What Dreams May Come 8

WE FACED EACH other, now, like gladiators on the sands of some mysterious arena. A struggle to the death, the strange thought came to me. Yet both of us were already dead. What was our struggle then?

I only knew that, if I failed to win it, both of us were lost.

"There's no afterlife," I began.

"None.'' Glaring at me, almost cowing me with her defiance.

"Then I couldn't know of anything that happened after my death."

A moment's confusion on her face before she muttered, scornfully, "Your death,"

"I say I'm Chris," I told her.

"You're--"

"Your husband Chris." "And I say you're a fool for saying it." Now she seemed to be regaining strength.

"Believe what you will," I persisted. "But, whoever I am, I couldn't know what happened to you after your husband died, could I? I mean details," I added, cutting her off. "Could I?"

She looked at me suspiciously. I knew she wondered what I was getting at. I continued quickly to keep her off balance. "No, I couldn't," I answered myself. "You know I couldn't. Because if I did--"

"What details?" she interrupted fiercely.

"Details like you and the children sitting in the front row of the church. Like someone touching your shoulder, making you start."

I knew, from her reaction, that my opening move was a failure. Obviously, she didn't remember my touch. She gazed at me with open contempt.

"Things like the house filled with people after the funeral," I went on. "Richard serving drinks at the bar--"

"Do you think--?" she started.

"Your brother Bill there, Pat, your brother Phil, his wife and--"

"Is that what you call--?"

"You in the closed bedroom, lying on our bed, Ian sitting beside you, holding your hand."

I knew I'd made a hit for she jerked as though I'd struck her. It was something she'd remember vividly, being a moment of sorrow. I was on safer ground now--unhappy ground but safer. "Ian saying, to you, that he knew it was insane but he felt that I was there with you."

Ann began to shake.

"Your telling him: I know you want to help--"

She whispered something. "What?"

She whispered it again. I still couldn't hear. "What, Ann?"

"Leave me alone,'' she told me in a rasping voice.

"You know I'm right," I said. "You know I was there. Which proves--''

The filming across her eyes again. So fast it appeared almost physical. She turned her head away. "I wish it would rain," she murmured.

"I'm right, aren't I?" I demanded. "These things really happened. Didn't they?"

She labored to her feet, looking groggy.

"Are you afraid to hear the truth?"

She sank back down. "What truth?" Her body jerked spasmodically. "What are you talking about?''

"There's no afterlife?"

"No!" Her face gone rigid with fear and fury.

"Then why did you agree to a seance with Perry?"

She jerked again as though struck.

"He told you I was sitting by you in the cemetery," I said. "I'll tell you what he said, word for word. 'I know how you feel, Mrs. Nielsen, but take my word for it. I see him right beside you. He's wearing a dark blue shirt with short sleeves, blue checked slacks --' "

"You're lying. Lying." Her voice was guttural, her teeth clenched tightly, her expression one of malignant wrath.

"Shall I tell you what you said to Perry at the house?"

She tried to stand again but couldn't. The filming of her gaze came and went. "Not interested," she mumbled.

"You said 'I don't believe in survival after death. I believe that when we die we die and that's the end of it.' "

"That's right!" she cried.

A leap of futile hope. "That is what you said?"

"Death is the end of it!"

I fought off momentary loss. "Then how do I know these things?" I asked.

"You made them up!"

"You know that isn't true! You know that everything I've described is exactly the way it happened!"

She managed to stay on her feet this time. "I don't know who you are," she said, "but you'd better get out of here before it's too late."

"Too late for whom?" I asked. "You or me?"

"You!"

"No, Ann," I said. "I know what's happened. You're the one who doesn't understand."

"And you're my husband?" she asked.

"I am."

"Mister," she said; she almost spat the word at me. "I'm looking right at you and you're not my husband.''

I felt a sudden, wrenching coldness in my chest.

She saw the depth of my reaction and took immediate advantage of it. "If you were my husband," she said, "you wouldn't say such things to me. Chris was kind. He loved me."

"I love you too." I felt depression rising. "I'm here because I love you."

Her laugh was a cynical, chilling sound. "Love,'' she said. "You don't even know me."

The ground was slipping out from under me. "I do!" I cried. "I'm Chris! Can't you see that?! Chris!" My loss was complete as she smiled in cold victory. "How can you be here then?" she asked. "He's dead."

It had all been in vain. There was no way of convincing her because she, literally, could not conceive of afterlife. No one can conceive of the impossible. And, to Ann, survival after death was an impossibility.

She turned and walked from the living room, followed by Ginger.

At first, the" shock of it failed to register. I sat watching her go as if it had no importance to me. Then it struck and I stood in dumbfounded shock. I'd done everything I could to convince her, thought I'd had her on the razor edge of belief only to discover I'd accomplished nothing.

Nothing.

I moved after her but, now, without hope. Each step seemed to bring another condensation to my mind and body--a curdling of thought, a clogging of flesh which grew increasingly worse.

For a ghastly moment, I thought I was home again, that this was where I belonged.

Stopping, I resisted the hideous process. I couldn't bear to stay in that place. It was too horrible.

Ann's cry of terror from our bedroom made me break into a run.

I say a run but it was more a hobble, my legs coated with lead. It was then that I knew what Ann had described. Like her, I could barely lift my feet. And it was worse for her.

I stopped in the bedroom doorway, Ginger whirling to face me. Ann was pressed against the wall, staring at our bed.

Across its dingy, faded spread, a tarantula the size of a man's fist was crawling.

The moment was frozen. Ann against the wall. Ginger staring at me. Me in the doorway.

The only thing that moved, with bloated sluggishness, was the enormous, furry spider.

As it started up the pillow on Ann's side, she made a gagging noise. I wondered, for a dreadful moment, if she'd done this to herself; an unconscious punishment for not believing what I'd told her. Created an image of the most repugnant thing she could imagine--a huge tarantula walking on the place where she lay her head in sleep.

I don't know why Ginger made no move as I entered the room. Was it because she, now, sensed that I was really there to help Ann? I have no answer. I only know that she let me walk by Ann and reach the bed.

Picking up the pillow gingerly, I started to turn. I gasped and flung it from me as the spider made a sudden, hitching movement toward my right hand. Ann cried out, sickened, as the tarantula thudded on the bedspread.

Hastily, I snatched up the pillow and dropped it on top of the spider. Then, as quickly as I could, I grabbed the spread at each corner and pulled it over the pillow. Picking up the bundle, I carried it to the door and slide it open. Tossing the spread outside, I shut the door again and locked it.

As I turned back, Ann was stumbling to the bed and falling on it, stonelike.

Motionless, I stared at her.

There were no movements left to make. I'd exhausted all possibilities.

The encounter was over, the battle ended.