Richard Matheson - What Dreams May Come

I was waiting outside a building in the city, pacing anxiously. Albert was inside, trying to arrange a mental link with Ann. He’d warned me more than once that I would probably be disappointed. He’d never seen a link successfully made to anyone in the lower realm. Certain people could travel there, Albert among them. They could not locate specific individuals in advance, however, since all those in the lower realm were barred from communication by their own particular insularity.

Only if they asked for help-

I had to slump down on a bench as weariness-a sense of inner weight-returned to me as well. I closed my eyes and prayed that Albert would locate her somehow.

My Ann.

As I thought her name, a vision filled my consciousness: night time; she and I sitting in bed together, my arm around her shoulders as we watched television.

She’d fallen asleep again. She always seemed to fall asleep when I held her with her head resting on my chest. I never woke her and did not this time. As always, I sat motionless, the television set forgotten as I gazed at her face. As always, tears welled slowly in my eyes. No matter the threading of gray in her hair, the lines of time on her face. She always had that trusting child’s expression in her sleep.

At least when I was holding her.

She was clutching my hand as she often did, her fingers twitching now and then. My hand ached from her grip but I didn’t stir. Better that my hand ached than I woke her. So I sat immobile, gazing at her face as she slept, thinking how much I loved this dear, sweet child-woman pressed against me.

“Chris?”

I started, opening my eyes. Albert stood before me. Rising hastily, I looked at him.

He shook his head.

At first, I refused to believe. “There has to be a way,” I insisted.

“She’s cut off,” he said. “Not asking for help because she doesn’t believe that such a thing exists.”

“But-”

“They couldn’t find her, Chris,” he said. “They tried every possible way. I’m sorry.”

Walking to a nearby brook, I sat on its bank and stared into the crystal, moving water.

Albert sat beside me, patting my back. “I’m truly sorry,” he said.

“Thank you for trying,” I murmured.

“I did discover one thing,” he told me.

I looked at him quickly.

“You feel so strongly about each other because you’re soul mates.”

I didn’t know how to take that, how to react. I’d heard the phrase, of course, but only in the most banal of ways, within the context of trivial ballads and poetry.

“What it means, literally,” Albert said, “is that you both possess the same wave length, your auras a vibratory unison.”

Reaction failed me still. What good was knowing this if it didn’t help Ann?

“That’s why you fell in love with her so quickly when you met her on the beach that day,” Albert had continued. “Your soul was celebrating a reunion with her.”

I could only stare at him. Somehow, the news did not surprise me. I’d never been superstitious in life. Yet I’d always insisted, to Ann, that we hadn’t met by accident.

Still, of what value was it to know this?

“That’s why you felt so strongly about being with her after your death,” Albert said. “Why you never stopped-”

“Then it’s why she felt so strongly,” I broke in. “She had to kill herself. To join me; achieve that unison again.”

“No.” Albert shook his head. “She didn’t do it to join you. How could she have when she didn’t believe that was possible?” He shook his head again. “No, she killed herself to terminate her existence, Chris. As she believes your existence was terminated.”

“To terminate her pain , Albert.”

“All right, her pain,” he said. “It wasn’t her decision to make though. Can’t you see that?”

“I know she was suffering, that’s all I know.”

He sighed. “It is the law, Chris, take my word for it. No one has the right-”

“What good is knowing all this if it can’t help me find her?” I interrupted, miserably.

“Because,” he said, “since you are soul mates, I’ve been authorized to continue helping you in spite of my reservations.”

I gazed at him, confused. “If she can’t be found-” I broke off haplessly, a sudden vision jarring me: the two of us, like Flying Dutchmen of the spirit, wandering eternally in search of Ann. Is that what he meant?

“There’s one way left,” he said. He put a hand on my shoulder. “One harrowing possibility.”

DEJA VU CAN BE A GHASTLY TERM DEPENDING ON THE MOMENT one relives. And it was with a sense of cold, devouring oppression that I moved through mist toward the building ahead. Release me from this black, unending nightmare . I recalled that plea in my mind.

It was recurring now.

I have been here before , the further thought assailed me. It didn’t help that Albert walked beside me this time. Despite his presence, I was isolated with my private fears as I walked into the church.

As before, the pews were filled with people. As before, their forms were gray and faceless. As before, I drifted down the middle aisle, trying to understand why I was there. I didn’t know what church it was. I only knew that, this time, I could not hear Ann’s weeping because Ann was dead.

They were in the front row, sitting close together. The sight of them made me cry out in despairing recognition. I could see their faces clearly, paled and drawn by sorrow, tears in their eyes and trickling down their cheeks.

Emotion brought forgetfulness. Without thinking, I moved to them and tried to put my arms around them. Instantly, I knew they were oblivious to me, staring toward the front of the church. The agony I’d felt at my own funeral returned, doubled now because I knew the funeral was Ann’s.

I looked around suddenly, a thought occurring tome. I’d been an observer at my own funeral. Was it conceivable-?

“No, Chris,” Albert said. “She isn’t here.”

I avoided the sight of my children, unable to bear the expressions on their faces, the knowledge that they were alone now.

“This woman was beloved in many ways,” I heard a voice intone.

I looked toward the altar and saw the vague form of the minister delivering his eulogy. Who was he? I wondered. I didn’t know him. He didn’t know Ann. How could he speak of her as though he did? “As wife and mother, friend and companion. Loved by her late husband, Christopher, and by her children, Louise and Marie, Richard and Ian.”

I turned away from him in distress. What right did he have to say-?

The thought evaporated as I saw what Albert was doing.

He was standing in front of Richard, his right hand on Richard’s head as though he were bestowing a wordless benediction on my son.

“What are you doing?” I asked.

He raised his left hand, saying nothing, and I knew he wanted silence. I stared at him. In several moments, he left Richard and moved in front of Marie, placing his hand on her head in the same way. For a moment, the sight of her staring directly at his solid (to me) body without seeing it struck me as bizarre. I wondered, once more, what Albert was doing.

Then I turned away again, too agonized to face the sight of Marie.

How had I failed to notice it before? A sense of sick despair enveloped me as I walked to the casket. Thank God it was closed, I thought. At least the children were spared that.

Another thought came suddenly. I remembered Albert telling me, at my funeral, that I could look inside the casket if I tried. Was that, also, true now? The despair grew deeper. No , I thought. I didn’t want to see her that way. Her real self was elsewhere. Why look at the shell?