Bonus story: Oneiromancer. Storytime with Josh.

Morpheus in Sandman is an oneiromancer.

So, I am posting a free short story titled Oneiromancer about how grief and dreams can take you to odd and ominous places.

It’s a sort of detective tale too.

Oneiromancer

by Joshua Lee Andrew Jones

Peter’s eyes, bloodshot and dry, blink to keep focus on his work. The article for the Eastport Observer is due and the facts don’t check themselves. The computer hums and the cursor flashes on screen with a hypnotic rhythm. Entranced, he watches it pulse and begins to nod off. Before he bumps his head on the monitor, he breaks the drowsy spell and pushes back on his chair. The clock on his wall reads 11:30 PM.

“Damn it,” he says.

Next to the cup of cold coffee on the desk, his cell phone rings. He picks it up to see his mother calling. Panic shoots down his spine. His mother never calls this late.

“Hello,” he says.

“It’s your brother. Come quick. St. Vincent’s. Hurry,” she says and hangs up.

“What?”

The highway traffic is thin as Peter dodges and weaves through the lanes. He hopes the reoccurring nightmare about his brother hasn’t come true as he pulls off the exit. After a long light and quick right, he reaches the parking lot of St. Vincent’s hospital just in time to see a Med-Evac helicopter land on the roof. The choppy current from the rotating blades courses down to the parking lot and fans a group of nurses in pink scrubs puffing on narrow cigarettes. The smoke disperses in curls riding the hard flow of air. Peter parks and opens his car door only to be held back by the seatbelt as he tries to get out.

“Really Peter,” he says to himself and hits the seatbelt release. The belt recoils into the door with a nylon zip and thud.

Peter jogs up to the automatic doors and bounces on his feet as he waits for the glass to slide back with an electric whoosh. The visitor information desk is barren of all but one receptionist filing her nails with a blue Emory-board.

“Andy Miller. I’m his brother,” Peter says. She stops filing, looks up and then over to her computer. She taps the screen once.

“ICU, west wing, third floor, waiting room is to your left from the elevator,” she says and then inspects her fingernails. Peter scans the floor and sees the sign for the elevators. He jogs over and hits the up button. The elevator doesn’t heed his urgent call and by the time the lift arrives Peter is bouncing on the balls of his feet again. Ding!

“Finally,” he says, steps in, and hits number three. The doors come together and he is alone, alone with the harsh over head light. The elevator jerks as it begins to climb. Floor one. Floor two…

“If those deviants hurt him, I’ll find them,” Peter says as the doors slide open too slow for his liking. Outside the waiting room, Sybil, his mother’s psychic medium stands holding a Rosary to her heart. Two silk scarves knot her neck and a wool shawl drapes across her shoulders. Peter thinks why is she here?

A hand grabs hold of the doorframe from inside the ICU and catches Peter’s attention. His mother wearing a black track suit and pearls steps out on shaky feet. He rushes over as she looks to him with wide tear streaked eyes. Clumps of mascara hold to her lower lashes.

“They say he doesn’t have long. He’s in a coma. He finally did it Peter. He killed himself,” she says and begins to buckle. Peter catches his mother and moves her to the bench stretched along the wall.

“Don’t say that Mom. He’ll pull through.”

“No, he won’t. That’s what the doctors said. Said he will go as soon as he’s off life support.”

“We can’t give up.”

“He gave up on us. That’s why Sybil is here. She came with me and was able to enter his mind. He wants us to let him go,” she says. Sybil sits on the bench, clasps her hands, and looks to Peter.

“It’s true. This life has nothing more for him. Let him rest,” Sybil says.

At that moment, Peter wants scream but he holds back. Things are bad enough.

“Mom, don’t take him off life support. Let me investigate before you do anything,” he says.

“Peter, it’s over. He’s going to a place where the drugs can’t hurt him anymore,” his mother says.

“He could have been murdered, let me find out,” he pleads.

“No Peter. Andy wasn’t meant for this world. His soul was much more radiant and kind than I’ve encountered in my days and so he left to be with the other beings of light,” Sybil says.

Peter closes his eyes, grits his teeth, and counts to five.

“Listen, I’m sure you believe what you’re saying but don’t get into this,” Peter says.

“No Peter, she’s right. Sybil is connected to the other-side and Andy did this to himself. I overheard a policeman talk to a doctor and he said it was apparently self-inflicted. I’ve watched enough CSI on TV to know that means suicide,” she says.

“Can I see him?” Peter asks his mother.

Alarms sound in the ICU. Peter stands up and goes to the door only to be pulled out of the way by a muscular male nurse rushing inside.

…

Eyes blink and tears tumble down the cheeks of mourners huddling around Andy Miller’s hillside grave. The prevailing wind lifts the scent of scrub pine off the nearby park and rolls it over the Serenity View cemetery. Peter holds his mother’s hand as they watch Reverend Gil toss a handful of soil onto his brother’s coffin. At that moment, thick rolling clouds cover the sun and shade the final resting place of Andy Miller: son, brother, and now a scandal. Peter and his mother watch the others, all in black, pass by the casket, say their final farewells, and then continue downhill through a labyrinth of headstones. The scrolled-iron gate that leads to the street creaks in the breeze as the mourners pass through. Peter and his mother watch the casket descend into the earth. Reverend Gil hands Peter a shovel. A clump of soil is spread like a baker casting flour onto a cutting board.

The clouds begin to break up and columns of light track across the verdant hills of the cemetery. Peter closes his eyes and lifts his chin. The sun warms his face with a soft touch and brushes off the chill of the autumn morning.

“It’s him, Peter. It’s Andy telling us he’s all right,” his mother says.

“I’m sure it is,” he says and thinks no, it’s not him.

The next few days are a blur of handshakes, hugs, and condolences for Peter. People stop by his house in a quiet Eastport suburb with food but he isn’t hungry. People stop by with booze, but he doesn’t feel like drinking. Then, one afternoon around three, Peter opens his front door and his contact at the police department, Officer Curtain, stands there in a soaked t-shirt. His crew-cut is flat with sweat.

“Hey Pete. Again, sorry about your brother. Would have stopped by earlier but I had paperwork. I have some info for you,” Officer Curtain says. Peter waves him in.

“Lay it on me. Want some water?” Peter asks.

“No, I’m good,” Officer Curtain says and Peter closes the door.

“Here it is. There’s evidence of recent activity at your brother’s apartment during the time of the incident. Lots of fingerprints. Lots of trace. We found drug residue and paraphernalia but no drugs or cash. Are you sure you want to hear this now?” Officer Curtain asks and looks at Peter with a short, forced smile. He wipes his forehead of perspiration.

“Yes. I need to know if it was a suicide.”

“That’s the problem. It’s inconclusive to me. He could have done it but then again someone else could have done it too. Thing is, there were no signs of a struggle when he was found barely alive. The belt was still around his neck. The tox-report said he had high levels of opiates in his blood so if he was strangled by someone he was in no shape to put up a fight,” he says and Peter looks to the floor. An image of his brother being choked to death by some crack head fills his mind. His hands begin to shake so he balls them up in fists.

“You look flushed. You all right Pete?” Officer Curtain asks.

“Fine. Just a bit taken by this. In your opinion,” Peter says and then looks up to the cop, “do you think my brother could have been murdered?”

“Honestly, your brother was known to associate with some scary dudes and I think it’s possible. But listen, the case isn’t being pursued because of your mother. She wants it closed. What about your father?” he asks.

“He’s not around anymore,” Peter says.

“Oh. Sorry. Listen Pete, I have to get back to my run. If your mother decides to push for an investigation let me know and I’ll help,” Officer Curtain says.

Peter opens the door and the sound of his neighbor beginning to rake dead leaves on his driveway grates through the bright but chilly day. Officer Curtain checks his pulse as he steps through the door and out into daylight. Peter braces against the door.

“Hey, you ever hear of a psychic medium named Sybil who has a shop downtown?”

“Sure. I think she advised on a missing person’s case once. Why?”

“Just wondering if she had a rap sheet,” Peter says.

“No. Not from what I know. No complaints,” he says, waves and jogs off down the sidewalk.

Peter closes the door, flips the tumbler to the deadbolt, and thinks I have to make mom believe that Sybil is a sham. Otherwise, Andy’s case will close. Damn. This gives me an idea for an assignment. The paper should like it.

He grabs his phone and calls his editor Mardi Sylvestro.

“Hey Mardi, it’s me Peter. I have a great idea for a piece. Can we talk?”

…

Weary eyes are rubbed free of the previous night’s sleep. After brushing his hair, splashing on some drugstore cologne, and letting his car warm up, Peter gets to The Bombay Kitchen and sees his editor through the window as he slurps Chicken Vindaloo and slugs down fistfuls of Naan bread. Peter once tried to make Naan but burned it into thin pucks of charcoal. Mardi looks up to see Peter walking over from the front door and waves for him to sit. The scents of coconut, curry and slow roasted meat dazzle Peter’s senses. The bland diet of the past week keeping his nervous stomach at bay has left a debt of spice that he now wants to repay.

Peter pulls out a chair and tucks himself under the white tablecloth.

“Hey Peter, once again sorry about your brother. If there’s anything I can do let me know,” Mardi says and forks in a mouthful of chicken.

“Actually, you could do something. I want to get back to work. Help get my mind clear. I came up with an idea for an investigative piece. Sort of off-beat but definitely has potential,” Peter says.

Mardi stops chewing, puts his fork down, gulps, and leans into the table.

“All right. Glad to here you’re still with us. So, what’s the scoop?” Mardi says and then puts his hands on the edge of the table as if he were getting ready to push back if someone attacked.

“I want to infiltrate the secret world of psychics and expose them as frauds. You know like those TV mediums who supposedly talk to dead people,” Peter says.

“Those TV guys have lost popularity lately. I don’t know,” Mardi says and picks up his napkin.

“Not only those guys, but also the storefront psychics with crystals balls and tarot cards. The ones who take cash from little old ladies because they want to talk to their dead husbands,” Peter says as his eyes enlarge with the fire of determination.

“How would you do it?”

“Don’t know yet. I saw there’s going to be a psychic fair at a hotel down the highway and I could start there.

“Nah, they’d see you coming and not in a clairvoyant way. You’d just get the run around. You need to get them where they’re relaxed and not doing business.”

“Where’s that?”

“Don’t know Pete. You’re the reporter. Investigate.”

A prim waiter, wrapped with the white apron, comes over with a pencil and pad.

“What can I get you sir?” the waiter asks Peter. He looks up to the man and smiles.

“Nothing thank you. I’m leaving,” Peter says and the waiter bows at the shoulders and slips off into the kitchen filled with hardwood smoke and the rattle of pots and pans.

“I’ll find a way,” Peter says as Mardi wipes the corners of his mouth with his napkin.

“And I’ll allot you money for expenses, if you find an in,” Mardi says.

“What about Gloria? I know she’s into that New Age stuff. You think she’ll block me?”

“Don’t worry about that. You just find a way in.”

“I will. I’m going home now to do some research online. Probably won’t really jam on it until I get my brother’s web memorial up but that shouldn’t take me too long. Thanks Mardi.”

The days pass in folds like a letter being prepared for an envelope. Peter finishes his online tribute to his brother. After he saves and publishes the page on the site, a side advertisement selling career enhancement seminars gets his attention.

“Holy monkey balls. That’s the way in. They must have conferences. I’m going to get them Andy. I promise. Then we’ll find out what really happened to you,” Peter says.

The next Friday, among the rumors about his brother’s death, Peter passes through the offices of the Observer and finds Mardi in the break room having coffee.

“Hi Peter. Did you find a way to infiltrate the psychic underground?”

“I found an in and wanted to tell you in person.”

“What is it?”

“Remote View.”

“What’s that?”

“It’s like psychic summer camp.”

…

Closed eyes open to watch ten comments pop up on Andy Miller’s memorial page in the Digital Eternity website. Peter swivels in his home office chair as he reads the kind words filling his monitor. He wipes away the tears. An aching grin forms on his face. His greasy hair tumbles across his eyes and reminds him that he hasn’t showered since he started posting new photos and videos on the site the day before. The clock on the monitor reads 12:30 AM and Peter can’t help but yawn. He must get some sleep because his assignment starts the next day.

Peter lugs himself into his bedroom, the blinds drawn tight, and flops onto his unmade bed. Images of his brother on life support tear through his mind. The only way he can block them is to think of his boss Gloria strutting by his office at the Eastport Observer with the same walk she used on the runways in Paris. Her slinky gowns always held her toned body with a tight grip. He rolls out of bed to go see if he can find some pictures of her on the Internet and his search reveals gallery upon gallery of sexy photos.

He clicks through the galleries and they fill up his fantasy until overload. Before he exits the last site, he spies a picture of Gloria announcing her retirement from modeling next to a woman of almost equal beauty in a white business suit and turban.

“Wow, that lady looks like a nut. Might as well check the memorial one last time,” Peter says.

The Digital Eternity URL is clicked on in his browser and the sign-in pops up inside a garland of white roses. There is a private message. His teeth grind as he realizes it’s from Sybil. Peter reads a two paragraph message of clichéd condolences. At the end, he is asked to remind his mother about her appointment on Thursday. He squeezes the mouse until his knuckles almost burst through his skin.

“You fucking parasite. Here’s a reply.”

Sybil,

You have the balls to write me after what you said about Andy’s death! I thought your parlor tricks were harmless until you convinced my mother it was a suicide. Crawl back under that rock you came from and don’t contact my mother again. All you psychic frauds are going to be exposed soon enough. Go to hell.

Peter hits send and says, “At least my assignment idea came from her crap.”

The last Ambien in the small brown bottle rattles in front of the open medicine cabinet. Peter wrenches the faucet on, tosses the pill on his tongue and takes a sip. The chemicals enter his bloodstream as he makes it to his bed and collapses. His eyes flutter and dreams cast a wide net.

…

Eyes roll behind closed eyelids.

“Who are you?” a round voice says.

Peter’s eyes open to the sheen of night. His face wrinkles like a pug as he pushes himself up in bed. He is certain he heard something, someone, but there is nothing but a dim orange glow coming through the window from the street light.

“Who are you?” he says and sniffs the air. The scent of onion and vinegar drift off his t-shirt.

Headlights from a passing car track down the wall above his head. 

“Who are you?” the round voice says again.

Peter springs up to his feet with his hands coiled in tight fists.

“Who the fuck are you?” Peter yells and thinks run, call the cops. 

“I am a Thought Rider!”

“Thought Rider? Get the fuck out of my house.”

“This is not a real house.”

“I’m calling the Cops. I, I, I have a gun”

“There is no gun. Please calm down. I have something to tell you about the psychics.”

“Come out of the darkness.”

“If you wish to see me, fine.”

A three dimensional photographic negative of Peter steps out from the wall. Peter kneels on the bed and whimpers, “This is a dream.”

“Yes and no. Let me explain.”

“Just a dream. Just a dream,” Peter says.

“No Peter, not just a dream and don’t be afraid. I have come to warn you of a common enemy. These psychics as you call them do not talk to the dead. They communicate with others like me. Time is limited and be forewarned. You must go close the door we opened.” 

The photo-negative man burns away like a square of celluloid film stuck in front of the searing light of a projector. Peter falls face first flat onto the bed. 

He wakes up on his back thinking that was one hell of a dream.

…

Eyes open, the morning sun of autumn burns Peter’s face through the windshield of his beat up Honda Accord. His right hand acts as a visor as he steers one handed down a rural four lane highway flanked by corn fields. He comes upon a gravel road that cuts through a plank fence and scrub brush where a green sign reads Remote View Ranch. Off in the blue horizon, an expanse of dappled foothills embrace the sky and a hundred yards up the driveway two giant Spruces flank the road where an iron gate of twisted bars halt all entry. A guard station, a thatched roof hut, is posted there. Dirt and gravel spit from under the tires until he comes to a stop. Greeting his sight through the iron bars is a glass dormitory that reminds him of the ice hotels in Sweden.

“Just like on the website,” Peter says as he looks for an attendant.

A man with a radioactive green afro pops out of the hut. A baggy sky blue jumpsuit holds the plump man inside but it cannot restrain the biggest smile Peter ever saw.  He thinks if that’s natural, I’m the Pope.

The greeter wobbles forward on springs for feet.  Peter hits the button and the window rolls down.

“Hello my friend. I’m Angelo and welcome to Remote View. You are looking for us aren’t you? I can feel you are, but I need your invitation.”

“Here you go Angelo,” he says and pulls the invitation out of his shirt pocket. He bites his lower lip to repress his laughter.

“All is well. The gate will open and I know you will find what you seek. Pull up to the front and the valet will park your car. See you for comestibles.”

The car creeps forward under the rising gate and Peter snickers, “Bozo is some super-psychic.”

The sedan comes to a halt in front of the transparent dormitory, a structure made of pure glass. Peter looks right through the building to a cornfield as he gets out and grabs his bag from the back seat. To his left in a dirt parking lot, luxury cars and one run down hippie school bus sit under the autumn sun. Dry leaves tumble end over end in the growing breeze across the access road.

Peter looks over the hood of his car and sees a red valet’s vest hanging over the thick trunk of a little man with thick legs and thick arms. A smoldering cigar rolls between his lips as he spins a black cane. The little man walks around Peter’s car with determined steps. He tosses the cigar nub at Peter’s feet and he sizes Peter up and down.

“Your aura is all broken. You should have a cleansing,” the little mans says and hands Peter a ticket stub.

“Okay,” Peter says.

The little man hops in his car, pulls the door closed and his head rises into view through the window as the seat adjusts. With a quick twist of his head, the little man looks at Peter, winks and jams his cane onto the gas pedal and tears off down to the end of the lot.

The door chimes as Peter walks into the lobby. He puts down his bag before a thin aluminum desk. A bald woman sitting behind looks up with a blank stare and she says nothing. He hands her his invitation and she places a key on the counter with a tag that reads 3E1. A twiggy finger points to a scroll on the counter next to a quill sitting in an inkwell. Ink blots drip across the page as Peter signs in. Under a sign to the stairs, an albino man gets up off a fold-out chair and heads towards Peter. He grabs Peter’s bag, nods, and disappears into a stairwell. 

“Okay,” Peter says.

Through the front door a young man comes in scratching his Billy-goat beard.

“I’ll take you to your room,” the young man says and puts on earphones.

The transparent door to Peter’s chamber is open. There are no locks. The scent of dry cleaner’s starch greets him at the threshold. The kid coughs and Peter slips him a ten. A syllabus, a map and a white laptop are stacked on a single bed draped in white linen. His bag sits on the opaque floor where Peter sees people moving below the frosted tiles. The kid takes off his earphones and walks away.  Peter pulls out his phone and turns it off.

“No phone contact is going to suck but if I can spend a week camping out with eco-warriors when I wrote my thesis, then staying in an invisible hotel shouldn’t be a problem,” Peters says and thinks the toilets won’t be fun.

“Orientation begins with dinner,” echoes through the dorm’s intercom.

Men in tunics and toga clad women fill the cafeteria christened Messiah’s Hall. Peter slips into line, gets a salad and discovers an empty picnic table near the exit. As he begins to eat, his eyes are violated by a flash of intense sky blue. Angelo waddles toward the table. 

“May I join you brother?”

Peter wants to say no but the Venetian mask smile distracts him.

“Certainly.”

“Most gracious of you.  I introduced myself before, what might your name be?  I’m sorry but I just glanced at the invitation.”

“Uh, Peter.”

“What contact with the spirits brings you here? Are you here to develop or refine your techniques?”

“Develop. I received a message in my dreams.”

“That is where it all starts my brother.”

…

Eyes open, Peter attends seminars on the occult and interviews the so-called experts but finds no evidence of intentional fraud among the psychics. They believe what they do. Taking lunches with Angelos, Peter leads the conversation always pressing for information but it comes back the same story about when Angelos met angels and changed his name. Now only three days remain and then Remote View Ranch will be closed to all but a few elites. 

Before dawn, a skein of ravens land on the roof above Peter. His eyes crack open and he sees the birds hopping along the skylight roof. Their talons clack and tap like a steel brush scattering on a snare drum. A volley of caws sends them into the brisk morning sky leaving behind streams of liquid feces that drool down the roof.

“Gross.” 

Peter prepares for his first class, wrestles on his shirt, and picks the crust out of his eyes. Dawn penetrates the glass dormitory spreading rainbows along the halls. He makes his way by people meditating outside their doors and grabs the handrail as he descends the stairs to the first floor where he passes by the gymnasium filled with nudists in the downward dog yoga pose. The Crystal Theatre’s door is open and Peter sees Angelos on the stage. He stacks his notes on video game divination on the podium with a smile. Peter sits in a fold out chair.

The crowd grows until the lecture begins and Peter thinks he wasted his time. The scent of vanilla from a familiar perfume surrounds him a few minutes into the class. The lecture is replete with angelic references and technical code.

“…electronic devices are susceptible to outside electro-magnetic fields so the spirits can encode video games with messages,” Angelos says into the microphone.

Peter rubs his temples with his finger tips and is tapped from behind.

“I suspected you came here after I read Mardi’s new assignment memo,” a female voice says. Peter knows the voice.

He twists at the waist and says, “Gloria what are you doing here?”

His statuesque boss looks at him with a tilted chin. Her tailored black suit accents her curves.

“I’m here to see Kasey Wells, but I assume that’s not why you are.”

“Kasey Wells? She’s the founder of the Arcanum Group. They run this place. I don’t think she’s here,” Peter says.

“She is. Quiet, I want to listen to this. We’ll talk when it’s over.”

Angelos ends his lecture to a round of applause and the class begins an orderly exist but Peter remains seated.

“How do you know Kasey Wells?” he asks and twists around.

“She advised me to stop modeling and pay back the world for the gifts I received.  She told me I would be a part of a story that would change the world so I bought the paper. I think that’s why you are here now.”

Hot blood bloats his veins.

“I will report the truth.”

“Of course, I’ll introduce you to Kasey tomorrow but now I have an audience with the Professor of Clairaudience. Tomorrow at lunch, find me.”

“Thank you Gloria.”

Eureka he thinks as she leaves. Angelos approaches in his guacamole colored jumpsuit.

“I see you have met our most glorious sponsor,” Angelos says.

“Really? She’s my boss.”

“How the stars have aligned! She’s the reason the Remote View Ranch opened. Comestibles today?”

“Sure. This is personal but I have to ask, what with the smile?” Peter asks.

“The angels told me to bring a smile to everyone I met, everyday, and then by the Graces I found the money to make it come true. I never thought cosmetic surgery would be so painful.”

…

Eyes open, Peter rises from dozing off in bed and the reflection of the full moon has filled the building with a powdery gray light.

“Who are you?”

“Not this again. Where are you?”

“Here.”

A swirling purple vortex appears, Peter recoils and the photonegative Thought Rider steps out.

“You changed,” the Thought Rider says.

“What?”

“You reacted to the vortex. That means soon you can be a conduit. Your thoughts are beginning to vibrate at the frequency that allows the gateway to open. You must stop. You do not want to be a conduit.”

“I’m confused. What the hell does that mean?”

“I have studied your realm for eons and you are my final hope. These people who call themselves psychics are not talking to the dead. They are a conduit to my dimension where energy from human consciousness is extracted by using a telepathic connection.”

“You’re not a spirit?”

“No, a scientist who helped to create an awful device that will destroy your people.  One of us has illegally passed through the dimensional gateway and inhabited a human. This possession, as you might call it, was perpetrated by a radical scientist who is addicted to your people’s energy and wants to keep the gateway open. You must help me.”

“What?”

“My people exist in a dimension very close to yours in Hyperspace. It parallels your in many ways but has slightly different laws of physics. My people are like humans but thousands of years ahead technologically. Five thousand years ago an accident eliminated our means of energy production. A few scientists, including myself, found that if we opened a gateway to your dimension, we could siphon energy from your dimension until a new source was found in ours. But, my people became addicted to this energy and soon our interference will damage humanity’s capacity to evolve. Your race in fact is devolving as your mental energy is depleted.”

“What does this have to do with psychics?”

“Human thought emissions, modulated properly, can be extracted and pulled through the inter-dimensional gateway we created. These streams of quantum particle flow into our dimension and collide with what you would call anti-particles. This collision releases energy that we can utilize through a device I helped create. Long ago when your people were too primitive to understand this process, we opened the inter-dimensional gateway and projected images of ourselves posing as your dead ancestors. This interaction of human mind and projected image promoted a specific, potent thought emission. This made humans do as we asked but had the side-effect of creating psychics. Now your people can understand the process, but many from my dimension won’t risk losing our power source by revealing our true identity and purpose.”

“Energy vampires!”

“Calm down, all life feeds off life. The one I spoke of before has begun a plan of mass conversion to boost the energy supply for a cadre of radicals who plan to take over our government, but she doesn’t know it will change the very nature of your species.”

“You can’t stop it?”

“No. Not me. Not here. I’m in a condemned projection facility and have limited power.”

“Okay. Answer this please. So, you created psychics but how can they get information they haven’t witnessed?”

“As for intelligence gathering, your minds all work on a quantum consciousness construct. The easiest parallel is your Internet. Human brains are like wireless computers but the computers need to have access to the construct. The images we projected accidentally did that. This also allowed us to gain access into psychically equipped minds and they became like your Internet routers. The rest is telepathic hacking into the quantum consciousness construct.”

“I don’t understand why you make people believe they are talking to the dead,” Peter says.

“Belief is a key to our operation. The more you believe the easier it is to siphon the energy through these terminals. It’s like having a password for human minds. Psychics are just people who are online all the time and have access to other’s data but all human minds are capable of access of the quantum consciousness construct.”

“Why use the images of our dead? You could have been angels or Gods.”

“An afterlife is a powerful idea. It’s personal. It’s easier to make you believe. But, we did appear as Gods when we needed large amounts of energy. For this, I am sorry. There is little time. This facility is being watched because a few children snuck in and manipulated a human for amusement. They convinced him to forever have a face of glee.”

“A smile?”

“Yes.”

“Damn. Angelos. Poor guy. What can I do to stop this?”

“Find the imposter human and send her back.”

“Her?”

“Yes, her identification is K Z. You must render her unconscious and then I will be able to remove her consciousness from your dimension.”

Peter slumps down and covers his eyes.

“Great, it’s Kasey Wells.”

The purple vortex grows stronger and consumes the Thought Rider. Peter feels his bones heat up. He awakens sitting up. The sun blasts a trumpet of light on his bed as he gazes through his neighbor’s cell across the hall into the cornfield labyrinth. He watches the silks crowning the corn stalks undulate in the breeze. His attention is brought to the horizon as two hawks duel in the sky. 

“I shall cast the first stone.”

…

 Eyes open, Peter doubts his sanity and watches people pass by as he makes his way to Messiah’s Hall. A tulip among withering daisies, Gloria sits alone in a cranberry Dolce Gabbana dress and matching cowboy hat with black feather trim. She waves. The cafeteria echoes with the scratching of silverware on plates and the scent of freshly baked cinnamon rolls hangs in the air. Peter gets in line, grabs a plate of fruit, and circles around to his boss.

He sits as Gloria attempts a smile. 

“Sleep well?” Gloria asks.

“I have once or twice,” Peter replies.

“That’s an odd answer,” she says.

“This is an odd place. Is she coming?” Peter asks.

“Yes but could take a while with her congress calling on her.”

“First among equals,” he says.

“No.”

“What do you mean?” he asks.

“She’s not like the others. She never makes mistakes. I hear footsteps.”

Two rows of men in silver robes walk backwards through the cafeteria’s entrance and two girls dressed as vestal virgins toss orchid petals across the threshold. A man in line weeps. A Sanskrit chant bounds across the cafeteria from the intercom and then stops. Kasey, donning a porcelain white robe, passes through the doorway. Peter sees the glass walls behind her warp. He shakes his head and the walls are again solid. Kasey uncovers her head to reveal a coil of spun copper hair. She struts directly to Gloria and kisses her on the cheek. Peter’s fists clench and he thinks holy shit, it’s the woman from the internet photo. 

Kasey says with an English accent, “Darling, most wonderful to see you and this must be your reporter Peter.”

“Lovely to see you Kasey,” Gloria says and tilts her head.

“An honor to meet you, Ms. Wells,” Peter says.

Kasey sits next to Gloria as her entourage disperses.

“Gloria I see you’ve been following my olive oil treatment. You look fabulous!  Oh, and I don’t mean to be a bore but Helios Solar Systems is making quite the run for us on the exchange.”

“We doubled our money so far,” Gloria says.

“Soon it will triple, but enough with that. This nice young man is here, I think I should hear his needs before we get too caught up in business. First Peter, are the classes helping you sharpen your focus?”

“Yes. They have made my senses more acute. They allowed me to calm the clutter of my mind,” Peter replies.

“That’s wonderful, I remember the first time I became lucid. The concept of lucidity is why I had the building constructed in this manner. Lucid rooms for lucid minds. What surprised you?” she asks.

“The Remote Viewing class was a surprise. I didn’t think I’d be able to visualize distant places by just focusing on a map. It’s like being a spy satellite,” Peter says.

“Wonderful! That’s what you should write about when you get back to the office,” Gloria says without looking at him.

“I’m pleased by your change but there is something more. Is there something you want to ask me? An observation that troubles you perhaps?” she asks as a plate of candied ginger is placed down in front of her by one of the vestal virgins.

“My brother.”

“Yes. He is distant.”

“He’s dead and I wanted to know if you can contact him? I was told it will take a long time before I could, if ever.”

“True it takes time, but he is here with you.”

“Would you ask him if…” 

Kasey interjects, “If he’s at peace?”

“Yes.”  

“He is and he wants you to know it was by his own hand and Sybil was right. He tells me you came here to expose us, but now you will reveal the truth. Excuse me but the images are fuzzy. What does he mean?”

“Yes Peter. Answer her!” Gloria says.

“My intention was to expose psychics as frauds so I could get my brother’s case re-opened. You see, my mother listened to her psychic Sybil, and she said my brother’s death was a suicide. I didn’t believe it. But now, I do.”

“Now he will find peace. There’s something else. An image from a dream you want to discuss? I am skilled at oneiromancy so please tell me this dream and maybe we can plot your future.”

“There was a man. He called himself a Thought Rider. He was a photo-negative of, well, me,” he says as her eyes become coal and her thin lips clench so hard they drain of blood. 

“Very intriguing, go on,” she says staring at Peter.

“This Thought Rider appeared from a purple tornado and told me the world was coming to an end.”

“Go on.”

“He said the energy is gone.”

“What else did he say?” 

“I don’t remember but it has to do with siphons or possession but I can’t make any sense of it,” he says as she stands abruptly and her chair screeches back. 

“Let me go back to my chamber and meditate on this. I have much to attend to. Peter, come to my private office outside the dorm in three hours. It’s the greenhouse by the entrance to the cornfield labyrinth. Gloria, I’m sorry but I remembered that I have a pressing issue to address. Stay, enjoy the classes and we shall have dinner. Until later,” she says, turns and walks away so fast that her robe almost falls off her shoulders.

…

Eyes are shielded from the sun filling his chamber and Peter completes his article. He attaches it to an email. The subject line reads—INSURANCE. The article is sent. He closes the laptop on the bed and waits an hour.

The breeze outside the lobby brings the scent of burning leaves across Peter’s nose and memories of camping with his brother and father flood into his mind. He thinks of two gravestones, one is engraved with his brother’s name and the other his father’s. He makes his way to Kasey’s private office made from a converted greenhouse. The door clicks opens. Kasey waves him over from a loveseat where a brass table sits with a fortune teller’s crystal ball. The room stinks of charcoal from the wood burning stove in the corner. He walks over, hands in pockets, and stands next to the table.

“I have meditated on your dream and before I tell you what it means is there anything you would like to add?”

“Yes Kasey, why don’t you just go home and find another energy source?”

“I thought so. I read your article.”

“You rerouted my email. I should have suspected that. So, you know I know the truth.”

“But you don’t. That is some fiction you wrote.”

“It’s not fiction.”

“Dear boy, I’m not an alien. Grief has corrupted your soul. I have a group of counselors waiting to help you.”

“Liar! I can tell.”

“Poor boy. Let us help.”

“You’re the corrupted one. The world will know.”

“Do you think anyone will believe such a story? Let me help you communicate with your departed brother and father. Their words will let you know the truth.”

“Now I really know the truth,” he says and takes a drawn out, staggered breath, “Your telepathy hacking mislead you. I thought of my brother’s and father’s gravestones before I came in here.”

“You are obviously troubled by their deaths.”

“My father isn’t dead! He abandoned me and my brother as kids but he’s alive.”

“Calm down.”

“No, the first stone is cast.”

He descends on her with all of his weight as his heart slams like a piston against his lungs and his lips curl with rage. He clasps her throat and the crystal ball crashes to the cement floor. She kicks at him but soon goes limp. He tightens his grip and watches the capillaries burst in her eyes. 

“I didn’t want to do this, it’s the only way.” 

Bubbles of spit pop from the corners of his mouth.

“Nooooooo!” comes from the entrance.

Peter hears the woman’s scream but cannot stop. A log thumps his skull and dislodges his grip. Warm blood flows down his back. He sees sparkly blue and red lights.  Everything turns yellow and then goes black. Gloria places the log in the stove.

…

Eyes closed, Peter aches. It’s hard for him to move but he forces himself up in bed.  His eyes fight to open as his bedroom comes into focus. 

“Who are you?”

“Are you there Thought Rider?  I can’t see you”

“Yes Peter I am here.”

“Did I do it?”

“Yes but we failed.”

“What do you mean failed?”

The Thought Rider grows from a base shadow on the hardwood floor.    

“KZ returned, but my people are not yet convinced to stop this addiction to madness.”

“I understand. I will prove it to my people and close the portal from this side. I just need time.”

“I am sorry but you are stuck in a place like the one where we first met.”

“A dream.”

“Yes, but a dream from which you will never wake from, a coma. I’ll visit you as long as we have the portal open. Know this, you are a hero.”

“Will my people ever know?”

“Maybe in time.”

Headlines of the Elysian Gazette: THE FAMED PSYCHIC TO THE STARS KASEY WELLS’ FUNERAL WAS HELD TODAY. EX-SUPER MODEL GLORIA WAS IN ATTENDANCE.