Afterlife

by Douglas Clegg

  Beware of these fakers and con-men. I want you to believe, but not in something that I tell you to believe. Never believe in dogma for which you must pay. If you believe it, if you have your faith, that’s your decision. But don’t accept the easily-paid-for delusions of another.

  I want you to go on the journey of your life and find your own treasure.

  Do I believe in the life beyond?

  Perhaps. I am not all-seeing, all-knowing. I don’t make claims to fake authority. I am a seeker after wisdom and truth, as you are. I am living life as anyone would, but with an ability that arrived with me at my birth that might provide some insight for you, I hope.

  But by naming this book The Life Beyond, I wanted to suggest the freedom each of us needs to feel from the chains of the past—whether the past is something tragic that occurred recently, or simply a template for all our future actions that needs to be modified so that we can change our future life. I do believe in spiritual awakenings. I believe in souls. I believe that there is something sacred about the threshold that exists between life and death. And I have been at the deathbed of people and have seen what mystics might call miracles, but what I would call natural phenomena when the soul leaves the body.

  Where that soul goes is not within my field of understanding. I am not out to prove or disprove your God.

  I truly doubt it is any human being’s understanding. To the religious, it may be the peace that passes all understanding. To the non-religious, it may be that the door that shuts us off from this life is enough to know for now.

  As you continue reading my book, I hope you will travel with me on the journey of what I know from my psychic readings, from my experiences with remote viewing, and from my understanding of how to move from this life to what I hope will truly be, for you, the life beyond—beyond the petty anxieties, the wasted efforts, the small-mindedness of the everyday problems.

  An interviewer once asked me: Do you believe in an afterlife?

  I have to say: it’s not a matter of belief. I know there is one. For, centuries ago, men dreamed of flying, but could not. And now, they can fly. So that means that in dreams, we can see all that is possible. Nothing within the limits of the human imagination and mind is impossible. If it were, we could not imagine it or dream it.

  But what is the afterlife? I haven’t yet been there— that I know of—but perhaps in exploring the human mind more fully, we can find the questions to ask of ourselves, of each other, as to where our journey continues, in the life beyond.

  8

  Julie closed the book. She put it back in the bag, and folded the edges over. A woman, across the park, elderly and with a large, mean-looking mastiff, walked slowly, taking deliberate steps, as if she might fall at any moment. A long-haired young man of about twenty or so played guitar near the fountain rim, two or three friends sitting near him, singing along.

  Julie then felt inside her bag, for the keys. Finally, she went to find the building on Rosetta Street.

  Chapter Eleven

  1

  She’d narrowed it down to the block in Matt’s videos, Rosetta Street, which was near Chelsea, but toward the water. With the heat turned up full blast, she was drenched by the time she wandered down to the end of the Village, and then just beyond it, made a left onto James Street, and then a right onto Rosetta.

  She had that feeling of déjà vu—remembering Matt’s video, the cobblestone of the street—it was not quite as lovely as it had seemed in the video, for most of it was taken up with meat-packing plants, and there was that awful smell in the air of raw beef and something uglier. The sidewalks outside one of the buildings had just been hosed down. A few people walked along the opposite sidewalk, obviously using the street as a shortcut from one business meeting to another, or a lunch, or lives that she could only imagine.

  Then she came to the sunken doorway of the building she had been dreading since she had first found the phone number and the keys.

  She tried each key on the door of the building, but neither worked.

  She sat on the edge of a stone pediment, just at the edge of the steps down to the front door.

  She was about to leave, when a young overweight woman with a bundle of groceries stepped off the sidewalk, heading for the door. “Forget your key?”

  “I’m apartment sitting.” Julie thought it up quickly. She held up the two keys. “A friend’s cat is inside there, very hungry at this point.”

  The young woman looked at her warily. Too innocently, she asked, “Which apartment?”

  “66S.”

  “Ah,” the woman said. “I already put in a complaint about your friend. Last week it was like a herd of elephants were dancing up there. I hope you don’t mind my telling you. Nobody does anything about anyone here, and I’m tired of it.”

  2

  The smell in the building was like a pure blast of just-sprayed Lysol mixed with the undeniable warm bleachy odor of a nearby laundry room.

  “This weather, can you get over it?” the woman said. “I hope fall is nice. Fall is usually nice for about three weeks. I could use those three weeks about now. Hell, I could use three days. I can’t stand winter and I can’t stand summer. I should just live in one of those plastic bubbles.”

  The elevator was small, and she helped the woman with her groceries as she shut the blue door so that the elevator’s inner doors would shut properly. “I don’t want you thinking I normally call the super when anyone has a party. I don’t mind that kind of thing,” the woman said. “Parties or whatever. I mean, sometimes I feel like the people in 553 have a disco going on. It’s just that this was pretty bad. I was trying to sleep. I work weekends and the noise was bad. Press five, would you?”

  Julie pressed the buttons for the fifth and sixth floors, and the elevator lurched, shook slightly, and then moved upward with a slight whine.

  “Do you know the people in 66S?” Julie asked, hesitantly.

  “This building is the unfriendliest in the city,” the woman said, with the kind of cadence that made Julie think she’d used this line before. “I don’t even know my next-door neighbors. But you know, sometimes that’s a good thing. God knows I hear them enough. And someone on my hall has the yappiest dog alive. I love animals, but not that damn dog.”

  After the woman had stepped off the elevator, she turned slightly, smiling. “I’m not saying your friends are bad. They just get noisy sometimes.”

  “A herd of elephants,” Julie nodded. “I’ll tell them to take their shoes off next time.”

  “Oh ha ha,” the woman laughed. The elevator door shut again. The woman’s pale round face, her dark hair, were all that Julie could see in the round window of the outer elevator door.

  Julie drew the keys out of her pocket, clutching them tightly.

  At the sixth floor, she got out, fully expecting a long hall with many apartments, but instead, there were only six, 66S being the very last.

  At the door, she pressed the key into the deadbolt, and it turned.

  She drew the key out.

  She hesitated a moment, and then rapped lightly on the door. Then, she pressed the bell.

  She waited for what seemed an eternity before trying the other key on the knob. It went in easily, and she turned it.

  3

  She stood in the doorway.

  The air conditioning in the apartment was on high, and chilly. She could see a foyer that was made up of closets on either side, and a narrow hallway. The apartment must be a fairly large one—that was her first impression. The walls were white and off-white. There was an unshaded window at the very end of the foyer, allowing a smattering of light through its casementstyle windows.

  “Hello?” she asked.

  She stepped inside, closing the door behind her. She felt strangely comforted by the plastic bag with the book in it, beneath her arm. She felt as if she could just say that she thought it was someone else’s place, if caught. She could say something like, “I was given the keys—see? My husband
gave them to me.” She felt her heart beating as if it were in her throat as she stepped across the floor. She took each step forward carefully, trying not to make a clicking sound with her sandals on the parquet.

  When she got to the window, the apartment turned to the left, and beyond the wall that divided the foyer from the rest, it was enormous. It became a loft that seemed to be at least 2000 square feet or more, with exposed brick along one long wall, and a factory-like skylight above. It was oddly furnished—the lamps all seemed to be huddled at one end, while a broad leather sofa, love seat and two chairs were arranged alongside the far wall. The furnishings seemed years out of style, and pushed around as if intended for storage. Copper pots hung from the ceiling along the kitchen area, with a central marble island, and a bright rectangle of clean wall where the refrigerator should have been settled. There was a long butcher block table just under the enormous loft-length opaque window that was divided, factory-style, into several casements. A paleness to the room, as if it had not been dusted—or entered—for a long time.

  For just a second, she thought she heard a noise behind her, and she glanced back for a second in case the woman who owned the apartment had come home— what the hell are you doing here, Julie?—but there was no one. She turned back around the corner of the hall, to the foyer, but no one had entered.

  “Someone’s here,” she said aloud, as if it would make her feel safer.

  What the hell are you doing here, Julie?

  It was not her voice, within her mind, saying this.

  She couldn’t identify it, but she had a sudden feeling as if someone nearby had whispered this.

  What the hell are you doing here, Julie?

  And then she smelled something. Something that became overpowering—not just a smell. A stench. It was the smell she knew from childhood when a dead animal had lain in a ditch for days. Her mind flashed on the image from Matt’s video of the dead dog in the road. It was growing—the smell was growing. She glanced at the walls of the apartment as if they held something threatening, as if she half expected to see bloody handprints.

  Then she was sure she heard something move in the room beyond the living room. Someone was in the bedroom.

  Something moved there.

  She heard the tap, tap, tap of shoes on a floor. Someone was coming.

  Her heartbeat seemed too noisy, as if it were not inside her at all, but outside of her body, a clock, ticking too fast.

  The voice in her head grew louder, pounding within her mind: What the hell are you doing here?

  She saw the shadow of the person, first, in the open doorway across the room.

  Then, she saw: a man standing there, only something was wrong. Something was messed up about his eyes, because it was as if his face was a blur of movement.

  4

  Julie took one step backward, then another.

  He stood in the doorway, his face a fast-motion blur, his hands moving in what seemed like slow motion.

  Then, she turned and hurried down into the foyer, and out of the apartment, shutting the door behind her, not bothering to lock it. Her heart beat rapidly—it felt as if it were thudding against her ribcage—and she pressed her back up against the hallway, looking back at the apartment.

  She didn’t feel safe again until she was out on the street, out among the throngs of people along Hudson Street, moving as if they were fish in a murky sea.

  She went into the Chelsea Clearwater movie theaters, and just sat through a movie she barely noticed, trying to erase the image of the faceless man from her mind. Then she felt that maybe it had been her mind, playing tricks, that it had been her fear, within her, perhaps building something up—and she was sure that there was no man there at all. That it was like a flash of seeing someone. Not a person at all. It was impossible for it to have been a person.

  “The human mind cracks more easily than we suspect,” Eleanor had told her, in her first session after Hut’s death. “You need to be aware of it. Your brain is opening and closing doors. Some of them get slammed. Some get torn off their hinges. You bottle up too much, Julie, you don’t find a healthy way to let some of this out, it’ll rupture inside you. Just be prepared for when it happens.”

  5

  She left the movie before the halfway point, and, feeling better, called up Joe Perrin, and they met over at the Starbucks on 8th Avenue. She felt as if she’d calmed down, finally, from that awful feeling she’d had. That face that was not a face.

  And finally, she told Joe about Hut’s death.

  6

  “Oh my God, Julie. Julie,” he said. He brought his chair around the small round table and wrapped his arms around her. She wept into his shoulder, forgetting the world of the coffeehouse, forgetting anything but the comfort he offered. “My poor baby,” he whispered.

  7

  Her tears dry, she drank some of the cappuccino. “God, you’d think I’d be all cried out by now. It’s been months.”

  “Tears are one of those self-renewing resources. And it’s only been a few months. Healing takes time.” He pushed a small plate with a big black and white cookie on it toward her. “Hungee?” It was their joke word from years ago.

  She broke off a piece of the cookie, and took a bite. “Mmm. Reminds me of all our adventures.”

  “Most of which are best forgotten.”

  “Oh, Joe. I feel…I feel like I’ve lost my soul or something.”

  “Well, I think your soul’s intact. It’s your mind that’s a bit scattered.” He had his head down a bit and looked up to her with those warm brown eyes that seemed both playful and a little sad to her, like a boy playing peek-a-boo.

  “I’m sorry I’ve been distant. All these years.”

  “It’s okay. It’s only been a few years, really. I saw you when Livy was what—two and a half? It wasn’t that long ago. Life takes over,” he said. “Rick and I are practically hermits since we tied the knot. If he didn’t get me volunteering at the Center, I’d probably just live in my little office.”

  “I bought one of your books today,” she brightened. She brought the package from Shakespeare & Company up, opening it.

  “Ooh, which one?”

  She drew out the book. Dr. Notorious. On the cover, the torso of a young man, and just a sliver of his chin.

  “I hate that cover,” Joe said. “The book is about a guy in the 19th century who goes to the South Pacific— after becoming sickened by European society, where he was a doctor. He falls in love on the islands, and then has to choose between his love for a man and his duty to his culture, to his family. And they put a twenty-yearold gym bunny right out of the New York City Sports Club on the cover to sell it. I could write a book about measles, and they’d put a cute guy’s butt on the front of the book. But, that’s show biz, as they say.”

  “Speaking of show biz—you sold a book to the movies?”

  “Sure. Everyone does. They pay you a few grand and you get to say maybe it’ll be a movie. But Hollywood is never making that movie, believe me. When my friend Chris Bram wrote Father of Frankenstein it got turned into the great movie, Gods and Monsters. Why? Because it’s a great story that people can relate to, whether it’s about being gay or not. Me, I sell them View from the Pier and they will never make that movie because no actor is going to want to play a guy who knows he’s gay, falls in love with a guy, and then stays in a marriage to destroy his wife and children and the guy he loves. It’s too…dark, I guess. Even my editor called it unsympathetic, and she liked it. You can’t make a movie about that and expect to sell tickets.”

  “Sure they will. It sounds wonderful. Joe, I’m so happy for you, for all this. And I can’t wait to read this one. I haven’t kept up with your career as much as I should’ve.”

  He shrugged. “It’s not exactly a career. What’s the other book?”

  “It’s some psychic book. My mother pushed it on me, and in a weak moment I ordered it.”

  “You believe in that stuff?”

  “
Not really.”

  “I do,” he said. “Since my dad died. The day he died, I dreamed that he came to me and told me that he loved me. He had never said it before. Not in real life. He was a military bruiser, basically. He didn’t want to have a kid like me. Even when I was on the football team in high school, he thought I was too soft. He blamed mom’s family—because there was another gay guy—my uncle. He said it ran in families. But in the dream, he said he loved me.”

  “Oh.”

  “No, not ‘oh.’ When I woke up, I saw him. I saw him as clear as day. He was at the foot of my bed and he said, ‘I’m glad you found love, Joe. You have a lot to give. I love you, Jojo.’ And then, he faded.” His voice cracked a little, and she thought she caught a glimmer of a tear in his eye, but his smile belied any sadness. “Maybe it was, you know, a cobweb of wishful thinking. Or one of those hypnogogic things, where you’re still half asleep and a dream seems real even when you’re awake in your bedroom. But it was some kind of gift. I believe it. Maybe I choose to, because it makes it all easier. It didn’t change my core beliefs. But it showed me that there’s something else out there. Something we don’t yet understand. He was as real as you are, right here. I think maybe we have these kinds of experiences all the time, only we don’t know how much of a gift they are. And it made me remember all the good things. All the things about him I’d pushed aside because of our differences. All the wonderful things he had been to me, despite his worst nature.” Then, he gave her a look she thought of as his “wait a second!” expression. “You must’ve had some kind of…unusual experience…or you wouldn’t be picking up books on the afterlife, right?”