Otherworld (31 page)

“No.”

“The fish is chained, so to speak, to its habitat. But you may go into the water as much as you like, and sometimes for as long as you like, provided you have a breathing apparatus. The fish's world is, in a sense, a lower dimension to you. You can exist in its world, because you are a higher species in a higher dimension, but it cannot exist in yours. Look at my visiting here as a type of scuba diving.”

“Why do you look like a man?” Mike asked.

“What should I look like?” Malcam asked.

“Oh, I don't know. Just a question. How do you look in your world?”

“That is something I cannot explain in three-dimensional terms, and if I described myself in ten-dimensional terms, you either would not understand it at all, or your brain might explode. Care to take a chance?” He smiled.

“I think I'll pass. How did you come to visit Dr. Bering?”

“Throughout your world's history, my people have taken quite a shine to the thinkers among you. The philosophers, the scientists, the poets and professors. Samuel is one of many I have befriended out of sheer admiration for his intellect. Also because I take pride in assisting these great thinkers in their pursuit of higher understanding. My world regularly watches yours. There was a time when I saw Samuel struggling with the theories of hyperspace, with Kaluza-Klein, and I thought I might give him some firsthand experience.”

“How often do your people visit?”

“We can assume that there are at least one hundred visits with different people around the world every day,” Malcam said.

“UFOs?” Mike asked.

“When they are real, it is us,” Malcam responded.

“Why haven't you made yourselves known publicly? Why haven't you met with governments?”

“Influencing thought interests us, not influencing government. Besides, we have yet to see a world leader who would respond well to one of our visits. You have to understand that we select only those we feel can handle our sudden appearances. And at the same time, we are not in the least interested in superstitious and spiritual men, who may regard us as ghosts or spirits.”

“Is there no truth to the spiritual realm?”

“Any spiritual reality lies with us. If a man's ghostly encounter is a true story, you can bet he met up with one of my colleagues. The same goes for so-called angels. Michael, there are no extraterrestrials, no spirits, and no angels. There is only you and me.”

“Religion?”

“Poppycock.”

“Sacred writings?”

“Of noble intention, but misguided nonetheless. Most are rubbish.”

“The Bible?”

Malcam chuckled. “A good book, but not
the
good book.”

“Jesus?”

Malcam seemed to wince at the name, but a grin cut through his face. “A nice fellow,” he said. “Still, He had it in His head to stir things up. You might say He almost deserved His fate.”

“What about life after death?” Mike asked.

“My, my! You do have all the questions, don't you? God and Devil; life and death. Heaven and hell. But that one, Michael, I do not know if I can answer in the way you would like. There is no death for my kind. And as for yours, I cannot say what lies beyond your last night on earth. I would suspect nothingness. My supposition is that death is the end of existence, the end of consciousness.”

“Then what is the point of anything?”

“Why, life, of course! This life. Make what you can of it. Enjoy it. You are, in your basest form, an animal. Therefore, hedonism is human nature's truest and highest art.”

“Hedonism?”

“Pleasure is the highest good, and the only moral duty is fulfilled through pursuing our appetites.”

Through this entire exchange, Dr. Bering remained silent, sitting in his chair and beaming. Somehow, the introduction of Mike to Malcam pleased him greatly.

Mike asked more questions about life. Malcam's words soothed him and reassured him. Perhaps DEATH was really just death, and he had feared it needlessly all these years. Animating corpses and recurring dreams were figments of his paranoid imagination, grotesque fantasies that were really portrayals of his subconscious fears. Life and death were separate, were intended to be separate. For now, all that was, was life. This eventually led him to the inevitable: Molly.

“I have a wife,” Mike said to Malcam.

“I had a feeling you'd get to this,” Malcam said. “Samuel has told me you're quite taken with her and are troubled by her absence.”

“Well, yes—”

“Do you love her?” Malcam asked.

“Of course,” Mike responded.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes. I do. I love her. I'm empty without her. I need her and want her to need me. I'm not the same alone.”

“So it may not be that you need
her
, but that you feel empty without someone to share your life with. Allow me to suggest, Michael, that it is not your wife you crave, but the sharing of a relationship with a woman. I'm guessing you miss her warmth, her tenderness, her companionship, her affection. Perhaps the intimacy of sexual intercourse?”

“Well, yeah. All those things,” Mike said.

“And couldn't you find those things in another?”

“Yeah, I guess. But it's Molly I want.”

“Ah, yes. Emotional attachment. Quite understandable. But believe me, given time, you can develop the same attachment to another. I am by no means suggesting you hop right out and find yourself a lady friend. Take what time you need, but realize that if she's been gone this long and shows no signs of returning, it is probably best that you sever that bond. There is no such thing as
meant for each other
. Only what she and you and anybody else wants.”

This all sounded so right to Mike. It sounded so right and so true. How could anyone actually believe that two people were destined to be together? And how could anyone believe that divine providence brought people together? It never made sense, and now Malcam was saying that it didn't because it didn't happen.

“Mike,” Dr. Bering said, “are you all right?”

“Huh?” Mike mumbled.

“You look very, very tired.”

“I guess I could use some sleep.”

“Sure you could. Malcam understands. This is a lot of exposure all at one moment. You probably should go home and get some rest. That would be all right, wouldn't it, Malcam?”

“That would be fine,” Malcam said.

“We'll still be here when you're ready to have another go at it,” Bering said.

“Okay,” said Mike. “I'll just go home and rest up a little. Maybe we could visit again tomorrow?”

“All in good time, friend,” said Malcam.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

The next morning, Graham Lattimer went to church. Steve's sermon was an adequate one, an able exposition of the second half of Romans 7. He seemed back to his old self. He paced and waved his hands and had the congregation hanging on his every word. Perhaps he had found a comfort in his congregation's passive acceptance of performance rather than proclamation. Going through the motions never fazed them, Graham realized. He wondered if Steve would make his announcement at the conclusion of the service. The message ended, Don Figaro prayed, the offering plate made its way through reluctant hands, and everyone rose to sing “The Bond of Love.” No announcement.

On his way out, he shook Steve's hand, telling the pastor to give him a call if he needed anything. Graham drove back out to Trumbull, heading straight for the station. Once inside, his first words were, “Any word from Petrie?”

“No, sir,” Kelly said.

“I'm headin' out to the Dickeys',” he said.

Still dressed in his Sunday best, he took his police cruiser out to Trace Road. Pulling into the driveway, he noticed that the house seemed different. Darker, maybe. He glanced up at the sky. In the entire expanse, there hovered only one cloud, seemingly directly over the Dickeys' house. But it was not blocking out the sun. The image of shade didn't come from the cloud. There was just a shadow. Or at least, what looked like one.

Be assured.

The same feeling he had during his last visit to the Dickeys' returned. Was it fear? Nervousness? Something about the house or someone who lived in it wasn't right, and Graham knew for the first time that the sensation was a spiritual one. The aura of the house afflicted his spirit. There was an evil presence about the place.

He tucked his hand inside his coat, feeling his pistol strapped securely into his shoulder holster. The gun made him feel better but didn't make him feel good. He strode up to the house, scanning the windows for any signs of danger. He knocked on the door.

Pops opened it.

“What can I do for you, Captain?”

“We're missin' an officer,” said Graham.

“What's that got to do with me?” Pops asked.

“He was last seen on his way out to your property. You know Sam Petrie, don't you?”

“Yeah. He the guy who checked out my cow? Tall, gangly fella?”

“That's him.”

“Yeah. I know him. Nice fella,” said Pops.

“Have you seen him?” asked Graham.

“Well, no. Not since the last time the two of you came by together.”

“'Cause he said he was coming by your place. And Sam don't lie. So if he said he was, he did. Or at least tried to.”

“What's that supposed to mean?” Pops asked.

“That means I believe something happened to him, and since he was last seen headin' out here, you got some questions to answer,” Graham said.

“Well, go ahead and ask.”

“For the record: you see Petrie yesterday?”

“Nope.”

“You sure?”

“Yep.”

Graham peered over Pops's shoulder, trying to look into the house. Pops stepped over, blocking his view.

“You charging me with anything?” Pops asked.

“How's Gertie?”

“Gertie's fine.”

“She here today?” asked Graham.

“No. No, she's out today.”

“Where's she at?”

“With a friend.”

“Friend got a name?” Graham asked.

Pops flushed with anger. “She didn't tell me, okay? You wanna quit beating around the bush and come out and tell me what's going on?”

“Mind if I come inside?” Graham asked.

“You got a warrant?”

“Why are you so concerned about warrants, Mr. Dickey?”

“'Cause I don't want you in my house, that's why!”

“Got something to hide?”

“No.”

“Then why can't I come in?”

“Because I don't like you.”

“Fair enough. But listen to me, you old fool: Petrie's my friend, and if something happened to him, and if I find out you had something to do with it, I won't need a warrant to come crashing through your door and beat your face in.”

“And I'll be waiting for you,” Pops said, and he slammed the door in Graham's face.

Stepping away from the Dickey home, Graham felt safer. The air didn't seem as cold outside the gate.

He drove back down Trace Road, the way he had come. As he neared its intersection with Rolling Lane, he let off the gas and leaned over to turn on the heater. He played with the knobs, setting it just right. When he looked up again, back at the road, he caught some movement in the woods out of the corner of his eye. He slammed on the brakes. Turning his head, he managed to catch a glimpse of a figure, clad in black, disappearing into the brush.

Graham put the cruiser in park and hurried out, running up to the edge of the woods. A narrow ditch separated the road from the brush. He heard a branch snap beyond the brush, from deep inside the dense thicket.

“Who's there?” he called. But he had a vague intuition he knew who it was.

Graham pulled his firearm out of his shoulder holster and surveyed the ditch. He walked cautiously into the brush.

“Trumbull Police! Come on out,” he yelled.

He could hear footsteps, faint and rapid, in the dark woods ahead of him. He waded through the bushes. They were wet with melted frost, and they dampened his suit. Pistol extended, he crept out of the brush and to the edge of the trees. He squinted, trying to make out anything in the dense foliage. He froze. He couldn't quite tell, but it appeared as if a person stood next to a tree about thirty yards ahead of him. Shadows overwhelmed that distance, but he could feel the figure watching him.

“Who's there?” he shouted.

Graham jogged forward and hid behind a large tree. He peeked around. The figure had disappeared. He listened. He could hear the sound of leaves crunching beneath footfalls. He swung around the trunk and ran five yards to another.

“This is the police! Come on out, now, with your hands raised!”

The distant footsteps stopped.

Maybe he's too far away for me to hear.

Graham walked forward, making sure to keep behind trees, keeping his eyes focused on the darkness ahead. He stepped into a clearing and paused. He listened. Something moved in the grass behind him, and he spun around to see the branches of a bush rattling. He pointed his pistol.

“Who's there?” he shouted.

A wicked laugh erupted from the woods behind him, slicing through the air and into Graham's head, and he turned around again. A wind began sweeping through the trees, swaying the branches and whistling eerily.

“Come on out where I can see you!”

Footsteps to his left.

He whirled around. Nothing.

Again, the stirring behind him.

He turned around. Nothing.

Okay, Graham. Just relax. You're getting paranoid here. Just a little frazzled. Get it together.

With his pistol steadied in both hands, he started walking purposefully into the darkness. He made it ten yards, when he heard a laugh. It stopped him in his tracks. His blood ran cold. Gooseflesh broke out on his arms. The cackle was different than before. It was deep, guttural, and sounded simultaneously human and inhuman.

Be assured.

“Who's there?” he called, but his voice lacked the usual authority.

His air of command left. Cold fear set in.

Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil,
he thought. He holstered his pistol, closed his eyes, and prayed.

When he opened his eyes, he ran back to his car and radioed for backup. He wanted the woods searched.

 

Mike slept on and off for a good seventeen hours, but when he awoke, he felt more tired than he had the previous day. He drank some juice and tumbled back into bed.

The previous day struck him as a fantastic dream, but he looked forward to venturing into that dreamland again.

There is no such thing as “meant for each other.”

Malcam's sharp words resonated in Mike's mind, haunting and peculiarly charming. And despite the words' seemingly mystical source, they were undeniably unromantic. Even worse: they somehow made sense.

There is no “meant for each other
,
”
Mike thought.
And …

Did he really love her?

… there is no meaning.

Could he love another?

No meaning to anything.

Thoughts sailed in like whispers from foreign tongues. He could conceive the inconceivable. Perhaps their love was not meant to be. Perhaps Mike belonged to greater things. Perhaps he was meant for something else. Or, perhaps …

… someone else.

 

Consciousness stole back into Mike's head, stingy with its clarity, so he did not fully realize (or accept) its arrival. The effects of stepping into the otherworld swam over him, the aftershocks of a maddening adventure. And when he looked up and saw a man sitting in a chair at the foot of the bed, he didn't jump. Not at first.

He merely stared, squinting his eyes into focus. His mind swallowed the last drop of consciousness, and he awoke. Then he jumped back, slamming his spine into the headboard of the bed. The back of his skull knocked against the wall. He winced.

“Who's there?”

“Don't be afraid, chum. It's only me.”

I'm still asleep
, Mike thought.
I'm still dreaming. And maybe … maybe this whole thing's been a dream.
“Are you real?” he asked, not really thinking.

“As real as you.”

Mike didn't like the answer. “Malcam?”

“Aw,” he mocked. “You guessed it.”

“What … what are you doing here? Where's Dr. Bering?”

“The professor and I aren't joined at the hip, friend,” Malcam said. “I come and go as I please, and it would be in your best interest not to assume that the old man has the monopoly on fellowship with my kind.”

Mike squirmed uneasily. An uncomfortable realization arrived: he had removed his clothing during his sleep.

“Our dreams reflect our lives, Michael. Oh, how they do. You don't understand this yet, but I can help you understand it.”

“Wh—?” Mike began.

“You are naked.”

Mike blushed. He pulled the covers further up, pressing them to his chest.

“You are naked and ashamed,” Malcam said. “In your sleep you have wrestled off your clothes, and now you are naked.” He rolled his eyes. “The symbolism is rich. You are vulnerable. And you are ashamed.”

Mike scanned the floor for his clothes. “Why are you here?” he asked.

“To make you unashamed! To give you your life back. Don't you see, friend? You are naked. You are weak and afraid. I can make you strong again. I can make you unashamed. You have only to let me in.”

“I … I don't understand. I want these things. I know I do. I want to be different. I want to be free—”

“Free!” Malcam shouted. “Yes!” He floated toward Mike and whispered, “I can set you free, chum.” His breath hit Mike's face and sizzled with a bittersweet warmth. “Your freedom is in
me
.”

Mike's eyes swelled with tears and overflowed. “Let me dress,” he said.

“Of course, friend. But soon, you will be naked and unashamed. Just as your kind was before. Malcam only cares for your restoration,” he said. But Mike sensed beneath Malcam's paternal facade an obvious mockery. And for some reason, he did not feel consoled at all.

From “Texas Hot Spot Update” by Don Montag in
U.F.O. Report Magazine
:

In the pale light of early morning, Trumbull looks like any other small town. But this tiny Texan burg has attracted UFO researchers from all over the country. And a few from points beyond.

Reynaldo Esperanza, a photojournalist from Mexico City, is here, and he tries to blend in with the folks at the local McDonald's, in the hopes that someone will give him a story … any story about what is going on here. Esperanza lost his photographer's job with a Mexico City television station after he spearheaded a campaign to get footage of UFO sightings in the city skies on the air. “The people of Mexico City, the government in particular, were very afraid of what that might mean for the city,” he says. “They feared rioting. Now, the sightings are commonplace. They are as much a tourist attraction as anything else. Still, I cannot get my job back.”