“Hey, wait. What’s going on? Can you tell me what’s happening here?”
If I have been kidnapped, I’m entitled to know by whom and what they expect from me, even if they are rather good impersonators.
The mimic turned his head and looked at me indifferently.
“How can I know what happened to you when you arrived here? But you’ll be better off if you don’t yell.”
“Why? What will you do to me? Who will hear me?” The small voice of reason in my head told me it would be better to listen to him and try and get information out of him calmly, but I have an irritating tendency to ignore small voices of reason. The undernourished double of Ben Fox just carried on shaking his head, as if he were dealing with a little girl screaming in the supermarket because no one would buy her the candy she wants. I open my mouth to release a new chain of screams, but before I manage to do so, another yell fills the room that is louder and more terrifying than any I have ever heard, and there is no way that it came out of my mouth.
“What the hell is going on here?” A young woman bursts into the room with such speed that she appears to be floating. In her long white nightgown with its lace collar, she looks as if someone pulled her out of the previous century. Her hair is untidily piled on top of her head, and she appears to have just woken up. She looks insane as her face contorts, her eyes almost pop out of their sockets, and she screams in a piercing voice.
“I will not put up with this shouting in my house! How often do I have to remind you that loud voices are not tolerated here?”
It is somewhat comical that she is burning her vocal cords to say how unacceptable she finds shouting. I am too shocked to move or speak. The young woman continues yelling in a strange accent, French perhaps, as she waves her fists in a fury. All I manage to absorb from her flood of screams is “I cannot bear this any longer,” “out of the question,” and “upon my life.”
“What’s going on here?” I jump in fright. Someone whispers the question near my ear. A man of around forty stands beside me, his hair and beard are wild, and he wears dirty linen clothes and a thick leather girdle from which a short dagger hangs. Straps tie a pair of leather sandals on his feet. I was so distracted by the woman’s screams that I didn’t even notice the man when he came into the room and stood beside me. He shoves his thumbs into his leather belt and winks at me with a smile.
“Dramatic entry. Have you managed to upset the Madame?” The Madame, so it seems, only now notices my presence. Her eyes open even wider, if that is possible, and her face wears a crazy expression.
“And who are you?” she screeches the question.
I have no idea how to respond. I am baffled. Had I fallen into the rabbit hole like Alice, things would look more rational than this. I am being held captive in an abandoned house, eighty kilometers from my home, in the company of three people dressed as if they have robbed a theater’s costume store. And I still don’t know how I got here. The lady in the nightdress doesn’t accept my silence in good spirits.
“In this house, when I ask a question, I expect to get an answer.” Is she serious? Is this her house? Does she live in this filthy ruin? But I still can’t answer. I try to imagine potted plants, but that isn’t working. Finally, Ben Fox’s double comes to my aid when he turns to the Madam with the same indifferent and melancholy manner he used toward me.
“Leave her; she’s only just gotten here. Give her time to adjust.” But his words only inflame her yelling even more.
“Adjust? Nobody else gets to adjust to being here anymore! I won’t allow it under any circumstances. Upon my life, this house cannot contain any more people. It’s gone too far.” And then, she turns her fiery stare at me and rests her clenched fists on her hips.
“Get out! Now!”
I am dumbstruck. It’s not that I am bothered that the Madame, who appears to own the house, wants to throw me out. I have no desire to stay here or with those people, but everything seems so incomprehensible. It’s as if my brain is giving up trying to understand and is on strike. The bearded fellow with the leather girdle looks complacently at the Madame.
“May I remind you, Helen, you never legally owned this house, and you’re not even its heir.” He says the end of the sentence with a mocking half-smile, and even if I don’t understand the private joke, it hits the mark, since the Madame gets fired up again and screams out loud, “I don’t need you to remind me of it.”
Behind her I can see the impersonator suppressing a half-smile.
“In that case,” the bearded fellow continues, “I think it would be proper to introduce ourselves briefly. Pleased to meet you, Oved, son of Ravchiel.” He points to himself and nods to me, but does not extend his hand to shake mine, which suits me just fine. In spite of his friendly eyes, I don’t think I am interested in making physical contact with this crazy bunch. He ignores my unresponsiveness and continues.
“That pleasant young woman over there is Leah.”
I think he is referring to the screaming Madame, except now I notice another figure in the room. She is an older woman of about seventy, not exactly a young woman, who wears a plain cotton dress. She smiles pleasantly out of her wrinkled face.
“And this worthy lady, whose pleasant voice you were fortunate to hear this evening, is Helen Disraeli.” He clears his throat dramatically and adds with a half-smile, “I apologize, Madame Helen Disraeli.” I notice the mild disrespect in his voice when he calls her a ‘worthy lady.’ From the ‘ready to kill him’ expression on her face, she has also noticed it.
“And that gentleman is Benny Foxburg, of whom you may have heard. From what he tells us, he is quite famous.” The bearded fellow also made this remark with mock irony. Benny Foxburg, as I know, was the original name of a failed actor from the past, who was known by only a few movie fans from the ’70’s, my father among them. Ben Fox was his stage name that better suited the image of a Hollywood star.
“Yes,” I agree wryly, “he really does resemble him.” Oved creases his brow in amusement.
“I believe we are talking about the original.”
“That would be amusing, but for the fact that Benny Foxburg died even before I was born.” I withdraw from the conversation, feeling impatient. Their delusional exhibition is beginning to tire me.
“Fine, then we’re all in the same boat.” Oved flashes me another wink, but I don’t understand what it means.
“And your name, young lady?” He seems to have a thing about ‘young ladies,’ and I don’t like it at all.
“Okay, I have no idea how I got here or what I’m doing here. To be honest, it’s been a busy day, and I still have some urgent things to deal with, so, if you don’t mind,” I stride toward the front door, where Helen still stands with her fists clenched. I expect them to try and stop me, but none of them say anything. And then, when I reach the opening, something strange happens. Helen moves aside to clear the way, but without taking a step. She floats. Her body just moves aside as if invisible strings are pulling her. When I lower my eyes, I am amazed to discover that her feet are hovering some five centimeters above the floor. I look back up at her, but she doesn’t appear to notice my astonishment. She just stares at me in disdain and resents that I’m still there. I look around. The others approach me now and surround me in a kind of circle. They are all detached from the floor and floating in the air, yet miraculously maintain their stability. Leah and Oved gravitate a little closer in my direction, and my hands automatically spread out sideways.
“Don’t come near me,” I shout in terror.
“Don’t you dare raise your voice!” Helen screeches.
A circus. They’re a kind of circus, rehearsing their ingenuous performance in this abandoned building. I have never liked magic shows and stunts that bluff you. Most people go wild with enthusiasm when someone shows them that they’re stupid suckers. Most of the time, I am unlike the majority of
people.
“Who are you all?” I ask in alarm. No one answers. I look them over, one by one. Leah looks at me compassionately, Benny shakes his head in a gesture that is typical for him. Helen frowns and folds her arms angrily, and Oved appears to be deciding how to react. And now, as if everything that has happened is not confusing enough, another character floats into the room. She is the oldest woman I have ever seen. Short and withered, a mass of wrinkles, shrouded in layers of cloth and shawls, one of which covers her head. She stares at me in rapt concentration, and her expression arouses a troubling sense of discomfort. When she speaks, her voice is raspy and quiet, yet amazingly bright and sharp.
“We are spirits. Lost souls. Just like you,” she says and quietly floats away.
“So, that receptionist, she wasn’t a dream. It’s as if that was…” I don’t know what to call it. The next world? The Garden of Eden? Life after death? I had given so much thought to death and how to make it happen, but I hadn’t bothered to give a single thought as to what would occur afterward. My premise was that there was nothing after death. Four pairs of eyes stare at me with curiosity.
“That place, the reception room with all the folders, that was…”
Oved folds his arms lightly on the sofa, his back sinks into the back rest. He smiles cheerfully, and using the tone of a T.V. interviewer, says, “Tell us a little about the reception room. And then, if you don’t mind, explain the meaning of the word ‘folders’.” Leah sits cross-legged on the floor like a little girl waiting to be read a story. Benny is left standing and keeps a disinterested expression on his face, while Helen cries out angrily, “We have no time to listen to foolish stories.” But she remains standing and only sticks her chin out when Oved points out that no one is forcing her to listen. I describe the hospital bed in which I woke up in, the sterile reception hall and the tedious receptionist who sat there, and they listen in rapt attention.
“But, if I… like you… then you also passed through that, didn’t you?” I ask.
“It was a torch-lit cave for me, and three old men were waiting for me with parchment scrolls,” Oved replied.
“I reached a tiny synagogue in the village of my childhood in Rumania. There was an old Rabbi with huge books,” Leah added. She spoke quietly and tentatively, but seemed to savor the memory. When Benny sees me staring at him, he lowers his eyes and mutters, “Detention room. Two policemen. Investigation files.” Helen scowls and clenches her jaw, making it clear that she has no intention of making a contribution to the conversation, she raises her chin defiantly and leaves the room.
“So, what brought you here?” Oved asks in the style of the guest interview programs. I feel completely dazed and barely recognize my voice when I answer, as if the words bear no relation to me.
“A broken neck.”
Oved raises an eyebrow and reveals an amused smile. “D.I.Y?”
“An accident,” I reply, uncertain whether that’s the right answer. I’m not sure of anything. I’m dead. I’m a ghost. I’m in a haunted house. I’m living in a black comedy by Tim Burton. I mean, I’m dying in it, not living in it.
I approach one of the large windows and pass my fingers through the green velvet drapes. They all stand around me in silence and wait, while I repeat this several times, proving again and again that my touch has no effect on them. The drapes don’t move even one millimeter, and not a grain of dust rises up from them. It’s like a hand passing through falling water without affecting its flow. The result is the same when I blow air on the layer of dust on the windowsill, an attempt that elicits a chuckle from Oved and a sigh of despair that I already know belongs to Benny. He was right. There is something very unpleasant about my body meeting with inanimate objects. When I attempt to pass my hand over the back of the sofa, it just sinks into it.
When I was ten years old, my Dad took me to a hologram exhibition at the Science Museum. One of the halls at the exhibition looked like a furnished living room, and if someone tried to sit on one of the sofas, they found themselves on the floor. If you tried to pick up a vase on a table, you were left with a closed fist in the air, since the room was an illusion of holograms. Now, in this dusty living room, when I look at my hand lightly passing over the wooden back of the sofa, I think of the hologram image of a living room, except that now, the living room is real and I am the hologram. It might sound thrilling, but I don’t like the idea of being a hologram, at all.
I can see the skies growing darker through the windows. It means it’s about six o’clock in the evening, and my parents should be home already. It’s strange to think that my real body is lying on the table in the living room, or is already stored in some cold room. The receptionist’s words still ring in my head.
“I presume they won’t begin until all the arrangements are over.”
If I ever played with the idea of being present at my own funeral, I have certainly gotten over it, and if I had a body that was capable of physical sensations, I presume I would be having a mixture of cold shivers and queasiness just at the thought of what is going to happen in the next twenty-four hours. They are going to bury me. I will crumble and turn into compost. Perhaps, in the end, a tree will grow out of me, or a bush or moss, so that I will produce oxygen and do something useful for the world. However, it is more likely that what remains of me will be contaminated by chemical waste or something like that. How depressing.
For close on two years I have managed to use the same tactic to deal with unpleasant thoughts. I push them aside and replace them with thoughts of death. When my brain is preoccupied with pictures of my parents standing beside my open grave over which my body swings, I choose that same method of avoidance. Except that as opposed to the dozens of times I have done this in the past, death is now more of a practical reality than a theoretical game. Thousands of questions race around in my head.
“It’s best to start at the beginning,” Leah says quietly, as if she is reading my thoughts.
“Actually, it’s best to start with the third,” says Oved with a wink, as he moves from his interviewer’s pose to prostrating himself on the sofa. “The first two usually are the most discouraging.”
“You’re not really lying on the sofa, are you?” Indeed, that was not the first question, and also not the third, but at that second, it was the question that bothered me most. And, perhaps, it was a more comfortable one to ask than deal with the thought about the consequences of my actions.
“That is to say, that the sofa truly does not support your weight.”
“Of course not,” Oved bragged. “After all, I am weightless.”
“So why….”
“For the same reason that you stand on the floor and don’t float in the middle of the room. It’s called habit.”
“So…can I fly?” I ask. That was, of course, the most stupid question. Obviously, I can fly—I’m a ghost. And, nevertheless, I stand.
“It’s all a matter of liberating fixed perceptions and freeing one’s thoughts,” Oved replied with his eyes closed and a smile on his lips that showed how pleased he was with his own eloquence and coherence. One could think that he wrote the script for “The Matrix.” I stare at my feet. There’s no question but that both are firmly on the floor, although, when I cross the room on foot, my shoes leave no prints on the layer of dust covering the floor.
Oved speaks in the same amused tone as he keeps his eyes closed and his arms linked behind his neck. “Shut your eyes and imagine there is a staircase in front of you. Now, just start climbing them. Open your eyes on the fifth stair.”
I close my eyes, imagine, and begin climbing. On the second stair, I already know it’s working. I feel no difference under my feet, but I know I am not going to fall. On the fifth step, I open my eyes and find that I am facing a crystal chandelier full of cobwebs hanging from the ceiling. Smiling up at me from below, are Leah and Oved, who opens one eye for me. Benny takes care to kee
p his gloomy ‘it’s not as much fun as it looks’ expression, and blurts out, “It will bore you very quickly.”
“Benny is a real ray of sunshine, if you haven’t yet noticed,” Oved comments.
I know that I can just float down again, but I close my eyes and imagine the stairs once more. It seems that liberating fixed perceptions and freeing one’s thoughts requires practice. When I open my eyes after the fifth stair, I find myself sinking into the floor up to my ankles.
Leah rises from the floor and comes closer to me.
“Let yourself sink. It takes a while to get accustomed to it.” I see that she wants to extend a soothing hand, but doesn’t. She just hovers gently out of the room. Benny follows her out, taking care not to bump into any of the furniture, while Oved remains dozing on the sofa. I rise to the height of the floor and see that my ankles are no longer sunken in it. I don’t know what I am supposed to say or do, but standing quietly with nothing to do is almost unbearable when there are so many significant matters that must be absorbed and understood. Oved’s easygoing attitude only makes the situation more insufferable.
“Who was that woman?” I ask. Oved seems to understand immediately that I am referring to the old woman wrapped up in veils.
“That’s Milka,” he replies.
“And who is she?” I’m not certain what I am asking, only that that woman arouses a feeling that isn’t at all pleasant.
“She’s Milka,” Oved replies in a manner that cuts me short. “Ask me something else.”
“So, how old are you?”
Oved opens one amused eye. “I’m not sure I know the answer to that.”
The truth is that I don’t know exactly what I am asking. Do I want to know his age at the time of his death, or the year of his birth?
“When were you born?” I try again.
“In the fourth year of the reign of King Rav-el,” Oved replies. Of course, that doesn’t tell me anything, and from his expression, he notices it and appears to enjoy my confusion, but he is polite enough to provide an explanation.
The House of Lost Spirits: A Paranormal Novel Page 3
