Writer’s note: This story was inspired by evidence I saw on the television show, Sightings. They showed supporting evidence that both ghosts and reincarnation exist.

 

The Quantum Soul

by Barbara Goldstein, Ph.D., c. 1998

 

Old, ivy-covered buildings on University campus are like places out of time, and the Psychology Building was built at the turn of the twentieth century. Professor David Wine, a bearded, curmudgeonly but saber-sharp seventy-five year old, fits with the ancient decor of his huge office: an old table, real wood, heavy, utilitarian, covered with stacks of books and files seating twelve takes up half the room. The matching desk hides under loose clutter. Dust-covered awards grace the tops of old legal book cases. Even the computer on his desk is years out-of-date.

The Professor sits at his desk speaking with April Kellum, his early thirty-something research assistant cum secretary and Tom Hansen, the twenty year old work-study under grad.

“Our rewrite for the Journal was accepted, so it’s time to start a new project, my last before I retire. I want to do something in parapsychology.”

“The department’ll think you’re senile.” April’s tone of concern belies her words. “They’ll force you to retire.”

“Find a co-author in the Philosophy Department. That’ll help legitimize it,” suggests Tom.

Professor Wine waves Tom’s suggestion away and gets a mischievous twinkle, apparent even through his glasses.

“I don’t expect you to understand; you’re too young. But ever since my Louise died eighteen years ago, a question has nagged me: is she in heaven or did she get reincarnated?”

Tom whistles, but April looks only more taken aback.

“There’s ostensible proof on both sides. Psychics have contacted spirits in haunted houses; mediums – like that Tom Hedland – contact people who’ve died. Both have named people and obscure historical facts without knowing the historical record. But there’s equally substantial proof for reincarnation – people reliving events they didn’t know could be substantiated by the historical record.”

“Can’t you reconcile it by positing some beings take longer than others to move onto another life?” April asks hopefully.

Dr. Wine shakes his head and counters, “There’s also the data from the near-death folks who report seeing their long-dead, loved ones.”

“But how do you test heaven versus reincarnation?” Tom gets to the grist of the matter.

“By finding the reincarnation of someone who was seen by a person whose had a near death experience, is a known ghostly entity or is accurately conjured by a verified medium.”

“And how would you find anyone’s reincarnation?” April’s skeptical.

Tom tentatively suggests, “Use a verified existing case?”

“That’s a good back-up plan. I was thinking more along the lines of how the Tibetan monks find Lamas – using psychic abilities.”

April rolls her eyes as she mutters, “The department’ll love that methodology!” Her look becomes pleading.

Tom’s incredulous and questions, “Like that kid in Seattle who’s supposed to be the Lama after the Dali Lama dies? The previous Lama, before he died, knew where he’d be.”

Dr. Wine exclaims, “How do you know about that?!”

Tom looks embarrassed, but finally admits, “My mother’s National Intruder. I read it when I’m bored.”

“That almost guarantees it’s not true!” April exasperatedly injects.

Professor Wine explains, “After the Lamas know where to look, they have a series of criteria to narrow down the possible candidates – a small range of birth dates and time of birth, etc. Then the possibles – children around age five – are asked questions.”

Tom’s intrigued and pushes, “I hear all the pieces, but what’s the method?”

“Let’s see if the literature inspires us. Read everything you can on the history of the Dali and Penchan Lama selections and calculate how soon after death reincarnation occurs, if you can find any information on the questions asked, I’ll take that too.”

“And me?” April inquires with trepidation.

“Find me a list of bonafide psychics and documented haunted houses within a reasonable distance from here.”

April heaves a sigh of relief.

Several days later, Professor Wine and April sit in his office and look at her results. She has several full folders.

“I was surprised how many bonafide psychics there are – ones who’ve helped police, search and rescue operations and on missing persons,” April concedes as she pulls a list from a folder. “These eleven looked the most promising, but I have information on all twenty-eight.” She points to another folder.

Professor Wine peruses the list and grumbles, “I don’t see anyone who deals in reincarnation. There must be someone recognized in that area.”

“I’ll look again, but why not use Tom’s idea to start with a documented reincarnation? Then you could see who the mediums can connect with.” April pats yet another folder.

“Is that the names of reincarnated people or mediums?”

“Both, but there are only seven documented cases in North America.”

“Please contact them, and see if anyone’s interested.”

April nods.

“We’ll concurrently pick psychics.” Dr. Wine pages further in the file he holds, looks astounded and complains, “Look at the price tags on these people! Maybe the grant’ll cover three. I wanted five.”

“Grant? Someone’s funding this?”

“The Evelyn Cage Research Foundation.”

“That famous psychic? Funding from them isn’t going to impress the department.”

“Money’s money. Have you heard from them about the proposal?”

“Not yet, but how could you submit it when you’re still rooting around for a method?”

“Forty five years’ experience. Expect to hear from the department big wigs soon. There’s no way to avoid upsetting them.” Dr. Wine looks eagerly at the prospect.

Tom enters excitedly with haste.

“Man, those Tibetans are weird.”

“Have you come up with a formula already?”

“No.” Tom waves a paper at Professor Wine and hands it to him.” But I came across this.”

Professor Wine peruses the paper.

April queries, “What is it?”

Tom answers, “Some questions asked of a candidate for Lama back in the thirties – like pick between a green triangle and a blue ball.”

“That’s strange,” April agrees.

Professor Wine looks up from reading. “It well may be based on things known about the preferences of the previous reincarnation. Good job.”

Tom nods and as he heads back out, he tosses over his shoulder, “This is so engrossing, I’m forgetting to do my homework.” He’s out the door before Dr. Wine can scold him.

The Professor refocuses on April.

“What about haunted houses with living kin?”

April opens yet another folder. “That’s harder to come by. A ton of maybe’s, but verified hauntings – five in a three hundred mile radius.”

“Anything promising?”

“I really don’t know. Perhaps the psychics you pick can aid in the ultimate choice. But one place is kind of famous – the Barrow House.”

“And what makes it famous?”

“It was on television, one of those paranormal 60 Minutes. The woman who lives there now had dreamt of the place ever since she was struck by lightning as a teen. She didn’t even know it really existed until she saw it in a refurbished house article. She only discovered it was haunted after she moved in.”

“That sounds promising…”

The phone rings, and April leans over and answers, “Professor Wine’s office. How may I help you?” She listens, and hangs up.

“You have an appointment with the department Research Review Committee at ten- thirty tomorrow.”

The Professor chuckles in anticipation.

The modernized conference room is soulless. The building’s charm has been hidden by sound-proofed ceilings, carpeted floors and modern furniture. Professor Wine sits at one end of a table with three other professors: Dr. Lee Hakagawa, the fifty-six year old Chairman of the Department, Dr. Evelyn Madison, a sixty-three year old fading radical from the Black Power and Women’s Movements and forty year old Dr. Mark Ahmed, recently tenured.

“This department has a national reputation to maintain,” Dr. Hakagawa stresses, but he never speaks loudly. “And this kind of research will not only detract from our reputation, it may make us a laughing stock.”

“Lee,” the way Dr. Wine says it conveys volumes – a pitying thread, “no one pays attention to every publication of every professor.”

Dr. Ahmed is clearly not invested but interjects, “Depends who publishes his results, if he gets any. If it’s in the Cage Foundation Journal, then Dr. Wine’s right. No one will know it exists.”

Dr. Hakagawa looks unhappy.

“The real issue,” Dr. Madison’s voice is resonantly no-nonsense, “isn’t whether the research is funded or mainstream enough, it’s outside the scope of psychological research. And it has the potential to step on religious toes.”

“That’s rich, Evelyn,” laughs Dr. Wine, “All your early research was a crusade to step on establishment toes.”

“There was nothing wrong with creating data to show the inequities minorities and women face!” bristles Dr. Madison.

“Science is not looking for data to back an agenda. It’s asking a question, and that is what I’m doing.”

“But it’s not a psychological question,” Dr. Hakagawa reiterates.

“We teach a class on Death and Dying here,” Dr. Wine reminds him. “That makes belief systems about what happens afterward fair game.”

Dr. Ahmed, who’s now skimming a magazine and half-listening, throws in his two- cents, “Crazier research than what Wine’s proposing has been done around here.”

“More trivial, but not more controversial,” contradicts Dr. Madison. “But let him do it. I wish he wouldn’t, but we’re going beyond our mandate if we stop him. We’re here to oversee human subject protection and ethical issues.”

“It will become an embarrassment if the press hears of it,” Dr. Hakagawa laments with a note of bitterness.

Dr. Wine arises, smiles and leaves with a parting shot, “We’ll reconvene when I find results you can’t live with.”

Dr. Wine is engrossed, reading in his office and doesn’t hear April enter. Her frown foreshadows that all’s not well.

“Professor?…”

The Professor starts and orients.

“Bad news. We’re not going to get any of the known reincarnations. Three want nothing to do with it any more, and we can’t afford the time of the others. Maybe you should let this go.”

“You may be right, but I won’t. We still might find a known ghost with kin who’ve had a near death experience, and who knows what the psychics might come up with.”

April’s disappointed.

 

Psychics come in all shapes and sizes, and the final three are an odd lot. Greta Harbison, a rotund, Minnesota farmer’s wife in her fifties, James Peterman, a dapper, thirty-something, urban type, and Skipper Lonnigan, a seventeen year old emancipated kook in a robe and sandals are the winners. They sit around the table in Professor Wine’s office with him and April; the folders and books are stacked along one wall. Greta and James have met before, the famous professionals. Skipper sits lotus style, the very promising unknown the Professor chose to “balance out the group.”

Greta looks over a handout and comments, “Of the choices on your list, Barrow House looks the most interesting.”

“Definitely,” agrees James. “There’ll be what the entities themselves can tell us, and what we can get from the current owner who seems to have some psychic ability of her own.”

Skipper comes across part stoned-hippy, part valley-girl; her eyes are closed as she speaks, “Barrow House resonates.”

April looks taken aback, but Professor Wine takes it in stride and inquires, “Do any of you know the specifics of the case?”

Greta, James and Skipper shake their heads.

“Good. We’ll contact the owner, and see what can be arranged.”

Barrow House looks the antithesis of a haunted house: freshly painted, bright white with marigold trim. The lawn is lush, and the garden is fully in bloom. Cheerful curtains can be seen in windows.

Frances Withersby is a down-to-earth, thirty-one year old mother of three, ages five, three and one. She talks with Professor Wine and April in a country-style kitchen while feeding the one year old in a highchair.

“I’m not sure I want to go through the disruption again,” Frances puts it out forthrightly. “The last crew was nice enough, but they overran our whole lives.”

“We’re not doing a television segment but pure research. There are only six of us involved, and we will pay you for your time and any inconvenience.” Professor Wine hands Frances a slip of paper.

She looks at the figure. “This sure would help with the kids’ college funds. Let me talk it over with my husband and see what we can work out.”

“Her participation,” April reminds voce sotto.

“Yes. There’s one string attached – your willingness to let the psychics read you and let me hypnotize you.”

“The last group had their psychic talk to me; I don’t know if he ‘read’ me.”

“Your involvement requires only time,” Professor Wine assures.

In an equally antiquated, smaller office adjacent to the professor’s, Tom types rapidly on a computer keyboard, then pushes a key with finality. He fidgets, waiting, then grabs a phone and dials four numbers.

“I’m about to get the figure.”

Tom turns back to the screen and taps a pen impatiently. The bar at the bottom of the screen shows the process to be half-finished.

Professor Wine enters and joins him at the console.

“I might be able to tweak this further, but, for now, I’ve run out of variables and data. I calculated approximate birth dates and death dates of every Lama dating back to 1400, threw in a few other highly bonafide cases, and… ” Tom explains.

The bar shows three-quarters complete.

“This is about to reveal one of the great mysteries of the universe: calculating the range of time before a soul is reincarnated.”

“But Professor, this data’s been around forever.”

“To the best of my knowledge, no one’s ever utilized it empirically here.”

The bar is full, and the screen becomes a graph. A heavily skewed-to-the-left curve emerges.

“Whoa!” Tom exclaims.

“What’s the range and mean?”

More figures are still coming in along the bottom of the graph.

“Range: nine to eighteen months. Mean: little over eleven months.”

Professor Wine asks excitedly, “Did you take into account nine months of gestation?”

“Yes.”

Dr. Wine shoots a fist into the air triumphantly.

April enters and is alarmed by the professor’s overly animated behavior.

“Careful; you’re about to burst a blood vessel!”

“Tom solved half of the mystery of life.”

“Huh?”

“Concrete, statistics of the length of time from death to reincarnation!”

“Little over eleven months,” crows Tom.

April shakes off her confusion and responds, “Don’t the Tibetans, themselves, say in their writings how long it takes to reincarnate?”

The Professor’s excitement remains pitched. “I haven’t read it, but maybe… If it matches our empirical figures! Would you follow up on that?”

“Sure,” agrees April. “Oh, I forgot! Frances Withersby called and said yes.” She goes to the phone and dials out.

Dr. Wine keeps beaming.

“Where do we go from here?” asks Tom.

“Find out more about how the Lamas ‘saw’ their successors. Look for patterns that would create an empirical basis for understanding who becomes who. For example, all but one Dali Lama was from Tibet. Is there other evidence that souls generally transmigrate to the same location?”

“On it!” declares Tom. “I’ll try to create a comparative database.”

April hangs up and reports, “Here’s what I got from a local Buddhist temple: reincarnation occurs after the person’s karma reviews the life just ended and is judged. That determines what the next life will be. The belief has variations in different sects, but about a year is average.”

Professor Wine’s ecstatic.

Professor Wine and April watch as James Peterman walks though Barrow House. Tom trails him with a video camera.

James calls out, “Hello, is anyone here?” He moves from the dining room into the living room. “I sense someone.” He moves toward the kitchen. “Female, benevolent; she’s particularly strong here.” He enters the kitchen.

“Hello? Ah, there you are. I’m James Peterman, and you are?… Ellen, no Evelyn… Evelyn, is there anything you need to tell us?… ‘Beware of Bobby, Bobo, Bubba…’”

“What’s wrong with him?” asks Professor Wine.

“He’s keeping her from her… I’m not sure. I want to say treasure – but it’s not jewels or money.”

 

April and the Professor observe Tom tape Greta as she walks through the house. She touches mostly original woodwork like wainscoting and the banister to the stairs, then she’s drawn to a door beneath the stairs. After touching the door, she opens it and finds the stairs to the basement.

“There’s a negative force down here: young, male, angry. He died violently.”

Professor Wine asks, “Murder or suicide?”

“Neither,” answers Greta. “An accident – so abrupt he refuses to believe he’s dead and is angered by the presence of people in his home. He’s gotten used to the Withersby’s, but  he acts up when they have a lot of guests.”

“Like us?” inquires April.

“Yes, especially because James talked to ‘the self-righteous bitch’ and not him. – But he hid from James.”

“The accident?” presses the Professor.

Pain and horror flit across Greta’s face before she answers shakily, “He was on a motorcycle and killed by a drunk driver in front of the house. He was in his early 20’s. We’re talking before World War I. He was a young hellion in his own right by those days’ standards, especially for people of means.” Greta has to sit down.

“Thank you. – Make a note,” Professor Wine says to April, “to ask Mrs. Withersby if there have been negative unexplained events here.”

Greta interjects, “He’s left the Withersby’s alone, but some family who lived here in the seventies – he broke their things regularly.”

Skipper dances, eyes closed, though the house in a semi-trance-like state. Tom happily shoots video, April looks taken aback and even Professor Wine’s surprised. Abruptly, near the door to the basement stairs, she comes out of her reverie and slaps the air at head level.

She intersperses comments to the entity and the living, “Bastard! – The motherfucker goosed me! – Do that again, and I’ll disrupt your electrical essence! – I much prefer the child in the parlor and the bedroom above it.”

“A child? We were told there were only two entities in the house,” April blurts out.

“She came out to dance with me; she’s about six.”

“Maybe she’s the treasure Evelyn can’t reach,” speculates Dr. Wine.

“I feel a war coming on, one of the World Wars. I don’t get a name, but she died in an ‘influenza epidemic.’ Is there such a thing?”

“Oh, yes,” Professor Wine assures her.

“She’s scared of the guy who goosed me, because sometimes, he chases her. She plays with the five year old who lives here now.”

“Frances Withersby’ll love that,” April says sarcastically under her breath.

Skipper goes inward and dances off.

The three psychics, April and Tom sit around the table in Professor Wine’s office. Everyone looks relaxed but April. Greta surreptitiously watches her. Tom eagerly asks questions.

“To what extent can you gain control of your talents?”

James Peterman responds, “Not as much as I’d like; it’s like trying to change the volume of your hearing.”

Tom nods appreciatively.

Greta is no-nonsense in her approach to April, “Why do we make you uncomfortable?”

“You don’t.”

Greta gives April a pointed look.

“Okay. It’s uncomfortable to know you can see things inside me I keep to myself.”

“I’m not particularly telepathic – different skill.”

April looks surprised and then admits, “I didn’t think of what you do as real until 1 had to research people for this project. And part of me still wants you all proven wrong.”

Greta laughs. April grimaces but looks less tense.

Professor Wine enters the room carrying a thick file; he pulls out a couple sheets. Everyone quiets and focuses on him. He reads to himself as he sits down, then looks at the group giving away nothing.

“And the summary from an earlier investigation says… a banker’s family named Greely lived in Barrow House from 1904 until 1915 – Thomas and Evelyn. They had four children, but Amelia died in the 1914 influenza epidemic at six years old. Evelyn followed a few years later from complications of a miscarriage and grief about Amelia and her errant younger brother, Robert ‘Bubba’ Claymore. He died in front of the house – run off the road on his motorcycle by a drunk driver.”

Greta, James and Skipper smile both relishing in the moment of success and at the awed looks on April and Tom.

Tom asks, “Now what?”

“Each of the psychics will interview and read Frances Withersby. You, April and I will find and interview Greely descendants for possible near death experiences.”

“What a long shot,” April opines.

“You’re going to succeed,” Skipper states with unshakable conviction, “beyond your wildest expectations.”

At the Withersby’s, Frances talks with Greta who handles a couple of Frances’ prized possessions.

Greta requests, “Tell me about how you dreamt of this place.”

“It started when I was fourteen, shortly after I was hit by lightning coming home from school. I began to dream of this wonderful, large, warm house.”

“What would you do or see in the dreams?”

“Sometimes, I would just walk though the house, admiring its furnishings and

knickknacks; sometimes I’d be in the kitchen while a wonderful meal’s being prepared, and sometimes I was on the patio overlooking the garden.”

“Were there ever other people in the dreams?”

“No – yes. I could feel other people, like they were just beyond the corner of my eye, but I never saw anyone.”

Greta signals she has no more questions.

James Peterman is mid-interview with Frances.

“When you walked though the house, did you see anything that dated the place – the phone or lack of, the era of the kitchen appliances?”

“It seemed old fashioned, even back then. I never thought about it before, but I’m not sure if I saw any electric appliances.”

“Describe the kitchen and the meal being prepared.”

“Heavy iron pots going on all four burners of a Mathan.”

“That’s the stove’s brand?”

“Yes – a huge piece of meat cooking within.”

“Who was the meal for?”

“The family,” Frances answers without hesitation.

“What family?”

Frances becomes confused and struggles, “I d-don’t know. Maybe I’m assuming it from the amount of food being made. No. I know there’s a family – four little children, two girls and two boys. I don’t know how – I never actually saw them.”

James pushes gently, “What else do you know, even if it makes no sense?”

Frances contemplates at length before answering, “One of the children is sickly.”

“Anything else?”

Frances thinks and shakes her head “no.”

 

Frances looks uncomfortable as Skipper waltzes unhurriedly round and round her chair.

Without stopping, Skipper requests, “Picture in your mind when you were a teen and would walk through this house…”

Frances closes her eyes and goes inward.

Skipper dances on and several circuits later says softly, “You’re in a hallway looking at a kind-of dome-shaped clock in a very dark wood.”

Frances is startled by her accuracy and comes outward.

“It’s okay. Relax, and go back there. Picture the clock…”

Frances complies.

“Good, good…” Skipper whispers after another circle around the chair. “Now walk around if you can… Yes, yes. Over near the window. – Can you look out?”

Frances shakes her head.

“I will help you…” Skipper whispers, and slowly turns her head to the right. Frances turns her head synchronously despite both women having their eyes closed.

April stifles a gasp.

“Oh my God! I see them,” awe tinges Frances’ exclamation, “four small children in really old fashioned clothes in the yard. One is bundled up in a chair and watches the older two play; the baby sits in a stroller, playing with beads on its restraint.”

The three psychics meet with Professor Wine and April in his office.

“She’s not psychic,” Greta puts it out forthrightly. “Her connection to the house isn’t psychic.”

“But there’s a connection,” James counters. “She sees a Mathan stove. They were wood burning stoves whose production stopped in 1923! But I do agree the connection isn’t psychic.”

Dr. Wine asks, “If her connection to Barrow House isn’t psychic, what is it?”

James answers, “Her episode with the lightning may have created a one time experience that she remembered vividly and relives in memory.”

“Skipper shakes her head, “No. That’s not it. She tapped into a previous life.”

Professor Wine’s face lights up, James considers it seriously but Greta doesn’t buy it.

“Doubt it. I’ve connected with too many people from the other side who’ve been gone a very long time to think anyone moves on to another life.”

“At one level I agree,” James hedges, “but there is evidence for reincarnation. – Wait!” He focuses on Dr. Wine. “That’s what you’re testing!”

Dr. Wine grins, “I’ll answer that after we finish our work.”

James laughs, “Your next step?”

“Interview descendants of the Greely’s. We’ve got a line on a few.”

Amidst more laughter, the group breaks up.

Skipper hangs back and looks perplexed as she speaks to the Professor, “I got something strange on the way back.”

“’Way back’ from where?”

“I followed Mrs. Withersby to the time she remembers in Barrow House. On the way back – maybe the fifties or sixties – I made an extra stop.”

“What did you see?”

“I was in an urban duplex – yellow and white checked curtains in the kitchen.”

For a moment Dr. Wine seems to have some reaction, but he can’t fully get in touch with it.

“Thanks for telling me. Who knows what bearing it may turn out to have.”

“Cool,” Skipper plays it off. She gathers her bag, and she starts to whistle “Every Little Breeze” as she leaves.

Professor Wine looks at her strangely.

Professor Wine and April are each on a phone, and neither looks encouraged.

“Thank you for your time,” Professor Wine finishes and hangs up. He makes a few notes.

April’s conversation nears its end, too, “So he took a job in plastics and moved to some suburb of Chicago in the seventies. Anything else?… Oh! Thank you for your help. Bye now.” To the Professor, “He died in an industrial accident. That’s everyone in Martha Greely Simon’s line.”

“Just confirmed Ernest Greely’s line died out in the eighties.”

“What gets me is Thomas Greely, Jr., the elder son. With eight kids who averaged having four themselves, there are close to forty direct descendants alive today. But not one of them has had a near death experience.”

“We’re back to square one again,” laments Professor Wine.

“I won’t ask if you’re going to give up.”

“Why? We haven’t run out of options. I still need to hypnotize Frances Withersby. We could have mediums read members of the Greely family. We could search again for psychics who have talent in the specific area of reincarnation.”

“That crazy Skipper person thinks Frances Withersby is the reincarnation of someone who lived in Barrow House,” April reminds him.

“We should be so lucky. I hate feeling my way through this.”

April reminds, “Hypnotizing Frances was in your original design, and it costs nothing to see through.”

“Good points.”

Tom enters.

“Weren’t you supposed to be here yesterday?” Dr. Wine asks.

Tom responds defensively, “I wanted to have something substantial to report.”

“Well?”

“There’s some evidence for souls transmigrating to the same location, but there are documented far-flung cases, too. There’s some evidence for souls reincarnating in groups. But even with eleven other well-documented reincarnation cases, there isn’t enough data. I’m not sure more would help. We’re a long way from finding a formula for who reincarnates into whom. So we’re back to needing a psychic who can read like the Lamas.”

“We were just discussing that option,” April informs him.

“For now, we’ll continue our plan and go backward,” finalizes Professor Wine, “hypnotism.”

“You mean try to regress her to a past life?!” Tom asks excitedly.

“I don’t know if that can really be done. We’ll find out more about Frances’ connection to the house and to the ghost.”

Professor Wine sighs and for a moment looks old. April and Tom miss it as they leave, but Skipper, entering, catches it.

“Buck up little soldier, things are bound to get better.”

Professor Wine starts big-time.

“Louise?” He orients and sees Skipper. “Oh, Miss Lonnigan…”

“Didn’t mean to startle you. I revisited that duplex. It’s a second, maybe third story apartment in a large city overlooking street vendors with a train on wires overhead running down the middle of the street. It has a small kitchen with yellow checked curtains and except for the bathroom, it was all one room.”

“That describes a ton of apartments in every Eastern city in the forties into the sixties. In fact my wife and my first place fits that description.”

“Maybe it’s the life between Frances and Evelyn.”

“Could be. I’m arranging to hypnotize Frances Withersby. You’re welcome to attend.”

“Cool. Call me when you know the specifics.” Skipper sashays out humming Elvis’ “I Can’t Help Falling in Love.”

The Professor notices, frowns and asks, “What are you humming?”

“I don’t know – some old music on the radio in that apartment.”

Dr. Wine still looks perplexed.

Barrow House’s country style sitting room is low-lit as Professor Wine speaks with a hypnotized Frances. April and Skipper sit to one side watching; Tom tapes.

“And what do you remember about that day?”

“I don’t really remember the lightning hitting me. I was walking through this house like it was mine: I knew my way around; I knew the origin of most of the wonderful decorations. Then I found myself, soaked, laying in the field, unable to move very well.”

“Was there any difference between that first visit and any of the other times you went?”

Frances thinks for a moment before answering, “No.”

“Did each visit go exactly the same?”

“No. Sometimes, I would just sit; other times I roamed.”

“Did you ever sense anyone else besides the family?”

“No.”

“Is there anything you remember that we haven’t covered – that you haven’t thought about since your teens?”

“Just how strong the sense of coming home was.”

“Let your mind drift back further. Was there any time before the lightning you were in this house?”

Frances sits quietly for an almost interminable time. Then her posture changes and a different voice says, “1918.”

Professor Wine, April, Tom and Skipper look surprised.

“Would you tell me about it?” requests the professor.

“My husband helped me through the front door; I was very sick. He and the maid wanted to help me up the stairs, but I wanted to go to my beautiful kitchen one more time. They reluctantly took me there, wrapped me in an arm-load of blankets and sat me near the stove. It smelled wonderfully of roast, succotash, mashed potatoes and greens, but I had no appetite. They brought the children, and I hugged them for all I was worth. Then someone hustled them away.”

“And then I saw Amelia, my little girl, playing across in the parlor. But how could that be? She’s dead. But there she was. How can I move on if my little Amelia’s still here? I won’t leave her.”

“The kitchen became hazier, but Amelia became more real. Then, something distracted her, and she ran away, frightened. Oh Amelia, don’t run.” Frances goes silent.

“Did you ever find Amelia?” Professor Wine asks carefully.

“No, but I keep looking.”

“And your name?…”

Frances struggles for a moment, “Evelyn – Mrs. Thomas Greely.”

“Oh my God!” gasps April.

More facts are verified over the next half hour, each one solidifying further Frances Withersby’s existence in a previous life as Evelyn Greely, the ghost who haunts Barrow House.

Finally, Professor Wine asks quietly, “Does anyone else have questions?”

“Yes,” responds Skipper in quiet tones. “When did you last see your brother?”

“Bubba? He’s around – still rides that crazy motorcycle every night.”

“Didn’t he tell you where Amelia is?”

“He swears he doesn’t know, but I think he does.”

“If I could get the three of you together, would you move on?”

“Yes.”

Driving back after getting an agreement from Frances for a second hypnotism, the Professor, April, Tom and Skipper confer.

Tom asks, “Why didn’t you tell Mrs. Withersby what we learned?”

“Because,” answers Professor Wine, “we can replicate today’s results without accusations of faking it. We’ll unblock her recollections when we’re done.”

“But how can it be?” asks April. “How can Evelyn Greely be a ghost and reincarnated in Frances Withersby?”

Professor Wine enthuses, “That’s the crucial question! That Evelyn Greely seems to be in two places at once brings to mind quantum physics. The photon of light is believed to be going through both of two apertures until pinned down.”

“But they’re both pinned down!” Tom and April chorus.

“Are they? Can Skipper or James find Evelyn if Frances is present and conscious? – or regressed under hypnosis? And if both can co-exist, then maybe this is akin, to paired electrons.”

“Whoa!” Tom responds. “We can test that!”

Skipper interjects, “We’ll need the other psychics back if we’re going to move three spirits to the other side.”

“Check their availability,” Professor Wine directs April.

As the group breaks up, Skipper absent-mindedly whistles “Every Little Breeze.” This time Professor Wine calls her on it,

“Ms. Lonnigan, where did someone of your age learn that old tune?”

“What tune?”

“‘Every Little Breeze.’ I’ve heard you hum or whistle it more than once.”

“Huh?”

Professor takes a deep breath and sings mostly on key, “Every little breeze seems to whisper Louise…”

Skipper laughs, “Oh, poopsie, you should know better than to sing in public.”

Professor Wine freezes, staring at Skipper. “What did you call me?”

“Poopsie? It just seemed to fit the occasion. I didn’t mean any disrespect, Professor.”

“None taken. That’s a term my wife used to call me, and her name was Louise, like the song. I used to say it was our song, but she always claimed it was the Elvis song playing when I asked her to marry me. You hummed that once, too.”

“Weird. I haven’t consciously read you, but it doesn’t mean I haven’t picked up on things subconsciously. Everyone broadcasts something. It wasn’t intentional. Sorry if you’re offended.”

“I’m not.”

 

Barrow House is set up with video cameras. Most are in the large foyer where James and another well-known ghost expert, Terry Granger, confer with Skipper. Terry is a youthful mid-fifties, dressed crisply but casually. He has a wholesomeness to him.

Terry checks, “Evelyn can’t find Amelia, but her brother is aware of both of them?”

“It seems so,” replies James. “Only Skipper was able to reach the child.”

“Amelia’s so afraid of Bubba, she perceives any other spirit as him and hides,” Skipper explains. “So, she’s hid from her mother all this time.”

“Who do you want me to round up?” Terry asks.

James answers, “Take Evelyn. I’ll round up the rebellious brother.”

“Bring them here; it’s the only overlap in their territories,” Skipper adds. “Then, let’s hope the light manifests.”

James assures, “I’ve never known it to fail when spirits were ready to go.”

Dr. Wine, April, Tom and Frances Withersby enter.

“We’re ready when you are,” Professor Wine announces.

Professor Wine sits Frances in a chair they’ve moved into the middle of the foyer. The Professor pulls out a pocket watch and slowly swings it in front of her…

Quietly, the three psychics disperse: Terry heads through the living room toward the kitchen, Skipper the parlor and James the stairs to the basement.

“… and now you’re feeling sleepier…” Professor Wine suggests in a low voice.

Terry finds his job the easiest; he “sees” Evelyn sitting at the kitchen table in contemplation.

“Hi. My name is Terry. I can help you. I know where your daughter is.”

The wraith looks at him wonderingly.

“Amelia’s in the parlor or her bedroom. We can bring you together in the foyer.”

Evelyn nods and arises.

“You’ll have to help us with Bubba. Amelia’s afraid of him and hides if she senses him.”

Evelyn slowly floats toward the living room…

In the foyer, Professor Wine has Frances under, “Tell me how it felt coming here the day of the lightning strike…”

Skipper is in the parlor dancing. She never stops as she speaks, eyes continually closed.

“There you are, Amelia. Dance with me again; it’s so much fun.” Her arms reach out as if to take the hands of the child, and she foreshortens her steps as if accommodating a child.

“We found your mommy… You know she’s here? But Uncle Bubba keeps you apart.” Drolly, “I’ve met your Uncle Bubba.” Skipper dances silently for several steps, then…

“You have me to protect you! I’m not afraid of him. There are others like me here, helping your mom and even your uncle. When will you ever get a safer chance to join her?…” After several moments, “Good. Come.”

Skipper dances gradually toward the foyer.

James has his hands full as he speaks down the basement stairs, “Bubba, I’d like you to come up here, but you have to promise not to scare Amelia.”

Rattling sounds emanate from the basement.

James ignores it and continues, “Why do you keep such a little girl from her mother?”

The rattling grows louder.

“I think you were lonely before they came.”

Crashing sounds resound in the basement.

“Don’t get testy with me, Bubba. I’m here to help you. You can go with them. If you come up here now, all three of you can leave together… That’s better.” James slowly backs  away from the basement door.

The Professor directs Frances, “Now, go back to your earlier existence in Barrow House…”

Frances twitches, her posture changes and she says in the different voice, “Yes. I’m in the living room heading toward the foyer with a nice man in strange clothes.”

Dr. Wine looks surprised.

“Terry?!” April whispers.

The Professor nods.

“He says he can reunite me with Amelia.”

“Yes,” Professor Wine reassures her, “both Amelia and Bubba will meet you in this Foyer.”

Evelyn’s ghost grows brighter and brighter to Terry’s eyes as they slowly cross the living room.

“Can you feel the impending light?” Terry asks.

Evelyn nods serenely but slows and stops at the entrance to the foyer.

“Evelyn?”

Frances, as Evelyn, tells the Professor, “I hate the thought of leaving my beloved home.”

“But you won’t. You’ll live on in Frances through whom we speak. She loves this house dearly.”

Frances’ countenance clears.

Terry enters the room, with Evelyn bathed in light, but only he sees her. They move toward Frances.

But Frances’ line of sight goes toward James.

“Why, there’s Bubba.”

James backs into the foyer from the basement door, talking with Bubba, “It was a great machine, better than many that came even a decade later…”

James turns and looks at the rest of the foyer. He sees Evelyn at Terry’s side.

“I see your sister, and she’s calling to you. Head toward her.”

James perceives a light coming into existence where he senses Bubba and nods. Bubba moves toward Evelyn.

Frances/Evelyn scolds, “Robert Claymore, why did you lie to me about where Amelia was?! Little girls need their mothers.”

James answers, “He didn’t want to be left alone.”

“That’s silly! Now behave when Amelia comes.”

Skipper slowly dances into the foyer, eyes closed.

“Don’t be afraid. I’ll talk to him: Bubba, Bubba Claymore, your niece, Amelia, asks that you go behind her mother.”

“Bubba!” James exclaims as he spins around in Skipper’s direction. “Go behind Evelyn,” but James still drifts in Skipper’s direction.

“Robert Claymore, you do not have to get in one more pinch before moving on!” Frances/Evelyn admonishes.

“Oh, cripes,” Skipper resigns herself, then to Amelia, “I’ll take Uncle Bubba behind your mother. You cross with the nice man… No? But look how proper he is; he surely wouldn’t act like Uncle Bubba.”

To James, “Switch with me! Amelia accepts your guidance.” James and Skipper exchange places.

James says, “Hi, Amelia; I’m James. Let’s go to your mother.”

Skipper races past James and Bubba – to Terry and teases, “If you want that pinch, Bubba, you have to come here.” She provocatively wiggles her hips.

Frances/Evelyn is offended and snaps, “Robert, how base!” It’s clear from her moving line of sight that Bubba’s moving toward Skipper.

“Can you see your Mommy?” James asks Amelia. “Good. Go to her.”

Terry urges Evelyn, “Go to your daughter.”

April gasps as the two figures become visible even to her, and in slow motion they move to each other. Evelyn’s ghost cries as does Frances/Evelyn. Evelyn swoops Amelia into her arms.

Frances/Evelyn sobs, “My baby girl, my little Amelia!”

A bright light becomes visible to all, and it engulfs the foyer.

“Now, Bubba; join them,” Skipper directs with urgency. “Go!”

And the young motorcyclist becomes visible to all and is welcomed by Evelyn’s beckoning arm. They hug. The light brightens to a blinding intensity and fades.

It takes a few moments for everyone to orient.

“Evelyn?” Professor Wine asks Frances.

“I’m here, but the part that has lived in Barrow House has moved on. Thank you.”

“And you reside?”

“As part of Frances.”

“They’re gone,” agrees Skipper with nods from Terry and James.

“Then let’s move forward in time to the life between yours and Frances.’ Who were you then?”

After a period of questioning, Professor Wine finishes, “And when I count to three I will clap my hands, and you’ll awake and remember everything… One, two… three.” He claps his hands twice sharply.

Frances Withersby is initially disoriented, then puts things together and bursts into tears.

The Professor produces a handkerchief but is unprepared for this reaction, “Mrs. Withersby?”

Frances continues to cry, but waves “don’t worry” at everyone. Her crying trails off; she blows her nose.

“I feel so relieved, so free – like a huge weight was taken off me.”

The psychics aren’t surprised, but Professor Wine, April and Tom are.

Frances laughs shakily, “I can’t believe you paid me to experience this!”

“Would you be willing to record – now while it’s fresh – everything you remember about while you were hypnotized?”

“Sure, but you’ll think I flipped. I was seeing things from outside my body – like I was in two places at once. I was moving across the living room and sitting in this chair.”

“At the same time,” asks Dr. Wine, “or alternating?”

“Same time.”

James questions, “Had you ever seen from Evelyn’s perspective before?”

Frances thinks, lights up and shares, “A few times – yes – especially if the children were heading toward danger. But I only realize it now that you ask. At the time I would have said it was a feeling, but there was a fleeting image.”

“Could you see me when I came into the kitchen?” inquires Terry.

“Yes.”

Professor Wine interrupts, “Please, let her record her recollections while they’re fresh. We can have a debriefing afterwards.”

The Professor escorts Frances out of the room. April follows.

The three psychics are tired. James and Terry gather up their things. Tom lets the camera run as he packs up other equipment.

“Fascinating case,” Terry comments.

“Very. You know what the prof’s working on?” James asks rhetorically and immediately answers, “Heaven versus reincarnation.”

“This has me thinking about it. We just saw the reincarnation and passing of the soul for the same being. I didn’t think that was possible.”

Tom speaks up, “The Professor thinks it’s like quantum theory.”

“No, we saw the soul in two places at once,” Terry argues. “She said she had crossed over but was still in Frances communicating with us.” His tone conveys skepticism.

“Not that part of quantum physics, the paired electron part where two electrons know about the other’s condition and react in unison despite distance. The soul could co-exist in both realms then,” Tom explains.

“There’s proof of that every time that medium, Tom Hedland, connects with the dead, assuming everyone reincarnates,’ James points out.

“Then quantum theory implies that Frances carries a copy of Evelyn around, and that conflicts with my understanding of reincarnation. The soul moves onto a new life to learn new lessons,” Terry insists.

Tom and James shrug, having no answer.

Skipper looks frustrated and asks, “Did any of those scientists ever check both apertures simultaneously?”

James answers, “As I remember it, they couldn’t achieve simultaneous measurements.”

“What lame computer were they using?”

“Before computers.”

“Maybe someone needs to revisit that,” Dr. Wine surprises everyone, interjecting from the doorway. “You can get to multiple universes from quantum theory which is yet another way to look at this. If there are multiple universes, the photon of light – or a soul could co-exist in multiple realms. Then, it’s not only possible, but commonplace for the soul to be in multiple places at the same time.”

“I’m partial to the paired electron explanation,” counters Tom.

“We don’t know enough about quantum theory yet to know whether the two aren’t related in some way,” Dr. Wine rebuts.

“Wouldn’t it be more parsimonious to have a budding model – or a cell replication model where the soul copies itself rather than trying to push the edges of quantum theory?” counters James.

“Both those models involve creating a new entity devoid of the ‘knowledge’ of the previous version. Clones don’t contain the learned knowledge of the person,” Skipper enters the fray.

Terry jumps in, “And if someone could clone a person with all their learned knowledge, would it really be any different than identical twins? They’d begin to individuate as they experienced different things from that point forward.”

“That doesn’t answer whether they carry the same soul,” Tom points out. “Besides, there are more people alive today than the sum total of known history. Where have all those souls come from?”

“The Minbari,” Dr. Wine mutters under his breath, unheard.

“There are fewer other species and numbers of animals than at other times which fits the East Indian view that you work your way up,” offers Skipper. “And of course, if the soul can co-exist in multiple realms, maybe it can exist in multiple people.”

“There was a case that suggested that two living people – total strangers in different cities – shared a soul,” James concedes.

“That would throw everything wide open,” complains Professor Wine, “but for now, I think, we’ve been given plenty to think about just from the facts of Evelyn and Frances. It appears each unique incarnation of a soul is preserved in ‘heaven,’ but that the soul also moves on to a new life to learn new lessons.”

Although everyone is happy, they’re also dog-tired as Tom drives a van with Professor Wine, April and Skipper.

April queries, “How do we present this without looking like we belong in the tabloids?”

“This is not the first reputable work of this nature,” Professor Wine assures her, “but no matter how it’s presented, the department and I will have another go-round.” He laughs with relish.

Tom suggests, “There’s always a book.”

“Whatever comes of this,” Skipper says with a slight Eastern European accent, “we all know, what we know…”

“Are you tapping into my memories of my wife, again?” asks the Professor.

She laughs, and it makes the professor double-take her.

“I’m not tapping into your memories. Each time I went back with Frances, I sidetracked to my own previous existence. The apartment, the humming? – mine.”

“Louise?”

“It appears so.”

“But she’s also waiting for you in heaven?” asks April.

With tears of joy, Professor Wine answers, “It appears so.”

THE END