The Sixth Sense

by Peter Lerangis

  "Vincent?"

  "Yes?"

  The sound of the boy's voice astonished him. It was so much like Cole's. Timid, obedient. Wanting to say the right thing.

  "What happened?" came Malcolm's question. "Did something upset you?"

  Vincent sniffled. "You won't believe."

  "I won't believe what?"

  "I don't want to talk anymore. I want to go borne now, okay? I want to go borne."

  "Okay, Vincent, you can go borne."

  End of session. The tape went silent.

  Malcolm sat for a moment. Something had happened to Vincent while he'd been gone, some traumatic psychological experience - a daydream, a hallucination.

  Or was it?

  Malcolm rewound the tape.

  "- about that. Hope I didn't leave you alone too long. Wow, it's cold in here-"

  He rewound some more and caught his own voice again, earlier in the session.

  "-like needles, either. When I was a kid, I had this blood test done-I threw up chili cheese fries all over this male nurse."

  He heard Vincent's quiet chuckle in the background, then the opening of the office door.

  "Excuse me," chirped the voice of his secre­tary, Linda, "Doctor Reed is on line two."

  "Vincent, I have to take it," Malcolm heard himself saying. "Give me a minute."

  "Okay."

  Malcolm's and Linda's footsteps. Silence again.

  Then, a sudden screech. A chair scraping the floor.

  Malcolm jacked up the volume from 3 to 7.

  He could hear Vincent's breaths now, quick and uneven. A panic reaction. Higher pitched than the rhythmic hissing of the cassette-tape static.

  Something was wrong. Something about that hissing.

  Malcolm stopped the tape, rewound it just a bit, and pressed play.

  This time he slid the volume knob to 10. As high as it went.

  The sound filled the basement as a whis­pered voice emerged from the static. Malcolm strained to make out the words.

  "-familia . . . no dejen que esto me pase. . . mi familia . . .yo no quiero morir. . . familia..."

  Malcolm's high school Spanish came back to him. Don't let this happen to me, the voice was saying. My family. . . I don't want to die. . . .

  It wasn't Vincent's voice speaking.

  Whose was it?

  Cole stood Private Jenkins on the railing of the church balcony. Jenkins was alone on the hilltop now, exposed to possible fire from the Laotian jungle commandos.

  He stood Private Kinney next to him. Private Kinney was thinking about his wife. He didn't know she had a brain aneurysm, whatever that was. If he did know, he would be more careful, so he could get home and take care of her. He'd make sure to send her right away to waiter Reed Army Hospital.

  Cole didn't know where the hospital was, but Kinney did. He talked about it a lot. Both Kinney and Jenkins had visited him. They didn't look as good as the toy soldiers did. They were all burned and you could barely recognize their faces. Napalm was some sick stuff.

  At the sound of rushing footsteps in the church, Cole glanced down. Dr. Crowe had run in. He was panting.

  Weird. Cole had never seen him all out of breath like this; he was always so cool.

  "Hello, again," Cole called out. "You want to be a lance corporal in Company M, Third Battal­ion, Seventh Marines? We're being dispatched to the Quang Nam province."

  Dr. Crowe looked up. "Maybe later," he said.

  Suddenly, Cole got it.

  "Something happened, didn't it?"

  "Yes, it did."

  "Are you wigging out?"

  "Yes, I am." Dr. Crowe glanced nervously around the empty church, then turned back to Cole. "Maybe these people - the people that died and are still hanging around - maybe they weren't ready to go. Maybe they wake up that morning, thinking they have a thousand things to do and a thousand days left to do them in, and then all of a sudden it's all taken away."

  Cole lined up the rest of Company M on the floor. He hadn't expected to hear this and he didn't know what to say.

  Just a few hours ago, Dr. Crowe hadn't be­lieved. Now he sounded different - more like the way he used to sound, only better. Maybe this was part of the therapy. Maybe, in this last week, he was just going to play pretend or something.

  "Do you know what 'Yo no quiero morir' means?" Dr. Crowe asked.

  It sounded a little like Latin, but different. Cole shook his head.

  "It's Spanish," Dr. Crowe explained. "It means, 'I don't want to die.' What do those ghosts want when they talk to you? I want you to think about it really carefully, Cole."

  Standing up slowly, Cole looked over the railing. "Just... help."

  "Yes, I think that's right! I think they all want that. Even the scary ones."

  Cole looked at Dr. Crowe steadily. He knew Dr. Crowe well now. Cole could tell when he was hiding things, when he was treating Cole like a kid. Dr. Crowe's eyes told everything. They would narrow and look away. Then there would be a joke.

  But the eyes didn't waver a bit. Dr. Crowe's expression held no hint of any joke. "You be­lieve now?" Cole asked.

  "I believe both of you now," Dr. Crowe said firmly, remembering he had told Cole about Vin­cent in the hospital. "And I think I might know how to make them go away."

  "You do?"

  "I think they know you're one of those very rare people that can see them. You need to help them."

  "How?"

  "Listen to them," Dr. Crowe said. "Everyone wants to be heard. Everyone."

  Now Cole knew Dr. Crowe was wigging out.

  Cole fiddled with Private Kinney. Private Kin­ney always screamed and yelled. He was scary and strong and bloody. So was the cabinet lady and the kid with the gun and so many of them.

  Help them? No way.

  "What if they don't want the help?" Cole asked. "What if they're just angry and they want to hurt somebody?"

  "I don't think that's the way it works, Cole."

  "How do you know for sure?"

  Dr. Crowe was looking at Cole's arm now. At the cuts that were starting to heal.

  "I don't," he said softly.

  * * *

  The sun was setting as Malcolm walked home. He had been thinking on his feet at the church. If he'd planned out his speech to Cole in advance, he never would have said a thing. It was crazy. Outrageous. If the board ever found out about this, they'd throw his license away and try to commit him to an institution.

  But he had never been more certain of a course of treatment in his life.

  As he turned up Locust Street, his heart sud­denly quickened.

  Sean was walking out of his front door. His front door, in full view of Malcolm's neighbors and friends. Who did this kid think he was?

  They would have to have a talk. Right now.

  Malcolm picked up the pace. Sean was climbing into his car.

  "Hey!" Malcolm cried out.

  As he reached the car, Sean turned on the ig­nition and sped away.

  Cole slept snuggled up to Sebastian that night, on the floor of his tent. He was awakened by a moan.

  His eyes blinked open.

  "Cole..." Mama's voice cried out from down the hall. "Cole, what's happening?"

  He rushed out of the tent and ran to her bedroom. He paused at the open door, peering in. The sewing machine was still standing in the corner, the closet door was closed, the carpet was neat. No one had broken or upturned any­thing. They hadn't been here.

  "Cole ... what's happening to you?" Mama's eyes were closed. She was lying on her back, twisting and turning. "Is someone hurting you? I'll beat their asses."

  She was only having a dream. False alarm.

  Cole looked closely at Mama's face. It was all tight and lined, the way she got when she was really scared. She was seeing something. Something that made her feel bad.

  Mama tried to be sweet and cheerful every day, but Cole knew how worried she was. It wasn't just the bumble bee pendant. She was worried he would never get b
etter.

  He stepped into the room and moved to her side. Softly he touched the side of her face.

  "Mama, you sleep now," he whispered.

  Mama's twisting eased. She smiled faintly, and her body grew still.

  As her breathing became steady and deep, Cole slowly backed out of the room. He shut the door quietly and turned back toward his room.

  His exhalation made a cloud of white vapor in the air.

  He went rigid. It was freezing in the hallway.

  The tent. He had to get to the tent.

  He forced himself forward, scrambling into his room and through the bedsheet flap. Fum­bling in the darkness, he found his flashlight and turned it on.

  Above him, a clothesline snapped. And an­other.

  He shone the light upward. The tent was coming apart.

  Cole beamed the light at his figurines, but they weren't there.

  A girl was. A pale, hollow-eyed girl about ten years old, wearing a flannel nightgown.

  She opened her mouth to speak, and a cas­cade of vomit spilled out onto the floor.

  "I'm feeling much better now," she said, reaching out to him.

  Cole dropped the light. He bolted out of the tent. His foot caught the tent flap and pulled the whole thing off its supports. Frantically he shook himself loose, ran down the hallway, and flew under the living room sofa. Sebastian was already there, cowering.

  Cole held his breath and waited for a noise - footsteps, a voice - but the house was silent, save for Sebastian's faint whimpering.

  The tent was supposed to be safe. How did she get in? What did she want'

  Cole didn't want to find out. She grossed him out. He would stay there until she was gone.

  He wished Dr. Crowe were here right now. He wished Dr. Crowe could know what this felt like.

  What would he do? Try to help the girl? Talk to her while she puked?

  Or would he be here under the couch, too?

  Dr. Crowe was supposed to give Cole new ideas. To help him deal with his problem. But what if his ideas were wrong?

  What Dr. Crowe wanted Cole to do was im­possible. It was against all instinct. And instinct was what protected you. That's what Cole had learned in science - fear made you become like an animal, so you could jump out of harm's way without thinking. The way Sebastian had.

  What would Dr. Crowe say to that?

  Probably he would say humans were differ­ent than animals. He would say that sometimes you had to act against your instincts.

  That was the point of what he'd said in church.

  Cole felt his breathing even out. He thought about Dr. Crowe's advice.

  Cole had been using his instincts all his life. Running from the ghosts. Hiding. But they al­ways came back.

  And they always kept asking the same things, over and over.

  Listen to them, Dr. Crowe had said. Everyone wants to be heard.

  The girl was a new one. But she'd be back, too. Night after night of hurling chunks onto his tent floor.

  He couldn't take that.

  Cole swallowed hard. He shimmied himself out from under the sofa and stood up.

  Silently he entered the hallway.

  A soft red glow came from his bedroom. The flashlight was still on under his fallen tent. He could see the outline of the girl, still sitting up, her head and shoulders now propping up the bedsheet.

  Instinct.

  Every muscle and nerve in his body wanted to turn back. But he fought the urge and forced himself forward.

  Cole reached out to the tent and pulled the sheet away.

  The girl looked up at him. Cole could see in­travenous tubes hanging from her wrists. Once again vomit poured from her mouth, but he held his ground.

  "I'm feeling much better," she repeated.

  Cole's stomach turned. He breathed deeply, trying not to be nauseated.

  The spit-up wasn't real, he told himself. She was dead.

  She needed to be heard.

  Counting to three to calm his nerves, he whispered, "Do you want to tell me something?"

  The bus ride was taking forever. Cole didn't even know Philadelphia had so many neighbor­hoods. His black suit was scratchy and hot, his dress shoes were too tight, the seat was hard, and the morning sun was beating on his face and making him feel carsick.

  Dr. Crowe didn't seem to mind. Grown-ups were used to being bored and uncomfortable.

  Kyra Collins, the sick girl in the tent, had told Cole to go to her house, to her room. She'd told him to find an unlabeled videocassette and show it to her father. She'd given him an address and Cole had carefully written it down. Before he could ask her any further questions, such as how exactly she had died, she'd vanished.

  Now the bus was leaving the city limits. Cole could tell, because the tall buildings were gone and the houses weren't attached.

  "She came a long way to visit me, didn't she?" Cole asked.

  "I guess she did," Dr. Crowe replied.

  It was nearly afternoon by the time they reached their stop, in a quiet neighborhood with curving streets, lots of trees, and nicely kept lawns.

  The bus driver pointed out where Kyra's street was. Finding the address was easy. Lots of cars were pulling up in front of a neat, shingled house in the middle of the block. People streamed across the lawn, heading for the front door.

  By the curb, a woman was being held up by two men. She was crying so hard she could barely stand up. "Can someone get a glass of water?" one of the men called out.

  Kyra sure had a big family. Or lots of friends. Or both.

  Cole and Dr. Crowe followed the crowd. On the front lawn of the house, a little girl in a dark dress sat on a swing. She was blond, maybe four years old or so, and Cole knew by her face that she was Kyra's sister.

  The swing was still. The girl wasn't even try­ing to move, just staring straight ahead as everyone walked past.

  Cole wanted to talk to her. She looked so sad and lonely. But Dr. Crowe was walking ahead, up the front steps, so he followed behind.

  In the living room, people cried and hugged and ate food from big platters. The house wasn't as fancy as Darren's, Cole thought, but it was nice. Everything was blue - blue-patterned wallpaper, blue carpets and furniture.

  Hanging on the living room wall was a large painting of the Collins family. Kyra was smiling. She looked tanned and healthy, and so did her baby sister. Kyra's mom was blond and very pretty, and her dad had thinning hair and a kind face.

  As Cole and Dr. Crowe wound their way through the guests, Cole heard fragments of conversation. He quickly learned some things that Kyra hadn't told him:

  She had been bedridden for two years be­fore she died.

  She had seen six doctors, and none of them knew what was wrong.

  Her little sister was falling ill now, with the same symptoms.

  "God help them," Cole heard a man say.

  When they reached the back of the living room, Cole and Dr. Crowe quietly slipped up a carpeted staircase.

  The hallway at the top was narrow and quiet. A spindly I.V. apparatus stood near a door on the right, along with a stack of boxes labeled

  HOSPITAL SUPPLIES and MEDICAL WASTE - TOXIC.

  The door was shut tight.

  Cole suddenly felt chilly. And scared.

  He glanced at a world map that hung on the hallway wall and imagined all the places he could escape to. "I wish I were somewhere else."

  Dr. Crowe looked sympathetic. "Where will you go where no one has died?"

  Good question, Cole thought. Antarctica, maybe, but you couldn't live there. "Don't go home, okay?" he said.

  "I definitely won't," Dr. Crowe replied.

  Cole turned the knob and pushed the door open. Kyra's room was stuffy, and it smelled like baby powder. The walls were full of colorful get-well cards and drawings. Her bed was a hos­pital bed, with a hand crank and a slanted mattress. Its sheets were still wrinkled, as if Kyra had gotten up for a stroll and was about to re­turn.

 
But what really got Cole's attention were the puppets. Kyra's shelves were full of them - marionettes, finger puppets, Punch and Judy fig­ures, witches and monsters, princesses and kings and queens. A small, three-sided puppet stage stood on her dresser, next to a small cam­corder.

  Kyra had told Cole to give one of the finger puppets to her sister, a clown with a pointed hat. He found it, put it in his pocket, and moved on.

  On Kyra's desk, videocassettes had been lined in neat rows. Cole examined them care­fully. Christmas show, one label said, puppet show class trip, said another. All of them were puppet shows.

  Where had she put the one with no label? Cole looked around the room but saw no other tapes. Just more medical supplies, a bookshelf, a CD collection, a closet.

  Maybe the tape was hidden in the closet. Cole walked away from the desk, heading for the opposite side of the room.

  A flash of white shot out from under the bed.

  A hand.

  It grabbed Cole's ankle. He jerked backward and fell, hitting his head against the wall.

  As Dr. Crowe rushed toward him, the hand let go and slipped back under the bed. Cole's breaths came in deep, panicked gulps. Act against instinct, he reminded himself. Stay put.

  Dr. Crowe looked baffled. He hadn't seen the hand. But he knew what had happened. Cole was sure of that.

  Kneeling on all fours, Cole peered under the bed.

  There she was. Kyra looked out at him, ghostly and silent. Out of the darkness she slid forward a brown jewelry box. It was old and scratched, with a red stripe down the middle.

  Cole took it and stood up. Now he had to find Kyra's dad. He gave Dr. Crowe a glance and the two walked out of the room and headed downstairs. The house was louder now. Lots more guests had arrived; they crowded the liv­ing room just about shoulder to shoulder.

  Cole could see Mrs. Collins in the dining room. He recognized her from the painting on the wall, except she was a little older now. Her hair was all done up and she was wearing lots of makeup. Everyone was hugging her, handing her flowers and gifts and cards. Anyone trying to reach her would have a long wait.

  Cole snaked among the people, looking for Kyra's dad.

  A man was sitting alone in a small den, just off the living room. His back was to the crowd, and he stared off at nothing in particular, his ex­pression dazed and his body absolutely still.