Incarnate

by Ramsey Campbell

  The nurse let him in before answering. “Have you an appointment?”

  “I couldn’t get through on the phone. It’s pretty urgent. I assisted Dr. Kent on a research project some years back, and now there’s been a new development.”

  The nurse stared at him. “You’ll have to speak to Dr. Lovell.”

  “Isn’t Dr. Kent here?”

  The nurse’s face went blank. “Dr. Lovell will explain,” he said, and having ascertained Stuart’s name, went away.

  The rain that had caught Stuart in the porch began to trickle down his neck and into his shoes. When he peeled off his coat and stood with it over his arm, rain seeped through the sleeve of his jacket. By the time the nurse came back, Stuart was in no mood to be hindered. “Dr. Lovell will see you,” the nurse said.

  Couldn’t he just say Guilda wasn’t here? It was all this protocol that irritated Stuart. He marched after the nurse into Dr. Lovell’s office, a high-ceilinged white room with French windows. A large painting of a darker room hung on the wall. The painting was signed Lovell, whom he took to be the doctor, a thin middle-aged woman with gray hair clipped close to her head. She gazed at him over her steel-rimmed spectacles, whose lenses were scarcely larger than her eyes. “What can I do for you?”

  He restrained himself from saying “Not much.” “I asked to see Dr. Kent,” he said.

  After a pause she said patiently, “Why?”

  “About a project we were both involved in.”

  She pursed her lips. “Look, you’ll have to tell me more than that.”

  He was losing the little patience he’d had to begin with. “It dates from before she came here, you know.”

  “I should hope it does.”

  Something in her tone disturbed him. “So why should you need to know about it?”

  “Perhaps you aren’t familiar with our procedures, though I should have thought they were obvious enough. You are going to have to show me good reason to let you see her at all.”

  She couldn’t mean what she seemed to mean. “You’re in charge here, aren’t you? You mean she’s been taken ill?”

  “I’m in charge if you want to put it that way, yes. I’m the RMO.”

  “The responsible medical officer?” He was still trying to believe he’d misunderstood. “Responsible for—”

  “For Guilda Kent, of course. Every patient has an RMO.” She stared at him and said more gently, “You didn’t think she worked here, did you?”

  His face must have said it all. “Dear me,” she said. “In that case I’m sorry. I thought you were trying to bluff your way in to her. She’s been a patient here for years.”

  Stuart turned away toward the windows, but the shifting dark was no relief. “What’s wrong with her?” he said, having swallowed twice.

  “Acute paranoid schizophrenia.”

  “But she was never like that. She was absolutely rational. Are you sure it’s the same Guilda Kent?

  “Is your Guilda Kent the one who conducted research into dreaming? Then I’m afraid this is she. It seems to have been her research that affected her mind or at least worked on some dormant tendency in it.”

  He didn’t want to hear any more, yet he had to know. “But she seemed all right afterward,” he protested, then remembered Guilda wandering the deserted corridors of the Foundation as if she was looking for something.

  “You assisted her in Oxford?”

  “That’s right.” Admitting it made him feel almost guilty, and so did saying, “When she left Oxford we lost touch.”

  “She worked for a while on the effects of stress on factory workers. Hardly the best line of work for her to choose under the circumstances. Meanwhile she was reading everything she could get her hands on about dreams. A lew months later she went into a rest home.”

  Each question was harder to ask. “Was she paranoid then?”

  “Very much so. If she hadn’t gone in voluntarily, I think her colleagues would have taken steps. She’d developed a habit of looking round her, as if she were trying to lake something unawares, I gather. Sometimes she’d refuse to go through doorways, sometimes she’d insist they led somewhere other than where they did. Mind you, that wasn’t why she went into the rest home.”

  “Why did she?”

  “Apparently because she was convinced some people might try to find her. She gave instructions that they had to be turned away if they came looking for her, she wanted them to be told she wasn’t there. She wouldn’t give their names in case that somehow brought them to her. Well, that kind of delusory system isn’t uncommon, and neither was the outcome, unfortunately. Eventually she forgot their names herself, and then became obsessed with the idea that they were somewhere in the building with her. When she started turning violent and the rest home couldn’t cope with her, she came here.”

  Stuart wondered if he was one of the people Guilda had been hiding from. “Why did you want to see her?” Dr. Lovell said.

  “About her research. I’ve been wondering about the way it may still be affecting her subjects.” Reluctantly he added, “One of them is insane.”

  “Really. Do you find that more significant now?”

  “I don’t know,” Stuart said resentfully.

  “You’re right, we should be cautious in our thinking. I take it you wanted to find out if Kent had any further thoughts about her research. Well, would you like to see her?”

  “Can I?” Stuart said, but it felt like, “Do I have to?”|

  “It might be helpful. You might pick up allusions she makes that I’ve overlooked. Don’t expect too much. She’s sedated, you realize,” Dr. Lovell said, and opened the door.

  He followed her across the lobby, into the opposite wing. Apart from the pale green walls and carpets, it might almost have been a hotel. There were no uniforms and seemed to be no locks. People sat in a television lounge, watching the news: people were disappearing in London, someone whose name he didn’t catch who worked in television and a cinema projectionist, wanted by the police for questioning in connection with a fire—Danny Swain. Someone was praying so fast in a room that at first Stuart thought it was a speeding tape; an old woman stared at him from her bed beyond a doorway and went on masturbating. Dr. Lovell beckoned a nurse to go in to her, and another woman Stuart had taken for a nurse stepped in front of him and caught his arm. “Are you from them?” she whispered.

  Stuart forced himself not to back away. “I’m afraid not, sorry.”

  “They put me in here to find out what was going on. I’m not a patient, I had to pretend I was. They were supposed to take me out when I’d found out what they want to know, but I think they’ve forgotten I’m here. You’ll tell them, won’t you?”

  At first he couldn’t open his mouth. “If I see them,” he mumbled.

  “You have the touch,” Dr. Lovell said approvingly as they made their way to the end of the corridor, “though we try not to encourage their delusions. Ever considered this line of work? We’re always looking for the right kind of person. Here we are. Someone to see you. Guilda,” she said as she opened the last door.

  When Stuart stepped forward he found he was shuffling, for fear of what he might see. But Guilda looked healthier than he remembered; her long cheeks were pink, her eyes were bright, if a little glazed. “How are you this wet evening?” Dr. Lovell said.

  “Oh, fine. Just resting.”

  “You remember Stuart Hay, don’t you?”

  “Certainly do.” Guilda sat up on the bed. “You’re looking well, Stuart. Still at the Foundation?” “The new Foundation, yes.” There was an awkward silence until Dr. Lovell said, “I’ll leave you to it, then.”

  When Stuart stayed by the door of the almost bare room—a green carpet, a night table, a bell push by the headboard of the bed—Guilda patted the mattress next to her. “Sit by me so I don’t have to shout. I don’t want them to hear.”

  At least she didn’t think the room was bugged. He sat on the end of the bed. “You won’t catch anyt
hing from me, you know,” she said with a wry smile at the space between them, and then she grew conspiratorial. “Thank God you’ve come at last. You’ll vouch for me, won’t you?”

  “Vouch for you how?”

  “For my sanity, of course.”

  She did seem like the Guilda he remembered. He didn’t know which was more dismaying, her being insane or his inability to tell. “I can’t hold on much longer,” Guilda hissed.

  “Hold on to what?”

  “To reality, what do you think? Could you if you were shut up in here?”

  He wished she’d asked him anything but that. She must have been unbalanced when she had been brought here, but suppose she had regained her sanity and couldn’t persuade the authorities that she had? The idea appalled him, and he could tell from her voice that she felt she’d scored a point. “The dreams are getting stronger,” she said as if that followed logically.

  “Your dreams?”

  “My dreams and everyone else’s. We’ve allowed them to grow stronger by trying to explain them away, don’t you understand? Don’t you know yet what dreams are?”

  The fanatical gleam in her eyes made him afraid she would grab him, but he was already as far from her on the bed as he could go. Still, she was calming down. “Don’t answer that,” she said. “The trouble is, we thought we knew. Science thinks it can distinguish between reality and dreaming. People who can’t are locked up in places like this. You can’t lock dreams up. All that does is make them stronger.”

  “But the people in here aren’t just dreaming,” he protested before he could think. “They’re—”

  “Crazy? What’s the difference between dreams and hallucinations, Stuart? Only that you can make hallucinations go away with tranquilizers. All that does is turn them back into dreams.”

  “Even if that’s true,” he said, trying to argue with her as if she were as sane as he was, “isn’t it preferable? ”

  “Stuart, hallucinations are just glimpses of what might be. That’s why they’re easy to control. At least this place has taught me that much. Hallucinations are glimpses of dreams, don’t you understand? Dreaming isn’t a state of mind, but we scientists have lulled people into thinking it is. God knows what we’re responsible for.” The gleam was back in her eyes; he wondered if the sedatives were wearing off. “It isn’t a state of mind, it’s a state of being.”

  He had to keep her talking in case, in the midst of all this, she told him something he needed to know. “You kept up your research after you left the Foundation, didn’t you?”

  “You’re humoring me.” Her gaze was keen and rather sad. “You think I’m being irrational. Preserve us from rationalism, that’s all I can say. It’s at the root of all our troubles.”

  Hearing her say that shocked him as deeply as finding out she was an inmate. “Do you know that up to the seventeenth century,” she said, “people believed dreams were real? Then along came rationalism to tell them they were wrong. And then there was Freud claiming that dreams were internal and subjective. Jung was closer to the truth.”

  “What truth?”

  “Don’t you even remember? He thought we dreamed continuously, even while awake. Remember now?” She held up a hand to ward off his protest. “Yes. I know it’s been demonstrated in the laboratory that we don’t dream her. “Sit by me so I don’t have to shout. I don’t want them to hear.”

  At least she didn’t think the room was bugged. He sat on the end of the bed. “You won’t catch anything from me, you know,” she said with a wry smile at the space between them, and then she grew conspiratorial. “Thank God you’ve come at last. You’ll vouch for me, won’t you?”

  “Vouch for you how?”

  “For my sanity, of course.”

  She did seem like the Guilda he remembered. He didn’t know which was more dismaying, her being insane or his inability to tell. “I can’t hold on much longer,” Guilda hissed.

  “Hold on to what?”

  “To reality, what do you think? Could you if you were shut up in here?”

  He wished she’d asked him anything but that. She must have been unbalanced when she had been brought here, but suppose she had regained her sanity and couldn’t persuade the authorities that she had? The idea appalled him, and he could tell from her voice that she felt she’d scored a point. “The dreams are getting stronger,” she said as if that followed logically.

  “Your dreams?”

  “My dreams and everyone else’s. We’ve allowed them to grow stronger by trying to explain them away, don‘t you understand? Don’t you know yet what dreams are?”

  The fanatical gleam in her eyes made him afraid she would grab him, but he was already as far from her on the bed as he could go. Still, she was calming down. “Don‘t answer that,” she said. “The trouble is, we thought we knew. Science thinks it can distinguish between reality and dreaming. People who can’t are locked up in places like this. You can’t lock dreams up. All that does is make them stronger.”

  “But the people in here aren’t just dreaming,” he protested before he could think. “They’re—”

  “Crazy? What’s the difference between dreams and hallucinations, Stuart? Only that you can make hallucinations go away with tranquilizers. All that does is turn them back into dreams.”

  “Even if that’s true,” he said, trying to argue with her as if she were as sane as he was, “isn’t it preferable?”

  “Stuart, hallucinations are just glimpses of what might be. That’s why they’re easy to control. At least this place has taught me that much. Hallucinations are glimpses of dreams, don’t you understand? Dreaming isn’t a state of mind, but we scientists have lulled people into thinking it is. God knows what we’re responsible for.” The gleam was back in her eyes; he wondered if the sedatives were wearing off. “It isn’t a state of mind, it’s a state of being.”

  He had to keep her talking in case, in the midst of all this, she told him something he needed to know. “You kept up your research after you left the Foundation, didn’t you?”

  “You’re humoring me.” Her gaze was keen and rather sad. “You think I’m being irrational. Preserve us from rationalism, that’s all I can say. It’s at the root of all our troubles.”

  Hearing her say that shocked him as deeply as finding out she was an inmate. “Do you know that up to the seventeenth century,” she said, “people believed dreams were real? Then along came rationalism to tell them they were wrong. And then there was Freud claiming that dreams were internal and subjective. Jung was closer to the truth.”

  “What truth?”

  “Don’t you even remember? He thought we dreamed continuously, even while awake. Remember now?” She held up a hand to ward off his protest. “Yes. I know it’s been demonstrated in the laboratory that we don’t dream continuously at all. But suppose we used to? Suppose it’s all the explaining away that’s stopped us? Or suppose it’s driven the dreams into hiding, where they can’t be measured?”

  He felt depressed and weary. “You can suppose anything that way.”

  “Then suppose along with me, just for a few minutes. Humor me, for old times’ sake.” She looked as if she wanted to move closer but was afraid that he would flinch away. “If you don’t like the idea that dreams are a state of being, call it the collective subconscious. It’s where Mozart’s music came from, you know, and Frankenstein, and Jekyll and Hyde: all dreams. Do you realize how many horror writers dreamed their material? Lovecraft and Wandrei and Edward Lucas White, and Le Fanu had a nightmare that finally killed him… .” She must have felt she’d lost him, for she said, “Tell me something, Stuart. Do you dream?”

  “Almost never.”

  “You do, you know. All the time.” Again she looked sad, and grotesquely reasonable. “That’s part of the problem. We’ve told people that not everyone dreams, we’ve given them the chance to believe that of themselves. We’ve let them ignore their night selves even though we know that whatever is repressed grows stronger and
more difficult to cope with. Ignoring dreams doesn’t make them go away—at least, it doesn’t make them disappear.”

  “Then where do they go?”

  He’d asked out of weariness, and only because she had paused, but she was so delighted it was pitiful. “That’s right, Stuart. My point exactly. Where do they? They must go somewhere, and how can that not be real? Do you know that in the seventeenth century some authorities believed that dreams came from the life after death? I wonder if they found out how right they were.”

  She grinned at his dismay. “No, I haven’t got religion. We’re still talking science. When you die you die, but your dreams don’t. How could they? They stay in the dream place, they feed it and grow. Our dreams and nightmares are what live after death.”

  Her grin had vanished. “For God’s sake believe me, Stuart. We haven’t much time. We’ve made people think their dreams can be measured and explained and controlled and that maybe they don’t even dream, and everything we’ve led people to believe has let it grow stronger.”

  “What?” Stuart demanded. His forehead was tightening, beginning to ache.

  “The dream place, the collective unconscious.” Then she shook her head. “No. I’m not being honest with you. I call it the dream thing. It’s alive, I’m sure it is. It wants to feed on what we call reality, feed on it so it can take its place. We’ve given it that strength, we even helped it gain a hold. That time at Oxford let it break through.”

  “That’s what you think happened at Oxford?”

  “Of course. Stuart, you were there. Can you honestly tell me it could have been anything else?” The gleam in her eyes was beginning to look dangerous. “They undermined reality, this reality, the one we take for granted. What do you think holds reality together if not our shared perception of it? They shared a perception of something else and made it stronger.” She drew a long loud breath. “I’ll tell you something I’ve never told anyone else, because I think you’ll see it’s true if you give it a chance. I don’t think our subjects at Oxford foresaw the future—not always, anyway, and not all of them. I think sometimes some of them made it happen by dreaming of it.”