Read Online The Reincarnation of Peter Proud by Max Ehrlich - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Max Ehrlich
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I can recommend one to you.”
“I don’t know. I haven’t thought about it.”
“She’s marvelous when it comes to reading past lives. Her name’s Verna Bird. She’s a real psychic, absolutely authentic. The number one clairvoyant in California, maybe in the whole country. Would you believe all the movie stars consult her? I mean the really big ones. And people fly in from all over the country to see her.” The clerk reached into a drawer. “This is her card. You can keep it. She’s very busy, so you can’t just walk in. You have to make an appointment by telephone. You can mention my name, if you like. Say you talked to Janet at The Tree of Life.”
Chapter 9
He listened to the tape again and again.
The voice of X taunted and tormented him. Sometimes he thought of X as an obscene aberration of himself. At other times, X was a separate entity, another person entirely who had somehow found a home in his, Peter Proud’s body. When he went to bed he was aware that X was standing somewhere in the wings, ready to step onto the stage of his unconscious. Just before he dropped off to sleep, he began to plead with X:
Give me a break tonight. Stay out of my sleep. You and Marcia. Please
….
Then, horrified, he would suddenly realize what he was doing and stop. He would lie there trembling, in a cold sweat. Here he was, babbling to the creatures of his hallucinations as though they were alive and could hear him. This, he thought, was the beginning; he was well on his way to becoming some kind of zombie. Ever since his conversation with Sam Goodman, he hadn’t been the same. Fear had sucked at the marrow of his bones. He felt he was beginning to slip down into some deep, dark abyss. He became increasingly irritable. Things seemed out of focus; he found it hard to concentrate. He suffered from lapses of memory. Insomnia began to plague him. He fought sleep in order to avoid further confrontation with X.
He tried hard not to panic. The frightening part of it was the fact that no one could help him. Staub, Goodman, Tanner—no one. His disease was terminal, with no apparent cure—unless he could somehow exorcise these strange companions of the night.
He took out the card the clerk at the Tree of Life bookshop had given him. And he thought, why not? It’s sure to be a lot of crap,but what can I lose? He’d read all about the great clairvoyant Edgar Cayce and the miracles he’d come up with. Unfortunately, Cayce was long dead, so you had to make the best of what was around. Patronize your local psychic.
The house was located high on Laurel Canyon, near Mulholland Drive.
It was a three-story affair of pink stucco. The style was Hollywood Castilian: red tile roof, overhanging balconies with rusty wrought iron twisted-grill railings; a huge swimming pool, empty of water, its walls and bottom cracked and stained with time; a neglected garden overgrown with weeds. The place was a relic of the thirties. He wondered whether some of the old stars had once lived in this house. Harold Lloyd, or Laura LaPlante, or Carole Lombard. It had that marvelous museum look about it.
There was no bell. He discreetly tapped the knocker on the huge oak door, which was opened by a woman in her middle forties. Her face was plain, her dress frumpy, almost old-fashioned. She peered at him through steel-rimmed glasses.
“Miss Bird?”
“Uh, no,” she said. “I’m Elva Carlsen, Miss Bird’s secretary.”
He introduced himself, and she led him down a dark corridor to a small, windowless waiting room dimly illuminated by a single small table lamp.
“Please sign the register.”
She opened a thick registry book and offered him a pen. Peter signed his name.
“Now, then,” said Miss Carlsen briskly. “What kind of life reading do you wish?”
“I don’t know.” Then, feeling a little ridiculous: “What kinds are there?”
“There’s the ordinary life reading. That’s thirty-five dollars. There’s the reading of past
“I don’t know. I haven’t thought about it.”
“She’s marvelous when it comes to reading past lives. Her name’s Verna Bird. She’s a real psychic, absolutely authentic. The number one clairvoyant in California, maybe in the whole country. Would you believe all the movie stars consult her? I mean the really big ones. And people fly in from all over the country to see her.” The clerk reached into a drawer. “This is her card. You can keep it. She’s very busy, so you can’t just walk in. You have to make an appointment by telephone. You can mention my name, if you like. Say you talked to Janet at The Tree of Life.”
Chapter 9
He listened to the tape again and again.
The voice of X taunted and tormented him. Sometimes he thought of X as an obscene aberration of himself. At other times, X was a separate entity, another person entirely who had somehow found a home in his, Peter Proud’s body. When he went to bed he was aware that X was standing somewhere in the wings, ready to step onto the stage of his unconscious. Just before he dropped off to sleep, he began to plead with X:
Give me a break tonight. Stay out of my sleep. You and Marcia. Please
….
Then, horrified, he would suddenly realize what he was doing and stop. He would lie there trembling, in a cold sweat. Here he was, babbling to the creatures of his hallucinations as though they were alive and could hear him. This, he thought, was the beginning; he was well on his way to becoming some kind of zombie. Ever since his conversation with Sam Goodman, he hadn’t been the same. Fear had sucked at the marrow of his bones. He felt he was beginning to slip down into some deep, dark abyss. He became increasingly irritable. Things seemed out of focus; he found it hard to concentrate. He suffered from lapses of memory. Insomnia began to plague him. He fought sleep in order to avoid further confrontation with X.
He tried hard not to panic. The frightening part of it was the fact that no one could help him. Staub, Goodman, Tanner—no one. His disease was terminal, with no apparent cure—unless he could somehow exorcise these strange companions of the night.
He took out the card the clerk at the Tree of Life bookshop had given him. And he thought, why not? It’s sure to be a lot of crap,but what can I lose? He’d read all about the great clairvoyant Edgar Cayce and the miracles he’d come up with. Unfortunately, Cayce was long dead, so you had to make the best of what was around. Patronize your local psychic.
The house was located high on Laurel Canyon, near Mulholland Drive.
It was a three-story affair of pink stucco. The style was Hollywood Castilian: red tile roof, overhanging balconies with rusty wrought iron twisted-grill railings; a huge swimming pool, empty of water, its walls and bottom cracked and stained with time; a neglected garden overgrown with weeds. The place was a relic of the thirties. He wondered whether some of the old stars had once lived in this house. Harold Lloyd, or Laura LaPlante, or Carole Lombard. It had that marvelous museum look about it.
There was no bell. He discreetly tapped the knocker on the huge oak door, which was opened by a woman in her middle forties. Her face was plain, her dress frumpy, almost old-fashioned. She peered at him through steel-rimmed glasses.
“Miss Bird?”
“Uh, no,” she said. “I’m Elva Carlsen, Miss Bird’s secretary.”
He introduced himself, and she led him down a dark corridor to a small, windowless waiting room dimly illuminated by a single small table lamp.
“Please sign the register.”
She opened a thick registry book and offered him a pen. Peter signed his name.
“Now, then,” said Miss Carlsen briskly. “What kind of life reading do you wish?”
“I don’t know.” Then, feeling a little ridiculous: “What kinds are there?”
“There’s the ordinary life reading. That’s thirty-five dollars. There’s the reading of past
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