to know Meg was not at home. Perhaps she had already gone to the station to pick up Kurt. Strange that the answering machine didn’t pick up.

  She hung up, happy for another reprieve and that she could go to bed without having been the harbinger of bad news. God knows, she thought, Meg has enough on her hands. Perhaps this was a sign she shouldn’t say anything at all about what she had seen.

  Kurt would be in Hammond for the weekend, she was certain. She would wait until next week before calling her again.

  I wonder if she’s told Kurt about the ghost.

  Meg hadn’t known what reaction to expect from Kurt, but she hadn’t expected silence.

  He sat staring at her, his face coloring slightly but his expression was inscrutable.

  The waiter stopped at their table, eyed their unfinished hamburgers. “Everything all right? Is the food okay?”

  “Yes, fine,” Kurt mumbled. “We just got to talking. You can take mine away—Meg?”

  “Yes, I’m finished, too.”

  “Coffee?”

  “Yes,” Kurt answered, looking to Meg.

  “Decaf.” She forced a smile.

  The waiter left.

  “You’re angry,” Meg said, once the table had been cleared.

  “Why should I be angry?”

  Meg threw down her napkin. “How should I know? Because I haven’t told you before this. Because there is a—a disturbance in our house. Because you don’t believe me. Because you think you’ve married a kook! Tell me, Kurt, damn it. Anything’s better than your staring at me.”

  “Okay, okay.” Kurt inhaled sharply. “To tell the truth, I don’t know what to think. How should I feel about this? I don’t know. C’mon Meg, give me a break. I just got off the train a half-hour ago. And then to— ”

  “You don’t believe me.”

  “I didn’t say that!”

  “You haven’t said you do.”

  “I . . . I believe you’re sincere in your conviction that there is something askew— ”

  “Something askew!” Meg was interrupted by the waiter who brought the coffee. Her lips tightened until he made his retreat. “There’s more than something askew,” she hissed, once the waiter was out of earshot. “I’ve been nearly half crazy with this thing. I don’t sleep—I— ”

  “All right, all right. Calm down. You know we don’t have to keep it.”

  “The house?” Meg felt her lower lip quiver.

  “Yeah, the house. It seems to be the source. Maybe it is haunted. And right now we have one house too many.”

  “Oh, Kurt— ”

  “Don’t think I take it lightly, Meg. There’s the move, the expense, your job situation— ”

  “It’s more than that, Kurt.” Meg tried to speak calmly, rationally. How could she make him understand? “It’s more than a house. It’s as if I’ve found the home I was meant to live in, to have our child in. I feel a part of it. I feel as if I had it built!”

  “I get that. But what about what’s good for the baby? And these dreams?—they don’t sound too rewarding or welcoming to me. What about them, Meg? If they continue, can you live with them?”

  Kurt had worked her into a corner. “I—I don’t know.” The child, of course, was more important than the hous
e. Still she felt hot tears welling at her eyes at the thought of leaving the house.

  Kurt looked concerned. “Enough for now,” he said. “Let’s see how the weekend goes.”

  Meg sniffled. “You’re not angry?”

  “Why should I be?”

  “Because I saw the child’s face in the coach house window before we bought the place.”

  “Don’t be silly. I probably wouldn’t have thought anything of it, either. Most likely, it wasn’t anything at all, just some reflection on the dirty glass. Like you said Mrs. Shaw suggested.”

  The waiter came now with the check and Meg let the matter drop.

  Kurt stood. “C’mon, my little kook.”

  Meg laughed and got to her feet. It was a ghost, she thought. It was.

  Nothing unusual happened on the weekend. If Meg dreamt she didn’t remember doing so. Still, she felt nervous and muddled. On the one hand, she wished for the music or tapping to occur, wished to prove herself to Kurt—and get his take on the phenomena; on the other, she prayed that such things were past, that life would take on normalcy. She longed only for the house and the child growing inside her—and for her husband’s love and support.

  Through the weekend, her mind was slow to make connections. She could not focus on any one task or conversation. Even the simplest of meals just didn’t come together. An unexpected noise, or even Kurt’s voice, would startle her.

  Everything they were doing to put the house in order seemed hollow, purposeless—as if they would not be staying long enough to enjoy it.

  They lay in bed Sunday evening, eyes to the ceiling. Kurt broke the long, awkward silence. “Meg, I think we need to refigure things.”

  It was one of those déjà vu moments. “You mean the house?”