Richard Matheson - What Dreams May Come

“He is,” said a voice.

I looked around. That man again; the one I’d seen in the hospital. Odd that, of everyone, he looked most clear to me.

“Haven’t found your own dream yet, I see,” I told him. Odd, too, that I could speak to him without effort.

“Chris, try to understand,” he said. “This isn’t a dream. It’s real. You’ve died.”

“Will you get off that?” I began to turn away.

His fingers on my shoulder once again; solid, nearly pinching my flesh. That was odd too.

“Chris, can’t you see?” he asked. “Your wife and children dressed in black? A church? A minister delivering your eulogy?”

“A convincing dream,” I said.

He shook his head.

“Let go of me,” I told him, threateningly. “I don’t have to listen to this.”

His grip was strong; I couldn’t break it. “Come with me,” he said. He led me to the platform where I saw a casket resting on supports. “Your body is in there,” he told me.

“Really?” I said. My tone was cold. The casket lid was shut. How could he know I was in there?

“You can see inside it if you try,” he answered.

Unexpectedly, I felt myself begin to shake. I could look in the casket if I tried. Suddenly, I knew that.

“But I won’t,” I told him. I twisted from his grip and turned away. “This is a dream ,” I said, glancing across my shoulder. “Maybe you can’t understand that but-”

“If it’s a dream,” he interrupted, “why don’t you try to wake up?”

I whirled to face him. “All right, that’s exactly what I’ll do,” I said. “Thank you for a very good suggestion.”

I closed my eyes. All right, you heard the man, I told myself. Wake up. He’s told you what to do. Now do it.

I heard Ann’s sobbing getting louder. “Don’t,” I said. I couldn’t bear the sound of it. I tried to back off but it followed me. I clenched my teeth. This is a dream and you are going to wake up from it right now , I told myself. Any second now I’d jolt awake, perspiring, trembling. Ann would speak my name in startled sympathy, then hold me in her arms, caress me, tell-

The sobbing kept on getting louder, louder. I pressed both hand against my ears to shut it out. “Wake up,” I said. I repeated it with fierce determination. “Wake up!”

My effort was rewarded by a sudden silence. I had done it! With a rush of joy, I opened my eyes.

I was standing in the front hall of our house. I didn’t understand that.

Then I saw the mist again, my vision blurred. And I began to make out forms of people in the living room. Gray and faded, they stood or sat in small groups, murmuring words I couldn’t hear.

I walked into the living room, past a knot of people; none of them were clear enough for me to recognize. Still the dream, I thought. I clung to that.

I walked by Louise and Bob. They didn’t look at me. Don’t try to talk to them, I thought. Accept the dream. Move on. I walked into the bar room, moving toward the family room.

Richard was behind the bar, making drinks. I felt a twinge of resentment. Drinking at a time like this? I rejected the thought immediately. A time like what? I challenged my mind. This was no special time. It was merely a depressing party in a bleak, depressing dream.

Moving, I caught glimpses. Ann’s older brother Bill, his wife Patricia. Her father and stepmother, her younger brother Phil, his wife Andrea. I tried to smile. Well, I told myself, when you dream you really do it up right, no detail overlooked; Ann’s entire family down from San Francisco no less. Where was my family though? I wondered. Surely I could dream them here as well. Did it matter, in a dream, that they were three thousand miles away?

That was when a new thought came to me. Was it possible that I had lost my sanity? Perhaps the accident had damaged my brain. There was a thought! I clutched at it. Brain damage; weird, distorted images. Not just a simple operation going on but something complex. Even as I moved unseen among these wraiths, scalpels might be probing at my brain, surgeons working to restore its function.

It didn’t help. Despite the logic of it, I began to feel a sense of resentment. All these people totally ignoring me. I stopped in front of someone; faceless, nameless. “Damn it, even in a dream, people talk to you,” I said. I tried to grab him by the arms. My fingers moved into his flesh as though it were water. I looked around and saw the family-room table. Moving there, I tried to pick up someone’s glass to hurl it against the wall. It was like trying to grip at air. Anger mounted suddenly. I shouted at them. “Damn it, this is my dream! Listen to me! ”

My laughter was involuntary, strained. Listen to yourself, I thought. You’re acting as though this is really happening. Get things straight, Nielsen. This is a dream .

I left them all behind, starting down the back hall. Ann’s Uncle John was standing in front of me, looking at some photographs on the wall. I walked right through him, feeling nothing. Forget it , I ordered myself. It doesn’t matter.

Our bedroom door was closed. I walked through it. “This is insane,” I muttered. Even in dreams, I’d never walked through doors before.

My aggravation vanished as I moved to the bed and looked at Ann. She was lying on her left side, staring toward the glass door. She still had on the black dress I had seen her wearing in the church but her shoes were off. Her eyes were red from crying.

Ian sat beside her, holding her hand. Tears ran slowly down his cheeks. I felt a rush of love for him. He’s such a sweet and gentle boy, Robert. I reached forward to stroke his hair.

He looked around and, for a moment which seemed to stop my heart, I thought he was looking at me, seeing me. “Ian,” I murmured.

He looked back at Ann. “Mom?” he said.

She didn’t respond.

He spoke again and her eyes moved slowly to his face.

“I know it sounds insane,” he said, “but . . . I feel as if Dad is with us.”

I looked at Ann quickly. She was staring at Ian, her expression unchanged.

“I mean right here,” he told her. “Now.”

Her smile was one of straining tenderness. “I know you want to help,” she said.

“I really feel it, Mom.”

She couldn’t go on, a great sob racking her. “Oh, God,” she whispered, “Chris . . .” Tears filled her eyes.

I dropped beside the bed and tried to touch her face. “Ann, don’t-” I started. Breaking off, I twisted from her with a groan. To see my fingers sink into her flesh . . .

“Ian, I’m afraid,” Ann said.

I turned back quickly to her. The last time I’d seen such a look on her face was on a night when Ian had been six and disappeared for three hours; a look of helpless, incapacitated dread. “Ann, I’m here,” I said, “I’m here! Death isn’t what you think!”

Terror caught me unaware. I didn’t mean that! cried my mind. I couldn’t take it back though. The admission had been made.

I fought against it, straining to repress it by concentrating on Ann and Ian. But the question came unbidden and I couldn’t stop it. What if that man had told the truth? What if this wasn’t a dream?

I struggled to retreat. Impossible; the way was blocked. I countered with rage. So what if I had thought it? What if I’d considered it? There was no proof of it beyond that brief consideration .

Better. I felt vengeful justification. I began to touch and prod my body. This is death? I challenged scornfully. Flesh and bone? Ridiculous! It might not be a dream-that much I could allow. But it was certainly not death.