Poltergeist (5 page)

“But what do you mean, honey? What TV people?”

Carol Anne looked quizzically at her mother for a second, as if searching for something, then turned back to the television and studied the dots.

Doris Melnick called a half hour later, to give Diane the name and number of Dr. Bremer. The Specialist.

“But the thing is,” said Doris, “you’ve got to go see him right now, or else you’ve got to wait six weeks—I mean, the man is booked solid, but I just talked to his secretary and they had a cancellation this morning. This
morning
. I mean, is that an omen, or what?”

Diane didn’t believe in omens, as such, but she did believe in opportunities, taken and missed. And she didn’t relish the idea of waiting around through six more weeks of Carol Anne’s conversations with channel zero—not to mention the previous day’s screaming episode.

“Okay, where do I sign up?” she responded after a moment’s consideration.

Doris gave her directions to the office building, and two hours later Diane found herself sitting in a tastefully decorated reception room with Carol Anne, staring nervously at carpeted walls while Muzak fed out a selection of tunes like “Mr. Sandman,” “Dream, Dream, Dream,” and “Tossin’ and Turnin’ All Night.” The stenciled letters on the door read:

CARL BREMER, M.D., Ph.D.
SLEEP DISORDERS

After about five minutes, the intercom on the receptionist’s desk buzzed discreetly, whereupon the receptionist told Diane the doctor would see them now. Diane and Carol Anne stood, and then entered the main office.

Dr. Bremer rose to meet them.

“How do you do? I’m Dr. Bremer. You must be Mrs. Freeling . . . and you must be Carol Anne.” He smiled, shook hands with them both. He was much younger than Diane had expected; she was a bit taken aback. Carol Anne looked sheepishly at the floor.

“Yes, I . . . how do you do?”

They went through the standard formalities and pleasantries; then Dr. Bremer soon came right to the point. “And now—how may I help you?”

“Well. My daughter started sleepwalking several weeks ago, and it seems to be getting worse. It started out, we’d wake up in the morning and find her sleeping in the bathtub, of all places. Once we found her in the front room in a daze, tearing all the leaves off the Ficus. But mostly, it’s the television. She just sits in front of the set, tuned to white noise,
talking
to it. Then there’s the strange dreams she’s been having, and then yesterday we found her in front of the TV screaming bloody murder; I swear, it took an hour to calm her down and then when she woke up after her nap she didn’t remember a thing.” Diane sat back in her chair with an almost audible “whew.” That had all just come pouring out—it had been building up in her more than she’d realized.

Dr. Bremer smiled reassuringly. “First of all, Mrs. Freeling, stop worrying so much. This isn’t such an uncommon problem, and it isn’t all that serious, most likely.”

“What do you mean, ‘most likely’?” Diane instantly seized on the qualification.

“I mean that by and large these episodes of simple somnambulism are not associated with any significant pathology. And generally, the child outgrows them. Our therapy is aimed toward keeping the child in a secure environment, so he—she—doesn’t inadvertently harm herself.”

As Dr. Bremer was speaking, Diane’s eye was caught by a large print hanging on the wall beyond his desk—a picture of a woman in a nightgown, sleeping sprawled on her bed, a bizarre little demon sitting on top of her, a wild horse’s head emerging out of the dark background.

Bremer noticed her notice it. “Striking painting, isn’t it? Just a copy, of course. It’s titled
The Nightmare
, by Fuseli. People used to think dreams were visitations—by devils, angels, incubi, whatever. We know better, now, of course.” He spoke with a secure arrogance that was comforting.

“Well.” Diane relaxed a little. “Where do we go from here?”

“We can set up some dates in the future for EEG recording, a few psychological screening tests—TAT, MMPI, and so on. For right now, though, why don’t we just have Carol Anne tell me what some of these dreams have been about?” He scrunched down to Carol Anne’s level. “Can you tell me some of your dreams, Carol Anne? I’d really like to know.”

Carol Anne became shy, looked in her lap, looked at her mother, giggled, looked at her mother again.

“Go ahead, Carol Anne, stop being so silly. Tell Dr. Bremer, just like you tell me and Daddy. Tell him the one about the orange bird.”

Maternal sanction seemed to do the trick. Carol Anne’s eyes got wide, as she started to remember all of her dream-people.

“The fire-man?” She looked at her mother. Diane nodded, and Carol Anne turned toward Bremer. “He’s not really a man, he’s really a bird, but really he’s made of fire.”

“Uh huh, and what does he do in your dream?”

“Oh, he flies, and he’s orange. And sometimes he carries me, but he doesn’t burn. Sometimes I fall off, though.”

“What happens then?”

“I fall. Then the shadow-man laughs and tries to catch me, but I never let him, ’cuz of his teeth, so he flies away too.”

“Have you had that dream more than once?”

She nodded.

“Tell me another one.”

“I don’t like the one about the star-man—he’s too loud.” Carol Anne made a disapproving face. “But I like the tree-man part a lot, except when the fire-man burns him up. That makes me sad. That’s when everyone starts crying.”

“Who’s everyone?”

“All the people in the funny clothes like in Gramma’s . . . scrapbook.” She smiled up at her mother; Diane smiled back.

Bremer continued to coax her. Carol Anne went on to describe an elaborate dream world of good and bad creatures—beings shaped like flames, like leaves, like star clusters, like darkness. The creatures played with her, chased her, ignored her, threatened her. And there was something else—something she wouldn’t talk about. Something that made her stop talking.

At the end of the hour, Dr. Bremer sat back with a look of contemplative satisfaction. “Well, I think we’ve covered a lot of ground this time. I’d like you to make an appointment for, oh, a few days from now, we can get the testing started at that time.”

“Well . . . what do you think?” Diane felt perplexed, but hopeful.

“I think she’ll come along just fine.” He smiled broadly. “Over the course of the next couple weeks we’ll differentiate these episodes, characterize them—true somnambulism versus auto-hypnosis, or epilepsy . . .”

“Epilepsy!”

“Please, don’t be alarmed. I don’t think this is epilepsy, but we’ll find out for sure. And even on the off chance it is, Mrs. Freeling, chances are we can completely control it with medications.” He wore his earnest face again.

“Well . . . thank you,” Diane said a little breathlessly as she stood to go. “Say thank you, Carol Anne.”

“Thank you,” she peeped.

“Thank
you
, young lady,” said the doctor. “You have the most interesting dreams.”

When Diane got home, she made both of them lunch. She wasn’t certain how she felt about Bremer’s pronouncements—the session had left her both depressed and excited—but at least she was doing something. That was the main thing. Carol Anne was getting help.

She spent the next hour cleaning up the bedroom. Shards of glass covered the floor where pictures had fallen and shattered. White flakes from the acoustic ceiling stuck to the rug in patches, already settling into the pile.

And E. Buzz was no help. The shaggy golden retriever seemed convinced that he and Diane were playing a fantastic game of Run-around-behind-Diane-and-try-to-Eat-Her-Shoe-When-She-Was-Bending-Over-and-Then-Run-Away-and-Then-Do-It-Again. Diane was playing a good game, but E. Buzz was winning.

At half-time Diane sat on the floor against the dresser and had a smoke. E. Buzz lay on the bed, but Diane was too worn out to yell him off. Then as she was finishing her Virginia Slim, something funny happened. E. Buzz sat right up on the bed, faced the wall, and growled. Growled at nothing.

“E. Buzz, whatever are you up to now?”

The dog bared his teeth, kept growling.

Diane got up and walked over to the wall the retriever was so concerned with. Nothing there. Just the blank wall above the headboard, still carrying its five-year-old, dirty white paint job, not a . . . wait, there was something new. A spot, high on the wall; more a stain, the size of a quarter. Brownish—it looked almost textured. She touched it: no residue, but when she sniffed her finger, it had a cloying, musty smell. The dog barked, and backed away.

Diane tried to rub the stain off with a damp cloth, but it wouldn’t come. She tried Ajax on a sponge, and then vinegar with a brush. She couldn’t remove the stain; she couldn’t even lighten it. E. Buzz watched the entire operation with suspicion.

Suddenly the dog changed his stance, though without apparent reason. Still staring at the spot on the wall, he stopped growling and began to wag his tail. He sat up, and extended his paw to be shaken. He jumped to the floor, barked twice, rolled over, and sat in place, his tail wagging; his eyes were bright, fixed to the wall.

Diane stared at this remarkable display, totally nonplussed. “E. Buzz, what has gotten
into
you?”

Her own words made her vaguely uncomfortable, though, so she refrained from further comment. E. Buzz ran from the room.

She followed the dog downstairs to the kitchen. By the time she got there, he was barking vociferously at one of the kitchen chairs, which was leaning precariously on two legs against the dishwasher. Beneath it, on the floor, was an overturned open bottle of strawberry preserves.

“Carol Anne!” Diane shouted.

The little girl emerged from the pantry.

“Did you spill that jelly on the floor, young lady?” her mother demanded.

Carol Anne shook her head.

To Diane, lying was the worst sin. And between the mess in the bedroom, the dog acting up, this jam on the floor, the unwanted pool . . . her nerves were stretched thin. So she grabbed Carol Anne by the arm, and gave the child a good swift swat on the rear. Tears filled the girl’s eyes.

“Don’t you ever try to cover up with lies,” Diane scolded. “Lying is much worse than spilled jelly.”

She stormed into the broom closet and got a sponge mop to clean up the mess. When she came back into the kitchen a moment later, though, she let the mop clatter to the floor and, for just a second, she lost her breath.

All six kitchen chairs were piled in a neat pyramid atop the table, reaching clear up to the ceiling. Carol Anne stood motionless beside the sink, right where Diane had just left her. Her eyes were wide with wonder.

Diane looked from Carol Anne to the chairs, and back again. “The TV people?” she asked quietly.

Carol Anne nodded tentatively: she didn’t want to be accused of lying again. “Uh huh,” she said.

Diane tried to remain calm, to keep the tremor out of her voice. She knew the thing a child feared most was fear in a parent. “Can you see them, sweetheart?”

“Uh uh,” Carol Anne whispered. She could see her mother was upset, but was uncertain why. Maybe the television people should be spanked.

“Are you afraid?” Diane asked.

“Uh uh,” Carol Anne answered quickly. She had learned her lesson: she would not lie.

Diane relied on what she saw as a fund of natural wisdom in her little girl—she relied on it, and took many cues from the child’s reactions. So: if Carol Anne wasn’t scared now, Diane felt that was probably pretty good evidence why she shouldn’t be scared.

“Okay, sweetheart, Mommy’s going to put the chairs back, and then we’ll see if we can talk to the TV people. Okay?”

Carol Anne nodded and smiled. It was a game, after all.

E. Buzz walked in carefully, sniffed the floor, growled, then ran outside with his tail down and ears flat back.

“And here we have the guest bathroom.” Steve smiled invitingly.

Mr. and Mrs. Laird each peeked into the spotless, barren cubicle, then accompanied Steve into the spotless, barren kitchen.

“You live in this area yourself, I understand,” Mr. Laird commented.

“Absolutely,” nodded Steve. “We were the first family to move in. In fact, this property we’re looking at now is the identical design to my own home.”

“They do all seem to have a sameness about them,” Mrs. Laird said a bit dubiously.

“Well, there are four basic types, actually.” Steve felt a little on the defensive with this buyer; he wasn’t sure why. Something in her tone. “And we have extremely liberal building codes—very easy to build additions if you want.”

They walked through the downstairs hall. Mrs. Laird tapped on the walls. “Sound like they’re hollow,” she muttered.

“Let me show you the upstairs.” Steve tried to sound ingratiating as they started the climb.

“Doesn’t look like many people live in this area yet,” Mr. Laird said in a rising voice.

“No, this is the newest area of development—Phase Four. Believe me, it won’t be long, though, before Phase Four is just as populated as Phase One, down where I live—you won’t be able to tell ’em apart.”

“I can hardly tell them apart now,” Mrs. Laird said under her breath.

Steve took them into the master bedroom, opened the windows for them, showed them the view: quiet, rolling hills.

“Smells like rain,” said Laird.

“This way,” Steve replied. Down the hall, into the rear bedrooms. “At our place, we use this one for the kids’ room.”

Mrs. Laird entered, tested the lights, opened the closet door. She nodded her first approval: “Big closets.”

Dr. Martha Lesh sat in her lab at U.C. Irvine going over data. She was sixty-one years old and wore her hair tight, making her appear to be a severe woman, but she was not severe.

She was actually rather warm, once her reserved facade was broken; yet here, in her laboratory, reserve was the face she maintained—everything seemed to run more efficiently because of it. She was used to manipulating environments with her manner, though: her training was in psychiatry, and she’d been a full professor for over ten years.

Her interests had shifted over time, from traditional psychology to parapsychology, the study of paranormal phenomena—ESP, psychokinesis, precognition, reincarnation—it all fell under her purview now. Parapsychology was an umbrella field, encompassing things she believed, things she did not, things she redefined every time their subject arose. For example, she was convinced—had proved to herself in her experiments—that extrasensory perception was a real, if unelucidated, phenomenon: information transfer across some variety of electromagnetic field, at some unknown frequency and wavelength. Psychokinesis she had more difficulty with—to move physical objects at a distance required (to her way of thinking) a greater energy source than was demonstrable or even imaginable in the human mind. Still, she had not ruled PK out—her favorite quote was by the astronomer Fred Hoyle;
The universe is not only stranger than we imagine, it is stranger than we can imagine
. Dr. Lesh had this quote taped to the wall over her desk.