Matheson, Richard - What Dreams May Come

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NOTE: If you purchased this book without a cover you should be aware that this book is stolen
property. It was reported as "unsold and destroyed" to the publisher, and neither the author nor
the publisher has received any payment for this "stripped book."
This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this book are either
products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously.
WHAT DREAMS MAY COME
Copyright © 1978 by Richard Matheson
© Polygram Films. All rights reserved.
Afterword by Stephen Simon copyright © 1998. Used with permission
from Gauntlet's signed limited edition of What Dreams May Come. For
information contact http://www.gauntletpress.com
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, or portions thereof, in any form.
A Tor Book
Published by Tom Doherty Associates, Inc.
175 Fifth Avenue
New York, NY 10010
for Books on the World Wide Web:
http://www.tor.com
Tor* is a registered trademark of Tom Doherty Associates, Inc.
ISBN: 0-812-57094-4
Library of Congress Card Catalog Number: 78-2817
First Tor edition: October 1998
Printed in the United States of America
098765432
With grateful love, to my wife
for adding the sweet measure of her soul to my
existence
To the Reader
AN INTRODUCTION TO a novel is—almost without exception—unnecessary. This is my tenth published
novel and the thought of writing introductions to any of the preceding nine never even occurred to
me.
For this novel, however, I feel that a brief prologue is called for. Because its subject is
survival after death, it is essential that you realize, before reading the story, that only one
aspect of it is fictional: the characters and their relationships.
With few exceptions, every other detail is derived exclusively from research.
For that reason, I have added, at the conclusion of the novel, a list of the books used for this
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research. As you will see, they are many and diverse. Yet, despite their wide variation with
regard to authors and times and places of publication, there is a persistent, unavoidable
uniformity to their content.
You would, of course, have to read them all to prove this to yourself. I urge you to do so. You
will find it an enlightening—and extraordinary—experience.
RICHARD MATHESON Calabasas, California August 1977
For in that sleep of death what dreams may come, when we have shuffled off this mortal coil, Must
give us pause.
—Hamlet, Act III, Sc. 1
Introduction
THE MANUSCRIPT YOU are about to read came into my possession in the following way.
On the evening of February 17, 1976, our doorbell rang and my wife answered it. Several moments
later, she returned to the bedroom where we were watching television and said that some woman
wanted to see me.
I got up and walked to the front hall. The door was open and I saw a tall woman in her fifties
standing on the porch. She was well dressed and holding a large, bulky envelope in her hands.
"Are you Robert Nielsen?" she asked.
I told her that I was and she held out the envelope. "This is for you then," she said.
I looked at it suspiciously and inquired what it was.
"A communication from your brother," she replied.
My suspicions increased. "What do you mean?" I asked.
"Your brother Chris has dictated this manuscript to me," she said.
Her words angered me. "I don't know who you are," I told her, "but if you possessed the least
knowledge about my brother, you'd know that he died more than a year ago."
The woman sighed. "I know that, Mr. Nielsen," she said, tiredly. "I'm a psychic. Your brother has
communicated this material to me from—"
She stopped as I began to close the door, then quickly added, "Mr. Nielsen, please."
There was a sound of such genuine urgency in her voice that I looked at her in surprise.
"I have just undergone six exhausting months transcribing this manuscript," she told me. "I didn't
choose to do it. I have my own affairs to deal with but your brother would not let me be until I
wrote down every word of his communication and promised faithfully to bring it to you." Her voice
took on a desperate tone. "Now you have got to take it and give me peace.''
With that, she thrust the envelope into my hands, turned and hurried down the path to the
sidewalk. As I watched, she got into her car and drove off quickly.
I have never seen or heard from her again. I do not even know her name.
I have read the manuscript three times now and wish I knew what to make of it.
I am not a religious man but, like anyone, would certainly like to believe that death is more than
oblivion. Still, I find it difficult, if not impossible, to accept the story at face value. I keep
thinking it is nothing more than that: a story.
True, the facts are there. Facts about my brother and his family which this woman could not
possibly have known— unless one goes on the premise that she spent months of laborious—and
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expensive—research in uncovering them before writing the manuscript. In that case, what is the
point of it? What could she have gained from such a course?
The questions, in my mind, about this book are manifold. I will not enumerate them but permit the
reader to form his own. Of only one thing I am certain. If the manuscript is true, all of us had
better examine our lives. Carefully.
ROBERT NIELSEN Islip, New York January, 1978
A blur of rushing images
“BEGIN AT THE beginning" is the phrase. I cannot do that. I begin at the end—the conclusion of my
life on earth. I present it to you as it happened—and what happened afterward.
A note about the text. You have read my writing, Robert. This account may seem unlike it. The
reason—I am limited by my transcriber. My thoughts must travel through her mind. I cannot surmount
that. All the grains will not pass through the filter. Understand if I appear to oversimplify.
Especially at first.
Both of us are doing the best we can.
Thank God I was alone that night. Usually, Ian went to the movies with me. Twice a week—because of
my work, you know.
That night he didn't go. He was appearing in a school play. Once again—thank God.
I went to a theatre near a shopping center. Cannot get the name through. A big one which had been
divided into two. Ask Ian for the name.
It was after eleven when I left the theatre. I got in my car and drove toward the golf course. The
tiny one—for children. Cannot get the word through. All right. Spell it. Slowly now. M-i-n ... i-a
... t-u ... r-e. Good. We have it.
There was traffic on the—street? No, wider. Av ... e-nue? Not exact but good enough. I thought
there was an opening and pulled out. Had to stop, a car was speeding toward me. There was room for
it to move around me but it didn't. Hit my left front fender, sent me spinning.
I was shaken but had on my belt. Not belt. H-a-r-n-ess. I would not have been too badly injured.
But a van came up and hit the right rear fender of my car, knocking me across the middle line. A
truck was coming in the opposite direction. Hit my car straight on. I heard a grinding crash, the
shattering of glass. I hit my head and blackness swept across me. For an instant, I believed I saw
myself unconscious, bleeding. Then came darkness.
I was conscious again. The pain was dreadful. I could hear my breathing, an awful sound. Slow and
shallow with sporadic, liquid sighs. My feet were icy cold. I remember that.
Gradually, I sensed a room around me. People too, I think. Something kept me from being sure.
Sidayshin. No, re-do. Spell slowly. S-e-d-a-t... sedation.
I began to hear a whispering voice. I couldn't make out the words. Briefly, I could see a form
nearby. My eyes were closed but I saw it. I couldn't tell if the form was male or female but I
knew that it was speaking to me. When I couldn't hear the words, it went away.
Another pain began, this one in my mind, increasing steadily. I seemed to tune it in as though it
were a radio station. It was not my pain but Ann's. She was crying, frightened. Because I was
hurt. She was afraid for me. I felt her anguish. She was suffering terribly. I tried to will away
the shadows but I couldn't. Tried in vain to speak her name. Don't cry, I thought. I'll be all
right. Don't be afraid. I love you, Ann. Where are you?
That instant, I was home. It was Sunday evening. All of us were in the family room, talking and
laughing. Ann was next to me, Ian beside her. Richard next to Ian, Marie on the other end of the
sofa. I had my arm around Ann, she was cuddled against me. She was warm and I kissed her cheek. We
smiled at each other. It was Sunday evening, peaceful and idyllic, all of us together.
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I felt myself begin to rise from darkness. I was lying on a bed. The pain was back again, all
through me. I had never known such pain before I knew that I was slipping. Yes, the word is
slipping.
Now I heard a ghastly sound. A rattling in my throat. I prayed that Ann and the children were not
around to hear it. It would terrify them. I asked God not to let them hear that horrible noise,
protect them from that horrible noise.
The thought came to my mind then: Chris, you're dying. I strained to draw in breath but fluids in
my windpipe kept the air from passing through. I felt thick and sluggish, trapped in density.
There was someone by the bed. That form again. "Don't fight it, Chris," it told me. I grew angry
at the words. Whoever it was, they wanted me to die. I fought against that. I would not be taken.
Ann! I called to her in thought. Hold on to me! Don't let me go!
Still, I slipped. My body is too badly hurt, I thought in sudden dread. I felt the weakness of it.
Then a strange sensation. Tickling. Odd, I know. Ridiculous. But that was it. All over me.
Another change. It was not a bed I lay on but a cradle. I could feel it rocking back and forth,
back and forth. Slowly, I began to understand. I wasn't in a cradle and the bed was still. My body
was rocking back and forth. There were tiny, crackling noises deep inside me. Sounds you hear when
pulling off a bandage slowly. Less pain now. The pain was fading.
Afraid, I fought to re-establish pain. In seconds, it was back, worse than ever. Agonized, I clung
to it. It meant I was alive. I would not be taken. Ann! My mind cried out, pleading. Hold on to
me!
It was no use. I could feel life draining from me, heard the sounds again, much louder now; the
tearing of a hundred tiny threads. I had no sense of taste or smell. Sensation left my toes, my
feet. Numbness started up my legs. I struggled to recapture feeling but I couldn't. Something cold
was drifting through my stomach, through my chest. It stopped and gathered icily around my heart.
I felt my heart thump slowly, slowly, like a funeral procession drum.
I knew, abruptly, what was happening in the next room. I could see an aged woman lying there, gray
strands of hair across her pillow. Yellow skin and hands like bird claws; cancer of the stomach.
Someone sat beside her, speaking softly. Daughter. I don't want to see this, I decided.
Instantly, I left that room and was in mine again. The pain was almost gone now. I could not
restore it no matter how I tried. I heard a humming sound—yes, humming. Still, the threads kept
tearing. I felt each severed thread end curling in.
The cold "something'' moved again. It moved until it centered in my head. Everything else was
numb. Please! I called for help. No voice; my tongue lay paralyzed. I felt my being drawing
inward, totally collected in my head. Mimbins were compressed—no, try again. M-e-m-b-ranes. Yes.
Pushed out and toward the center all at once.
I began to move out through an opening in my head. There was a buzzing noise, a ringing, something
rushing very fast like a stream through a narrow gorge. I felt myself begin to rise. I was a
bubble, bobbing up and down. I thought I saw a tunnel up above me, dark and endless. I turned over
and looked down and was stunned to see my body lying on the bed. Bandaged and immobile. Fed
through plastic tubes. I was connected to it by a cord which glistened with a silver light. Thin,
it joined my body at the top of my head. The silver cord, I thought; my God, the silver cord. I
knew that it was all that kept my body living.
Revulsion came now as I saw my legs and arms begin to twitch. Breath had almost ceased. There was
a look of agony on my face. Again, I fought—to go back down and join my body. No, I won't go! I
could hear my mind cry out. Ann, help me! Please! We have to be together!
I forced myself down and stared at my face. The lips were purple, there was dewlike sweat across
the skin. I saw the neck veins start to swell. The muscles of my body had begun to twitch. I tried
with all my will to get back in. Ann! I thought. Please call me back so I can stay with you!
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A miracle occurred. Life filled my body, healthy color suffusing the skin, a look of peace across
my face. I thanked God. Ann and the children wouldn't have to see me as I'd been. I thought that I
was coming back, you see.
Not so. I saw my body in a sack of many colors, drawn up by the silver cord. I felt a dropping
sensation, heard a snapping noise—as though a giant rubber band had broken— felt myself begin to
rise.
A flashback then. Yes, that's correct. A flashback; just as in the movies but much faster. You've
read the phrase and heard it many times: "His whole life flashed before him." Robert, it's true.
So fast I couldn't follow it—and in reverse. The days before the accident, back through the
children's lives, my marriage to Ann, my writing career. College, World War Two, high school,
grammar school, my childhood and my infancy. 1974-1927 every second of those years. Each movement,
thought, emotion; every spoken word. I saw it all. A blur of rushing images.
To dream of dreaming
I SAT UP on the bed abruptly, laughing. It had only been a dream! I felt alert, all senses
magnified. Incredible, I thought, how real a dream can be.
But something was wrong with my vision. Everything was blurred as I looked around. I couldn't see
beyond ten feet.
The room was familiar; the walls, the stucco ceiling. Fifteen feet by twelve. The drapes were
beige with brown and orange stripes. I saw a color television set hung near the ceiling. To my
left, a chair—orange-red upholstery like leather, arms of stainless steel. The carpeting was the
same orange-red.
Now I knew why things looked blurred. The room was filled with smoke. There was no odor though; I
found that odd. Not smoke; I suddenly changed my mind. The accident. My eyes were damaged. I was
not dismayed. The relief of knowing I was still alive transcended such concern.
First things first, I thought. I had to find Ann and tell her I was all right, end her suffering.
I dropped my legs across the right side of the mattress and stood. The bedside table was made of
metal, painted beige, a top as in our kitchen. Spell. F-o-r-m-i-c-a. I saw an alcove with a sink.
The faucets looked like golf-club heads, you know? There was a mirror hung above the sink. My
vision was so blurred I couldn't see my reflection.
I started moving closer to the sink, then had to stop. A nurse was coming in. She walked directly
toward me and I stepped aside. She didn't even look at me but gasped and hurried toward the bed. I
turned. A man was lying on it, slack-jawed, skin a pasty gray. He was heavily bandaged, an array
of plastic tubes attached to him.
I turned back in surprise as the nurse ran from the room. I couldn't hear what she was shouting.
I moved in closer on the man and saw that he was probably dead. How come someone else was in my
bed though? What kind of hospital would put two patients in the same bed?
Strange. I leaned in close to look at him. His face was just like mine. I shook my head. That was
impossible. I looked down at his left hand. He wore a wedding band exactly like the one I wore.
How could that be?
I began to feel an aching coldness in my stomach. I tried to draw the sheet back from his body but
I couldn't. Somehow, I had lost the sense of touch. I kept on trying until I saw my fingers going
through the sheet, then pulled my hand back, sickened. No, it isn't me, I told myself. How could
it be when I was still alive? My body even hurt. Proof positive of life.
I whirled as a pair of doctors rushed into the room, stepping back to let them at the body.
One of them began to blow his breath into the man's mouth. The other had a highp—spell. H-y-p-o-
dermic; yes. I watched him shove the needle end into the man's flesh. Then a nurse came running
in, pushing some machine on wheels. One of the doctors pressed the ends of two thick, metal rods
against the man's bare chest and he twitched. Now I knew that there was no relationship between
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the man and me for I felt nothing.
Their efforts were in vain. The man was dead. Too bad, I thought. His family would be grieved.
Which made me think of Ann and the children. I had to find and reassure them. Especially Ann; I
knew how terrified she was. My poor, sweet Ann.
I turned and walked toward the doorway. On my right was a bathroom. Glancing in, I saw a toilet,
light switch and a button with a red bulb next to it, the word Emergency printed beneath the bulb.
I walked into the hall and recognized it. Yes, of course. The card in my wallet said to take me
there in case of accident. The Motion Picture Hospital in Woodland Hills.
I stopped and tried to work things out. There'd been an accident, they'd brought me here. Why
wasn't I in bed then? But I had been in bed. The same one the dead man was in. The man who looked
like me. There had to be an explanation for all this. I couldn't find it though. I couldn't think
with clarity.
The answer finally came. I wasn't sure it was correct— but there was nothing else. I had to accept
it; for the moment anyway.
I was under anesthetic, they were operating on me. Everything was happening inside my mind. That
had to be the answer. Nothing else made sense.
Now what? I thought. Despite the distress of what was taking place, I had to smile. If everything
was happening in my mind, then, being conscious of it, couldn't I control it?
Right, I thought. I'd do exactly what I chose. And what I chose to do was find my Ann.
As I decided that, I saw another doctor running down the hall toward me. Deliberately, I tried to
stop him as he hurried past but my outstretched hand passed through his shoulder. Never mind, I
told myself. In essence, I was dreaming. Any foolish thing could happen in a dream.
I started walking down the hall. I passed a room and saw a green card with white lettering: NO
SMOKING— OXYGEN IN USE. Unusual dream, I thought, I'd never been able to read in dreams; words
always ran together when
I tried. This was completely legible despite the general blurring which continued.
It's not exactly a dream, of course, I told myself, seeking to explain it. Being under anesthesia
isn't like being asleep. I nodded in agreement with the explanation, kept on walking. Ann would be
in the waiting room. I set my mind on reaching her and comforting her. I felt her suffering as
though it were my own.
I passed the nurses' station and heard them talking. I made no attempt to speak to them. All of
this was in my mind. I had to go along with that; accept the rules. All right, it's not a dream
persay—per s-e—but it was easier to think of it as one. A dream then; under anesthesia.
Wait, I thought, stopping. Dream or not, I can't walk around in my patient's gown. I glanced down
at myself, startled to see the clothes I was wearing when the accident occurred. Where's the
blood? I wondered. I recalled an instant vision of myself unconscious in the wreckage. Blood had
been spraying.
I felt a sense of eggs—no! Sorry for the impatience. E-x-u-1-t-a-t-i-o-n. Why? Because I'd
reasoned something out despite the dullness of my mind. I couldn't possibly be that man in the
bed. He was in a patient's gown, bandaged, fed by tubes. I was dressed, unbandaged, mobile. Total
difference.
A man in street clothes was approaching me. I expected him to pass me. Instead, to my surprise, he
put his hand on my shoulder and stopped me. I could feel the pressure of each separate finger on
my flesh.
"Do you know what's happened yet?" he asked.
"Happened?"
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"Yes." He nodded. "You've died."
I looked at him in disgust. "That's absurd," I said.
"It's true."
"If I were dead, I wouldn't have a brain," I told him, "I couldn't talk to you."
"It doesn't work that way," he persisted.
"The man in that room is dead, not me." I said, "I'm under anesthesia, being operated on. In
essence, I'm dreaming." I was pleased by my analysis.
"No, Chris," he said.
I felt a chill. How did he know my name? I peered at him closely. Did I know him? Was that why
he'd appeared in my dream?
No; not at all. I felt distaste for him. Anyway, I thought (the idea made me smile despite my
irritation) this was my dream and he had no claim to it. "Go find your own dream," I said,
gratified by the cleverness of my dismissal.
"If you don't believe me, Chris," he told me, "look in the waiting room. Your wife and children
are there. They haven't been told yet that you've died."
"Wait a minute, wait a minute." I pointed my finger at him, jabbing at the air. "You're the one
who told me not to fight it, aren't you?"
He started to reply but I was so incensed by that I wouldn't let him speak. "I'm tired of you and
tired of this stupid place," I said. "I'm going home."
Something pulled me from him instantaneously. It was as though my body was encased in metal with a
distant magnet drawing me to itself. I hurtled through the air so fast I couldn't see or hear a
thing.
It ended as abruptly as it started. I was standing in fog. I looked around but saw nothing in any
direction. I began to walk, moving slowly through the mist. Now and then, I thought I caught a
fleeting glimpse of people. When I tried to see them clearly, though, they faded off. I almost
called to one, then chose not to. I was master of this dream. I wouldn't let it dominate me.
I attempted to distract myself by making believe I was back in London. Remember how I traveled
there in 1957 to write a film? It had been November and I'd walked in fogs like this more than
once—"pea soup" is a good description. This was even thicker, though; like being underwater. It
even felt wet.
Finally, through the fog, I saw our house. That sight relieved me in two ways. One, the very look
of it. Two, the way I'd gotten there so quickly. That could only happen in a dream.
Suddenly, an inspiration came to me. I've told you how my body hurt. Even though it was a dream, I
still felt pain. Accordingly, I told myself that, since the pain was dream-eng-e-n-dered, it
wasn't necessary that I feel it. Robert, with the thought, the pain was gone. Which caused another
sense of pleasure and relief. What more vivid proof could one require that this was dream and not
reality?
I remembered, then, how I had sat up on the hospital bed, laughing, because it had all been a
dream. That's exactly what it was. Period.
I was in the entry hall without transition. Dream, I thought and nodded, satisfied. I looked
around, my vision still blurred. Wait, I thought. I'd been able to dispel the pain, why not the
vision?
Nothing happened. Everything beyond ten feet was still obscured by what appeared to be a pall of
smoke.
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I whirled at the clicking noise of claws across the kitchen floor. Ginger was running into the
front hall; you recall, our German Shepherd. She saw me and began her rocking, bouncing run of
joy. I spoke her name, delighted by the sight of her. I bent to stroke her head and saw my hand
sink deep into her skull. She recoiled with a yelp and scuttled back in terror, bumping hard
against the kitchen door jamb, ears pressed tight to her head, hair erected on her back.
"Ginger," I said. I fought away a sense of dread. "Come here." She's acting foolishly, I told
myself. I moved after her and saw her slipping frantically on the kitchen floor, trying to run
away. "Ginger!" I cried. I wanted to be irritated with her but she looked so frightened that I
couldn't be. She ran across the family room and lunged out through the flap of the dog door.
I was going to follow her, then decided not to. I would not be victimized by this dream no matter
how insane it got. I turned and called Ann's name.
No answer to my call. I looked around the kitchen, seeing that the coffee maker was on, its pair
of red bulbs burning.
The glass pot on the heater plate was almost empty. I managed a smile. She's done it again, I
thought. In no time, the house would be per—p-e-r-me-at-ed with a reek of burning coffee. I
reached out to pull the plug, forgetting. My hand went through the wire and I stiffened, then
forced back amusement. You can't do anything right in dreams, I reminded myself.
I searched the house. Our bedroom and the bathroom, lan's and Marie's rooms, their connecting
bathroom. Richard's room. I ignored the blurring of my vision. That was unimportant, I decided.
What I found myself unable to ignore was an increasing lethargy I felt. Dream or not, my body felt
like stone. I went back inside our bedroom and sat on my side of the bed. I felt a twinge of
uneasiness because it didn't shift beneath me; it's a water bed. Forget it, a dream's a dream, I
told myself. They're insane, that's all.
I looked at my clock-radio, leaning close to see the hands and numbers. It was six fifty-three. I
looked out through the glass door. It wasn't dark outside. Misty but not dark. Yet how could it be
morning if the house was empty? At this time, they should all be in their beds.
"Never mind,'' I said, struggling to get it all together in my mind. You're being operated on.
You're dreaming this. Ann and the children are at the hospital waiting for—
A new confusion struck me. Was I really in the hospital? Or had that been part of the dream too?
Was I actually asleep on this bed, dreaming everything? Maybe the accident had never occurred.
There were so many possibilities, each one affecting the next. If only I could think more clearly.
But my mind felt numb. As though I'd been drinking or taken sedation.
I lay down on the bed and closed my eyes. It was the only thing to do; I knew that much.
Presently, I'd wake up with the truth: a dream in the hospital while under anesthesia or a dream
in my bed while asleep. I hoped it was the latter.
Because, in that case, I'd wake up to find Ann lying by my side and could tell her what a crazy
dream I'd had. Hold her lovely warmth in my arms and kiss her tenderly and laugh as I told her how
bizarre it is to dream of dreaming.
This black, unending nightmare
I WAS EXHAUSTED but I couldn't rest, my sleep broken by Ann's crying. I tried to rise, to comfort
her. Instead, I hovered in a limbo between darkness and light. Don't cry, I heard myself murmur.
I'll wake up soon and be with you. Just let me sleep a while. Please don't cry; it's all right,
sweetheart. I'll take care of you.
Finally, I was forced to open my eyes. I wasn't lying down but standing in a mist. I started
walking slowly toward the sound of her crying. I was tired, Robert, groggy. But I couldn't let her
cry. I had to find out what was wrong and end it so she wouldn't cry like that. I couldn't bear to
hear her cry like that.
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I moved into a church I'd never seen before. All the pews were filled with people. Their forms
were gray, I couldn't see their features. I walked down the middle aisle, trying to understand why
I was there. What church was this? And why was the sound of Ann's crying coming from here?
I saw her sitting in the front pew, dressed in black, Richard on her right, Marie and Ian to her
left. Next to Richard, I could see Louise and her husband. All of them were dressed in black. They
were easier to see than the other people in the church yet even they looked faded, ghostlike. I
could still hear the sobbing even though Ann was silent. It's in her mind, it came to me; and our
minds are so close I hear it. I hurried toward her to stop it.
I stopped in front of her. "I'm here," I said.
She looked ahead as though I hadn't spoken; as though I weren't there at all. None of them looked
toward me. Were they embarrassed by my presence and pretending not to see? I glanced down at
myself. Perhaps it was my outfit. Hadn't I been wearing it a long time now? It seemed as though I
had although I wasn't sure.
I looked back up. "All right," I said. I had difficulty speaking; my tongue felt thick. "All
right," I repeated slowly. "I'm not dressed correctly. And I'm late. That doesn't mean ..." My
voice trailed off because Ann kept looking straight ahead. I might have been invisible. "Ann,
please," I said.
She didn't move or blink. I reached out to touch her shoulder.
She twitched sharply, looking up, her face gone blank.
"What's wrong?" I asked.
The crying in her mind abruptly surfaced and she jerked her left hand up to cover her eyes, trying
to repress a sob. I felt a numbing pain inside my head. What's wrong? I thought. "Ann, what's
wrong?" I pleaded.
She didn't answer and I looked at Richard. His face was tight, tears running down his cheeks.
"'Richard, what is going on?" I asked. My words sounded slurred as though I were drunk.
He didn't answer and I looked at Ian. "Will you please tell me?" I asked. I felt a stab of anguish
looking at him.
He was sobbing quietly, rubbing shaky fingers at his cheeks, trying to brush away the tears that
fell from his eyes. What in the name of God? I thought.
Then I knew. Of course. The dream; it still continued. I was in the hospital being operated on—no,
I was asleep on my bed and dreaming—whatever! flared my mind. The dream was continuing and now it
included my own funeral. I had to turn away from them; I couldn't stand to watch them crying so. I
hate this stupid dream! I thought. When was it going to end?!
It was torment to me to be turned away when, just behind me, I could hear Ann and the children
sobbing. I felt a desperate need to turn and comfort them. To what avail though? In my dream, they
mourned my death. What good would it do for me to speak if they believed me dead?
I had to think of something else; it was the only answer. The dream would change, they always did.
I walked toward the altar, following the drone of a voice. The minister, I realized. I willed
myself to feel amused. That might be fun, I told myself. Even in a dream, how many men receive the
chance to listen to their own eulogy?
I saw his blurred, gray outline now, behind the pulpit. His voice sounded hollow and distant. I
hope he's giving me a royal send-off, I thought, bitterly.
"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
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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 hands 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,
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