Read Online The Reincarnation of Peter Proud by Max Ehrlich - Free Book Online
Authors: Max Ehrlich
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isn’t any more. Period.”
He thought a moment. “Nora, there’s something I want to try.”
“Yes?”
“I’m going to set up a tape recorder next to my bed. If that voice you heard ever comes out of me again, maybe you could record it for me. I want to hear it.”
“What’s the point of that?”
“I just want to hear it. Or
him
.”
“Pete,” She said. “Listen to me. Let it alone. Don’t make waves.”
“It’s something I’ve got to try.”
He felt Nora tugging at him furiously, shaking him out of sleep. He opened his eyes and saw that it was early in the morning. As before, she was pale and shaken.
“Listen,” she said.
She turned on the tape recorder. At first he heard what seemed to be someone breathing, then chuckling under his breath. Then it came—a long, piercing, blood-curdling scream. A kind of howl, like a war cry.
He listened transfixed, chilled to his marrow.
“My God,” he said softly. “Oh, my God.”
“Now there’ll be a pause,” said Nora. “Nothing happens for a little while.”
After a while he heard the Voice. For the first time.
“Look, Marcia. I didn’t mean what I said back there.”
He listened, stunned, feeling his flesh crawl. The Voice was that of a stranger, deeper than his, with a different timbre. There was a kind of coarseness to it, a slurred quality, and the suggestion of teeth chattering—from the cold of the lake, of course. It had a slight accent. New England?
“I’m sorry. I mean it. I’m sorry.”
The tone was apologetic, contrite. Yet a subtle insincerity underlay the words.
“I was drunk. I didn’t know what I was saying. I hate myself for what I did to you back there.”
A moment of silence. Then:
“I love you, Marcia. I always have.”
Cold. Disembodied. Coming out of the lake he remembered so well.
“There’s another long pause here,” said Nora.
He waited. Of course he knew what was corning next. He was ready for it, and yet
not
ready for it.
“No, Marcia. No. NO!”
The scream was pure agony. High-pitched, primal, eerie.
“Oh, my God,” said Peter again.
After that, nothing but silence. He felt sick. Sick to his soul. Nora turned off the machine.
Chapter 8
He knew practically nothing about reincarnation. He was vaguely aware that in the East people believed in it as part of a religion. In the West it was considered nonsense. If you believed in it you were considered a crackpot. Many of the students were into it. They spoke glibly and knowingly of good and bad karma. What you did in some past life had a lot to do with who you were and what you did in this life. And the way you conducted yourself in this life definitely influenced your status and behavior in the next.
He had no instant guru to brief him on the subject, but all the student bulletin boards on the campus told him where to go.
The bookshop, called The Tree of Life, was located on Melrose Avenue. Peter expected to find some little psychedelic type of shop, a hole in the wall staffed by eccentrics in beards and robes. Instead, he found a big, well-lit and tastefully decorated bookshop swarming with customers. Apparently it was one of the occult centers of Southern California. There were three large rooms crammed with books, and a couple of lecture rooms where periodically mediums, astrologers, clairvoyants, tarot readers, healers, and witches scheduled lectures at modest fees. There was even a lecture scheduled by a self-styled Saucerian, for buffs who believed in flying saucers. Here you could get readings on your past lives at twenty-five dollars a session. Or get your aura read. Or learn to cure by the laying on of hands. Or learn about hypnotism, numerology, spiritualism, palmistry, ESP, psychokinetics, and of course yoga. Some of the mediums advertised special deals. A glass of champagne, discounts on certain books, and three readings, all for fifty dollars. At a longtable in the rear, the patrons could sample three exotic blends of tea, all on
He thought a moment. “Nora, there’s something I want to try.”
“Yes?”
“I’m going to set up a tape recorder next to my bed. If that voice you heard ever comes out of me again, maybe you could record it for me. I want to hear it.”
“What’s the point of that?”
“I just want to hear it. Or
him
.”
“Pete,” She said. “Listen to me. Let it alone. Don’t make waves.”
“It’s something I’ve got to try.”
He felt Nora tugging at him furiously, shaking him out of sleep. He opened his eyes and saw that it was early in the morning. As before, she was pale and shaken.
“Listen,” she said.
She turned on the tape recorder. At first he heard what seemed to be someone breathing, then chuckling under his breath. Then it came—a long, piercing, blood-curdling scream. A kind of howl, like a war cry.
He listened transfixed, chilled to his marrow.
“My God,” he said softly. “Oh, my God.”
“Now there’ll be a pause,” said Nora. “Nothing happens for a little while.”
After a while he heard the Voice. For the first time.
“Look, Marcia. I didn’t mean what I said back there.”
He listened, stunned, feeling his flesh crawl. The Voice was that of a stranger, deeper than his, with a different timbre. There was a kind of coarseness to it, a slurred quality, and the suggestion of teeth chattering—from the cold of the lake, of course. It had a slight accent. New England?
“I’m sorry. I mean it. I’m sorry.”
The tone was apologetic, contrite. Yet a subtle insincerity underlay the words.
“I was drunk. I didn’t know what I was saying. I hate myself for what I did to you back there.”
A moment of silence. Then:
“I love you, Marcia. I always have.”
Cold. Disembodied. Coming out of the lake he remembered so well.
“There’s another long pause here,” said Nora.
He waited. Of course he knew what was corning next. He was ready for it, and yet
not
ready for it.
“No, Marcia. No. NO!”
The scream was pure agony. High-pitched, primal, eerie.
“Oh, my God,” said Peter again.
After that, nothing but silence. He felt sick. Sick to his soul. Nora turned off the machine.
Chapter 8
He knew practically nothing about reincarnation. He was vaguely aware that in the East people believed in it as part of a religion. In the West it was considered nonsense. If you believed in it you were considered a crackpot. Many of the students were into it. They spoke glibly and knowingly of good and bad karma. What you did in some past life had a lot to do with who you were and what you did in this life. And the way you conducted yourself in this life definitely influenced your status and behavior in the next.
He had no instant guru to brief him on the subject, but all the student bulletin boards on the campus told him where to go.
The bookshop, called The Tree of Life, was located on Melrose Avenue. Peter expected to find some little psychedelic type of shop, a hole in the wall staffed by eccentrics in beards and robes. Instead, he found a big, well-lit and tastefully decorated bookshop swarming with customers. Apparently it was one of the occult centers of Southern California. There were three large rooms crammed with books, and a couple of lecture rooms where periodically mediums, astrologers, clairvoyants, tarot readers, healers, and witches scheduled lectures at modest fees. There was even a lecture scheduled by a self-styled Saucerian, for buffs who believed in flying saucers. Here you could get readings on your past lives at twenty-five dollars a session. Or get your aura read. Or learn to cure by the laying on of hands. Or learn about hypnotism, numerology, spiritualism, palmistry, ESP, psychokinetics, and of course yoga. Some of the mediums advertised special deals. A glass of champagne, discounts on certain books, and three readings, all for fifty dollars. At a longtable in the rear, the patrons could sample three exotic blends of tea, all on
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