intense it numbs … On the other side of the veil, blurred figures, white, ghostly . Soft whispers : "No, it's not unusual to have two that jumped in the same week . They seem to do it in bunches . No, they didn't know each other . Yes, a few survive, like her, but seven hours — that's unusual … Him ? He's a record …" The voice trails off, darkness descending … Then a vague image on the veil. A dim face, a reflection: cornsilk hair framing a lovely face and doll-like face and China blue eyes …
This story was solicited by a good writer friend, even though he was editing for an anthology that was only paying royalties. I never made a dime in royalties. A lesson I knew but didn't practice. So shame on me. I love the spiritual concept of metempsychosis, but alas don't believe in it .
Metempsychosis
A two-story Victorian mansion was completely engulfed in flames. Just barely visible through the raging fire at an opened second-story window were three pale faces, their terrified screams piercing the quiet, moonless night .
A man on the ground at the top of the circular, bricked driveway was gazing up at the burning structure with an enraptured expression on his sweaty face, completely ignoring the blast furnace heat of the inferno and the frantic pleas for assistance from the trapped faces . As the flames consumed the building and the faces, the man's entranced expression slowly turned to a look of almost childish glee. He laughed hysterically, still oblivious to the blistering heat, apparently not affected in any way by the thick, smoke-filled air now heavy with the increasing sweet/sour stench of roasting human flesh . Adding to the surreal nature of the scene, snowflakes began to fall, as a siren wailed in the distance …
I find M Ward, in maximum security.
A dimly-lit corridor, painted forest green with a series of closed, lighter-green doors, each door identified by a large white number below an observation window, even numbers on the right, odd numbers on the left—a neat, orderly arrangement. At the far end of the empty corridor, a heavy-set, white-clad psych tech sits directly across from an opened door on the odd-numbered side, leaning his folding chair precariously back into the wall and reading a Playboy , but occasionally glancing across into the brightly-lit room, then back down to his magazine.
Aha, I have finally located the "soft room" of M Ward and Arthur. Inwardly, I smile with self-satisfaction.
As I enter the room, Arthur doesn't even notice, appearing to be awake but heavily sedated, his eyes glazed, and looking thoroughly confused by his strange surroundings.
It must be a shock, finding himself wearing wrinkled pajamas, trussed up in a smudged-white straitjacket, lying on a gray mat on the floor in an observation cell with gray-colored padded walls in a State Hospital. Normally Arthur is immaculately groomed in an elegant three-piece suit, a fresh red or white carnation in his lapel, shoes buffed to a high gloss. Oh, and a neat mind, too. He is fond of repeating: a place for everything, everything in its place . Indeed, Arthur is anal retentive, obsessive-compulsive, truly admiring order, detesting disorder and uncleanness.
I laugh to myself, recalling specific behavioral quirks.
He is so compulsive in his personal habits that he puts on his left sock, left shoe, right sock, right shoe, then pulls on his sharply creased pants, always in that exact order. He even washes his hands before and after going to the toilet.
An obsessive-compulsive dandy.
I hate Arthur Whithurst with a passion.
At that moment, a man in a lab coat with a clipboard enters the room, sits down on a folding chair beside Arthur, and flips through a couple of pages attached to the clipboard. His blue nametag reads: Dr. Radar Sterns, M.D. Interesting name.
Of course neither the doctor nor Arthur notices my presence. I'll stay and eavesdrop.
Dr. Sterns, a slightly pocked-faced, middle-aged man with watery-blue eyes,
This story was solicited by a good writer friend, even though he was editing for an anthology that was only paying royalties. I never made a dime in royalties. A lesson I knew but didn't practice. So shame on me. I love the spiritual concept of metempsychosis, but alas don't believe in it .
Metempsychosis
A two-story Victorian mansion was completely engulfed in flames. Just barely visible through the raging fire at an opened second-story window were three pale faces, their terrified screams piercing the quiet, moonless night .
A man on the ground at the top of the circular, bricked driveway was gazing up at the burning structure with an enraptured expression on his sweaty face, completely ignoring the blast furnace heat of the inferno and the frantic pleas for assistance from the trapped faces . As the flames consumed the building and the faces, the man's entranced expression slowly turned to a look of almost childish glee. He laughed hysterically, still oblivious to the blistering heat, apparently not affected in any way by the thick, smoke-filled air now heavy with the increasing sweet/sour stench of roasting human flesh . Adding to the surreal nature of the scene, snowflakes began to fall, as a siren wailed in the distance …
I find M Ward, in maximum security.
A dimly-lit corridor, painted forest green with a series of closed, lighter-green doors, each door identified by a large white number below an observation window, even numbers on the right, odd numbers on the left—a neat, orderly arrangement. At the far end of the empty corridor, a heavy-set, white-clad psych tech sits directly across from an opened door on the odd-numbered side, leaning his folding chair precariously back into the wall and reading a Playboy , but occasionally glancing across into the brightly-lit room, then back down to his magazine.
Aha, I have finally located the "soft room" of M Ward and Arthur. Inwardly, I smile with self-satisfaction.
As I enter the room, Arthur doesn't even notice, appearing to be awake but heavily sedated, his eyes glazed, and looking thoroughly confused by his strange surroundings.
It must be a shock, finding himself wearing wrinkled pajamas, trussed up in a smudged-white straitjacket, lying on a gray mat on the floor in an observation cell with gray-colored padded walls in a State Hospital. Normally Arthur is immaculately groomed in an elegant three-piece suit, a fresh red or white carnation in his lapel, shoes buffed to a high gloss. Oh, and a neat mind, too. He is fond of repeating: a place for everything, everything in its place . Indeed, Arthur is anal retentive, obsessive-compulsive, truly admiring order, detesting disorder and uncleanness.
I laugh to myself, recalling specific behavioral quirks.
He is so compulsive in his personal habits that he puts on his left sock, left shoe, right sock, right shoe, then pulls on his sharply creased pants, always in that exact order. He even washes his hands before and after going to the toilet.
An obsessive-compulsive dandy.
I hate Arthur Whithurst with a passion.
At that moment, a man in a lab coat with a clipboard enters the room, sits down on a folding chair beside Arthur, and flips through a couple of pages attached to the clipboard. His blue nametag reads: Dr. Radar Sterns, M.D. Interesting name.
Of course neither the doctor nor Arthur notices my presence. I'll stay and eavesdrop.
Dr. Sterns, a slightly pocked-faced, middle-aged man with watery-blue eyes,
Similar Books
