Hologram: A Haunting Read online

  “Yes.”

  She had prepared herself for this. “I won’t.”

  “We have to, Meg. Look at yourself. You’re a mess. A nervous wreck.”

  “I’m sorry. It might be the pregnancy, too. You know, the hormone factor.”

  “And you know it’s more than that. Everything was fine before this move. This house disturbs you— ”

  “You don’t believe me—about the noises, the music— ”

  “Look, if you say so, I believe. But the bottom line is that you’re pregnant with our child and this house isn’t doing you any good.”

  “Yes, it is. You don’t have any idea. I love this house. I do, Kurt! Wenonah says most spirits are harmless, They just pull pranks now and then, doing things like running water in another part of the house or bursting light bulbs.”

  “Or tapping and playing music?”

  “Yes.”

  “You mean you think you could get used to those things?”

  “I don’t know—maybe.”

  “Well, I can’t. And you spoke to Wenonah about all this before you told me?”

  “Yes. I was wrong not to tell you sooner. I’m sorry, Kurt.”

  Kurt reached over to take Meg’s hand. She shuddered at the touch.

  “You see,” Kurt said, “you’re afraid of your own shadow. You’re afraid of me.”

  “I’m not afraid of you, Kurt. Don’t be silly. What I’m afraid of is your saying we can’t keep the house.”

  Kurt sighed. “Is the house more important than the baby?”

  “No, of course not.”

  “You think you can have both.”

  “Yes. I want to try.”

  He let out a long sigh. “You’re determined?”

  “Yes.”

  “Tell you what, we’ll give it two more weeks.”

  “What?” It was more a gasp than a word. Meg turned to look at Kurt.

  “Two weeks to get my old Meg back. Two weeks before I personally post the For Sale sign in the front yard.”

  “A month!”

  “Two weeks.”

  “Three, then.”

  “Okay, three. No more. Now, come here.” Kurt slid his arm around Meg’s shoulders and pulled her to his side. “You’re cold, let me warm you.”

  “That would be nice.”

  He whispered into her ear now: “Three weeks, Meg. That’s all.”

  Later, Meg slept on her side, her back to Kurt.

  It was a good sleep punctuated by the periodic pulling of the covers. She tried to cling to them, for the room was chilly. Even in her half-sleep she thought how she would chide him in the morning for being a covers hog.

  When the alarm went off at six a.m., Meg found herself alone in bed, shivering with cold. She could hear Kurt shaving in the adjacent bathroom.

  “Up already?” she called, feeling for the lost covers.

  “Yeah, I was freezing to death,” Kurt called back. “You weren’t about to give your old man a corner of the blankets, you bad girl.”

  “You mean I took them from you?”

  “Damn right! We had a tug of war in the middle of the night.” Kurt stepped out from the bathroom, towel about his trim waist, shaver in hand, the left side of his face white with lather. “And then when I got up this morning I find all the covers on the floor at the foot of the bed. What’s the deal?” He used the shaver to motion accusingly. He was smiling.

  “I did that?”

  “It wasn’t me, honeybunch.” Kurt retreated into the bathroom.

  Minutes passed.

  Meg waited until she heard his shower running before she sat up on the side of the bed. She craned her neck to look over at the covers on the floor. In the dark, Kurt hadn’t noticed, but Meg’s heart stopped for a moment when she saw the covers there, not piled, but neatly folded.

  It was not the cold of the room that took her now—it was an inner bone-piercing chill that violently shook her.

  It came back to her, one of Wenonah’s acquired bits of ghost trivia: one of their pranks, she said, was to tamper with a victim’s bedclothes.

  Meg listened absently as Kurt sang softly in the shower. She would say nothing to him, she decided.

  Victim.—Is that what I am?

  She tried to control her shaking, the rapidity of her heartbeat. The spirit, ghost, poltergeist—whatever the hell it was—had overstepped another boundary.

  The boundary of touch.

  NINE

  The bar, close to Wrigley Field, was a familiar one, but Kurt felt stiff and uncomfortable.

  The waitress placed two draft beers on the wood-grained formica table, smiled prettily at the regular customers, and disappeared into the late afternoon crowd.

  “What are your hopes for the Cubs this year, Kurt?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. Haven’t thought much about it.”

  “Yeah? Since when? Hey, you do have hopes? Last year’s results didn’t put you off?”

  “Not likely. When has it ever? I’ve always got hope. That way we’re left with something at the end of the season.”

  The two laughed. Raising his stein, Kurt surveyed George Ringbloom’s long, handsome, honest face. He wondered if he was doing the right thing. Had he miscalculated? Hell, he needed to talk to someone. And who better that a psychiatrist? But maybe it shouldn’t be a friend and coworker. Maybe it shouldn’t be someone who knows Meg.

  “Okay, Kurt, I get the sense that you didn’t suggest a beer after work to divine a winning season for the Cubbies. What’s up?”

  Kurt flushed. He tried to laugh it off. “It hasn’t worked yet, has it? The Cubs, I mean.” He felt foolish now. “No, George, I . . . I— ”

  “How’s Meg? How does she like Hammond?”

  Kurt inwardly winced. God, psychiatrists are good at cutting to the chase.

  “Problems of the marriage variety?”

  “Not really.” George Ringbloom had seen Kurt through an ugly divorce a decade previous. He knew Kurt well, and Kurt didn’t want him to think his marriage to Meg was a rerun of the first failure. “The problem is rather—that is, extremely unusual. And, yes, it does concern Meg.”

  George finished a hearty gulp and set his glass down. The hazel eyes seemed rounder. “Now you take one, too. And then I’m all ears.” He winked. “I won’t even put you on the clock.”

  “Thanks!” Kurt laughed, lifting his glass. He knew there was no going back now. He took a long drink, then started his—Meg’s—story: the face at the window, the tappings, the piano music, the dreams. Even as the story unfolded in his laconic manner, it didn’t take as long as he’d imagined.

  George listened without interruption, and his face had taken on a ponderous expression by the time the tale was told.

  “Well— ?” Kurt pressed. “Meg thinks it’s a ghost or poltergeist or some damn thing.”

  “And you?”

  “Me?”

  “Do you believe?”

  “No. I mean, I don’t know. Maybe if I had experienced even one of those things, it’d be different. But I haven’t.” He paused, drawing in breath. “George, can there—are there such things?”

  “Ghosts? Well, this is hardly my field of expertise, Kurt. Unless you think it’s all coming from within Meg.”

  Kurt felt traitorous and ashamed, yet he asked, “Is that possible?”

  “Kurt, our minds are capable of some very powerful and strange things, but most of what you’ve described seems to be tied into this old house. You know, I’d love to see it.”

  “So there are hauntings.”

  “Some are harder to prove than others.”

  “George— ”

  “Do I believe?” George set down his glass and lev
eled his most professional gaze at Kurt. “Yes, absolutely.”

  Kurt felt the breath go out of him. He became strangely dizzy. Ghosts are possible, he thought. My God, I own a Goddamn haunted house.

  Now he realized George was still speaking.

  “—what’s really interesting, Kurt, in fact, damn fascinating, is those dreams. Very unusual. And they seem almost a separate issue from those other phenomena.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, they reflect an inner sort of happening as opposed to occurrences that can be perceived by the senses.”

  “The music and tapping?”

  “Yes.”

  “I see. And the dreams may be separate from the physical haunting, if that’s what it is?”

  George shrugged, hesitant to continue.

  “There must be a connection, yes? Hey, dreams are in your realm, George, let’s face it. You know my next question.”

  “What’s causing them?”

  Kurt nodded. “Exactly.”

  “I don’t think dreams of this type are up my alley. If I thought Meg was subconsciously creating them— ”

  “You don’t?”

  “Not with the kinds of things in them you’ve mentioned—things out of a long ago past.”

  “Then where are they coming from?”

  “Different experts will give you different theories.”

  “Like what?”

  George carefully set down his empty glass, eyeing Kurt. “How much of a believer are you, Kurt?”

  “In what?”

  “The unseen, the unexperienced.”

  Kurt could feel the tightness of his own smile. “Not much of one, I suppose.” He shifted in his seat. “Let’s get back to the experts you’re talking about.”

  George cleared his throat. “Some might cite reincarnation.” He deliberately paused, checking Kurt’s reaction.

  “Oh, come on,” Kurt laughed. “Meg said something about that, too. It’s rubbish.”

  “Look, I’m just telling you what some avenues of investigation might be.”

  “You’re playing devil’s advocate? You don’t seriously believe— ”

  “I’ve learned not to not believe, Kurt. It works well in my line. In any line, for that matter.”

  The waitress came and filled their glasses.

  Kurt stared off into space for a moment then collected himself. “Okay, what’s another possibility?”

  “That it’s a mystery none of us will crack.”

  “That’s a cop-out.”

  George laughed. “Often it’s the truth, but you’re right, the experts would never get noticed or paid for their services if they were always truthful.”

  “So? That’s it?”

  “No.” The keen hazel eyes held Kurt’s. “Do you know what a hologram is, Kurt?”

  “Yeah, sure. It’s one of those things that has—well, it’s like a photograph with dimensions to it. Meg gave me one of those Fossil watches with a train hologram. You turn it and it seems to be in motion.”

  George nodded. “There’s this new theory—actually not new at all—it’s just that it’s caught the imagination of the New Age crowd. Anyway, it likens our very reality to that of a hologram. I’m not sure I can explain the makings of a hologram, but here goes: A hologram is achieved by splitting a laser light into two rays using a splitter. The first beam hits the item being photographed, say a table, while the second interferes with the light of the first as it is reflected off the item. The resulting photograph is a hologram.”

  “So how do we fit into the picture?”

  “Well—and this is really cool stuff—according to one of Einstein’s compatriots, a guy by the name of Bohm—I think—our individual realities are like a projected holographic image. The larger picture, the universe, is like the hologram itself.”

  Kurt struggled to digest the information.

  “Look,” George said, recognizing Kurt’s confusion, “our immediate experience is one of three dimensions. No stretch there. But the holographic theory is that matter and consciousness are part of a whole. Within each of us, our beings, is a reflection of the whole.”

  “Oh, kind of like DNA? The Jurassic Park thing? With a tiny bit of DNA you could produce the whole?”

  “Right, except that from us comes the whole damn universe. We are—in essence—microcosms of the universe. Each of us has, so it goes, the potential to access every aspect of the world beyond our mere senses. Our psyches are reservoirs of knowledge and experience that are literally boundless.”

  “Okay, okay. I’m trying to keep up. I think I see where you’re going with this. So, these dreams—they very well could be someone else’s?”

  George smiled and nodded. “You got it, buddy.”

  “You’re saying we all have access to one another’s dreams, thoughts?”

  “I suppose you could say that. It probably happens more than we think. We’re all part of one collective unconscious.”

  “But Meg’s dreams—they’re out of some other time period. They belong to someone who must be dead, has to be.”

  “Ah, my friend,” George said, smiling, “time plays no real role in this equation. The linear aspect of time is important only to us who live and experience in the here and now. In the collective unconscious, there is no time.”

  “No time? I don’t get it.”

  “My fault, I’m sure. I don’t often have to explain this stuff.”

  “But do you believe it, George?”

  “It makes as much sense as anything else. Yes, I guess I do.”

  “Then these dreams can be like— ”

  “Transferences,” George interposed.

  “Transferences from one person to another, from one time frame to another?”

  “It’s not impossible, Kurt.”

  “I think I understand, but I just can’t buy it.”

  “Listen, I’ve got a great friend downtown, a psychoanalyst. This is her area, not mine. She writes and lectures on the holotropic mind. She’s become quite the darling of the New Age crowd here in Chicago.” George took a pen from his jacket pocket. “It wouldn’t hurt for you—and Meg—to see her.”

  Kurt gave a dismissive wave of his hand. “I don’t think so. What we should do is sell the frickin’ house. It’s the house, George!” Kurt studied his friend. “Or—do you think it’s Meg that’s the channel for this stuff?”

  George finished writing on a cocktail napkin. “Could be a combination of the two. Here, here’s her name. I don’t have the number, but she’s on Michigan Avenue. You should look her up. This stuff is incredibly fascinating.”

  Kurt bristled. “Not if it’s screwing up your life, George! Believe me, I’d rather be talking about the Cubbies.” Kurt pushed the napkin into his inside suitcoat pocket.

  That’s all I need, he thought, to go home to Meg with the news she’s to see a psychoanalyst.

  TEN

  Meg was driving.

  The car, a two-seater, jerked into motion and gyrated along the dusty city street. Its vibration and high, whining hum suggested a speed higher than that at which images of houses and storefronts on either side moved lazily by, as if she were on an old steamship.

  Meg’s gloved hands were fastened tightly to the steering wheel. Black fabric enveloped her arms to the wrists, where the sleeves—held with columns of cloth-covered buttons—disappeared into the openings of the black leather gloves.

  The car passed some of the stately homes of the city founders. Some were massive rectangles of granite while others were intricate wonders of Victorian or Greek Revival architecture. Then came a business district of foundries, bottlers, printers, bakeries, groceries, and—into a downtown area now—department stores.

 
Oddly enough, it was daylight and yet Meg saw no movement on the streets or sidewalks. Not a living soul stirred. Not even a dog or cat.

  Where was she going?

  She had no idea, yet the sense of urgency and repressed panic was clutching at her heart, tightening her throat, drying out her mouth and lips. She attempted to accelerate further. She desperately needed to be somewhere.

  Where?

  Find someone.

  Whom?

  The car sped along at a higher speed now. Meg looked to the speedometer and blinked at what she saw. It read 18 mph.

  Could that speed be correct?

  Meg looked up at the road to find that a human form had suddenly appeared a hundred feet in front of her. Her heart leapt within her chest.

  The fast approaching figure was that of a child.

  Meg felt her foot moving, as if in slow motion, to the brake pedal. Gripping the wheel, she thrust her whole leg forward, horrified to realize it had no effect. The car would not slow and she was bearing down on a small figure in a blue cap.

  The child’s head lifted. Under the cap’s bill, the eyes were adjusting, focusing. He looked into the cab of the car, into Meg’s eyes, and comprehended at once his incontrovertible fate.

  Meg opened her mouth to scream as the car struck—pitching slightly upon impact—and rolled right over the boy.

  As Meg struggled to scream, to give voice to the horror she had just perpetrated, she came awake with a start, clammy and breathless.

  She had dreamt every night. The dreams offered a variety of scenarios: a night at an old-time stage play, a game of lawn croquet, a formal picnic in a manicured park with men in suits and fully draped women carrying parasols. In each dream she felt the same sense of urgency, the same fears tightening her chest as with iron bands, the same premonition of imminent loss.

  The loss of a child.

  The house was warm, but Meg shivered violently now. She was chilled to the marrow.

  She wiped cold perspiration from her brow.

  She lay staring at the ceiling, asking herself the now familiar questions. What are these dreams? What do they mean?