Richard Matheson - What Dreams May Come

Leona nodded. “As well as some that are yet to be published there.”

“How does that work?”

“The contents will be impressed on the brains of living persons.”

“Will they know they didn’t really write the book?”

“That’s a rather complicated question,” Leona said. “Generally speaking, however, they don’t know.”

“I’d like to read one of those,” I said.

“They’re not usually available,” she told me. “Those who read them might, in some way, mar them, how I’m not exactly sure. I wanted to read a particular book once, though, and was told that, since everything here is mental, my thoughts might alter the contents of the book.”

She took me to another room which was devoted to books on psychic science, the occult, metaphysics. Walking among the racks, I felt emanations from them more powerful than those in the history room.

She stopped at one of the racks and pulled out a volume, handing it to me. Its vibrations were rather unpleasant. “It’s customary to show first visitors this book or one like it,” Leona said.

I turned the book to read the title on its spine: The Fallacy of Afterlife . Despite the uncomfortable sensation the book imparted, I had to smile. “Ironical to say the least,” I said.

As I returned the book to its shelf, I began to feel a sense of anxiety about Ann again. She didn’t believe in afterlife; I’d heard her say it. Was it possible that she might, literally, refuse to accept the evidence of her senses?

“I wouldn’t be concerned about that,” Leona said. “She’ll believe in you. The rest will follow.”

I won’t describe our full tour of the Hall of Literature; it is not really part of my story. Suffice to say, the building and its contents were unendingly impressive. When I commented on the intimidation of all that knowledge to be studied, Leona reminded me that I had unlimited time in which to study it.

As we left the building, I turned to her questioningly.

“I don’t think they’d be quite ready yet,” she said.

“All right,” I nodded. Patience , I told myself. A little more time and you’ll know.

“Would you like to see one of our art galleries?” Leona asked.

“Fine.”

She squeezed my arm. “It’ll be very soon now.”

We exchanged a smile. “I apologize for being so selfish,” I said, “I haven’t asked a single question about you.”

“There’s lots of time for that,” she replied. “Your first priority is your wife.”

I was about to reply when another surprise occurred. A woman passed us with a strange, drifting kind of movement, looking as though she were in a coma, walking underwater. For several moments, she reminded me of the waxy image of myself I’d seen at the seance and I felt a chill. “Who is she?” I asked.

“She’s still alive,” Leona said, “her spirit self is journeying here in sleep. It happens now and then.”

“She doesn’t know she’s here?”

“No. And probably won’t remember when she wakes.”

I turned to watch the woman move off slowly and mechanically and saw a silver cord attached to the crown of her head, trailing into the air before it faded. “Why don’t people remember?” I asked.

“Because the memory is in the spirit mind and the physical brain is unable to tap it,” Leona answered. “I’ve been told that there are people who astral journey here and are entirely conscious of it both during and after but I’ve never seen one.”

I watched the woman moving away and couldn’t help thinking: If Ann could do that . Even if she didn’t know it was happening, I could see her for a short while, maybe even touch her. The thought filled me with a longing so acute that it was almost physical. Remembering her warmth and softness against me, I could actually feel it in my flesh.

With a pained sound, I turned back to Leona to find her smiling understandingly. I returned the smile with effort. “I’m not good company, I know,” I told her.

“Of course you are.” She took my hand. “Come on, we’ll take a brief look at the gallery, then find out when she’ll be with you again.”

The building ahead was circular, its marblelike exterior carved with beautiful designs of flowers and foliage.

Its interior was massive, containing what seemed to be an endless, curving gallery, the walls of which were hung with great paintings. Groups of people stood appreciating and examining, many of them teachers with their students.

I recognized a Rembrandt and commented on what a perfect reproduction it was. Leona smiled. “The one on earth is the reproduction,” she told me. “This is the original.”

“I don’t understand.”

The painting in front of me was the one Rembrandt had in mind, she explained; as perfect as his genius could envision it. What he did on earth to reproduce that perfect mental image was subject to the limitations of his brain and body and created with materials subject to decay. This was his unmitigated vision-pure and eternal.

“You mean all artists on earth are only reproducing paintings already in existence here?”

“In existence because they created them ,” Leona said. “That’s what I meant when I said that the question regarding whether a person knows that he or she is receiving creative impressions is rather complicated. Rembrandt’s thoughts first created this painting from the matrix, then he reproduced it in physical terms. If we were experts, we’d be able to see how much more perfect this painting is than the one on earth.”

Every work of art here is alive. Colors glow with reality. Each painting seems almost-not a good description but the closest I can come-three-dimensional, possessing all the qualities of relief. From a short distance, they look like real scenes rather than flat representations.

“In many ways, I think that the happiest people here are the artists,” Leona told me. “Matter here is so subtle yet so readily manipulated. The artist’s creativity can be fulfilled without limitation.”

I tried hard to maintain an interest in what she was showing and telling me-and it was fascinating. Still, in spite of all attempt, thoughts of Ann kept creeping back. So much so that, when Leona said, “I think we can find out now,” I uttered an uncontrollable sound of relief. “Can we go there by thought?” I asked.

She smiled and took my hand. This time, I didn’t close my eyes and still couldn’t follow it. We were in the gallery; I blinked; and the man from the Office of Records was in front of us.

“Your wife is scheduled to cross over at the age of seventy-two,” he told me.

Twenty-four years , was my immediate thought. It was such an appallingly long time.

“Remember that time is measured differently in Summer-land,” he reminded me. “What would seem an eternity on earth can pass very quickly here if you’re active.”

I thanked him and Leona and I left the Office of Records.

I continued walking with her. I made conversation. I smiled and even laughed. But something was wrong. I kept thinking: everything is settled now. In twenty-four years we’ll be together again. I’d involve myself in study and activity, prepare a home for us. Exactly what she’d like. On the ocean. With a boat. Everything was settled.

Why, then, was there no assurance? No certainty of resolution?

THE HORRIBLE TURNING POINT OCCURRED SOON AFTERWARD; I cannot express the precise interval. On earth, it might have been a week, perhaps less; I cannot say. I only know the shock came dreadfully soon.