Adrift on Ethereal Seas

Chapter 4

With time to kill I returned to the Lewis residence. The rest of the team had vacated for classes, I suppose, or paying jobs, perhaps, leaving me alone. Standing at the base of the stairs, I expected to feel some sense of foreboding, a tingling on the skin or scalp - some sensation of disembodied presences.

I felt nothing. This feeling persisted as I climbed to the second floor and for the first time gazed upon the murder/suicide scenes. Fresh paint on the walls and new beds and bedding removed any clues that something other than mundane living had ever happened here. I closed my eyes and tried to picture the Lewis family, but failed. They were gone - from memory and from here. This house was empty, by God! So, what was the nightly ruckus all about?

The thunderous emptiness of this house actually comforted me. Whatever their fate, Lacey, Charlotte and Cynthia - and Mike, too - had long gone. They were not consigned to living that horror over and over again in some purgatorial prison. A gentle breeze wafted though the open windows, rustling the curtains and making me long for the final arrival of spring. I envisioned legions of angels winging the girls to their rest, and taking Michael aside for a good long talking to.

A distant rumble pulled me away from my reverie and prompted a glance at my cell phone. I had one more visit to make before the others returned and the predicted arrival of an afternoon shower. Glancing behind me, I decided to risk the intrusion of rain and left the windows open.

Greg Smith was just pulling into his driveway directly across the street when I descended the front steps. He pretended he did not hear me when I called his name the first time. After the second he reluctantly turned. He seemed impatient, annoyed was more like it, as I approached him (so many people seemed jumpy around here). When I introduced myself and explained the purpose of my visit, he spun, stalked away and muttered, "I don't want to talk about it."

I implored him, "Greg, please! I won't be long. I promise."

He turned again and strode up to me, breathless. "I don't mean to be rude, Pastor, but I've been trying to forget that night for months, and I don't want to think about it, anymore."

I sighed. "I understand, Greg. Several of your neighbors feel the same." This time it was my turn to walk away. Before I reached the curb, Greg Smith called after me. "All right," he said, "One last time I'll tell you what I know. But it would be best if you came in, because Teri might have something to add."

Apparently, his wife Teri had arrived a few minutes earlier, because she was still wearing business clothes and appeared unsettled. The tall, pretty, dark-haired woman seemed to be battling her weight, but more successfully than her otherwise slender, pot-bellied husband. Through small talk I learned that Greg owned a pet store in town and Teri worked as a hospital administrator.

"Greg can't stop blaming himself for what happened," Teri offered, then paused to let Greg finish the story.

"We had a Labor Day cookout," he continued, "and of course we provided booze. I completely forgot that Mike was on the wagon and might find the victuals and party atmosphere too tempting. When I saw him holding a glass of whiskey and the look on Lacey's face, I thought I was going to shi . . . uh . . . you know."

"I do," I replied.

"Mike got drunk that might," Teri went on, "and seemed to stay drunk right up to . . ."

Both fell silent, tears welling up in Teri's eyes while Greg bit his lip and clenched his fists.

"I feel like I pulled the trigger myself," he muttered.

"Now you listen to me, both of you," I interrupted. "This was not your fault. Temptation is everywhere, and Mike would have succumbed to it someplace else. You are not to blame yourselves for someone else's irresponsibility and lack of self-control. Only Mike Lewis committed a crime here. Not you. Are you listening to me?"

The young couple fastened their eyes on me like children being dressed down by a teacher. I never learned whether the Smiths attended church or took my profession seriously, but the tension drained from their faces as I assured them of what I know to be true. "If you are guilty of any misdeed - and I don't think you are - then I am here to say you have been forgiven of it and you are not to think about it, anymore. It's my job to know this and to tell you. Am I clear?"

They nodded slowly. Teri had been sitting on the arm of their sofa next to Greg. She reached behind him and rubbed his neck. "Thank you, Pastor," they said, almost in unison.

"We're meeting friends for dinner," Teri said. "Otherwise, we'd ask you to stay."

"That's all right, Teri and Greg," I answered as I assessed the foreboding sky while standing on their front stoop. "Please remember what I told you."

"We will," Teri replied. Greg waved.

The rain held off and the unseasonable warmth remained for one more day. Suddenly, I was beginning to feel that meant something.

3

Few cuisines degenerate from tasty and pleasant to suspect and threatening like Chinese take-out. The hours old, lukewarm concoction on which I fed that evening made me feel like I was eating on a dare. Fortunately, the germ of an idea percolated in my mind in concert with the food in my stomach, thus distracting me from the discomfort soon to be shared by all.

By all I mean all but Audrey. The other three guys failed to offer any explanation for her absence. Although the promise of dining on Wong Pow's chicken and water chestnuts scooped from a buffet table at lunchtime would have been enough for most to proffer some excuse, I suspect last night's experience primarily fomented her decision. (oh, no)

"Clearly, what we have here is a simple equipment malfunction," Bart pontificated. "We will simply relocate the recorder to the front hallway, raise the volume, and preserve this remarkable phenomenon for posterity."

Simple.

Jason and Chris consented like sheep, clearly exhausted from two consecutive sleepless nights and the additional burden of mid-terms. By 10 p.m. deep sleep had claimed them.

This left me with the unenviable fate of chatting with Bart, who, after the veneer of self-possession and omniscience burned off - an attitude borne out of low self-esteem - proved himself to be a decent sort. His personality and family life reminded me of Mike Lewis, although I had not seen him take a drink, nor did I detect any metallic objects in his waistband.

"I've got to confess my wife and I are struggling." Bart described the ordeal of supporting two young sons and themselves on her first-year teacher's salary and his income as an adjunct instructor. He hoped that documenting the strange occurrences in this house would achieve notoriety, lend credibility to his career and translate into some desperately needed cash.

I could not bring myself to share my suspicion that there would be no tangible evidence to document.

Bart drifted off about quarter to twelve, leaving me to entertain myself for two hours. I had committed to staying awake this time to see if any obvious natural factor triggered a repeat of that horrendous episode. Fortunately, wakefulness did not prove quite the struggle I anticipated, thanks to the stirring qualities of Wong Pow's Kitchen.

The gentle caress of an unseasonably warm nighttime breeze soothed me outwardly, at least. Once again, the windows had been thrown open to the premature promise of spring . . . just as they were last October . . . and then again on Thanksgiving weekend.

When the sound of distant church bells struck the hour of 2 a.m., it all came clear.

Seconds later, the door slammed and Mike Lewis' voice reverberated throughout the house, "Lacey! You w***e! We're finished!" I shot a glance at my colleagues who were now rising from sleep, as opposed to last night when the initial explosion of noise jolted us all wide awake. As the soul crushing events played out once again, one significant change could not be denied. It was nowhere near as loud as it was the night before.

After the last gunshot and thump, Bart bolted to the recording equipment and cued replay. His shoulders slumped with disappointment as once again the speakers emitted no sounds other than a rattling venetian blind and snoring. If Bart was ever to make a name for himself it would have to be in some other dwelling on some other night.

After comparing notes, I offered one final statement before laying down to sleep, leaving my compatriots curious and demanding an explanation. "Tomorrow night," I announced with absolute certainty, "you will hear nothing - and you'll probably hear nothing like this here or anywhere else ever again."

We awoke to a steady drizzle laced ever-so-slightly with an occasional snowflake. The anticipated cold front had arrived, necessitating a return to wintertime living, which included most significantly the closing of all windows.

"So, what makes you an expert all of a sudden, Reverend?" Bart prodded, snapping back to his original obnoxious self while chewing on the gluey contents of a Pop Tart.

I replied with what I hoped was an equally obnoxious smile. "We won't know until this evening, of course, so let's just say I have a theory."

"Care to share it, Rev?" Jason asked innocently.

"I'll share part of it. We did not hear ghosts last night and the night before. There is no remnant of the Lewis family in this house. We heard a psychic projection."

"Say what?" Bart stopped chewing and used a napkin to clear the thick jelly from between his teeth.

"Three times during my career in the ministry - on three totally unrelated occasions - a church member, a friend and a total stranger all shared with me a similar experience. In all cases a dear loved one had recently passed from this earth, and all claimed to have been visited by that loved one in a dream. Every one of them said the dream was so realistic they actually felt their loved one's presence in the room."

"That's not unusual, Rev . . ." Chris broke in.

I nodded and raised my hand before he could finish. "I know, Chris, but these dreams all contained other peculiarities that made me feel like something else was at work. Remember - and I swear to this - not one of these people ever met each other, nor did I ever share what was told to me until after the third testimony."

Bart put down his Pop Tart and lent me his undivided attention. Likewise, Jason and Chris, standing by the kitchen counter, stared at me intently.

"In all three cases the loved one smiled for the duration of the dream. He or she was wearing clothes or a hair style that no one in that family had ever seen before. And none of them spoke a word - no advice, no comforting message - nothing."

"That is interesting," Bart conceded.

"Yeah," Chris interjected, "If this were a trick of the subconscious, the deceased would look the same and offer reassuring words to the dreamer."

"So, what do you think it means?" Jason prodded.

"I really had to hustle up an explanation the first time. A Jewish, man who worked out at the same health club as me, shared his story when I told him I was a minister. His oldest son had recently committed suicide, and he had lately been having the dreams I just described. At first, I thought I was scrambling to ease his pain as much as possible, but the two corroborating incidents make me feel like my original interpretation was pretty much on target."