“She became forceful one day during a session, bearing down hard upon me in an attempt to break from me a confession of my ‘overactive imagination.’ Suddenly, I could no longer hear her voice, yet her mouth continued to chastise me. All noise had ceased for the phantom sounds of gunfire. What I was hearing was a battlefield in full throttle. That day, a voice gave me a message for her, and I waited for her to finish speaking.”
“‘Mark says he loves you, Suzy Q.’”
“I said this to her, calling her by the pet name he’d used for her. It was at that moment that her face had drained of color and deflated in defeat. Her eyes opened wide in disbelief, her lips parted in speechless abandon, and she stared at me dead on. My parents’ eyes were locked together in terror, and I had struck a nerve so great in that room that the tension in it felt like humidity.
“Moments of silence passed; no one would speak. Then she asked to see my parents outside, without me. They returned minutes later, and I saw that shrink only a few more times. The whole atmosphere of our sessions had changed; she wanted to know everything I knew about Mark. I told her what little I knew. It turned out that Mark was the man she almost married. He was killed in Vietnam. He had spoken to me; I had listened.
“She knew that there was no way I could have known, yet she sought desperately to discover one. Her interest had peaked in what started to unravel into an obsession, and soon my parents had stopped all sessions with her. I would continue through life, listening and understanding that which my parents would begin to ignore, deny, and pray would disappear.”
A brief pause ensued, as the spice of Sidney’s life was ingested.
“Sid, you mentioned earlier, ‘breaking an unseen barrier into this world,’” Brett said. “Don’t you think you should clarify that for our guest? I mean, just a little, O’ wise one?”
Brett hated it when Sidney began waxing ethereal, and when he teased his old pal, snickers burst from the others. Sidney threw his head upward in an exaggerated snub, his face casting a snobbish, high-hatted sneer.
“Yes,” he said. “I’ll clarify...O’ wise ass!”
The giggling continued and when it passed, the silence cued the serious epilogue. “It means that my grandfather’s spirit was powerful enough to do just that. Most spirits are unable to perform the task of sounding off to a listener, but some are strong enough to know how to manipulate the energy that they represent, and then break through the barrier that normally prevents the living from being able to hear or see them.
“I only hear those that are strong enough to communicate with me. Just like Leah only sees what is shown to her, I only hear what the spirit chooses to tell. Sometimes, I only hear words. It often takes a certain amount of coaxing to hear more.”
“That’s right,” Leah said, hoping to elaborate Sidney’s point. “I was supposed to see the visions that I saw in that house. The woman knew that I could see her, and she chose to show me those images. She had cried out for justice. It was Sidney who explained all that to me, as he studied my childhood experiences.”
“What we’re trying to say,” Sidney said, “is that your late fiancée may speak to me, or he may not. He may show himself to Leah but maybe not. We don’t choose what we see and hear; they do. But I do know this: communication with the dead is not easy, so when a rare occurrence of technology is involved and contact has been made—”
“What we could be dealing with is a very powerful entity,” Leah said, abrupt and interrupting Sidney’s mounting hesitation, annunciating her last three words with poignant precision. Sidney’s face sagged, as though she had popped the air from his balloon with a pin.
Dylan’s eyes met Leah’s, motioning a hint at candor. He didn’t want Tracy startled, but that is what happened as she gave a quick, tense shudder. Leah’s eyes closed in sudden regret.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I just thought you should know.”
Tracy’s nerves silently crawled back from the edge.
Brett, outside of ribbing Sidney, had sat silent while the stars of the group shined in their soliloquies, and now he spoke to calm her.
“Tracy, I’ll be the one monitoring your electrical setups around the house: the computer, the television, and any radios. If this spirit has made contact by these means already, it will likely do so again. We are all going to be there, together. Don’t be afraid.”
“And keep in mind,” Dylan said, “that you may not be dealing with something malevolent. I mean, you once loved this person we call a spirit...am I right? Did you have any reason to fear him while he was alive?”
“No,” she said, shaking her head.
“Was David a jealous, or possessive person?”
“No,” an exasperated gasp escaped her. “Never—he may have been overly concerned, or protective, but not possessive. We were about to be married.”
“I apologize for having to ask that question,” Dylan said, “but it shows that you are probably not being haunted, but visited. The difference lies in the intention of the spirit. David is probably unable to move on, unable to accept the reality of the accident, nothing more.”
She wiped a rolling tear from her cheek.
“By the way,” Leah said, “you wouldn’t happen to have a picture of him with you?” Tracy nodded, and Leah asked to see it. She slipped out a picture she still kept in her wallet and handed it to the seer, who memorized the young man’s face for moments and passed it on to the others.
“What we’re going to do is set up shop, tomorrow, if that’s okay?” Dylan asked.
Tracy thought of the unused sick days she had coming at work; now was the time to use them. She wanted out of this dream, to fix the crack in the framework of her reality, wanted everything back to normal. She also wanted a drink.
“Yes, tomorrow’s fine,” she said. “I won’t be working.”
“Great,” he said. “Tomorrow, Brett will set up and examine your electronics, and the rest of us will do a quick tour of the house to get familiar. I also need you to show us the exact location of where you saw him tonight.”
She nodded.
“Then all of our normal procedures will follow—agreed?”
The unanimous nodding of heads followed. Dylan’s eyes searched around the room, gathering final thoughts, and then he finished his instructions.
“Tracy, tonight I want you to document anything that happens from the moment you leave here. I want you to go about as though everything is normal, and don’t be afraid. We will see you tomorrow.”
She agreed, thanking them for their help, sharing their stories, and reassuring her that she wasn’t losing her mind. They exchanged good-byes, and Dylan led her out of the building and walked her to her car. The others stayed behind until he returned, closing the door behind him.
“I’d like to address something before we start,” he said. “I wanted to say thank you all, not just for sharing your stories, but for joking around and laughing with her. That was okay, but we have to remember that if this is what I think it is, things are about to get serious, maybe even dangerous. We have to keep that in mind at all times. Reassurance is one thing, but we don’t know what’s going to happen from here.”
“This is going to be a first for the society,” Brett said. “The studies on this have been few, and if we have a genuine pipeline connection—” He threw his head up and whistled in amazement.
“I don’t know about the rest of you,” Leah said, “but my first concern is for Tracy, not how big this is going to be for the society or the huge, invisible heads funding it. Remember, if we do have a pipeline connection, it’s going to be extremely difficult to prove.”
“What worries me,” Sidney said, “is that it sounds as though this spirit will not move on. That’s why we had to question the whole obsession idea. She was adamant, but whatever the case, this may become intense.”
“I was a little concerned about the smell of alcohol on her breath.” Dylan’s words had surprised them, as they’d pretended not
to notice. “I’m guessing, given her profession, that habitual drinking is a rarity. I think this entire experience may have led her to drinking in excess.”
“Do you blame her?” Leah said. “How can we blame her reaction to that which she doesn’t understand?”
There was agreement on the faces of the others.
“I’m not blaming or judging her,” he said. “But we may have to get her to control the situation, if not, this could get dangerous.”
They exchanged other ideas on the subject, and Dylan glossed over their plans for the following afternoon when they would try to make first contact with David. He encouraged them to rest, for tomorrow would require full focus, and tomorrow would come faster than expected.
Chapter Eight
The drive home was uneventful except for her quick stop at the liquor store for another bottle of Jack Daniel’s. She had drained the last one dry and now had to replace it. This quick excuse would fend off the creeping guilt that would ambush her later. Her nerves felt like dancing electric cables twitching and sparking inside her, while her heartbeat was replaced by a jackhammer’s rhythm. She had to get a fix, even though her nurse’s instinct knew that alcohol would aid in the attack upon her central nervous system.
She arrived home and inched the front door open, skeptical as to what she might find. Darkness descended early this time of year, but she could still see as she switched on the lamp. No strange shape stood facing her, no objects strewn about, nothing was disturbed. She went straight to the computer.
It remained the way she’d left it hours earlier. There were no missed e-mails or instant messages, and no odd numbers registered on the caller id. She phoned the hospital, giving notice of her sick leave—effective immediately. She sent Marcia an e-mail, telling her everything that happened at the university.
Then she grabbed a cold Budweiser from the fridge and poured herself a shot from the bottle she’d brought home. The shot went down with a strange, quenching fire that cleared the cobwebs from her mind, and the beer chaser splashed a cold, bitter torrent that smothered the flames in her throat. She felt better already, sitting and squashing thoughts of tomorrow because all that mattered was the here and now.
A few hours later, she pulled the last of the six-pack from the plastic rung that she let fall to the floor. A mellowing haze clouded her, and she felt comfortable where she was, cradled in a high, hard-back chair at the kitchen table. Then, the phone rang.
She held the swig of beer in her mouth, and the can in her hand was paused in mid-air. Her eyes were set, refusing to look at the phone. She swallowed the gulp and lowered the can to the table. The phone continued to ring. She glanced at the caller id window; the name seemed to match the urgent ringing.
Logan, Susan; MD
“What the hell does she want?” What did she want now, to tell her that she knew about her sick leave and that grief was destroying her life? If she only knew what was happening right now, her years of studying Psychiatry would seem useless.
The phone rang six times before her voice mail answered, and when she dialed her voice mail moments later, there was nothing. Tracy’s eyebrows arched in curiosity. Susan Logan had not bothered to leave a message...odd. What was so urgent? Her eyes squinted at what seemed like puzzle pieces floating in the fog of her mind. She was missing something, but what? She replaced the phone back on the cradle.
* * * *
Dr. Susan Logan sat at her office desk, the phone sinking slightly in her hand as the look of confusion spread an unspoken question across her face. She replaced the receiver, sighed, then crisscrossed the fingers of both hands and propped them under her chin. Why is Tracy not answering? Why the sudden sick leave?
Tracy Kimball had become a patient of hers following a car accident that killed her fiancée and almost killed her. David had drove home that night, because Tracy had too much to drink, and the survivor’s guilt had overwhelmed her. Tracy never finished her voluntary sessions and now Susan had been studying her from afar.
The latest news regarding Tracy was dismal. Recent reports called her a “twitching bundle of nerves.” Some even questioned her sobriety, having caught the fleeting scent of alcohol on her breath, not to mention the recent episode in a dying patient’s room, where they found her immobile, paralyzed in some state of shock or fear. All of it, so uncharacteristic and unlike one of the best nurses at University Hospital. All of these instances had spun through the hospital rumor mill, and were soon spit out--back to Susan Logan.
Dr. Logan’s youthful appearance had continued after surpassing the milestone of sixty. Her ageless face set with bubbly blue eyes and bobbed blonde hair had conditioned those younger into thinking of her as a peer. She depended upon this asset in her case study of Tracy Kimball, but somehow it had expired. Tracy was now avoiding her at all costs and Susan had to find out why.
She picked up the phone again and pushed the redial button. The endless ringing became pointless, and this time she didn’t wait for the voice mail. She replaced the receiver and thought for a moment, then glanced at her watch. Marcia Ross was still on duty; she would catch her now, before she signed out.
* * * *
The following morning began the same way the last one did, a shot of pain wincing through her head as she carefully lifted her eyelids to greet the day. It even felt like the same hangover as her head throbbed, her body ached, and her breath reeked like the smell that escaped an aging, empty bottle. The glowing numbers of the alarm clock-radio read 11:05; the team would be here in less than two hours. She rose, regretting the night before, and stumbled to the bathroom.
She soon emerged, having showered, spruced up, and doused her eyes with Visine, not long after spewing volcanic eruptions that flooded the toilet with a sea of vomit and alcohol. Hot, black coffee was what she needed now; it would straighten her out before they arrived.
The aroma of the brewing coffee filled the room and when it was done, she poured a cup and sat at her usual place at the kitchen table. It was now 11:45, and the purring of the coffee maker died away, leaving only the maddening silence that forced her into a thriving rush from the table.
She turned on the radio, unable to stand another minute of silence amid the absence of music or television. She was less afraid than before, and she couldn’t avoid everything forever, in fact, didn’t the team want her to go about as normal? She pressed the power button on the space maker radio.
Her fingers rolled the dial, catching quick bits and bleeps of announcer’s voices, classical music, and static, until she arrived at her destination--Classic Rock.
A song was playing, and her instinct recognized its haunting, melodic, guitar riff. Blue Oyster Cult was belting “Don’t Fear (The Reaper),”and in an instant, a backdrop of memories, mostly of David, played out in her mind like a movie along with the tune. He loved the guitar work on that song. Tracy listened as to a melody of a time gone by.
...And she had no fear...She ran to him...And they started to fly...C’mon baby...
A quick flash of her hand pushed the power button off. It wasn’t unusual to turn on the radio station and hear a favorite song of his, but she didn’t want to hear that song, not right now. Now wasn’t the time to confront memories; her head weighed a ton.
She ignored a slight chill that swept the living room, and she turned on the TV, switching back and forth between the two twenty-four hour news channels, surfing to find the more interesting story. The political attacks and counter attacks of Democrats and Republicans, as well as the sharp, critical blows toward a sitting President, made her feel somewhat normal again.
It was 12:15 when a crashing wave of static interrupted. It filled the screen at every corner with its famous, cigarette-ash colored checkerboard, leaving no further signs of life from the nation’s capital. Her heart was pounding again in her ears, which now became a common occurrence.
She stared, mesmerized by the mish-mash of gray screen, and listened to the static roar with its electric flood of ru
shing current. Her ears honed on the sound of it, the harsh monotony of nothingness. Somewhere in the background of that nothingness, a small squeaking sounded. She heard it; it sounded like someone tuning for the right channel or frequency.
SQUEAKSQUEESQUEESQUEE
Then the vacuous roar of the static changed somehow; it no longer sounded sharp, or urgent, but subdued. Another sound was coming closer and closer, building until it silenced the static with the sound of a gale force, locomotive wind, rushing fast through a hollow tunnel.
Tracy’s feet gave out from under her, and she plopped to the floor, pressing the volume button on the remote as high as it would go. The approaching sound grew louder, as if traveling from some remote destination. Her readied ear was close to the speaker. She thought she would hear radio transmissions, but what she heard, was the sound of a voice.
“No,” the voice said.
She stopped breathing, realizing that again, a voice was emanating through the television. This time, it was quick. It was a voice that soared like a comet with a rush of static trailing behind it.
“Can’t,” It said.
A slight hum and echo reverberated when the voice spoke. This voice wasn’t David’s; this was a woman’s voice. She reached behind her and grabbed the notepad and pen she’d kept on the coffee table. Dylan had told her to write down anything that happened, so now was the time.
Why couldn’t they have been here earlier?
She began scribbling until the voice that she would forever recognize, interrupted.
“NO! TRACE—”
It was David’s voice, quick and rushed.
“STOP—” Him again. She felt her heart break between the poundings.
“Oh, God!” She’d heard the tone of her own voice. It was more like a question...God are you there? What is happening? A part of her wondered if God was watching.
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