"There's something I must explain to you," he said. "I think it will ease your mind."
What could possibly do that?
"You remember," Lightner said, "that I told you I collect ghost stories."
"Yes."
"Well, I know of that old house in New Orleans. I've seen it. And I've recorded other stories of people who have seen the man you described."
The doctor was speechless. The words had been said with utter conviction. In fact, they had been spoken with such authority and assurance that the doctor believed them without doubt. He studied Lightner in detail for the first time. The man was older than he seemed on first inspection. Perhaps sixty-five, even seventy. The doctor found himself captivated again by Lightner's expression, so affable and trusting, so inviting of trust in return.
"Others," the doctor whispered. "Are you sure?"
"I've heard other accounts, some very like your own. And I tell you this so you can understand that you didn't imagine it. And so that it doesn't continue to prey on your mind. You couldn't have helped Deirdre Mayfair, by the way. Carlotta Mayfair would never have allowed it. You ought to put the entire incident out of your mind. Don't ever worry about it again."
For a moment the doctor felt relief, as if he'd been in the Catholic confessional and the priest had spoken the words "I absolve." Then the full import of Lightner's revelations struck him.
"You know these people!" he whispered. He felt his face color. This woman had been his patient. He was suddenly and completely confused.
"No. I know of them," Lightner answered. "And I shall keep your account entirely confidential. Please be assured. Remember, we did not use names on the tape recording. We did not even use your name or mine."
"Nevertheless, I must ask you for the tape," the doctor said, flustered. "I've broken confidentiality. I had no idea you knew."
At once Lightner removed the small cassette and placed it in the doctor's hand. The man seemed entirely unruffled. "Of course you may have it," he said. "I understand."
The doctor murmured his thanks, the confusion intensifying. Yet the relief was not altogether gone. Others had seen that creature. This man knew it. He wasn't lying. The doctor was not, and had never been, out of his mind. A faint bitterness surfaced inside him, bitterness towards his superiors in New Orleans, towards Carlotta Mayfair, towards that ghastly Miss Nancy ...
"The important thing," said Lightner, "is that you do not worry about it any more."
"Yes," said the doctor. "Horrible, all of it. That woman, the drugs."
No, don't even ... He went quiet, staring at the cassette, and then at his empty coffee cup. "The woman, is she still--"
"The same. I was there last year. Miss Nancy died, the one you disliked so much. Miss Millie went some time ago. And now and then I hear from people in the city, and the report is that Deirdre has not changed."
The doctor sighed. "Yes, you do indeed know of them ... all the names," he said.
"Then please do believe me," Lightner said, "when I tell you others have seen that vision. You weren't mad, not at all. And you mustn't worry foolishly about such things."
Slowly the doctor studied Lightner again. The man was fastening his briefcase. He examined his airline ticket, appeared to find it satisfactory, and then slipped it into his coat.
"Let me say one thing further," said Lightner, "and then I must catch my plane. Don't tell this story to others. They won't believe you. Only those who have seen such things believe in them. It's tragic, but invariably true."
"Yes, I know it is," said the doctor. So much he wanted to ask, yet he could not. "Have you ... ?" He stopped.
"Yes, I've seen him," said Lightner. "It was frightening, indeed. Just as you described." He rose to go.
"What is he? A spirit? A ghost?"
"I don't know, actually, what he is. All the stories are very similar. Things don't change there. They go on, year after year. But I must go, and again I thank you, and if you should ever wish to talk to me again, you know how to reach me. You have my card." Lightner extended his hand. "Good-bye."
"Wait. The daughter, what became of her? The intern out west?"
"Why, she's a surgeon, now," Lightner said, glancing at his watch. "Neurosurgeon, I believe. Just passed her examinations. Board-certified, is that what they call it? But then I don't know her either, you see. I only hear about her now and then. Our paths did cross once." He broke off, then gave a quick almost formal smile. "Good-bye, Doctor, and thank you again."
The doctor sat there, thinking, for a long time. He did feel better, infinitely better. There was no denying it. He had no regret that he had told the tale. In fact, the entire encounter seemed a gift to him, something sent by fate to lift from his shoulders the worst burden he'd ever borne. Lightner knew and understood the whole case. Lightner knew the daughter in California.
Lightner would tell that young neurosurgeon what she ought to know, that is, if he hadn't done it already. Yes, the burden was lifted. The burden was gone. Whether it weighed upon Lightner didn't matter.
Then the most curious afterthought came to the doctor, something which hadn't occurred to him for years. He'd never been in that big Garden District house during a rainstorm. Why, how lovely it would have been to see rain through those long windows, to hear rain on those porch roofs. Too bad about that, missing such a thing. He'd thought about it often at the time, but he always missed the rain. And rain in New Orleans was so beautiful.
Well, he was letting go of it all, was he not? Again, he found himself responding to Lightner's assurances as if they had been words spoken in the confessional, words with some religious authority. Yes, let it all go.
He signaled the waitress. He was hungry. He would like a breakfast now that he could eat. And without thinking much about it, he took Lightner's card out of his pocket, glanced at the phone numbers--the numbers he might call if he had questions, the numbers he never intended to call--and then he tore the card into little pieces and put them in the ashtray, and then he set them afire with a match.
Two
NINE P.M. THE room was dark, save for the bluish light of the television. Miss Havisham, was it not, a wraith in a wedding dress from his beloved Great Expectations.
Through the clear, unadorned windows he could see the lights of downtown San Francisco when he chose to look--a constellation burning through the thin fog, and just below, the peaked roofs of the smaller Queen Anne houses across Liberty Street. How he loved Liberty Street. His house was the tallest on the block, a mansion once perhaps, now only a beautiful house, rising majestically among humbler cottages, above the noise and the bustle of the Castro.
He had "restored" this house. He knew every nail, every beam, every cornice. Shirtless in the sun, he had laid the tiles of the roof. He had even poured the concrete of the sidewalk.
Now he felt safe in his house, and safe nowhere else. And for four weeks he had not been out of this room, except to enter the small adjacent bathroom.
Hour by hour, he lay in bed, hands hot inside the black leather gloves which he could not and would not take off, staring at the ghostly black-and-white television screen in front of him. He was letting the television shape his dreams through the various videotapes he loved, the videotapes of the movies he'd watched years ago with his mother. They were "the house movies" to him now, because all of them had not only wonderful stories and wonderful people who had become his heroes and heroines, but wonderful houses. Rebecca had Manderley. Great Expectations had Miss Havisham's ruined mansion. Gaslight had the lovely London town house on the square. The Red Shoes had the mansion by the sea where the lovely dancer went to hear the news that she would soon be the company's prima ballerina.
Yes, the house movies, the movies of childhood dreams, of characters as great as the houses. He drank beer after beer as he watched. He drifted in and out of sleep. His hands positively hurt in the gloves. He did not answer the phone. He did not answer the door. Aunt Vivian took care of it.
N
ow and then Aunt Vivian would come into his room. She would give him another beer, or some food. He rarely ate the food. "Michael, please eat," she would say. He would smile. "Later, Aunt Viv."
He would not see or speak to anyone except Dr. Morris, but Dr. Morris couldn't help him. His friends couldn't help him either. And they didn't want to talk to him anymore. They were tired of hearing him talk about being dead for an hour and then coming back. And he certainly did not want to talk to the hundreds who wanted to see a demonstration of his psychic power.