The Haunting Of Helen 
                     By Cara Swann 
[© 2000 by Cara Swann; all rights reserved]

Synopsis: Set during the Gulf War, the editor of an
atheist publication finds her pragmatic philosophy
tested when she meets a mysterious man and
experiences supernatural phenomenon surrounding
him. By the time she learns this man supposedly died
years ago, her life has taken a strange detour into
the unknown realms of a parallel universe. 25,000
words/150 pages [Rating: General]

Reader Response to: authoress1@juno.com
^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^

                   Chapter One


Helen was exhausted. The long trip from
Birmingham had worn her out, and as darkness
approached, she felt the chill of late January in the
bleak surroundings. Although the monolithic National
Forest was graced with plentiful rich green
conifers, the oaks, maples and other hardwood trees
stretched thin, barren limbs to the metallic skyline,
ridging high hilltops, almost touching the leaden
underbelly of clouds.

She felt so out-of-place in the rural Alabama
countryside, having passed the modest-size county
seat twenty miles back along the highway. As she
drove on toward her destination at the remotely
isolated house a friend had lent her, Helen had a
sudden uncanny prickle along her spine, utterly
unlike her usual, pragmatic self. She dismissed the
feeling, preferring instead to concentrate on the
two-lane serpentine highway winding through
forested mountains.

It was quickly growing darker, and the gloomy
twilight brought Helen a lonely feeling. And with it
came a brief pang of regret; Curtis Mann was no
longer in her life, and she had to accept that reality.
In fact, as soon as the Persian Gulf crisis had
dominated news, Curtis managed to wrangle an
assignment to Saudi Arabia for CNN. Later, she'd
sat transfixed before the TV as he reported on the
outbreak of war, the advent of 1991 a violent
prelude to what might transpire as President
Saddam Hussein of Iraq held the world hostage by
his ruthless tactics.

Helen had watched as Curtis reported the latest
scud attack from atop buildings of Dhahran...and
she'd held her breath, unbelievably dismayed at his
perilous situation.

But then, Curtis was an outstanding network
reporter, a keen observer of national and
international catastrophes...and, regretfully, an
unfaithful husband. At least, that is what Helen had
learned through two years of pain, frustration and
eventual divorce, leaving her with endless hurt and
memories.

Putting the past firmly aside, Helen peered into the
distance, seeing a turnoff approximately where she
figured her destination should lead. She pulled over,
stopped and sat staring at the narrow graveled road
-- no sign, nothing to indicate this was the right
direction. But Jordan had told her it would he
exactly twenty-one miles from the county seat, and
her mileage was on the dot.

She started down the road, flicking on her
headlights; the spiraling conifer limbs scraped the
car, and she saw a post ahead, printed with the
words: CIDER MOUNTAIN. Relieved she'd found
her mark, she picked up speed and sighed, watching
the highway begin a sharp ascent into the snaky
passages winding around the mountainside. She
drove slowly, careful of the steep incline and hairpin
curves. Her new Cadillac Allante took the road well,
easily climbing treacherous terrain.

Just as she rounded a bend, her attention turned to
a deep gorge on the left. Below her she could see a
ramshackle old house with rusted tin roof, faded
ash-colored planks, some gaping windows, one or two
boarded-up, a warped rock chimney.

But what caught her eye was a man burning brush
behind the structure: he had a full beard, wore
jeans and plaid shirt, seemed oblivious to anything,
staring off dreamily into the forested hillsides. She
wondered who lived there? Jordan had said Cider
Mountain was deserted, isolated; and that was what
she sought here, so the obvious discovery of another
person living nearby was disturbing. Privacy, her
greatest necessity, was in jeopardy.

Helen decided to ignore the man. She drove ahead,
concentrating on the road until rounding a last curve
where she glimpsed the cottage nestled into the
steep backdrop of hillsides. She sighed deeply, tired
and eager to get into the place, rest and exercise
her aching cramped muscles. Parking in front of the
house, she saw the cottage was as lovely as Jordan
had promised. It was an interesting structure,
sloping tin roof, spacious front porch with a railing
along it, the grayish planks built from wormy
chestnut wood indigenous to the area, lending a
weathered appearance. Rattan rockers were turned
up against the wall, a brass knocker visible on the
rough wooden door. She sat there, entranced with
the rustic retreat; it was appealing and exuded
warmth, welcoming her almost.

Without delay, she jumped out and unlocked the
trunk, took out a suitcase, bag of groceries and
headed up the inlaid stone walkway, noticing
fieldstone chimneys at either end of the house which
would mean cozy fires for the chilly nights.

She took the doorkey out of her purse, jostling the
groceries, putting down the suitcase and finally
pushing open the door. It was dark, so she stumbled
around, searching for a light switch, but settled for
a nearby lamp.

A golden glow softly illuminated the antique
furniture, which created an old-fashioned
atmosphere she admired. Helen grabbed the
suitcase, went through the spacious open-beamed
room into a small kitchenette to the left, found a
light switch and flicked it on.

A table was in the center of the tiny room, and she
put the sack down, looked around with appreciation -
- everything had been meticulously refurbished yet
modernized to perfection. She thought it delightful,
and surveyed the punched-tin chandelier, two-plank
oak table, straw-bottomed ladderback chairs, a
braided rug on the polished wood floors; the
microwave, fridge, stove and compact cabinets were
unobtrusive, cleverly disguised by the decor.

A huge fieldstone fireplace dominated the broad
open-beamed room she'd just walked through, with
over-stuffed sofa, armchairs and personal touches
of comfort like big soft pillows, handmade
patchwork quilts draped over wooden rockers, the
gingham material design echoed in curtains, cushions
and objects throughout the house.

She walked slowly through the interior, noting it was
basically an open expanse, yet having a small
kitchenette on the left, and a significant-sized
bedroom on the right, where she tossed down her
suitcase. Another fieldstone fireplace lent charm to
the bedroom, where a shiny brass bed was made up
with a colorful patchwork quilt; she sank down into
the softness, closing her eyes, exhausted.

Helen saw Curtis's face before her, the soft brown
eyes, the laughing smile that somehow managed to
be whimsical, his buoyant optimism, the husky voice
saying words filled with emotion. He was such an
open, verbally expressive man, whatever he thought
or felt was immediately registered on that
handsome, boyish face...so utterly contrasted by her
reticent nature, her aloof and distrustful practical
orientation, a contrast that often spawned
arguments and heated confrontations. She, always a
realist; he, always the idealistic dreamer. Although
he was an accomplished reporter, he still had that
little-boy charisma...the innocent, trusting
appearance, which perhaps explained his
extraordinary success in getting factual hard news.
Everyone trusted him implicitly, confided in him.
Everyone but her, because he continuously accused
her of being cold, emotionally distant.

She grimaced, remembering his blunt, hurtful
insights. Yes, maybe she was emotionally withdrawn,
maybe she was a brutal realist -- but it was due to
her utilitarian upbringing. The only child of atheist
parents, indoctrinated into scientific scrutiny and
skepticism through her surgeon father, her factual
writer mother...how could she be anything less than
their assiduous, reserved daughter?

She sat up, looked through the doorway into the
golden room beyond her and dismissed the idle
thoughts about her past disappointments. The cold
was now touching her, and although there was a
fireplace in the bedroom, she went to look at the
one in the den, saw wood stacked beside it, and built
a fire; the blaze caught, and began smoking, then
flaring into brilliance. 

She made some hot cocoa, sat on the sofa and
wrapped up in the patchwork quilt, glad for the
warmth and comfort of Jordan's house. He had lent
it gladly; her editor and mentor, Jordon Porter was
fifty, seemingly attracted to her...but she'd
discouraged his advances. He was married, and that
to her constituted an impossible barrier; but she had
been grateful for the loan of the house, a retreat
where she could work on her book.

Her career had been extremely fortuitous; she was
an associate editor with an atheist magazine, THE
REALIST, and in the five years since she went to
work as a fledgling writer, the magazine had grown
in circulation. Initially, when she got the position
right of college, at age 22, her parents were the
only ones who thought it had potential; Birmingham,
Alabama was the last place anyone expected an
atheist publication could establish a base. But in the
successive years, her investigative pieces on the
availability, or lack thereof, for atheist material in
the South, and the continuing series she wrote on
separation of church and state constitutionally, had
garnered national readership. She was vaguely
known, but if this book, a compilation of her past
articles and new, fresh research, did as well as
Jordan thought, she'd soon be a household name.

It was, she admitted, a dream her parents had
initially inspired, but now her own hopes rested on it
as well. Helen wanted to spread atheism, non-
theistic goals; and expand the knowledge of how
churches, not paying income tax, exacted a sizable
cut from the average citizen's paycheck. The
corruption of religious leaders and organizations
was a growing, widely publicized problem. She
wanted to bring to light the whole spectrum of what
that entailed, and show that mankind could be civil,
caring, compassionate yet atheist-orientated, giving
their intellect primary importance over emotionalism
and wildly ridiculous "spiritual/emotional" displays.
Yes, she had an important goal -- to write such a
book -- and that was why she had sought this
secluded house.

Sitting before the firelight, Helen felt content; she
began to get drowsy, and decided to wait until
tomorrow morning to bring in her small word
processor. She finally retired to the bedroom,
unpacked her gown, took a quick shower and slipped
into the bed, drifting off to sleep.

                      End Chapter One

^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^ 
Chapter Two


Dazzling morning sunlight pierced Helen's eyes as
she came awake with a start. Something seemed to
have brushed her face, tingling her skin...a prickly
sensation that had brought her to a shuddering
wakefulness. She sat up, blinking rapidly in the
sunlight streaming through open window curtains;
her eyes searched the bedroom, futilely seeking a
real presence. Silly, she realized, beginning to
comprehend she'd had an unsettling dream that had
rudely launched her awake.

A gingham valence bordered the square-cut window,
curtains hanging on either side.  She got up, pushing
off the quilt and going to stare outside. It was
brightly beckoning sunshine out there, the deeply
wooded thicket shadowed by a mountain behind the
hillside, probably Cider Mountain for which the
hilltop was named. 

Sunlight gleamed on the windowpanes, throwing back
a false image of Helen; she  studied herself
critically. At twenty-eight she looked relatively
younger -- short, crinkle-waved hair, only chin-
length to emphasize her triangular face, a sharp chin
and penetrating brown-black eyes everyone told her
were intense. In fact, her whole demeanor
suggested intensity...petite, slender body, frenetic
and agile, always gesturing with her tiny hands
(which she tried to calm by wearing clothing with big
pockets to contain her hands) she was constantly in
motion. Biting her narrow upper lip, wishing she had
the pouty sexy look so popular these days, instead
of only a full bottom lip and pencil-thin upper lip, she
wistfully recalled Curtis's nickname for her --
Cricket.

Stupid to let that bring a painful tug at her heart
after the past year without him; he was no longer
part of her life and it disgusted her to be caught
off-guard by poignant memories. After all, wasn't
she the very essence of a controlled, self-contained
woman? Yes, but what woman was ever smart and
controlled when it came to love? Having never
forgiven herself the emotionalism of romantic
involvement, although it apparently wasn't sufficient
for Curtis, Helen had decided that would never be
an option in her life again. True, the real regret
would be not having a child: that she would miss out
on, but it was just something she'd have to live with.

Hurriedly, she chose jeans and a loose sweater, took
a shower and dressed. Then she ate a bowl of
cereal and sipped hot coffee, contemplating the day
ahead. Glancing at the den, she saw a wooden desk
positioned beneath a window, an empty bookcase
next to it...just perfect. Rinsing out the dishes, she
grabbed her thick parka and braved the outdoors;
the central gas heat unit had kept the house more
comfortable than she'd thought, and the brisk air hit
her with force. 

She ran down the stone walk, unlocked the trunk of
her car and got the Brother typewriter, carried it in,
came back for the 12" display screen, took it in and
arranged them on the desk, hooking it up expertly.
Although small, it was adequate for her needs -- a
Brother WP3400, quality printouts by typewriter;
storage on floppy disks, and small, easily installed.

Satisfied, Helen returned to the car, got suitcases
and cartons of her material. As she unpacked the
reference books, the jumble of notes she'd taken
on her research field trips, her mind was
preoccupied about the work. She'd learned that few
small-town libraries in the South would allow copies
of THE REALIST or THE AMERICAN ATHEIST
magazines to be displayed on shelves openly, due to
religious zealots who denounced its accessible
visibility. That could be a theme for her factual book
-- the lack of access to freedom of information,
restrictions and inhibitions among many southern
conservative religious communities. Of course it was
in violation of law; but it happened all the time, and
she had plenty of proof --  taped interviews with
librarians and citizens alike, adding color and flavor
to their woefully uninformed diatribes. 

Forgetting the task of unpacking her clothing, Helen
sat down at the word processor, entered a few
tentative ideas on a disk and became engrossed in
her work. When she glanced out the window, looked
at the sun high above the mountaintop, she was
stunned to see it was already noon! She felt
ravenous and went to the kitchenette, got wheat
bread and mayo, ham and lettuce, made a cup of
black coffee and ate leisurely, content in the haven
of peace. No phone, no contact other than mail. She
had to fight Jordan on that; he'd insisted she have a
portable car phone, but she wouldn't relent. 

The quiet was blissful, and as she looked out the
windows a gray squirrel scampered across the small
back yard, then disappeared into the nearby woods.
She sighed, putting away the dishes for later.

Impulsively, she walked out onto the back-porch,
shivering in the winter cold: it was like being in a
bucolic portrait, the natural landscape undiminished
by man, only trees, land, fresh air and sweet purity
of nature. Untarnished brisk wind, scented only with
earthy evergreen from the woods, wafted over her
and she leaned against a post and closed her eyes.
Suddenly she felt that prickly sensation cover her
skin, almost identical to the early morning waking,
and she shuddered, glaring fiercely into the empty
yard, halfway expecting to see someone nearby.

Foolish, she told herself, and stalked across the
dull-brown grass, looking at the twisted limbs of an
oak; she saw the squirrel near woods, its twitchy
motions nervously indicating awareness of her
unnatural presence. She returned its brave stare,
and then laughed at her intensity -- the rapt
attention she bestowed on everything. As though
alarmed, the squirrel raced up a pine, disappeared
into the thick woods. Helen started back across the
yard, noticing how neatly designed the house was,
how it stood as arrogantly as a human on the slight
incline, proclaiming its ownership of territory.

Back on the porch, she chided herself for such
flighty metaphors; this place was giving her a flair
for imagination, and a ridiculous poetic streak as
well! She had her hand on the door when she heard
the gruff voice, "Lady, you got a minute?"

Whirling around, Helen saw a man at the corner of
the house; he was peering at her quizzically. She
vaguely recognized him, couldn't place his face...then
it occurred to her he was the man she'd seen in the
gorge, near that wreck of a place. She stiffened,
nervous in spite of herself, asked, "Yes?"

"Couldn't help notice you come up last night, you
might want to check that gas tank meter. A company
man told me it was about empty." He leaned against
the house, grinned lazily, which angered Helen
unreasonably.

She blurted out, "I believe that's none of your
business, is it? Jordan, my friend who lent me the
place, said it would be filled Monday, that's only two
days away."

He shrugged his brawny shoulders, pulled his faded
denim jacket tight and continued to stare at her
lazily, a grin playing on his bearded face. She
returned his stare, unabashed by his brash behavior.
"While you're here, I might as well warn you that we
don't allow trespassers on this property." It
sounded as blunt as she'd intended it.

"Sorry lady, I was only trying to help. If it gets as
cold as they predict tonight, you may need more
gas." He stamped his boots on the frozen ground,
advised, "Might ought to call that Baker gasoline
truck, get it filled this afternoon."

Reluctantly, Helen said, "Well, maybe you're right.
But I don't have a phone..." She could have kicked
herself for that remark. He could be an ax-
murderer for all she knew, and it was certainly
unwise to blurt out her self-imposed isolation.

He came forward, stood near the bottom step and
placed his pointy-toed boot on the stone, studied her
a moment and said, "No, I'm not an ax-murderer."

Taken aback at having her exact thoughts repeated
aloud, Helen felt her face flame. She exclaimed,
"Please go, I don't need YOU, or...or...anyone!"
Embarrassed at her stammering, she opened the
screen, put one foot in the doorway.

He smiled broadly, warming his facial features. His
voice was soft, "Lady, I'll phone in a request; the
truck will get here by four probably."

"Uh, thanks...I guess."

"You know, these folks back here in the hills...well,
they don't take to strangers, and never really
accepted Jordan's buying this place." He moved
back, looked around the yard, up to the
mountainpeak. "But I'd be the first to say he's done
wonders with the old homestead. Mavis and Mert
would have been proud of it." 

He glanced back at her, said, "Course, they never
had the money to fix it up. I own property, down in
Whiskey Creek Hollow."

She wanted to scream with frustration; did he think
she cared about local affairs? "Look, I appreciate
the tip about gas, but I'm a very busy person."

"Mavis and Mert lived here, right up till the day they
died." He grinned again, smugly. "But I'm sure you
aren't interested in their story, huh?"

"No, I'm not. So if you'll please excuse me now, I
must get back to work."

Helen went inside, looked back through the screen
and saw him still grinning. He was a big-boned man,
rugged and raw-looking, like one of those mountain
men in movies or one of those brawny guys in
cowboy duds for cigarette ads. But his face was
oddly gentle-looking, soft gray eyes and dark blond
hair that was combed back off his wide forehead, a
lock falling down to his eyes, him wiping it away. He
indeed was taking a pouch of tobacco out of his coat
pocket, rolling a cigarette, lighting it and looking at
her in an odd way, gazing upward through a haze of
smoke, his thick bushy eyebrows almost veiling his
speculative stare.

"I hope you are prepared for being here alone, or is
someone joining you?" His words were soft-spoken.

"That's none of your business. Now I must go." She
pushed the door shut, stood against it and felt giddy.
More than masculine presence, his peculiar knowing -
- his coincidental statement of what she was
thinking, had unnerved her. She took deep breaths,
steadying herself, and went to the front door,
watched him walk along the stone walkway, striding
in a long-legged gait past her car, down the road and
around the bend, out of sight. 

What kind of man was he? A menace or mere
hindrance? She suddenly realized she hadn't even
asked his name, nor had he requested hers!

"What utter nonsense," she said aloud, going to the
bedroom and jerking open her suitcase, grabbing out
clothes haphazardly, almost angrily arranging them
in the closet. What an arrogant, brash man, she
thought, but then recalled his considerate warning
about the gas tank...

"Just what I don't need!" she muttered, returning
to her work with a vengeance.

                                   *  *  *  *  *  *


The gas man arrived at four, oddly saying he'd
gotten concerned and decided to drop by and check
the tank, then informed Helen that it was almost
empty. She had him to fill it, paid the bill and asked
if he'd been called to come out; he said no. 

She was pondering on the stranger's link to this
development until it dawned on her he might have
stolen gas from Jordan's tank...and it infuriated her!
To think he was ingratiating himself in such a
deceptive manner! Helen paced around the room,
wondering if he'd come again. If he did, she'd give
him a stern warning to stay away!

It got dark as she sat at the word processor,
putting her notes on disks, making sense out of her
scrawl, listening to tapes of interviews, trying to
decide what to file and what to destroy. Her eyes
began aching around seven, and she got up for a
break, shut off the machine.

Heating vegetable soup, then making a small salad
and pouring a glass of milk, she sat the food on a
tray and built a cozy fire, brought the food to the
sofa and ate while staring at firelight. She'd avoided
the radio and TV all day, aware to learn news she
might have to hear or see Curtis. But now she pulled
the portable black-and-white TV from the corner,
adjusted the antenna and clicked it on. 

Being unable to get CNN was no assurance of not
seeing Curtis; some of the stations were using clips
of him on updates about the Gulf War. She sat
there eating, watching a bland movie...until the
update came on. Luckily it was only a brief spot, no
Curtis. The war was disturbing to her, and even
though she was educated about foreign policy and
international relations, it still gave her a queasy
feeling to witness such mass destruction, both for
U.S. troops and for the Iraqi people.

Her last argument with Curtis rang in her ears:
She'd said the CIA were remiss in not assassinating
Saddam Hussein before he got the whole world into
such a dire predicament; Curtis had said such
actions were against international law; she'd
countered with the fate of all the senseless killing
now necessary to extract the monster from Kuwait;
he'd grown frustrated, angered at her illegal
logic...and that had been their last phone
conversation. Now, as she watched an announcer say
the air raids continued relentlessly, Helen wished
she could apologize for her heated words. Curtis,
too, was in grave danger over there -- and she might
very well never see him again.

To distract her morbid thoughts, she washed dishes
and then closed all the curtains, amazed at how
black it was outside. No lights, nothing. She went
back to the processor, sat down and flicked it on.
There was no disk in it, and she stared at the
screen, trying to decide what to enter next.
Suddenly the screen blinked, went totally orange
and then black again. She grumbled, "Just what I
need, a defective processor!"

Suddenly words began to parade across the screen,
and Helen stared in shock, amazement as she read:

I AM THE ETERNAL ONE, THE BE-ALL, THE
END-ALL. YE SHALL LISTEN TO MY WORD. YE
SHALL KNOW THAT I AM WITH YOU, SPEAK TO
YOU, THROUGH YOU IN THE WAY OF OLDEN
DAYS. COME, DO NOT DELAY FOR I SEEK YE AS
MY VOICE: VERILY I SAY UNTO YOU HELEN, I
COME TO SHOW YOU THE WAY OF OLD.

Helen blinked, startled and momentarily stunned;
she reread the words, carefully. She looked down at
her hands as though her fingers had betrayed her,
typed out words she thought sounded foolish, inane
and meaningless. It was evocative of the language in
the Bible, and although she'd read it for reasons of
debate, she'd thought it convoluted and
contradictory.

She hit the line-out key, and the screen never
changed; she hit the word-out key. Nothing! Helen
jumped up, turned off the switches and yet the
writing stayed clearly on the screen. Alarmed, she
unplugged the cord from electricity. It blinked, went
orange and then new words printed boldly:

HELEN, YE ART MY VOICE: DO NOT FEAR MY
WORDS, BE YE AS LITTLE CHILDREN,
TRUSTING. I SHALL RETURN IN DREAMS,
VISIONS...FAR AWAY, BUT CLOSE...

Helen screamed, went running for the door, turned
once to see the words still etched brightly on the
screen as she ran from the house in blind panic.

                          End Chapter Two
^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^
Chapter Three


The frigid blast of air hit Helen, stinging her cheeks
as she fled down the stone walkway; it was pitch-
dark, and she stumbled along, stopping at the car, a
second of clarity as she realized she'd forgotten
the keys! Her eyes gradually adjusted to the night,
and a full moon illuminated the roadway.

For a brief moment, Helen stood glaring back at the
mellow light seeping from behind the window
curtains, seeing warmth, a welcoming glow...wishing
she could return. But that seizure of panic beat at
her brain, and she ran out into the road, jogging
rapidly downhill, stumbling occasionally, finding her
way, pausing for breath and then feeling how cold
the night was...her coat hanging back in the closet!

She ran again, senselessly, unknowing of destination
or time, just the necessity of getting away from
that...that...what? She stopped abruptly, sucking in
air, her lungs burning from the arctic intake. She
started thinking, retracing what had happened,
trying to calmly, rationally analyze the message on
her screen. Could it have been a defect in the
processor? She'd only purchased it the previous
week, and never used it before. Perhaps it had been
programmed for self-demonstration with that
absurd greeting? Maybe...but that seemed unlikely.
However it made more sense than what immediately
ran through her mind when it occurred -- that some
outside force had written the ominous words!

Her heart slowed, and she began to steady herself,
calming her nerves. Then she looked around, aware
of the deep night, the encroaching woods, the far-
off sound of a hoot owl, rustling in underbrush just
beyond the ditch. Her skin prickled with chills,
senses alert to the danger she'd placed herself in
thoughtlessly. Disgusted with herself, she pivoted
and began walking briskly back toward the house,
head down, concentrating on her feet.

The voice came out of nowhere: "Taking your nightly
constitutional?"

Helen heard herself scream; she tried to stop, but
even as  she saw the stranger practically
materializing before her in the road, she couldn't
quit. He caught her flailing arms, steadying her and
saying, "It's just me, sorry I scared you." 

His soft voice seemed to soothe her, and she gulped
air, deep and irregular until he removed his jacket,
wrapped it around her shoulders and said, "You look
like you saw a ghost." 

He turned a flashlight on her face, adding, "Take it
easy, nothing will hurt you now, I'm here to protect
you."

That chauvinistic remark cleared her mind, and she
said sharply, "Let go of me!"

He moved away, still holding the light on her. She
snapped, "Is this an interrogation? Turn off the
beam!"

He complied, standing silently in the dark, still
apparently eyeing her shaky presence. At last he
asked, "You okay?"

Helen was tempted to tell him everything, but
thought better of it. Surely he would only laugh at
her, and besides, she didn't quite know what to make
of it. "I'm fine, just out for a walk, needed a break
from work."

"You always go without your coat, and without a
light?" He flashed the light on, pointed the beam out
in front of them; the potholes were obviously
treacherous, and she shook her head, amazed she
hadn't fallen and broken her neck.

"No, I...well, I...uh heard a funny noise and ran away
from the house. It was stupid, and I realized that
just now."

He took her arm, steered her along safely, quietly
asked, "What kind of noise?"

No hint of irony, no stab of sarcasm, no questioning
of her hearing a suspicious noise in the night. She
laughed, said haltingly, "Uh, one of those crazy
noises women alone sometimes hear, I guess."

He riveted the light upward, shining the beam into
dense trees, shadows playing spooky-like in the
forest. He said seriously, "Lots of wild game up
here, deer, bobcat, bear, might have been something
nosing around your garbage."

She decided he wasn't a fiend, nor even a potential
danger. Her voice softened, "By the way, I'm Helen
March...and you are?"

"You could call me a stranger in the night, but I go
by Kent McCord."

She stopped, holding onto his arm.

He paused, looked down at her; she could smell
tobacco, leather and felt a slight attraction, their
closeness very intimate. He brought the light on her,
allowed the beam to play up her body, to her face,
then back down. His voice was a whisper, "Glad to
meet you, Helen."

"You too Kent. Uh, about the gas tank, it did need
filling but fortunately the guy showed up to check
on it without calling."

"Oh, I believe he got a message." 

He began walking and she followed along, keeping up
with him.

She mused aloud suspiciously, "Maybe you walk at
night to steal gas from other's tanks, or...even scare
women alone?" It had dawned on her again that his
presence here was extremely coincidental, the
timing almost perfect.

"If you must know, I was down the mountain,
minding my own business when I had the strange
feeling that...well, never mind."

"Go on...you had a strange feeling that...?"

"I don't want you to get the idea I'm a nut, but
sometimes I have premonitions, feelings that..."

"Please spare me!" Helen thought, here we go again -
- FEELINGS, the ESP jargon of foresight, phony
baloney!

"Sorry. But that's why I hurried up here...the feeling
that you were, well, somehow upset."

She sighed wearily. What she'd just thought she
experienced (seeing the archaic writing on the
processor screen) would be right up this man's alley,
but no way would she confide that momentary lapse
to him. She simply said, "Whatever, I  hope you
won't take advantage of my being alone. Besides,
I'm perfectly capable of taking care of myself!"

They rounded the bend, and he halted, said, "A
modern woman, huh? Fearless in the face of any
kind of danger?"

"Yes." She took off his jacket, handed it to him,
stated flatly, "Good night, Kent, and perhaps good-
bye."

He was smiling through his beard, she could see that
smile in the flashlight glow. Kent nodded, said, "Your
wish is my command. But remember, there are some
things we can't really know, only sense. That is what
I felt toward you tonight."

She began walking away, him staring at her back.
She wanted to render him unable to affect her, so
she said over her shoulder, "Please don't come here
again."

There was no reply, but she heard his steps
retreating, and knew he was leaving at last.

At the door, she braced herself for the worst. As
she went into the den, her eyes were drawn to the
word processor screen. It was blank, and she sank
down on the sofa, shivering. Had she "imagined"
those words on the screen? And if so, did that mean
she was losing her mind, having a psychotic episode?

She couldn't face that, but the other alternatives --
that some superior, outside force had contacted
her, or that some supernatural aura was hovering in
the house and meant to contact her, were ridiculous!
She convinced herself in about two minutes that she
had a defective machine, or that it was programmed
to display that bizarre greeting.

She put away her notes, stacked her books back on
the shelves and put on her gown, got into bed. But
she couldn't bring herself to turn out the bedside
lamp -- for one thing she was unable to comprehend,
how had a processor worked without electricity?


                                 *  *  *  *  *  *                  


The night was a restless one; Helen tossed and
turned, and once she even awoke, sweaty and
disgruntled from vague remnants of a dream. All
she could recall was the image of bright dancing
words in front of her, no clear message or
psychological connections to her subconscious. She
always tried to analyze her dreams, and it disturbed
her not to remember the details so she could clarify
her feelings.

Morning proved to be cloudy, a dismal dawn, and by
ten drizzle was falling, making her feel oppressed
and trapped.

She had carefully avoided the processor, but finally
told herself it was ridiculous to do so and sat
before it, flipping the switch on. Nothing was the
least bit out-of-order; it was functioning perfectly
and soon she was caught up in her work.

The rainy afternoon was uneventful, and by dark
she built a fire, made chili and sat before the
firelight, eating and watching TV. The Gulf War
continued unabated; news anchors were jostling for
positions, and she figured Curtis would land a
prominent assignment, maybe get himself in line for
award-winning reporting.

The air bombardment was relentless; she felt
revulsion again at seeing the massive destruction,
but realized it was necessary to rid Hussein of his
arsenal of chemical/biological weapons. Curtis had
always been critical of Iraq's stockpiling
armaments, possibly leading to this kind of situation.
She briefly recalled his investigative report on
suppliers here in the USA, unscrupulous arms
dealers linked to greedy businessmen who avidly sold
various weapons to Iraq and had inadvertently aided
Hussein's build-up of military strength, now our own
worst nightmare coming true. Curtis had been
criticized sharply by our government because the
report came at a time when the USA supported Iraq
in their war against Iran.

When the news was over, she got up and cleaned her
dishes, then just snuggled down on the sofa, tired.
Her eyes ached from the strain, and she closed
them, sighed and fell promptly asleep.

The dreamy quality was an unreal shimmering
before her: 

She was outside the house, walking in the nearby
woods and could see everything from atop a hill. It
was dusk, twilight purple, going dark quickly, when
suddenly the sky seemed to open and the woods, the
house, the hills were flooded with magnificent
brilliance, a piercing, glaring light that drenched it all
in vibrant clarity. She stared, in awe and
amazement: then a stiff, howling wind started,
growing stronger and stronger until she couldn't
stand alone, had to grab onto a pine, hold on for
dear life. Into this whirlwind came a voice: HELEN,
VERILY I SAY TO YE, DO MY RECKONING. COME
CHILD, BE AS INNOCENT LAMBS, FEAR NOT
AND I SHALL WALK WITH YE, EVEN AS YE
DOUBT. BELIEVE AND YE SHALL KNOW THE
TRUTH.

Helen awoke, trembling and sweaty, repeating the
words over and over, pondering what it meant. Was
she losing her mind? This wasn't like an ordinary
dream; the lingering wind, the aura of light was still
vivid and clear to her. She jumped off the sofa,
wanted to scream but couldn't. Her voice seemed
stuck in her throat, so she slumped to the floor,
weeping silently.  

Midnight found her still huddled near the sofa,
awake, afraid to sleep, almost afraid to move. When
she heard the knocking at her door, she couldn't
answer it.

His voice penetrated her trancelike state: "Helen,
you in there?"

Sobbing, she slowly lifted herself up by the antique
table, staggered to the door, flung it open.
"Kent...please...help."

Kent jerked open the screen, grabbed her just as
she began to faint; he mumbled, "I knew this was
going to happen!"

When Helen revived, the bearded stranger was
pacing around the room, watching her closely. "You
okay?"

She momentarily felt confused, then reality came
pounding back, and she murmured, "I'm sorry, I..."

"You may as well know, I got the feeling again and
know you are in need of me here."

"Please, I..." Helen was utterly perplexed. She
couldn't object, couldn't make sense out of anything
so she simply asked, "How did you know?"

"lt's happened before, while Mavis and Mert lived
here...and it won't ever be stilled." He stared hard
at her, coming closer and leaning down to pull the
patchwork quilt up to her chin.

"What do you mean?"

"Look, I've come a long ways to be here, to help you,
to lead you."

Helen was beginning to regain her intellectual
faculties and gradually question what she'd
dreamed; it was, after all, only a dream. She sat up,
and modestly rearranged her rumpled clothing.
"Excuse my state of disarray, I guess had a bad
dream."

"Is that all it was?" He now bent down on one knee,
peering into her face, his serious concern almost
hidden by bushy eyebrows and full beard.

"Yes, um, I apologize for my frantic state. I think it
must be my being alone. I'm used to a busy editorial
office and the quiet is obviously causing me some
psychological difficulties."

"Well that's the first time I've heard that
explanation but...if you can't accept what is
happening, then you're not ready for me." He
grinned lazily, stood and went to the door. "When
you get ready to accept the strangeness of this
phenomenon then I'll be back."

Watching him leave, Helen had an anxious moment
of doubt: Was she experiencing extraordinary
psychic phenomenon? Or...was it merely her
imagination gone wild in this isolation? She didn't
know, and frankly didn't want to even contemplate
the implications of these developments.

Resolutely, she shook off the creepy feelings and
vowed to get back into her work with more
determination tomorrow morning.

                       End Chapter Three
^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^ 

Chapter Four


The next few days were calm, serene; Helen
worked avidly on her book, and made progress with
a theme. She tried to establish a routine that left
little time for any imaginary pondering. The day was
spent at her processor; evenings she stayed in front
of the TV, either watching movies or regular
programming -- keeping posted on the war. She
avoided going for walks, or in any way venturing out
far enough to encounter Kent.

Although the small black-and-white television was
inadequate for viewing, Helen tried to accept the
limited set. However, she finally realized it was
causing eyestrain, and decided to get another one.
Reluctant to drive a long distance, she instead went
to the nearby small town and located a local shop,
purchased a color set, then chatted with the owner.
Jack Rodale was friendly and remembered Mavis
and Mert Hanson, who were apparently known
locally as imaginative storytellers. At least, that's
what he called them -- and Helen felt confident he
was correct in that assessment.

Driving back to Cider Mountain, Helen peered down
into the gorge, saw nothing of Kent; the place looked
deserted and lonely, merely an empty shack. She'd
wondered how he endured that rundown place, since
it barely seemed livable; the property was wildly
overgrown, weedy and although she'd seen him
burning brush the other day, now it appeared he'd
not cleared any ground, left no trace of his
industrious efforts.

In fact, she couldn't see any sign he'd burnt
anything...the area still looked unkempt, and there
was no pile of ash, nothing. That puzzled her, but
she kept right on driving, determined not to let his
whereabouts be a concern of hers.

Pulling up at the house, she unloaded the TV, went
inside and  hooked it up. She watched weather
reports, glad it was supposed to be sunny and
unseasonably warm, near 65 today. She decided it
was time she got a little exercise, put on jeans and
sneakers and went out back, walked around the
yard and for the first time, actually ventured into
the woods.

At first, she was astonished at how dark, how dim it
was when she got farther down a straw-littered
path; but the well-worn footpath was clearly leading
somewhere. She kept right on walking, telling herself
this felt good, it was stretching her leg muscles,
relieving tension in her back and neck muscles from
hours bent over her desk. It was sharply cooler, and
she pulled her jacket tighter, zipped it up to her
neck.

She walked at a quick pace, heading downhill, on
through a narrow gorge, past a creek that gurgled
near the middle of a stream, but had leaves jammed
up against the mossy banks. It looked like an inviting
place to rest, so she sat down on a flat rock and
felt the sunshine falling through interlaced tree
limbs, warming her as she gazed at the briskly
flowing water. Pebbles in the bottom of the creek
glinted sunlight sparks; bird calls echoed, and
squirrels chattered noisily. Relaxing, Helen chided
herself for being too nervous to explore the
surrounding property; Jordan owned fifty acres,
and it was unspoiled, natural beauty.

She caught a glimpse of something scurrying
through brush, then weaving between trees; her
heart tripped, but she tried to calm her instinctive
fear. Looking closer, she saw a furry head poking
out from straw piled beside a pine. It appeared to
be a raccoon, and she held her breath, observing the
twitchy motions. But on closer inspection, she saw
the creature was oddly shaped for a raccoon, and
when it moved slightly, Helen realized it was a gray-
striped tabby cat. She called, "Here kitty, kitty." 

The cat stopped dead still, staring. It was now out in
the open and stood poised with indecision. She didn't
move, but called gently, "Come on kitty cat, I won't
hurt you."

It tilted its head, curious but cautious. She coaxed
sweetly, "Kitty, kitty aren't you lost?"

The cat began walking slowly, uncertainly in her
direction... meowed, meowed again and then stopped,
staring from green fixed eyes. Then as if having
made an impulsive decision, it walked right up to
Helen, sat down and waited.

She eased her hand forward, slowly touching its
head, murmuring, "That's a good kitty."

It obviously liked her touch, and obediently lay
down, rolling over for her to scratch its belly. She
complied, soothing it with low tones, rubbing the
belly. When she stood, it joined her, followed her
agreeably all the way back to the house, occasionally
meowing as pleasing behavior.

Since she had always loved cats, had one as a child,
Helen was deligh fell to talking to it just for the sound 
of her voice,the feeling she wasn't alone. That night it slept on
her bed, and by morning they were fast friends,
comfortable with the limited arrangement: Both
were somewhat aloof, but needed at least the
semblance of not being totally alone, apparently.

Thursday morning, she fed the cat a bowl of milk
and, watching it lick up the treat greedily, decided it
couldn't be anyone's pet. No collar, nearly starving,
it had to be a stray. But it sure had been tame, and
she wondered if she should place an ad in a local
paper, request the owner claim it? Still, she couldn't
help but name it Leo, since the haughty attitude
suggested a lion's share of arrogance.

Before getting down to work, Helen decided to take
a more thorough tour of the house. She'd tried to
stay out of the attic, and the basement -- mainly
because it wasn't her property. But her natural
curiosity got the best of her. And besides, she
hadn't forgotten the odd experiences and she
worried someone had gained entrance and was
trying to play mind-games with her. It seemed highly
unlikely, but she preferred that idea to having had a
psychic experience or losing her mind to insanity.

She began by pulling down the ladder in a closet,
climbing up to see what was in the attic. It was
pitch-dark and she flicked on the flashlight she'd
dug out of a kitchen cabinet; the beam played
across a narrow arched sector just below the roof.
Since the center section of the house was open-
beamed, there was no  attic space...but this area was
above the bedroom. Barely a crawl-space, but she
undertook an inspection anyway.

It was unusually clean, and she crept onto the rough
boards; the scent of new wood mingled with dust
and dampness, but after crawling around and
finding nothing, she decided it was devoid of any
trappings that could be used to fake eerie
phenomenon. The dusty odor clung to her, and she
got down, went through the den, into the kitchen,
looked speculatively at the ceiling. Though she
couldn't find an entrance, there had to be an arched
attic there, exactly the size of the one over the
bedroom. 

She decided to look at the exterior, started outside
but had to stop, let Leo go ahead of her. He meowed
loudly, ran out the door, and raced across the back
porch, down the steps and into the woods. Helen
called, ran after the fleeing cat, dismayed to lose
her recently-won companion. But watching the cat
disappear into the thick pines, her mood lightened;
the cat might have another home or just need to
roam free --  and who was she to capture it and
curtail its independent nature?

Standing on the hillside, she peered down at the
house, illuminated by early-morning sunlight. She
could see how the sloped roof, glinting light off the
tin, came to an abrupt angle just beneath the
kitchen window. There had to be an attic above that
room, so she studied it more carefully. Eventually,
Helen saw the A-shaped doorway near the corner,
and hurried to the only small outbuilding, looking for
a ladder.

The shed was a makeshift flat-topped structure,
and she flung open the door, trying to see into the
darkened interior. Walking gingerly through the
small opening, she located a big metal box of tools.
Then she saw the outline of a ladder and beside it
hung a rake, hoe, shovel and several yard-work
items.

The ladder was a fold-up type, and she struggled
with the weight, got it angled out the door and was
dragging it across the ya familiar male voice ask,
"Need some help?" 

Irritated, she looked up to see Kent almost loping
around the corner of the house, his face intent on
her plight. "No thank you. And I believe I told you
not to come here again?"

"Look, I think we got off on the wrong foot. I
apologize for my, uh, somewhat corny way of
meeting you."

Helen stood still, let the ladder drop and said, "Does
that mean you pretended all that creepy stuff?
That you deliberately misled me and tried to deceive
me?" She studied his face, never moving an inch.

"Not exactly, but...ah, I just wanted to meet you. I
mean, you are an attractive woman and we are
rather isolated on this mountain. Besides, is there
anything wrong with a man offering a little help to a
lady alone?" He came closer, still peering at her with
those dove-gray eyes, smiling slightly behind the
beard.

She looked toward the house, felt a flash of anger
but tried to squelch it, said tightly, "No, but I must
tell you that I value honesty and your approach was
anything but honest."

He was now grabbing up the ladder, handling it with
ease and asking mildly, "Where you want this?"

Exasperated but willing to have some help just at
this moment, she said, "Over there. I want to see if
that doorway in the kitchen corner goes into an
attic."

He took the ladder to where she pointed, set it up
against the house and asked, "Want me to check?"

"I suppose I can't stop you!" She feigned
frustration, but in fact she was beginning to feel
glad he'd come along. He seemed capable and
although she was loath to admit it aloud, she needed
his masculine assistance just now. She still didn't
trust him, and it was possible he'd even arrived at
just this exact time to prevent her looking in the
attic. Still, if she wasn't satisfied with his survey,
she could come back later to take a peek herself.

He unfolded the metal ladder, climbed it. She
watched as he stepped higher and higher, giving her
a good view of his muscular body, revealing his
strength and agility.

Once he began wrestling with the attic door, she
saw it would have been impossible for her to have
gotten it open. He pried it loose at last, poked his
head inside and yelled, "What you looking for
anyhow?"

"Nothing really, just wondered if..." she paused,
aware of how silly it would appear to tell him the
truth. "Uh, I thought I was getting a leak the other
day when it rained."

"Nah, this place hasn't been here long enough to
spring a leak in the roof." He glanced down at her,
grinning. "Sure you aren't looking for spooks?"

Helen cupped her hand over her eyes to shade off
the sun, enabling her to see his wide grin. "No, of
course not!" 

Then improvising, she explained: "I was...well, I was
curious if anything was there...like boxes of stuff or
whatever needed to be stored. It's as if Jordan
never brought anything here, at least nothing he left
behind, things I might need."

He began descending, having replaced the door. As
he stepped off the ladder, he suddenly grabbed her,
held her in front of him, his broad, meaty hands on
her shoulders. "You're a lousy liar." 

She felt her skin burn; the touch of him reminded
her of the initial physical attraction on the night
they'd been together walking. Stiffening, she said
tightly, "Let go of me!"

Incredibly, he pulled her against his hard chest,
began softly stroking her wavy hair, said huskily,
"Helen, I just want to protect you, that's all."

Her knees almost buckled; his virility was like a drug
and she had to struggle not to reach her hands up to
his beard, instead mumbling, "Don't...I...please..."

He tilted her head up, his fingers gentle under her
chin. "I don't want to fall in love with you, I can't.
But...I need you to heed what I say, understand
what I'm here for."

She looked into his gray eyes, felt another wave of
overwhelming weakness; it was as though he had
some kind of power over her, and not just sexual
attraction...it was more like a deep hypnotic trance,
looking into his eyes, falling deeper and deeper...

His soft voice was mesmerizing: "Verily I say to ye,
do not resist. Ye are to be as little, helpless lambs.
Ye will not remember that I, Kent, say these things
to ye, Helen...it is my wish ye be vulnerable, willing...
Ye are to never attempt seeing in the attic, ye will
forget my being here today."

Then a fierce wind rushed from the woods, the sky
clouded over, it went dark almost. He lifted her up
in his arms, took her inside the house, lay her upon
the bed and looked at her as she stared in a
transfixed daze at him. "Be ye as little children,
trust and believe. When ye awake, ye will trust me,
remember this moment only within your
subconscious, this hypnotic suggestion rendering ye
willing."

Helen slept and in her dream it was light, bright,
warm-white serenity. When she finally woke, it was
almost noon and she couldn't remember where she
was -- or how she'd gotten into bed in the middle of
the day.

Unable to shake the dreamy feeling, she finally got
up and fixed her lunch, trying to clear her mind. But
she felt such an overwhelming laziness, such a
calming lull, that she quit trying to decipher her
reactions, instead going back to bed and falling
asleep, thinking perhaps she was coming down with
the flu.

                       End Chapter Four
^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^


                Chapter Five


Helen slept for almost twenty-four hours. When she
awoke Friday at noon, her disorientation was
alarming. At first, she didn't believe that she'd been
in bed around the clock, but watching the news on
TV, she acknowledged the lapse of time.

Trying to account for the drowsy, dull feelings, she
took her temperature, saw it was normal, apparently
no symptoms of the flu. Ravenous, she made a
bacon-and-cheese omelet and fresh toast, coffee
and, just as she sat at the table, heard scratching at
the back screen. Upon opening the door, she saw Leo
staring at her. She let the cat inside, gave it milk and
watched it lap up the treat. "Where you been you
little rascal?"

Leo tilted his head, licked off the milk and pounced
onto an empty chair, curling up and making himself
at home. She sighed, sat back down and began
eating her meal. Puzzled about the cat's sudden
reappearance and her fatigue, she wondered if she
was going to be able to stay here?

It was a new, disturbing experience, being totally
alone -- years of disorderly havoc had preceded this
time. Noisy editorial offices; the shouting matches
with Curtis while they were married; the years of
college, roommates who were always boisterous.
Even her childhood as an only child had not been
lonely, since she had cousins and her parents always
engaged her in their lively debates. So, although
she'd lived the previous year after her divorce alone
in a singles' apartment complex, it was always
teeming with active people, and she spent little time
in the apartment anyhow.

But then, remembering her depression over her
parents death, Helen felt tears in her eyes. They
had been so special, wonderful and when they were
gone, life had lost much of its luster until therapy
helped pull her out of grieving melancholy. Her
parents had been driving back from Austin, Texas
where they'd both spoken at an annual Atheist
convention; their car had collided with a truck on a
rain-slick highway -- her mother killed instantly, her
dad lingering several days from extensive burns.
Agonizing, painful days which tested Helen's
strength. However, she'd gotten through those dark
days, and her dad had not buckled under the burden
of impending death --had never once said he needed
religious support nor any kind of spiritual last rites.

When it was all over, and a simple memorial service
that commemorated their scholarly contributions
had been held, Helen was utterly wretched. She
recalled how Curtis had helped her, but inevitably
she needed professional counseling to overcome her
deep sorrow. And without conventional faith or
religious beliefs, she'd had to have some incredibly
strong resolve to deal with her grief. In the end,
she'd been proud of her ultimate survival and
adjustment. Just as she'd finally accepted her
divorce and the loss of Curtis, and been able to
continue with her life successfully.

However, as she cleaned up the dishes, Helen
wondered if maybe those emotional scars were
deeper than she'd realized? And now, alone here
and isolated, her psyche was troubled beyond coping
ability? If so, what should she do?

Leo jumped off the chair, came slithering around
her legs, and she scooped him up in her arms,
crooned, "Kitty, you think I d learn to handle things,
huh?"

The cat gave her an inscrutable look, staring
solemnly into her face, purring sweetly. She sighed,
and walked through the house, finally putting him
down. The cozy comfort of homey touches as her
fingers traced an antique bird cage, its delicate,
intricate geometric designs never meant for a real
bird, still left her chilled; nothing, not even the
beautiful silk roses in a precious ceramic vase, could
warm her heart.

She walked by her word processor, felt guilty for
not having spent the morning working, but then sat
down in front of it and stared blankly out the
window above the desk. The hillside was gray, a
winter weary gray, naked treelimbs, dead grass...she
suddenly had a vague memory of the shed, seeing it
out back. Wasn't she looking for a ladder out there
yesterday?

But it was only a fleeting image, and she finally
dismissed it and flicked on the processor, getting
down to some earnest work. The hours passed
swiftly as she stayed engrossed in her notes,
finishing a rough draft of the first chapter,
reworking it several times, making an outline of the
following chapter.

She realized that if all went well, she might have a
tentative rough draft for Jordan by summer; he
would be impressed. The magazine had helped
finance her leave, and located a publisher in New
York willing to look at the manuscript.

When Helen shut off the machine, she went out into
the dusky light and checked the mailbox: a tape
cassette package lay inside, and she jerked it out.
This was her first personal message; only a few
short business letters had arrived from Jordan, but
now, making out Curtis's scrawl on the package, she
rushed back into the house, went in search of her
tape player. She'd told Curtis the mailing address
here, but hadn't thought he'd have time to
communicate with her.

Her tape player was on a shelf in the closet, where
she'd stashed it, and she went back to the den,
ruffled Leo's hair and quickly built a fire, then
relaxed on the sofa, put in the tape and listened.

Curtis's exuberant voice, well-modulated and
pleasing as always, came on at once: 

"Hi Cricket! You better be minding the farm back
there, cause honey it's hell over here!"

Helen laughed, thrilled at hearing his voice, at his
boyish attempt to lighten the somber mood of his
predicament. Leo jumped into her lap, and she
petted the cat as the recording continued:

"Honey, these Scuds are real duds, but hey, they
are scary! Me and a couple of reporters went to the
front yesterday, had to fight those military guides,
man they are strict. I mean, I never had this
problem before. Hell, what do they expect? Do they
think the American people will always be willing to
let the military censor everything, even the press
and media? All the other war coverage I've done,
the collapse of the Romanian dictatorship, the
government crackdown in China and the war in
Afghanistan...our access was better. Hell honey,
Cricket, you know I can't handle these restrictions,
the limitations. I am a man who gets hard news, the
real story. Could say I've got the right stuff...but
enough about me. How you doing kiddo, getting any
lately?"

Helen winced; not only was his inquiry blunt as usual,
but it also made her aware of just how much she
missed his sensuality. They'd had a superb sex-life,
and that was the one aspect she'd been unable to
deny -- and regrettably she couldn't deny a growing
itchy, anxious need of sex since they'd parted.

"So Cricket, you writing the book? How's ol Jordy,
he still trying to get in your pants? I know how that
man thinks, babe, don't let him. He's married and
ain't half as good-looking as I am."

Laughter, husky laughter; then some voices in the
background, and him yelling, "You guys, quiet...I'm
talking to my babe back in the states."

She moved slightly, and Leo adjusted to her new
position; his green eyes fixed on the tape, almost as
if he didn't trust the voice now coming to life again.

"Cricket, sorry about the noise. These old war
horses, they like to carry on. Talk about your
competition...all the major networks are here. I'm
having to keep my foot in the door, or they'll be
robbing me of my place. Ain't no way though."

Helen stopped the tape, needed to take a break and
just think about Curtis Mann. She could almost see
him before her, the brown eyes so lively, his
emotional expression and vibrancy...he was so
ALIVE! And for some reason, this thought made her
ache for him. It was all a farce, her pretense that
she didn't care for Curtis; she'd never stopped
loving him, and probably never would. She switched
the tape back on:

"Helen, honey, you know I wish you success with the
book, and I know you need some privacy. But that
Jordy, don't let him hide you away too long. I think
being alone too long is wrong, not good for you. So
you don't hole up there too much, go out some, drive
back to Birmingham...do something to get out and
away from such isolated work occasionally."

There was a long silence, static on the tape. Then he
said, "Hey, I gotta run babe. But seriously, hon, I'll
always love you, even if we can't live together. If
you get a chance, make me a tape, let me know how
you're doing. And I still think you're wrong in not
having a phone there! Take care, Cricket...love you."

She shut it off, stood and stretched. The cat leaped
up on the back of the sofa, arched its back and then
jumped to floor, ran to the door, where she let it
out.

True, she thought, Curtis knows me too well. He
fears I'll become a hermit here, or that I'll work
too hard without any distractions. Impulsively, she
listened to the tape again, just enjoying the sound of
his voice.

She felt lonely, very lonely. It was dark outside now
as she stood at the door wondering if Kent was
home? It was odd that she hadn't seen him since
that night he told her she must accept the strange
events...

Wanting company, any company, she had to restrain
herself from walking outside, going down the hill to
his house. Instead, she heated some soup, and ate a
quick bite, then decided to make a tape to Curtis.

She flipped the tape over, talked a little, then ran it
back to see if her recorder was okay. An eerie
sound hissed from the recorder...and to her horror
as she listened, a deep, haunting voice said: 

VFRILY I SAY TO YE, HELEN, COME...BE AS
LITTLE LAMBS, DO MY BECKONING...

Alarmed, Helen shut it off; then replayed it, and the
same voice came through again, the same message.
She stood, trembling, and hurriedly got her coat,
went out and slipped into her car. Maybe it was time
she confided in Kent about this, asked his advice.
She had to talk to someone, confide in someone...and
he was nearby...very close.

                   End Chapter Five
^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^ 

Chapter Six 

Helen drove down the mountain highway, obsessed
with the continuing messages. Was it a symptom of
psychosis? Did the mind become so completely
distorted that one couldn't recognize madness when
it occurred? Was one's insanity merely obvious
others?

Her car headlights slashed into the blackness, and
she rounded a curve sharply, almost hitting a ditch.
She tried to focus on the road, handling the Allante
more carefully. If she couldn't talk to an objective
person soon, her emotional state would get worse.
She desperately needed to unburden the confusion,
and confide in someone...Kent seemed the only
choice and besides, as she located the rutted dirt
road leading to his ramshackle dwelling, she realized
that she could trust him. Why, she didn't know; it
was just a deep feeling he would understand.

As Helen pulled up to the darkened house, she was
worried at no light being visible; it was around nine,
so surely Kent wasn't already in bed? She sat there,
slowly growing uneasy in the jungle-like yard, the
hulking shadowy house almost leering her. She
shivered, pulled her jacket close and shut off the
motor. Quiet, utterly quiet. She lowered a window,
listened but only heard a soft wind rustling through
gnarled, leafless tree limbs.

Bracing herself, she got out, yelled, "Kent!" Then
she started for the house, but her feet got tangled
in weeds and she stopped to unsnare her legs from
briars. Looking up, she thought she saw a flickering
light in the backyard, and began rapidly advancing
around the side of the house, fighting weeds.

She now reluctantly took out a penlight, put the thin
beam in the yard, saw no one. Helen sighed with
distress; her eyes went over the snarled, dried
vegetation. It appeared untouched, and she couldn't
find the least sign that Kent had been cultivating the
area, trying to tame its wildness.

Her hands shook, and the beam traveled a trembly
path up to a rear porch with rotten boards, some
fallen through to the ground. She tackled it anyhow,
staggering up the shaky steps, avoiding the broken
boards, stooping at a shattered window, where she
looked inside, training the beam indoors. Nothing but
cobwebs, faded, torn wallpaper; no furniture, no
evidence of human habitation. It looked forlorn, and
she shivered, but couldn't resist opening the torn
screen door, then a wooden door.

Once inside, she tiptoed around the cracked linoleum
floor, thinking to find Kent fast asleep in some
closed room. But the house, after a complete
search, was empty. At least, no human was inside;
however, she did locate several old cardboard boxes
of items in a closet, and impulsively took them with
her.

Making her way to the car, she felt foolish; it was
obvious no one had lived here in years. And that
raised the question of why Kent was claiming to be
the owner, and resident? She started the car,
backed slowly down the rutted road, and headed
back up the mountain. Securely back inside her cozy
firelit house, she sat on the sofa wondering why she
had trusted Kent? It was ridiculous, yet even now
knowing he had lied, she had this deep trust in him.
Why?

Seeing the recorder, she switched it on, hearing
nothing, just the smooth sound of a blank tape. No
message, no spooky voice... not even her own! This
was evidence of the facts: she was "hearing" voices
which didn't exist outside of her warped mind! It
was a sobering realization but instead of being
upset, she calmly began to open one of the boxes.

There was a dusty white Bible; she lay it aside, then
found several clips of human hair, tied with faded
ribbons keepsakes perhaps, reminders of others'
last flesh-and-blood existence. She then opened a
tiny metal box, and saw yellow-faded photos, which
she took out, and began examining one by one.

The first was of a lovely young woman, her ankle-
length starched white dress neat and formal, a high
lacy collar touching her chin, her dark wavy hair
done up in a chignon. An angelic little girl of about
five was seated on her lap, and smiling sweetly into
the camera, possibly the woman's daughter.

Helen shuffled the photos, and next came one of a
man with a familiar face, beard, hair, an inscrutable
glint in his light-colored eyes, wearing overalls, plaid
shirt, standing alone near the base of a mountain,
just in the edge of a wooded pathway. She gasped,
recognizing Kent -- or at least one of his ancestors
who resembled him.

She hurriedly looked at the remainder of photos.
Most were of a familiar house in much better shape,
but it was the one she'd just come from...and
several shots of other relatives, perhaps. Then,
another one of Kent, or his double, standing beside a
creek, pointing to some vaporous substance rising
off the water, like a mist or fog. She examined each
photo critically; then she found a magnifying glass,
studied them closely -- but couldn't find any dates,
time, etc. However, they all appeared to have been
made in the late 1800s, or early 1900s, because of
the period clothing, and the crude photographs of
that era.

Exhausted, puzzled and now convinced that Kent
represented some weird connection to the past, she
finally put the boxes aside and went to bed.
Although she didn't feel sleepy, the moment her
head hit the pillow, she fell into a deep, dreamless
slumber.

Morning sunlight streamed in the windows,
awakening Helen in bed; she sat up, rubbing her
face, seeing Leo scratching on the windowpane
impatiently. Jumping up, she went to the front door
and let him in. He hitched his tail with irritation,
running to the fridge, meowing for milk.

She poured him a dish, gave him a pat and went to
take a shower, letting the cool spray briskly bring
her more alert. Remembering the past night's
episode, she hurriedly dressed in a loose knit
pantsuit, blow-dried her hair and dabbed on a hint
of makeup. Then as she fixed coffee, she decided to
tackle the other boxes, and went to get them out of
the bedroom closet.

However, when she flung open the door, she didn't
see the boxes where she'd left them. Her eyes
frantically searched the limited space, over the
floor, up to the top shelf...nothing!

Helen raced back to the den, walked around the
open expanse, her hands patting cushions, lifting
pillows and rugs, seeking the photos, hoping some
had fallen out of the boxes. But she finally slumped
down on the sofa, defeated. There were no photos
here, the boxes were gone, and there was certainly
no faded remnants from the past. Had she conjured
up the whole thing? Had she actually drove to the
ramshackle house, or was that too only imaginary?

Leo leaped up on her lap, licked his paws daintily,
began washing his face, unconcerned with her inner
turmoil. She petted the cat distractedly, realizing
she had to leave here...see a therapist. Do something,
anything to prevent further madness from
enveloping her. The cat looked at her, tilting its head
quizzically. She tried a weak laugh, said, "Guess I'm
losing it, Leo."

Helen heard a noise on the back porch, and lifted
the cat down, got up and started across the floor,
but her foot somehow hung on a small rug, and her
other one slid on another rug, which went slipping
across the polished wood floor. She felt herself
falling, and unable to grasp anything, went sprawling
to the ground, hitting with a thud. One foot was
twisted behind her, and she felt a cutting pain,
moaned but couldn't get up, only lay helplessly in the
morning sunlight.

It was an hour before the pain had relented enough
for her to try to stand, and even then she barely
limped to the sofa. Looking at her ankle, it was
bruised and swollen, probably severely sprained. She
knew a trip anywhere was out of the question, and
Leo seemed to agree as he made himself
comfortable beside her.

The morning was a blur of slow, quiet pain. She
wanted to call for help, but how? No phone, only the
mail as communication --that was it! When the
mailman drove up here today she might get him to
bring her outside help. There was a chance she could
get outdoors, meet his car; he usually came around
two on Saturday afternoon, so she managed to put
on a jacket, go and sit near a front window, waiting.

Weary and pained, she nodded off, fell into a nap.
When she awoke, it was dusk, the mail long gone.
Helen felt like a victim of her own stupidity. How
could she have fallen asleep? And then she saw a
Jeep coming up the road, pulling up to the house.
Unbelievably Curtis Mann jumped out, came striding
up the walkway, onto the porch, began pounding on
her door.

She called out, "Come on in!"

And then he was striding toward her, his handsome
face happy but then turning into surprise as he saw
her on the sofa, his exuberant voice shouting,
"Helen, Cricket, what in the name of..."

Shaking her head, she said, "Please, no speeches! I
hurt my ankle this morning, fell and..."

"Honey, I was afraid you'd get in a predicament
here alone!" He hurried to her side, got down on one
knee, examined her swollen ankle, asking, "Babe, you
need to see a doctor?"

"I don't think so...but hey, what are you doing here?
I got your tape, just yesterday as a matter of fact,
and thought you were dug in with the troops over in
Saudi Arabia?"

He stood, began pacing. "I was, and I'm going back
soon. But the network wanted me to take a break,
and then they're hoping to get me into Iraq, maybe
Bagdad, where Peter Arnett is still holding down the
fort."

Helen marveled at his enthusiasm, his daring nature
and studied him intently. He was more handsome
than ever, a slight tan on his face, mellow brown
eyes, the perfectly square jawline, his brown hair
wind-tossed. He wore an informal but habitual dark
leather jacket and jeans, which were casually
appealing. He'd been wearing that jacket on the
newscasts, a protective wool muffler wrapped
around his neck, thrown on haphazardly; it gave him
an anxious, unstudied appearance, as though he
hadn't time to worry over clothing. And something
about his appearance seemed to have worked; he'd
been termed the current media heart-throb by
women coast-to-coast...even rating Johnny Carson's
jokes and celebrity status now, his name a household
word.

He held up both hands, said, "Hon, I know that
intense scrutiny. I swear, I had nothing to do with
all those women who wrote me, nothing at all. And as
for my career, I am a journalist first and foremost.
All the media hoopla is way out of proportion."

But just the same, Helen caught his wicked gleam of
male pride; he was the current media news star, and
she couldn't begrudge him that. As for the women,
he was fatally attracted to them,  and she knew it
was pointless to chide him. She asked, "Are you sure
you should be here, leaving the front for some other
intrepid young reporter to steal your thunder?"

He rubbed his hands together briskly. "Babe, one of
the anchors is doing a short stint. The boss was a
little antsy about me, a mere field reporter, getting
all the attention, I guess." He laughed and pulled her
against him, saying, "I've missed you honey."

Helen was overjoyed by his presence, so glad she
wasn't alone anymore. She allowed him to lift her up
in his arms, lay her on the bed and as she watched
him sit down on the edge, she asked, "Are you sure
you want to be involved with me?"

He paused, rubbed his chin reflectively and stared
at her with a tender, open expression of caring.
"Cricket, we have our differences, we can't live
together, but you know we are still good, close
friends."

She felt tears in her eyes, looked away, overcome
by his emotional openness. Why couldn't she be as
vulnerable, as open with her real feelings, express
them candidly?

Intuitively, he said, "I understand. You never were
one to open up."

Then he lay down beside her, saying, "I'm bushed,
need to rest. Let's just take a little nap, okay?" 

Helen wondered if Curtis could help save her sanity?
For now she recognized her onslaught of mental
problems as serious, detrimental to her future work.

Somehow, she had to confront the underlying
psychological conflicts that had gotten her to the
point of emotional breakdown -- and maybe Curtis
could help? But her thoughts ended as she fell into
an uneasy sleep beside her former husband.

                End Chapter Six
^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^


Chapter Seven

Sunday was a rainy, dreary day. Helen couldn’t find
the momentum to get out of bed, and Curtis didn’t
help matters. He insisted on preparing breakfast,
bringing it to her on a tray, chatting as they ate.
Later, he lay alongside her telling more war tales,
and as the rain drummed on the tin roof, she
wondered if perhaps the war mania had partly been
to blame for her own mental turmoil? But she didn't
yet ask Curtis about this.

By dark, Helen had finally insisted Curtis help her to
the sofa, her ankle sore but rapidly healing. She sat
there, watching him build a fire and tell her he’d
have to leave Monday morning —  his hopes of
securing a flight into Bagdad was now of primary
importance. She was reluctant to broach the
subject of her mental confusion, but at last said,
“Curtis, uh...there’s something I need to tell you.”

“Yeah babe, shoot. I’m all ears.” He lifted the
afghan,  got close to her on the sofa and urged, “I’m
listening.”

She swallowed hard, said, “Something odd has been
happening since I came here, it’s got me upset and
unnerved.”

"Not you, babe. Surely you jest?” He chuckled, then
saw her serious expression and amended, “Sorry
hon, it’s just that YOU never get rattled. I was
kidding."

"Maybe it’s the place, or just my being all alone, but
since the first day I arrived, there’s been some sort
of mental exhaustion with me, makes me confused
and I..." She slipped her hand into his, squeezed, and
asked, "You won't think I'm nuts, will you?"

His brown eyes searched her face. He said softly,
"Of course not. I know you are the most stable,
rational person in my life."

She let out a short laugh. "That may be changing..."

"Oh, how so?"

"This is difficult to talk about, since I've not even
attempted to verbalize what I've been
experiencing." Helen stared at the dancing
fireshadows on the walls. "Curtis, I've been hearing
voices, seeing things that don't exist...or if they did,
they keep disappearing."

He couldn't prevent his mouth dropping open, but
quickly closed it and said, "Hon, what do you mean?"

"From the first day here, I had this "feeling" ...and
you know how I always detested that kind of vague
explanation for mysterious occurrences. But it's
true, and I...I'm at a loss for further description. I
have seen freakish writing on a disconnected
processor screen; I have conversed with and seen a
man who apparently doesn't exist; I have heard a
voice on a tape that later wasn't there; I have
found a box of photos, from an abandoned house
near here, looked them over and identified the man
I talked with or at least one who is a past relative
of his, then lost the box, which seemed to disappear;
and last, I..." she gulped, struggled to maintain
control. "I...think I'm losing my mind, Curtis."

"Hon, look..." He wrapped his arms around her
trembling body, held her tightly. "Maybe there's a
logical reason this seems to be happening. Are you on
any medication, losing sleep?"

"No, you know I hate narcotics, never drink liquor
except maybe wine on occasion. I...fear I'm going
insane, becoming psychotic and I need you, need
your advice, your help." Her voice had risen, almost
a hysterical tremor in it.

Curtis held her more tightly, said, "Sure babe,
anything for you. Hon, maybe if you describe these
mysterious things, tell me what the voice is saying..."

"Oh, it's surreal! Something like Biblical verses, that
archaic language, flowery and insubstantial
ramblings, about a presence, about me following
willingly...and it's so stupid. I am the last person on
earth to have religious/spiritual visions, so...I must
be nuts."

He tipped up her chin, studied her face and asked,
"Hon, the man...?"

"No, he doesn't claim to be God, or Jesus Christ. In
fact, I'm not sure he doesn't exist. I first saw him
in that old house down in the valley, you know just
below here?"

"I noticed it, the place looked deserted."

"It is, I think. But the first day, I saw him out back
burning brush, then later had several encounters
with him, even told me his name, Kent McCord. He
came here when I was experiencing those strange
things, told me he "felt" I needed his guidance and
help. I was skeptical, didn't admit what I was seeing
or hearing...yet later, I had this incredible trust in
him, but when I went in search of him, he wasn't
there. Truthfully, the house seemed uninhabited, and
I...I felt like a fool being in it, for even thinking he
was there at all.”

Curtis, perplexed, stood and began pacing. His face
was creased in a frown, and he rubbed his chin
pensively. "Helen, could someone be playing games
with you, trying to jerk you around and cause you to
leave, not wanting you here? Or...do you have any
enemies back in Birmingham, at the magazine, others
who would profit by your absence permanently?"

She shook her head. "I thought of that, and
searched the house here for any such trappings.
Couldn't find anything, and besides, who would want
to harm me?"

"No one that I know of, but your atheistic
standpoint, writing articles against religion, it could
cause fanatics to want to harm you, rise up against
what they see as an anti-christ, or some such
bullshit. Babe, this is the ultra-conservative South,
with deep-seated religious bias, and a dogmatic,
prejudice Christian majority population. Surely your
work hasn't gone unnoticed by those religious
zealots?" He paused, went down on one knee, took
her hands and added, "The reason you are here is to
write a blasphemous book, denouncing religious tax-
free establishments...and that could anger the wrong
sort of folks."

She had to admit he had a valid point; but the kind
of experiences she'd had were so patently peculiar,
so complex to perform that it didn't seem remotely
possible anyone could have set her up for this
scenario. "Curtis...do you think I should see Dr.
Ansel?"

"Do you feel you need to?" He sat down by her,
looked into her eyes, sighed.

"Yes, I do. I mean, my regular therapy sessions
ended officially a year after my parents death, and
I thought I'd dealt with grief, the loss and all...but,
maybe these symptoms are delayed reactions, or
connected to our divorce somehow?"

"Well, why don't you see him then? I'm going back
to Birmingham tomorrow and you can follow along.
I'll get a flight to Atlanta after you talk with Dr.
Ansel, see what he says. Is your ankle healed or do
you need a look-see at that too?"

She felt her swollen ankle; it was almost painless,
and she shook her head, allowing only a session with
Dr.Ansel would he necessary. However, now Helen
knew that she'd missed Curtis even more than she
was willing to acknowledge; he always managed to
be realistic but caring, openly sharing his emotions,
thoughts, opinions. Without his presence occasionally,
she tended to hold everything inside, and perhaps
that was why it was overflowing now, tears burning
her eyes as she began to cry, soothing tears that
Curtis didn't seem to mind as he lifted her in his
arms, took her back to the bed.

                              *  *  *  *  *  *

Helen had a long, cleansing session with Dr. Ansel. In
his most professional voice he told her that pent-up
emotions could contribute to distortions, but not to
the extent she'd been experiencing. He prescribed
mild tranquilizers and told her to spend a week in
the city, mingle with friends, co-workers -- and get
some much-needed companionship. Then he said if
she didn't absolutely need to return to Cider
Mountain, it would be best to avoid the isolation and
seclusion which had apparently brought on a panic
attack, often associated with the term "cabin
fever."

When she kissed Curtis goodbye, he seemed
confident her sensational experiences had indeed
been a panic-seizure and all would be fine now. He
joked around, told her not to go back to the haunted
hills. But as he said goodbye, she held him as though
he might never return. "Please be careful over there
Curtis, you are very special to me. You’re my best
friend."

Curtis brushed a hand through her wavy hair, traced
her face, her lips and bent to kiss her lightly. Then
his husky voice said, "Honey, I'll be back,
hell...maybe we’ll give romance another chance
someday...” 

But at her look of dismay, he quickly amended,
“Okay, good friends it is. Love ya, kiddo.”

And then he was gone, striding across the
Birmingham Airport Terminal, disappearing down the
ramp, vanishing inside the waiting Delta plane. She
watched at the windows, saw him sit in a
windowseat, wave as the plane taxied out of sight
toward the runway. Her heart ached, and she had to
fight back tears; they were divorced, yes, but she
would always hold him dear.

She spent the first week of February in her city
apartment, going out occasionally to visit with girl
friends, having business meetings with Jordan and
the magazine staff, discussing various aspects for
future layouts, articles she'd assigned to writers. 

Jordan was solicitous and kept eyeing her curiously.
Friday night he insisted they dine at a restaurant
both had frequented in the past.

Jordan drove them to the establishment; he handled
his Lincoln expertly, weaving through the early
evening traffic, finding a parking slot nearby. As
they emerged into the chill twilight, he took her arm
and said, "Helen, I've missed you."

"Please Jordan, don't. I'm only here to discuss
Marianne's piece on homeless shelters." She felt
exposed in the garish yellow light of a streetlamp.

They stood at the door briefly, the plain-styled
exterior no indication of what they saw when they
went inside: a posh little salon, sparkling matched
crystal chandeliers from the once famous Henrici's
of old Chicago, the original metal tile ceiling, curved
mahogany bar, and exquisite matched stained-glass
windows where they were ushered to a cozy corner
table. 

Jordan was a regular, and as such was accorded
special treatment. He ordered them both rare
steaks, all the trimmings and then sat back, asking,
"Helen, what is wrong?"

She gazed appreciatively at the Victorian capsule in
which they dined; it pleased her immensely, and she
felt suddenly relaxed. "Oh Jordan, I just had some
strange sensations at the house, back on Cider
Mountain. Absurd, really. I needed to get my feet
back on city pavement, see friends, hear the noise
of people and traffic..."

He seized the opening: "What kind of strange
sensations? I never felt anything unusual there, just
the comfort of nature."

"Nothing, really. Jordan, what do you think of the
Gulf War, you've said little on it since I got back."

That did it. He expounded at length on how sadistic
Saddam Hussein was, how our country should rid
the world of him; then elaborated on the continuing
success of the military, our air raids and
bombardment of Iraqi troops, the inevitable
conquering of such brutal dictatorships and ugly
weaponry tactics like biological and chemical
warfare.

Helen listened, occasionally commenting as he
paused: they were served, and ate companionably.
When Helen asked about his family, he freely told
her about his two sons, their teenage problems, and
then as they were leaving, he suddenly said, "Helen,
you never told me exactly what the problem was at
Cider Mountain, why you left? Are you going back
soon?"

And as they drove through the artificially-lit streets
of Birmingham, she heard herself saying adamantly,
"Yes, I'm driving back there Sunday."

He listened to her outlined details on the book; he
was very attentive, but she wouldn't allow him to
come into her apartment, instead giving him a slight
peck on the cheek, and saying, "I'm fine Jordan,
just fine. I needed a break, that's all."

Watching him leave, she felt confident her words
were true, but only by returning to Cider Mountain
could she prove to herself that her sanity was still
intact. As an afterthought, she flushed the
tranquilizers down the toliet, determined to survive
without narcotics.

                        End Chapter Seven
^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^


	Chapter Eight	

Monday morning, Helen was up early. She watched
the sunrise beyond mountaintops, and vowed to work
more diligently on her manuscript. After having a
cup of coffee, she sat at the processor. Reviewing
her notes, she revised and edited at random, reread
the chapters and decided to draft a more detailed
outline.

Hard at work, she didn't hear the yowling cat until it
came to her back door. Hurriedly, she let in the wet
cat, asking "What on earth happened to you Leo?"

The cat gave her an indignant look, heading for the
fireplace, although there was no fire. Helen
followed, grabbing some paper towels and soothing
the cat by drying it, and cooing her concern.

It seemed the creature was hungry, so she sat out
milk and some hamburger meat, having bought
groceries on her way back from Birmingham; it ate
ravenously, occasionally giving her a plaintive meow
or reproachful look. She'd not forgotten the cat
during her trip away, but felt it had other means of
survival, possibly even another home.

Back at the processor, Helen put in a fresh floppy
disk, got it initialed by the machine and then opened
a new file. When she saw the screen begin to fill
with words, she steeled herself, turning away
deliberately. But curiosity got the better of her, and
she found herself reading a poem:

FEELING OVERFLOWING

What streams into my being 
This bittersweet sound
Brimming to overfull 
My heart of emotions 
As I sing strongly 
Of passion and compassion?

What streams into my being 
This lostness, vaguely haunting 
Feelings of sorrowful sadness?

What streams into my being 
From somewhere I can't define 
Faraway and beyond mortal design
Coming closer, closer to my soul?

What streams into my being 
Pouring blue through me
An echo from some distant shore 
Overflowing feeling as I hear 
Your mysterious voice?

What streams into my being--
A rapture of release
Freedom given from a universal source 
I can never know, only feel.

Helen gasped, having never seen this poetry before!
It was chilling in some indefinable way. She quickly
reread it, and felt a hot/cold reaction. Had someone
been in the house, put this on a disk? If so, who?
Kent? And why? 

The message wasn't clear, but it seemed an
indication that "feeling" was required to decipher
what it meant...not just intellectual thought.

Rubbish, gibberish, doggerel she declared the poem.
She pushed the line-out key, but nothing happened.
Upset and angry now, she snapped out the disk, and
turned off the machine. Mercifully, the screen went
blank, and she stood, agitated and confused. Only
here overnight, surely she wasn't manifesting panic-
attacks so soon? 

Helen looked around, saw Leo curled up in a rocker,
eyes rounded with almost human knowing. She went
to the closet, got her jacket and camera. Enough of
the house, she would take a long walk and clear her
head of ridiculous illusions.

Outside, it was warmer than usual for February.
She was glad the sun appeared like a welcoming
globe overhead, and started off at a fast clip
across the backyard, hurrying to the edge of the
woods. Then she stood poised with indecision; it
looked dark, damp in the forest. She turned toward
a path that led to a small open area Jordan had
cleared for a garden plot. He'd told her he hoped to
plant tomatoes, and a variety of vegetables if his
wife would accompany him here for the summer. 

Helen stood motionless, hearing birds chattering
busily, seeing a squirrel scampering on tree limbs
above; she breathed deeply, sighed and went
downhill, toward the road. Once there, she found
herself heading rapidly along the highway, down to
the first curve, onward toward the bend where she
could see below to the place Kent's presence had
first caught her attention.

Stopping to rest, she sat down on a fallen log from
the woods, and peered off into the bright blue
skyline, then her eyes dropped to the valley. An open
field was suddenly shadowed by newly-arrived
clouds, sunlight and shade playing tag across the
landscape. Her emotions now calmer, she stood, and
then noticed a man emerge from the wooded hills,
walk into that open field, and stare off vaguely in
the direction of the ramshackle house.

She took out her camera, tramped into the woods,
fighting underbrush, no path here. She struggled to
get through the winter-dried, tangled vegetation and
hurried along, undisturbed by viney brush or low-
hanging scratchy limbs, finally coming closer to the
lower field. She hovered beside a thick-clustered
pine, looking out through the over-lapped limbs, and
watching the man.

He had on a calf-length overcoat, a wide-brimmed
hat that shadowed his face, but when he turned in
her direction to slowly survey the area, she saw it
was indeed Kent McCord. This was her chance to
prove his very real existence, and she aimed the
35mm camera lens, focused it on him, snapped,
snapped again and kept snapping as he moved
around, getting shots of him from all directions, all
angles. Satisfied, she put the camera away and then
emerged from her hiding place, shouting, "Kent,
hey...it's me, Helen." 

He pivoted, tilted his hat back and lifted a hand in
greeting. She walked toward him, studying the
substantial size of him, his bearded face, the almost
unreal light gray eyes. He grinned, looking at her
with one bushy eyebrow arched, his eyes penetrating
into her very being. 

He said, "So, we meet again?"

Now within a few feet of him, Helen stopped, said,
"My goodness, I just realized who you resemble!
You definitely look like the Bridges brothers. Not
Beau or Jeff exactly, but a new combination."

"Bridges brothers, don't believe I know those boys,
lady."

"Helen, remember?"

"Didn't know if I should call you by your given name,
since you seem to have doubts about my character."

She slung her camera bag over her shoulder, looked
up into his charming but ironic expression, the face
of a thousand masks.

"Beau and Jeff Bridges, they are exceptionally
talented actors. Surely you've seen their movies?"

"Hmm, sorry, still don't know them." He yawned,
putting a hand over his mouth, eyes closing. "Sorry,
guess I'm tired. Been off hiking."

"Oh? I didn't know you were a hiker?" She realized
this could be the explanation for his frequent
absences.

"Yes, I've been gone over a week...like to explore
and study nature. I was once a..."

"Yes?"

"Never mind. It isn't important." He looked at her
raptly a moment, then amended, "Well, maybe it is,
Helen. I was once a trapper."

"Isn't that illegal here?" She felt bewildered in the
embrace of his steady gaze.

"It is now, but...at one time it was the only means of
survival in these hills."

She backed away, uncomfortable suddenly; he
moved closer and said, "Can't you see I'm not a
threat to you?"

"I...there's, uh, something about you, something I
can't define...that makes me feel...well, a little ill at
ease."

"Something you FEEL, but can't put into words?"

She shook her head furiously, reminded of the
spooky message earlier on the processor, exclaiming,
"No! That's not what I meant."

"Sure it is. And you should acknowledge it, because
if you don't, you are going to think you are losing
your mind."

"Oh...how'd you know about that, about my...?" She
sank down, finding a rock to sit on and succumbing
to utter confusion.

He moved very near her, touched her hair and said
in a soft, calming voice, "Helen, don't be afraid.
Verily I say to ye, trust and be as little lambs,
innocent and helpless. I come to bring you wisdom
and light, love and peace. This is my mission, from
the past, from the other side."

She was falling, falling into a deep, deep trance; her
eyes moved up to his face, and he continued with
hypnotic words, "Verily, I too am lost in this world,
for I come here only as destined...I was, am, trying
to fulfill my appointment and..." He paused,
reflecting on her mesmerized eyes, her obedient
face; it was impossible to do this objectively, and he
knew it from the beginning. 

She rose, leaned into his arms. He mumbled, "I was
afraid this might happen."

He led her into the woods. She went willingly, and
they walked down the straw-littered path, about a
half-mile until he stopped by a clear-water creek,
and sat her down on a tree stump, snapped his
fingers rapidly in front of her eyes.

Helen, startled out of the trance, jumped up and
screamed, her loud shrieks piercing the forest
stillness. He grabbed her, pulling her into his arms.
"It's okay, don't be afraid. Helen..."

Stunned, she moaned, "Where am I?" He tilted up
her chin, forced her to look into his face, and said,
"I brought you here, I need to share everything with
you, I can't..." his voice broke, and she seemed to
suddenly to understand his pain, his aloneness, the
aching loneliness in him that had never been
expressed. 

An involuntary groan, tortured and lost, escaped him
as he realized again his existence was molded from
the fabric of time itself, and he could never escape
his fate.

Helen, now awkwardly aware of him, of being here
for some ultimate reason, asked, "What can I do?
Are you responsible for the strange things happening
to me?" 

And now she knew the meaning of intuition — she
"felt" a purpose, an eerie undercurrent between
them, unspoken and unable to be voiced. No
intellectual rationalizing could explain it, rather her
whole being sensed this deep connection to Kent
McCord.

He slumped down on a rock, took off his hat,
rubbed a hand over his beard, sighed wearily.
"Helen, I'm trapped forever in this...ah, how I can I
speak of it? It happened long ago, back in 1896, it
just..."

"The old photos, that was you? And your wife, child?
The photos were of you and your family?"

"Yes...it was, well, tragic, what happened to my wife
and child. They drowned, in this very creek..."

In spite of herself, Helen shuddered. She looked
fearfully at the clear sparkling water, now vividly
imagining death, drowning and unspeakable pain.

He swept his arms wide, gesturing toward the
creekbank. "My little girl, she fell in. Mary jumped
in, tried to save her, but it was after a terrible
flooding. The creek was swollen high up this bank,
and they both drowned in the rushing waters."

"How horrid! I'm so sorry," Helen heard herself
say, fully aware she was supposedly talking to a man
who either had died long ago, or was mentally
deranged and imagining he was someone from the
past.

"No, you are wrong Helen. I am not a ghost, nor am
I deranged."

Chills ran over her. Once again, he'd read her
thoughts accurately. She shrugged, said, "Sorry,
I...this is so..."

"Unbelievable, yes...but it's happening, and not in
some fantasy delusion of yours either. I am here, at
least right now I am."

"What do you mean?"

"After my wife and child died, I wanted to die. I
came here often, and thought of suicide. I
was...hurting, lonely, lost. Once, sitting right on that
stump, I saw a vapor, a mist coming off the creek
water, and thought it was their souls...I even got a
photo of it, which you saw."

"Yes..."

He turned to the creek, stared as though puzzled,
then came to her, asked, "Can you trust me, believe
what I'm about to tell you?"

"I promise to try."

He put a hand to his forehead, frowned deeply and
said, "Helen I'm a prisoner of immortality, it seems.
You see, I...am...well, from another dimension, and
although I can come here, speak to humans alive
now, I can't stay. I return to the other side and I..." 

He swallowed, tried to form words for his agony. "I
am so...so alone there, and here too."

She stared silently, touched by his emotional pain -
but was this real? Was it really happening, or was it
all in her mind? Suddenly she went to him, reached
out a hand and ran it over his beard, felt the
softness, felt his lips and knew at this exact
moment, he was flesh-and-blood real. She mused,
"But...I can touch you, so you must be here!"

"I am...but...I can't stay. I never can. I must and will
return to that gray land, between the dark and
light." He pushed her away, turned his back to her.
"Mavis and Mert tried to help me, and...well, they
weren't capable. It's here, at this creek, that the
secret dwells -- a doorway to another dimension."

Helen looked around at the natural beauty, the
peaceful surroundings of woods, water, sky and
land...it seemed nothing extraordinary.

"But it is," he said, staring at her.

"How do you do that?"

"Read your thoughts? I just can, that's all. I can't
go backwards in time, but I am sent here sometimes
to help the cause of goodness, never to harm
anyone. For example, I knew you felt you were going
crazy, and that my messages were about to harm
you, so I retreated."

"You can enter the other dimension at will?"

"No, only with permission from those who guide me.
But I yearn for this place, the natural world and
yet, if I stay too long, I'm taken back to the other
side by some unknown means."

"This is...so..." Helen couldn't even put it into words.
It all seemed so fantastically weird. In fact, she
wondered if she were having a delusion, a
schizophrenic hallucination?

Kent shook his head, no, and then as if to reassure
her, he took her in his arms and held her close. She
could feel his beating heart, feel the warmth of him,
smell that familiar tobacco scent and wanted to help
him somehow, relieve the agony she'd seen in his
face. 

He breathed into her hair, said hoarsely, "I was
afraid I'd feel this way toward you. I've been so
lonely, so...awfully alone."

"I have too, I understand." Helen lifted her lips to
meet his. They kissed, and he mumbled as his lips
moved down her neck, "Oh woman, I shouldn't feel
this..."

"Passion, urgency and need? Why not, I feel it too
Kent."

He took off his long overcoat, spread it on the
forest floor and lowered her down on it, lay beside
her, asking, "Please, woman, hold me?"

There were no protests from Helen and they began
a descent into a sensual world that needed nothing
other than physical touch, passionate feeling and
uninhibited expression between man and woman.

                                     *  *  *  *  *  *

Later, Helen awoke, disheveled and alone in the wet,
dark woods. She could still feel his presence, and as
she licked her lips she tasted the vaguely pungent
tobacco, feeling her face tender, scratched by his
beard...but he was gone, and she stood, pulling on
her jacket.

Only when she reached the house did she begin to
question the experience: Had it actually occurred,
or had she hallucinated the whole episode?

Fortunately, she clasped the camera bag to her and
realized for once she had proof of the man's
existence! When the photos were developed, she
could finally quit worrying about her sanity!

                  End Chapter Eight
^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^

         Chapter Nine

Helen went to bed, too drained to even attempt a
shower. She'd let Leo out on her way in, and just as
she drifted off to sleep, remembered she had not
even watched the latest news on the Gulf War
today.

When she awoke, it was difficult to come out of a
deep, deep slumber. As she looked at the bedside
digital clock, she couldn't believe what she saw: It
was now Wednesday noontime....she'd been asleep an
entire night, day and additional night!

Helen lay there, stunned. Her body felt weighted
down, sluggish and too heavy to move; just turning
her head seemed like a impossible maneuver. She
saw Leo at the bedroom window, staring into the
house, meowing.

Forcing herself to sit up, she eased her body to the
edge of the bed, put her feet on the ice-cold floor
and managed to get up, stand and stretch. She felt
ill, her stomach nauseous and her head woozy as she
struggled toward the front door, opened it and let
Leo inside. The cat raced to the fridge, sat there
glaring at her accusingly.

"Sorry old boy, I've been..." What had happened to
her? She could only vaguely recall Kent, the wooded
rendezvous and then, something about...

Leo leapt onto the table, yowling. She got his dish,
saw the milk inside the fridge was soured, and
instead looked around for the box of dry cat food.
While she soothed the hungry cat, she tried to
remember what had caused her such physical
exhaustion, such a lengthy slumber? In fact, it was
the second time she'd lost account of days, sleeping
far too long and feeling disorientated upon
awakening.

As the cat ate, she made strong black coffee and
stood looking out the kitchen windows; it was clear,
windy and dry leaves rattled along the ground. Her
mouth tasted bad, and she realized her hair was oily.
While the coffee perked, she went and took a
scouring shower, washing her hair, scrubbing her
body.

The brisk water seemed to make her mind alert. As
she dressed in corduroy slacks and sweater, she
saw her camera bag and it all came rushing back:
Taking shots of Kent, being lured into the woods,
their lovemaking... Or had that only been a dream?
Had she merely dreamed while sleeping so long?

Helen blow-dried her hair, then grabbed the camera
bag. Looking at the camera, she saw the entire roll
had been taken; she hurriedly found a photo mailer,
prepared it, and ran out to place the package in the
mailbox. If she'd actually seen this man, now she'd
have proof! And although going into the nearest
small town to a photomat would get the negatives
developed faster, she trusted the Brimingham lab
where her photography work had always been
processed to her satisfaction.

Was it possible there existed another dimension
alongside this one? Helen pondered this as she
cooked bacon, eggs and toast, ate hungrily and
drank coffee. Was there such a possibility? Even
scientist of quantum physics had some theories
about co-existing dimensions, the fabric of
time/space, speculations on wormholes, so it was at
least a valid idea. And yet, as she recalled Kent's
words, it confused her worse. After all, being a
skeptic, the world of unproven scientific theories
was not her territory, although she had a
fundamental understanding of the problems with a
parallel universe existing.

So how had she gotten involved in this mess? The
question of her sanity still remained; Helen couldn't
dismiss the possibility she was having
hallucinations/delusions...but if so, why? Had she
pursued arbitrary intellectualizing until the very act
of relentless realism had driven her mad?

She got up, drained the last of her coffee, put away
the dishes and stroked Leo, lifted the cat in her
arms and went to stare out the front windows. The
food had given her some strength, but she still felt
weakened and dazed. No work today, she thought.
Instead she turned on the new TV, curled up on the
sofa and waited for a news update.

At two, a newscaster came on and announced that
the air war was continuing, that all military
commanders maintained the war was on schedule
and soon lraq would allow other journalist into
Bagdad.

Helen sighed, knowing Curtis would attain his
objective. She could just imagine him charming his
way around the war-torn city, managing to secure a
fresh angle even under the watchful Iraqi censors -
- and reluctantly, she admitted she was proud of
him. Curtis was a reporter, a seeker of truth...and
she'd always felt herself inclined similarly, but now?
Was truth an individual, subjective determination, or
a universal, objective ideal?

As the windows darkened, Helen closed the drapes,
feeling that creepy, eerie sensation that made her
uneasy. Then Leo seemed to sense something; he
went to the door, scratched until she let him out,
and disappeared into the dusky evening. Helen stood
motionless, the wind sweeping across the porch,
rushing in the door, through her hair, chilling her to
the bone.

It was growing colder so she built a fire from a
stack of cut wood, and made hot chicken noodle
soup, cheese and crackers, then sat
eating, thinking. She had the strangest lethargy, a
feeling that nothing mattered, that her work was
unimportant, insignificant. Where before she always
had avid, enthusiastic determination and motivation,
now it all felt pointless.

Nevertheless, she made herself look over interview
notes, take out a book on constitutional law and
study it, trying to occupy her mind more
purposefully. The hours passed; she found it was
near ten, and put away the jotted notes, the
research facts she'd unearthed.

Turning the TV on, she listened and watched the
sounds of war: another Scud missile attack on
Israel and Saudi Arabia, some residential buildings
demolished in Tel Aviv, people injured and possible
deaths. She wondered if Hussein was conquerable? 

Was he,as President Bush said, Hitler revisited? All
the destructiveness, the suffering and
violence...could witnessing all this be causing her
mental distress to the point of hallucinations, an
inability to cope with war, with violence and the
unstable, dangerous real world? How frightening,
she thought, to be a victim of her own mental
confusion, her helplessness, when she'd always
prided herself on being able to handle reality! It
seemed that she would have to leave here after
all...if nothing else, just to save her sanity!

Remembering Kent's words, she realized he'd not
really answered her question about the mysterious
messages on the computer nor the prophetic voices,
the spiritual dreams...and she wondered if he was
also the victim of a greater force? He'd hinted at
that kind of mission, that kind of fated trap for
himself, and alluded to the region here being at
fault. Could this mountain be situated at the
threshold of some unknown dimension, the open
doorway to it?

And if so, how had he first entered it? The creek,
that misty glaze that he'd shown in a photo, was
that a key to understanding? Or had he actually
attempted suicide and thus accidentally been taken
into that realm? He said it was a 'gray' land, and
sounded as though he was sad there; but she also
got the impression it was serene and peaceful, unlike
this dimension of violence and conflicts,
frustration...turmoil, the human condition.

But if it was lovely there, utopia, why want to return
to this side? Helen suddenly jumped up, began
pacing and muttering to herself. Was this insanity?
Trying to fathom insubstantial, meaningless and
twisted passages that only existed in one's mind?

She gave up, and went back to the unmade bed,
crawled underneath the covers and immediately fell
asleep.

The dream whispered like summer sunshine into her
mind:

She was walking in a land of white, white skies, white
earth, softspun sunlight glowing on her fluttery
chambray dress, windy and warm, the white-sandy
seashore, bleached-topped waves rolling onto the
foam-lined beach...and she was walking quietly,
feeling at peace, calm as the endless white
landscape. She could make out an image ahead: A
tall man, dressed in a three-piece white linen suit,
was coming toward her, but she couldn't determine
his facial features, they were a blur, yet she felt
immensely drawn to him...walking, walking and then
running, running and shouting his name, "Wait Kent,
wait!" as she felt herself lifting, higher and higher,
hearing a throbbing sound like the waves, but
different, resounding through the soundless
seascape...beckoning, "Verily I say to ye, trust and
ye shall know the truth."

Helen awoke, drenched in sweat, startled,
disoriented and as she tried to stand, her body felt
like lead, and she stumbled into the den, fell on the
sofa, moaning incoherently.

She never heard the knock on her door, never saw
Kent coming to help her...

                End Chapter Nine
^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^

       Chapter Ten

Kent gently lifted Helen into his arms, carried her to
the bed, covered her and sat there, sobbing. He
knew she was barely conscious, and cursed himself
for having taken her to the edge of madness.  It
was his fault, and he felt responsible. His voice
begged, "Ye bring me misery but, please, ye shall not
drive the woman to insanity."

Helen moaned, her head slowly turning toward him;
she opened her eyes, amazed. "Kent, oh...I'm so sick,
I ache all over and I think I've got a fever."

"Yes, you have a cold. I've come to care for you.
It's my fault, our time in the woods, damp and cold,
probably caused this." 

He went to the bathroom, brought back a warm
washcloth and sponged her sweaty forehead,
tenderly removing wet hair off her face. "Forgive
me, I never meant you harm."

She was aware of the concern, his incredibly
profound caring from those light-gray eyes,
depthless and penetrating. "'Why, how did. . .you. .
know?"

"I felt you needed me, so I came back. There's so
much I need to tell you, so much I can give
you...leave you when I'm gone.”

"Please, don't leave me. I'm so lonely, so...afraid.
I...am I going crazy, is this the way insanity starts?"
She clutched his broad callused hands, holding on
tightly, looking at him with pained eyes.

"No, you aren't losing your mind, I'm real and here
with you, see?" He leaned to kiss her cheek, murmur
in her ear, "I've done the worst thing possible  —
I've fallen in love with you, and we can never be
together."

Helen closed her eyes, breathing him into herself,
wanting to hold this loving, poignant moment forever.
His touch, his strength was mingled with something
inimitable and mysterious, almost an otherworldly
aura, gentleness and love, a spiritual all-
encompassing oneness that enveloped her. She said,
"I...I feel so whole, so alive, so different, like there
is this...beautiful, glowing connection to you."

"Yes, that's how it is on the other side: A wholeness
and unity with every single element, as though
nothing separates, just blends and blends until we
are invisible, like light and sunshine in air." He looked
at her feverish face, placed the folded cloth on her
forehead. "But now you must rest. I'll be here and
we'll talk later, sleep my sweet."

And Helen felt herself flowing with warmth and
absolute stillness...going into deep sleep.

Kent watched her peaceful face, the gradual pink
tint coming back into her skin, health coursing from
his healing hands to her body...and he whispered
urgently, "Ye bring the source, the power of healing
to Helen. She will believe, she will."

When Helen awoke, she felt refreshed and healthy.
She looked around the morning-bright bedroom, the
sunshine filtering through closed drapes, Leo curled
up on the bed. And then she recalled Kent being with
her, called, "Kent? Are you here?"

He came into the room, bigger than life, so tall he
had duck below the doorframe; his plaid shirt, faded
jeans and boots looked familiar and dear to Helen.
She struggled to sit, holding the blanket over her
and saying, "Oh I'm so happy you stayed!"

"Helen, I'm sorry I caused you to be ill..."

"It was just as much my fault. I went willingly into
the forest with you, and I..." she paused, suddenly
shy but determined to speak her mind. "I wanted
you too."

He took out a rolled cigarette, lit it and turned to
the windows, pulled back the drapes, and peered out
as he smoked. "It was more than the dampness and
cold...it was being with me that made you sick, and
the lingering drowsiness, your weakness...that was
from being a part of someone from the other side.
It dazed you, and...I'm not sure what else it did. But
I've made sure you are healed."

She was now out of bed, pulling on a robe and going
quickly to his side, forcing him to look at her.
"How?"

He stared at her, the gray eyes alight with superior
knowing. He held the cigarette in his lips, one
eyebrow cocked and smoke curling out of his
slightly-open mouth. "You'd not comprehend my
explanation, indeed it is impossible to be put into
language, but just know that I was able to heal you."

Unable to hide her frustration any longer, Helen
slapped him, knocking his head sideways, his
cigarette almost falling out, him grabbing it, startled
and unable to say a word. She declared, "How dare
you? I want to know exactly why you are here, why
you are trying to make me crazy? Who sent you,
and why? Was it the religious community, the
fanatics?"

Rubbing his face, Kent walked calmly to a table, got
an ashtray and put out the cigarette, all the time
staring levelly at her. "So...you don't believe anything
I've told you? You persist in being a pragmatic,
skeptical human?"

"Either you tell me this moment why you are trying
to drive me mad, or I'll...I'll go for the authorities!"
She knew this had to be the answer. Curtis had
guessed it correctly, someone was behind this fiasco
- and this man was standing here pretending to be
from another dimension, when in reality he was
probably hired to play this part. "You are a fine
actor, I give you four stars, but..."

He advanced to her, his boots jarring the floor. He
grabbed her, and shook her gently, saying, "Listen to
me woman, I didn't choose for this to happen and
you will believe, you will believe me...you must. I have
been sent here, but not by sinister humans, by a
greater force than we either understand. You are a
writer, and I...I have been sent to help you voice
their message, for the enlightenment of humans."

Helen felt her temper flare, and snapped, "You are
hurting me!"

He let her go, and she staggered, leaning against the
windows, crying, "Get out, get out of my house!"

Kent shook his head, rubbed his beard and sat down
on the bed, holding his head in his hands. "Helen,
listen...all I've told you is truth, I did accidentally go
over to the other side, and I'm trapped there. But
over there...a force of some sort, a good, benevolent
force, guides me. I've tried to reach others, some I
have convinced, like Mert and Mavis. But with you,
from the first, I felt something I shouldn't have:
physical attraction. Since going there, I haven't
experienced my full physical self and I...let it get
the best of me. I wanted you, and when I was there,
I couldn't forget you, the feel, the sight, the touch
of you. Oh, I knew it was condemned, and I fought
against it...but I..." 

He paused, looked at her and added, "None of this
matters really. I still have a mission, and that is to
get you to believe in me. And...then I was instructed
to help you write a book, a book which will give
mankind hope and faith..."

"You mean like the banal writing I saw on my word
processor screen, and have heard in voices, dreamed
in dreams?"

"Yes, it was suggested you would sense our presence
and I'd only have to help you with the particular
details. It is true that both spiritual truths and your
atheistic messages are for the betterment of
mankind, but humans, at this time, are more
accepting of supernatural influences than realism, at
least the majority." 

He stood, came to her and reached to touch her
flushed face. "I've done the unforgivable. I've come
here and fallen in love, and now I'm torn between
two worlds. Once you go to the other side, you
cannot return permanently, it is forbidden."

Helen studied his sincere expression, wondering if he
was mad, insane himself, perhaps an escaped mental
patient? But he truly looked as though he were
telling the truth, or at least firmly believed what he
professed.

"No, I'm not insane. Helen, I...please, let me have a
chance to show you, to make you believe what I am
saying?"

She trembled as he pulled her into his arms, felt a
slow-glowing tenderness, such an overwhelming
sensation of love, peace, wholeness in his arms...so
irresistible. It was unlike anything she'd ever
experienced in reality, and even though her mind told
her she was losing a grip on sanity, she gave into his
persuasion and they walked to the bed, lay down and
he began to share his life.

"Helen, like I told you, I was shattered by my wife
and daughter's drownings. I had this wild idea, a
"feeling" I could communicate with them at that
creek...and I would go there, night and day, a vigil of
staring at the waters. I was slowly going crazy, and
everyone tried to stop me from going there, but I
persisted. And then one night, after I'd fallen
asleep, I had a peculiar dream...felt I was in another
world, a world of light and brightness...awoke feeling
peaceful and whole. I figured I was over it, the
grief had left me, so I went back home...but for
some reason, I continued to visit the creek, and one
day I saw that strange vapor, took photos. I even
tried to convince people there was a spiritual aura
there, the misty fog rising off the water my wife
and daughter's souls...something like that, but they
scoffed and called me crazy."

"How old were you when this happened?" she asked,
seeing his eyes dreamy and lost to memory.

"I was thirty-four when they died. See, I felt
something strange there, and I kept
returning...thinking I would find my family. I never
did, because in fact they had died, not gone over.
People don't enter the other dimension when they
die, although a few experience the white-heat
passage tunnel, get a glimpse of it, which I guess
you may know as near-death experiences. You have
to be specially chosen to cross over."

"Then how did you manage to enter. Why were you
chosen?" She saw him tense, grow rigid and
somehow colder.

"It was Christmas, and I had decided I would kill
myself. I took a rope down to the creekbank, tossed
it over an oak and got up on a stump, was about to
hang myself in the noose when I suddenly saw
this...this...I don't think there's words to describe it.
I guess it was more of a feeling, but I was being
lifted, lifted and went higher, higher, my body
becoming lighter and lighter, I saw brilliant
whiteness, blinding my vision..."

She mumbled, "I had a dream like that when I was
sick."

"Yes, you were given a glimpse of it."

"So the entryway...it can't be pinpointed, or seen
exactly?"

"Not really, it's more of a feeling, a sense that I am
floating, then flying and then I'm there. I never left
that place for many, many years, not until I had
been tutored and taught enough so that I could
return here to foster goodness. I was chosen
because I had an open mind, had discovered the
right place to enter and kept trying to understand
what it was."

He paused, adding, "Helen, it's always been thus.
Where do you think the Bible came from, the
prophets, the most influential men of all ages, Jesus
Christ, Buddha, Emanuel Swedenborg, Joseph
Smith's Book of Mormon... I could go on and on
from the most ancient times to present day..."

She interrupted, "I....I always thought it was fiction,
fabrication...men who'd lost their minds, poets or
visionaries gifted with language skills they used to
gain power over others."

He turned to look down into her face. "No, the
knowledge, the wisdom was sent from the other
side, and the only reason we come back is to foster
goodness, kindness, peace, love and to help mankind
reach the same superior status we have there." 

He paused again, reflecting, "But we of the other
side cannot directly change the future, only
patiently, gently guide humanity toward wisdom.
Then, eventually, prepare humankind to merge with
LIGHT, join our circle of eternity. Death is
unnecessary in our world because perfection exists.
We of the other side have helped bring visions to all
your world's spiritual leaders down through the
ages. Some who were called "prophets" were given
their wisdom, and their messages became printed
legacies: The Koran, The Torah, The Old Testament,
The New Testament, The Talmud, The Tripitaka of
Buddhism, The Agama of Hinduism, The Zend--
Anesta of Zoroastrianism, The Veda of
Brahamanism, The Book Of Mormon, all spiritual
books, guides -- yet often confusing and
contradictory due partly to our own inadequacies of
the language barriers between humans and the
completely silent, telepathic communications of the
other side's inhabitants. In the translations of so
many human languages, there is bound to be flaws;
but down through the centuries, the other side has
learned and become more proficient, especially once
humans were taken there to help. Anyhow, it's time
for another book to bring all these divergent
religions into a united one, into a central core of
global understanding, providing ONE belief all will
follow. They do have the same basic theme, but it
will be necessary to bring this out in clear, concise
terms, create a worldwide belief to consolidate all
humans in their spirituality. Not easy, a difficult
undertaking, but the essence of which has been
already prepared through the World Goodwill, and
the United Nations, Unitarian Associations, even the
current New Age Movement.  You are to be the
vessel of such a cohesive book."

Helen was momentarily flattered, yet doubtful, and
still puzzled about him. "But...if there's no physical
self...what are you?" She didn't know if she believed
this, but if it was a delusion, it was an incredibly
vivid imaginary experience.

He sighed, said slowly, "We are like light, air, or the
invisible force of gravity...insubstantial on the other
side. But when I return here, I am of flesh-and-
blood, and though it has been forbidden, I...still have
sexual, emotional needs in this dimension. Helen, I
am a lawless one to have allowed myself the
pleasure of you." He found her lips, kissed her as
though he might drown in her wondrous, sensuous
self.

She didn't protest, merely succumbed to his
demanding, relentlessly searching mouth; him trailing
kisses over her face, a moan catching in his throat.
"I want you, and I can't help myself."

"Pease don't stop..." she urged, moving with him,
finding his hard, muscled body a treasure of
mounting passion.

As he undressed, then rejoined her, he said, "If I
stay longer than twenty-four hours at a time, I will
dissolve, evaporate, cease to exist in any dimension,
I will die. But for now, for this glorious moment, I
am once again a thirty-four-year-old man who is
alive with desire, love and I am the human I was in
1896, being a virile man....a real man. How I have
yearned for this, for no matter how serene, how
perfect that other side Helen, once you have been
human, once you have lived and loved...memory
haunts you."

They began to make love, but with gentleness,
tenderness and rapture that blended their souls into
ONE...as near perfection as man and woman could
attain in this lifetime here on earth.

                End Chapter Ten
^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^ 

Chapter Eleven

Afterward, Helen fell asleep. 

Kent slipped out of bed, and walked through the
dark, quiet house. He wanted desperately to feel
part of this world, and touched objects randomly,
fingering the fabric of patchwork quilts, lifting
heavy crystal ashtrays in his hand, savoring the
addiction of tobacco nicotine, then wandering to the
windows, looking out at darkness, deep and silent.

Eventually he heard Helen call, "Kent...are you
here?"

He walked to the bedroom, stood over her and said,
"I have to go soon, but I'll return tomorrow night.
We need to go over the book idea, let me give you
some instructions from..."

"Please Kent, I...I can't accept that. I mean, I have
a book contract with a New York publishing house,
and it has to be fulfilled. If, and I do mean IF I
wrote anything else, how could I get it published?"
Helen sat up, running a hand absently through her
tangled hair.

"Don't worry about that. The Way has been opened
long ago, in 1922 through the founding of a non-
profit, tax-exempt spiritual, educational corporation
in New York, which I mentioned earlier." He bent to
kiss her lightly on her forehead, said, "I must leave.
Sleep and rest, sweet Helen."

"Wait!" she called, but it was too late. He strode out
of the room and she heard the front door open,
then close with finality. The sound echoed lonely
inside her heart, and she was glad to see Leo come
slinking into the room, pounce on the bed and nudge
her to be petted. "You silly cat, why can't you stay
put?"

Leo purred, then looked at her with clear green eyes
as if to say he understood. They lay down, the cat
curling into her arms and both falling into a restless
sleep.

Helen dreamt she was falling, falling through empty
space. It was a void of endlessness, and stars
whirled madly in the dark, sparks flaring and dying,
soundless soaring of pulsating, strobing fire-flames.
She sang out in a hoarse voice, "Help me, help me
I'm falling..." But her words died, disappeared in the
depthless void of nothingness. She wept, her tears
wetting her face, her heart aching with sadness.
"Help me, I'm falling..." But again, all she saw was
the soft swirl of stars blinking in blackness,
whizzing past her, like a comet with its elongated
cosmic-trail of icy dust, singing, ringing, a siren in
her brain. "Help me, help me I'm falling..." And now,
she listened to the voiceless void, and finally heard a
disturbing voice: "Helen, fear not, ye art mine, a
child of the Universe. Verily I send my own to lead
ye. Do not forsake the soul sent through the abyss,
for ye art in light, love and shall surrender as little
helpless lambs. Ye art our own, the voice of
multitudes in a heart's hope."

She awoke, screaming. The cat leaped onto the
floor, hissed and ran frantically out of the room.
Helen muttered, "I've lost my mind, I'm falling in
love with a phantom, speaking and dreaming of
nonexistent matter...  I'm falling into insanity." 

                                     *  *  *  *  *  *

Awakening the following morning, Helen knew she
had to attempt something solidly real, something
energetic and practical, so her obvious choice was to
clean the house. While munching a granola bar and
drinking milk, she jotted down on a calendar the
past few weeks' activities, realizing with a jolt that
it was now February 15, Friday, and that time was
slipping past rapidly. Jordan expected a rough draft
by the 23rd, to show her progress.

It would be virtually impossible to deliver that, even
if she started this moment --and what of Kent's
insistence she write an entirely unreasonable book? 

"I'm sick of this nutty business!" she declared to no
one, since the cat had been put out before her
breakfast. Helen jumped up, hurriedly bathed and
dressed in faded jeans, loose sweatshirt and tackled
the cleaning with fervor.

As she dusted rugs, hung them on a platform out
back, she realized her health was robust and began
humming as she ran back inside, swept the floors,
washed dishes, vacuumed and then mopped the
floors, feeling great. Each handmade item caught
her attention, and she took the patchwork quilts out
to air, then dusted the bird cage carefully,
appreciative of each clever, redone piece of antique
furniture, tracing scrolled corners in woodwork on
the mantle over the fireplace, noticing again the
primitive watercolor painting of a man walking down
a path lined with abundantly flowering spring
blossoms, his wide-brimmed hat tilted at an angle,
his back to the artist.

She stopped abruptly, her dustcloth poised beside
the painting. Something about the hat, the
jeans...yes, even the same boots! Although the man in
the painting was walking away, his back to the
viewer, it most certainly was Kent McCord, and the
artist's signature was scrawled at the edge: Mavis!
Disgusted with this discovery, Helen threw the cloth
across the room, and fumed, "Why now? Can't I
have a minute without him in my mind?"

She slumped down on the sofa, sat there dejectedly
but finally roused herself, forced her dark mood
away, and grabbed the cloth, finishing her dusting.
The house fairly sparkled when she quit at noon, a
masterpiece of cleanliness. Satisfied with her
chores, she went out to the front porch, stood
looking at the unseasonably warm, mild day, then
turned down one of the wicker rockers, plopped
down in it and began rocking, staring at the well-
cultivated shrubs, the rocked walkway, her car
parked in the small oval spot at the end of the yard.

She felt lazy, tired and rested for over an hour,
content to do nothing. The warm breeze wafted
across the porch, and she could hear distant bird
calls, a few tree branches scraping in the wind, and
then she saw Leo come sauntering out of the woods,
meowing.

"You naughty cat, where you been?" Helen chided
him, even as she got up, stooped to lift it up in her
arms, and ask, "You hungry?"

As though on cue, Leo reached a paw to her chin and
gave her a thoughtful look. She took him inside, set
out dry food and then went to flick on the TV,
immediately tuning into the latest Gulf War update. 

An excited, frenzied reporter was telling about the
continuing release of oil into the Persian Gulf
waters, footage of the oil-slicked birds on the
screen; Hussein had apparently ordered this
environmental act of terrorism, according to the
agitated reporter. Then the screen blinked, and a
disembodied male voice began giving news from
Bagdad; Helen recognized Curtis’s voice instantly,
and couldn’t keep from smiling at his having attained
his objective.

The news bulletin ended, and Helen sat watching a
soap opera, two women involved in a bickering
argument, their shouts too much for her. She
flicked off the TV, and then looked at her word
processor --why not just run through what she’d
accomplished?

She did so, and the afternoon flew by in a rush as
she studied what had already taken shape, the
theme now more pronounced and volatile. She made
a few corrections, a few tentative sketches for the
next chapters and finally stopped, seeing the
windows dimmed by twilight.

While it grew darker, she went to get the rugs and
quilts, brought them inside and placed it all as
before. She was wondering what to have for a meal
when there was a knock on the door.

Before she got to it, the front screen was pulled
back, and the door slowly opened to reveal Kent, his
hat tilted down, his bearded face shadowed. Helen
hurried to him, said, “I didn't know if you'd return."

“Didn’t I promise to come back tonight?” He slipped
inside, stood with his back to the door, filling the
whole room with his tobacco scent, his masculine
presence.

“Yes...but...I...” She paused, said, “What would you
like for a meal?”

He took off his hat, held it in his hands and moved
to the sofa, said gruffly, “That’s something I miss, a
woman’s home-cooking, food, and...”

“You mean you don’t have to eat over there?” She
was incredulous, almost laughing aloud. Surely he
was joking!

“There’s no food, no sex, no...well none of the richer,
more physical sensations of pleasure. We live
on...well, for lack of a better definition, light.”

Now she did laugh, and laugh and laugh; in fact,
Helen found herself hysterically laughing, bending
over, hurting with unending laughter until tears
began rolling down her face, her voice shrieking,
uncontrollable and wildly insane laughing.

Kent took her to the sofa, eased her down and
began talking in a soothing tone: “Hey, take it easy.
I’m here, everything is going to be fine. Look, I’m
real...touch me.”

Sobbing, gulping and then hiccupping, Helen reached
to feel his hands, the calluses now familiar. She
moved her hand to his soft beard, traced his lips,
said, “I’m nutty as a fruitcake!” Laughter bubbling
up, her trying to squelch it to no avail.

He took firm hold of her shoulders, said, “Look at
me, Helen. Look into my eyes.”

She did, and was drawn down, down, diving into
those gray orbs of entrancement, falling, falling in
freeflight to the depth of his being....feeling calm,
quieter now, going down, down and becoming whole
with him.

Kent lay her gently onto the sofa, stood and went to
prepare them a meal. He found food in the fridge,
ham and cheese, bacon, sausage and eggs for an
omelet. He’d never used an electric range, but it
wasn’t difficult to figure out; he sizzled the food, a
delicious aroma filling the house.

When he snapped his fingers in front of Helen, she
awoke refreshed, followed him to the table, sat in
the ladderback chair and ate as he watched, his own
appetite hardy. As he sipped coffee, she asked,
“Kent...about the book?”

“Yes, I’ll help you, after we finish our meal.”

“I can’t write that supernatural/religious angle,
can’t!” She folded her napkin, wiped her mouth and
announced, “I’m leaving tomorrow. I’ve had enough
of this weird place.”

“Please Helen, I...this is important. We need to get
out a message, especially now with the Middle East
in such turmoil, the people need hope, faith and...”

“Oh, do you really think that will help people?
Religion has done more harm than good, in my
opinion. Why, just think of all the fighting, the
endless bickering about it! Different interpretations
of scripture, killings in the name of holiness...”

He grimaced, explained, “I thought I made it clear
this happened because of our language barriers and
human flaws.”

Helen shook her head. “Besides, I am trying to
further goodness by showing human intellect is
strong enough to overcome any obstacles mankind
faces. Just because I don’t believe in God, doesn’t
mean I’m a hedonist, an evil person. I believe in US,
the human ability to survive and be kind, good and
eventually free ourselves from being slaves to
religious Gods, ritualized dogmas."

He stood, scraping the chair on the pine floor. His
eyes clouded, but he said softly, “And that’s your
final word, you won’t listen to what we have to share
with the world through you?” 

This was his worst dread, that he couldn’t convince
her. He wasn’t allowed to carry out his mission
through fear or force, rather through gentleness
and coaxing, caring -- even using romance, which he
had at first found successful, but now realized he’d
become too involved, no longer objective, only a man
helplessly in love and desperate. A complete hypnotic
conversion would never work with someone as
strong-willed as her either.

She stubbornly continued to shake her head, feeling
she was denying a madness within her, shaking off a
delusion, confronting her own psychosis. And yet her
heart ached, ached with unbearable loss, fear of
losing him... But she told herself he wasn’t real!

“No matter what you tell yourself, Helen, I AM real,
and here with you at this moment. Would you be
more receptive if I told you I was from another
galaxy, an alien transformed into Kent’s shape to be
presentable, alluring to you?”

Helen closed her eyes, held them tightly together.
“Go, leave here. You are only in my mind.”

He pushed the chair underneath the table, walked to
her and lifted her face with his hand, forced her to
open her eyes by saying, “And when we made love,
was that not real?”

She looked at him steadily, gasping, “Yes...oh it felt
so real, so...beautiful.”

“And if I told you you would be pregnant by me,
what then if it proved true?”

She quickly replied, “That is impossible.”

He took her by the arms, lifted her to her feet,
began kissing her tenderly. “And this, is this all in
your mind?”

Helen went weak, her legs bending at the knees, her
face flushing, her body responding independent of
her mind. She felt him lifting her, carrying her to
the bedroom, his throaty voice rasping, “Woman, I
am in love with you, risking my existence to be with
you...and...so help me, Helen, you have to believe in
me, listen to me. I’ll make you, I’ll make you love
me!”

As he lay her on the bed, stripping off her clothes,
then his and lowering himself onto her body she said
helplessly, “I do love you Kent...but...I...oh, I don’t
know if I, if you...if this dangerous togetherness is
real or all in my mind because I’m so lonely.”

He whispered in her ear, “You can’t deny the reality
of us, so stop trying. Just give in, be here and now,
let it be good for us, for the moment.”

Helen surrendered, whether to fantasy or to a real
man, a lover she’d conjured, or an alien, a time-
traveler from another dimension...it didn’t matter.
She felt alive, richly rewarded with love...and gave
herself willingly.

               End Chapter Eleven
^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^

           Chapter Twelve

Helen awoke to a foggy Saturday morning; light was
muted through the windows, drapes still open. She
got out of bed, felt dizzy and confused -- then it
came back to her, the night of lovemaking...or was it
all in her mind/imagination?

She stood motionless, running her fingers through
tangled hair, then peering in a dresser mirror. She
appeared wasted, her body thinner than usual, her
face pallid and eyes sunken. Her gown was wrinkled
and splotched with sweat; she felt in need of a
brisk, enlivening shower. 

Later she made a quick decision, putting on makeup,
getting out a nice woolen dress, matching pumps, and
dressing fast. Helen didn’t bother to clean the
bedroom, nor even make the bed. She simply needed
to get away from the place, and hurried to toss a
few clothes in an overnight bag, gather up toiletries
and then survey the house for Leo. The cat was not
indoors, so she gave a last look around, made sure
the lights were off, the fireplace cold and then
locked the doors behind her as she stepped out onto
the front porch.

She called Leo several times, but decided the cat
could fend for itself; she probably would only be
gone for the weekend anyway. Hurrying to her
Cadillac, she felt like a sneak, but knew that was
ridiculous, so she forced herself to remain calm,
toss the bag in her trunk and then get in the car,
start it and drive slowly away.

The fog was heavy as she drove downhill, the car
gliding through hazy whiteness, her eyes carefully
scanning the sharp curves, then trying to determine
direction. She felt nervous, and was relieved as the
fog began to clear the lower she descended, the
mountaintop having been saturated. The farther she
went, the clearer it became, and she could actually
see the ramshackle house in the valley below, unable
to keep from glancing at it in the distance.

It was, as usual, deserted and forlorn in the
morning stillness; she found herself pulling over, and
parking on a shoulder, staring down at the place.
Why did it attract her attention? From the first,
she’d been undeniably drawn to the abandoned
property, and now had a sudden stab of remorse.
Had Kent McCord lived there, been happy with his
wife and child...or not? Then it occurred to her that
surely someone in this region would remember the
McCords or know about the abandoned dwelling!

Helen drove off, wondering if she could confirm
Kent’s past existence through others here or
research at the nearest local newspaper and/or
library? Impulsively, she headed for the small TV
repair shop where she’d purchased her set — maybe
the owner could tell her something about Kent? She
drove through the quaint, modest-sized town, found
the shop easily.

As Helen walked up to the door, she was met by
Jack. He smiled, said, “Helen March, right?”

She returned his friendly smile. “Yes, I’m surprised
you remembered me, I was only in once.”

He grinned. “Well you did buy a new color set, and
that’s worth remembering.”

Helen liked his attitude and looked him over; he was
a short, stout man, balding and well past fifty -- but
he had a flair for down-home friendliness. She
asked, “I was hoping you could help me again.”

“Sure, what you need? I got VCR's, and...”

“No,” she interrupted, moving inside the cluttered
shop, standing a few feet from him. “I was
wondering about local history, and remembered you
knew the Hansons.”

“Everybody hereabouts knowed ‘em, they’s curious
folks, or leastways got to be funny.” He closed the
door, came nearer and asked, “Care to sit a spell?”

Helen accepted the chair he offered, sat and then
watched him pull up another chair, straddle it
backwards and drop down, staring questioningly at
her. 

“You see, I’m a writer...” she began.

“Is that a fact? We’s wondering why you’s stuck up
there alone on Cider Mountain...”

Helen couldn’t hide her surprise, and blurted, “You
mean others know I’m there?”

“No offense ma’am, but this is a close-knit
community, everybody knows everybody, no secrets
hereabouts.” He leaned forward, said seriously, “But
ain’t no call to worry.We mind our business, don’t be
coming round to bother you.” 

Helen smiled. “I appreciate your, uh, understanding;
I do need privacy for my work. But anyhow, about
the area... Could you tell me who used to live in that
old ramshackle house near Whiskey Creek, down in
the valley?”

“Ma’am no one lives there...ain’t in a long time.” He
took a pouch of Redman tobacco out of his shirt
pocket, got out a chew and placed it in his mouth.
“If’n you a mind to, there’s old Doc Savoy, he can
tell you more. You writin history, stuff like that
about us?”

“Well no, not exactly.” She felt he’d be offended by
what she was really writing, atheistic material being
blasphemous to Christians, knowing he was one by
the sign in the window that read: Abortion Isn't The
Answer, Jesus Is. "Actually I was just curious, since
I saw the place.”

“All I know, it’s talked about among folks. Say the
whole place has got haints, spooks. I don’t hold with
that talk, myself, but some said they’s seen...strange
doings.”

“Like what?” She clutched her hands together, trying
to keep them from fidgeting.

“Just spooky stories, folks hereabouts likes them
stories. I guess it was expected, being as old Doc
Savoy witnessed the drownings at Whiskey Creek
hisself. He’s in his nineties, gettin senile, but...well,
folks still like hearing his tales. He says that when all
three McCords drowned in the creek, they’s strange
happenings later on the mountain...”

She gasped, “All three drowned? Kent too?”

"How'd you know about Kent? I never mentioned his
name.”

“Oh, I...uh I believe the owner, Jordan, who lent me
the house on the mountain, mentioned Kent’s name.”
She felt her face flame, and looked away from his
piercing gaze.

“Ma’am, all I know is the Doc, and folks hereabouts
say all three drowned -- Kent, his wife and little girl.
When he was trying to save them, he drowned too.
Real sad, them all dying like that, a real tragedy.
Guess that’s why spooky stories sprung up about it,
huh?”

Helen grimaced, looked back at his face and said,
“Yes, I suppose that kind of tragedy would give rise
to tall tales, and supernatural legends.”

“That what you writin about, folk tales, haints and
the likes in these parts? Cause if’n you are, we got
plenty of ‘em. Just about everybody has one to tell.”

“No, not exactly...”

“You take the McCord stories, there’s all that stuff
Mert and Mavis told about seeing haints, specially
Kent, and Mavis even claimed to have painted him.
But I saw the picture. She weren’t no artist to begin
with.” He paused, chuckled softly and then
continued, “But here’s she supposed to painted this
haint, and he’s walking away from her, can’t see his
face!”

Helen nodded, said, “I saw it, the painting I mean.
Jordan kept it, hung it over the mantle.”

He chuckled again, then sobered. “Mavis tried to
explain the stuff this ghost of Kent told her, but it
was all mixed up, crazy stuff. Thought the old gal
would wind up in the crazy house down in
Tuscaloosa, but poor Mert, he hung in there, tried to
handle her problems.”

Helen felt a chill prickling of her skin; even this
hillbilly was smart enough to recognize a psychosis in
someone! If they’d threatened Mavis with an
institution, wouldn’t she be just as likely to receive
that treatment, more particularly among educated,
rational people in her life?

He was studying her silently, chewing the tobacco,
spitting in a can he lifted off a shelf, and then
asking, “So why you want to know about the
McCords?”

Helen stood, stuck out her hand to shake his. “You’ve
been a big help, I was just curious about the
property. You know, if it might be for sale?”

He shook her hand, then scratched his head,
puzzled. “Now that’s something I ain’t sure about.
They’s no McCord relatives hereabouts.” He stood,
went behind a counter and pulled out a telephone
book, ran a finger down a page and gave her a
number to call. “That’s the real estate owns the
property. Don’t think they had any buyers from
around here, cause of the haint tales.”

Helen took out a pad from her purse, jotted down
the number and said, “Thanks a million; I’ll give them
a call. And it’s been pleasant chatting with you.”

“Sure thing ma’am, you come again, hear?” He
walked to the door, held it open for her, watched as
she went to the Cadillac and drove away, shaking his
head with puzzlement. 

                          *  *  *  *  *  *

Helen drove to Birmingham, her thoughts convoluted
with the information she’d learned. Obviously there
was at one time a Kent McCord living in that house;
but he and his family had all perished at the same
time. What could that mean, regarding her
experiences? Was it a kind of ESP, telepathy,
receiving information from the past deaths via
paranormal means?

Her reason rejected that idea, but the fact the man
had at one time existed, lived in that very
house...that she’d never heard of him, except
through these odd occurrences...it meant this was
NOT entirely delusional. The past reality of
something occurring outside herself, that was REAL,
and it stunned her to realize that fact.

As she entered the city, Helen was glad to see
traffic, the busy streets, people walking along the
sidewalks, her need of “normal” life absolutely
imperative. But then she suddenly remembered the
photo film, and drove to the photomat. Fortunately,
the film had not been mailed, so she paid for it and
then went directly to her apartment and, once
inside, pulled out the pictures. Studying the photos
one by one, she was stunned to see that only a vague
smoky image of Kent showed in the field. The
shadowy shape was definitely of Kent, or at least, a
male image that suited his appearance.

This was not the kind of proof she'd wanted, but it
was better than nothing at all. Tired now, she kicked
off her pumps, feeling a need to try and relax, be at
ease in her own familiar environment.

She flicked on the TV, caught the latest Gulf War
update, hearing that President Bush hadn’t yet given
the order for the ground assault into Kuwait, the air
war still underway and being successful for the
present. One news commentator said that Hussein’s
'Mother Of All Battles' had yet to strike back
significantly with Iraqi planes; that many were flying
to Iran, which in itself was suspicious...

She was tired, but ordered a pizza and then put on
comfortable jeans while waiting for it to be
delivered. She called Jordan, chatted and they made
a date for dinner Sunday night.

When the pizza came, she ate while thinking about
Kent. Why had he told her that suicidal story, not
taking credit for trying to save his family? Wasn’t
that ultimately more heroic than suicide? Then it
dawned on her that this was crazy --attempting to
figure out what was obviously a delusional pattern
of thought!

Helen finally decided to go shopping, put on a denim
jacket and started to the door, but had a peculiar
prickle along her spine. She turned around and saw
Kent standing there, grinning and asking, “Does this
satisfy you? Will you believe me now?”

Helen dropped her purse, slumped to the floor, the
room going dark as she fainted.

                 End Chapter Twelve
^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^



	Chapter Thirteen	

When Helen came to, she was staring into Kent's
face, unsmiling and serious. He said sternly,
"Woman, you must believe. It is the only way.
I...shouldn't have come here, but doing so, I think
you shall for once and all follow willingly."

She blinked, trying to focus on her apartment. It
was all the same, the trendy furnishings, the austere
chrome-and-glass, simple black-and-white lines,
smooth, sophisticated but somehow cold, barren.
"Kent...I...just don't know. But answer me this, why
didn't you admit you died saving your family?"

"Because I didn't die. I went over to the other
dimension, and yes, it was while trying to save them,
my wife and child, but...I just felt you would be
more skeptical if I made myself out to be a hero.
And what I told you about the misty photos was
true: I had developed those before my family
drowned, and the people of the community did think
I was crazy, because I'd always felt an uncanny
connection to the creek. I was taken for a reason,
we all are. In my case, I had the necessary open-
mindedness and discovery of a right location for an
entry port. There are only a few places on earth
that give access to the doorways, usually connected
to mysterious disappearances through the centuries.
I don't have to tell you about it, since most are
common knowledge, although inaccurately described
by humans. We, on the other side, must be cautious
and not abuse the entry; when a human is chosen, it
is for definite purposes.

"I was also commanded to keep a vigil for one such
as you. They hoped someone like you would come
into our orbit, eventually. And ever since humans
discovered electrical technology, not to mention
recent advances in electronics, the avenue of that
connection has been available, but only within our
range of a doorway."

She inquired, "Then how are you here? And why not
take Jordan, he is a very intelligent man."

"Because he is grounded in this dimension, has a
family, loved ones he'd be miserable without. Taking
me was an example of how one will grieve when
separated from loved ones."

He stood, paced around and advised, "Being here is
risking my very existence, and only through the
intensely close telepathic connection I've already
established with you am I able to be seen. In
essence, I'm more in your mind than really standing
here...and no one else could see me. This is highly
experimental, dangerous even, but I asked to try it.
However, I can only be effective for a short time.
Helen, this is my last chance — if I fail to convince
you to be our messenger, then I must leave you
forever."

Helen wanted to tell him to go. She wanted to
believe if she told this phantom to leave, she'd be
sane and stable again --  but there was the intuitive
knowing, the feeling that this was her destiny. She
whispered, "I may agree, write the book you wish,
and...if I do so, then can we be together?"

He rushed to her, sat down and caressed her face,
touched her lips and face. "Yes, you may come to
the other side, if YOU wish. But it has to be YOUR
wish, not mine alone. Only a few, very few are
allowed the choice to come over to our dimension
permanently. Most visionaries receive enlightenment,
leave their message for mankind, die and never know
of the other side. I petitioned for you to cross over,
because I love you Helen, but the question is, do you
love me enough?"

Remembering Curtis, Helen had a pang of regret;
but then she knew that he was really no longer part
of her life, had his own individual destiny to follow.
They were legally divorced; her parents were dead,
gone -- she was entirely without close, loving
relationships and had been for some time. If she
stayed here, wouldn't it be more of the lonely
isolation she'd imposed on herself? Might not the
other side be more worthwhile?

Reading her thoughts, Kent grinned, bent to kiss her
and said, "Yes, it is worthwhile there...different, but
wonderful. We cannot have a physical body, but the
rewards abound in many other respects. Our form is
insubstantial, but we will be mates for eternity. And
with your talent for communication in several
languages, your background education in math and
science, your knowledge of human psychology,
mythology, religion and pragmatic application of
realism, interpreting past history and possible future
cultural changes, we may be able to reach
multitudes down through the coming generations."

She realized that somehow Kent (or more likely
those of the other side) had done research on her,
were fully aware of all her potential --  something
she decided must have happened through their
probing into her mind telepathically.

He tenderly touched her face, murmured, "Yes, we
know all about you. We want you with us on the
other side."

Helen felt like she'd been transformed. She glowed
warmly, and strangely had no sexual desire even
though Kent was close to her, reaching out his arms.
She said, "I'll phone Jordan, tell him I'm returning
tomorrow morning to the house."

Kent gave her a soft kiss, then stared at her for a
long moment. "You have tonight alone, to think
privately, so be sure it is what you want. Once you
cross over, you are there forever. You may return
here briefly, but only to help the cause through
paranormal contact with humans. What I
experienced with you, the pleasures of the flesh,
that was very wrong, forbidden. In fact, it was
considered by a council and I was found forgiven, as
I'd lost my wife and child, the grief having plagued
me these many years until now, until YOU."

"I'm sure Kent. I have nothing left in this world, and
I always wanted to help humanity. Maybe I can
better do it from that sphere, help influence
mankind even if it's through supernatural means,
something they want to believe in."

He was smiling as she watched him literally
evaporate in front of her eyes, and she marveled at
what might be ahead for her. Yes, there might be
moments of doubt until she actually crossed over,
but with Kent's strength and guidance, she felt sure
she would go willingly when the time arrived.

                         *  *  *  *  *  *

Once back on Cider Mountain, Helen and Kent
worked diligently to produce a perfect manuscript.
It was hard work, very few breaks, only to eat and
keep updated on the Gulf War. When that ended
with a cease-fire on February 28th, and she
witnessed the victorious USA military leaders, the
liberation of Kuwait, an exultant President Bush and
the relieved, proud returning soldiers in early March,
Helen asked Kent if it meant eventual peace in the
Middle East. He told her that was unable to be
known, but perhaps from the other side, they both
could work for that to happen someday.

He explained that one day scientist would conquer
the time/space factor, enter the other side -- and it
was hoped that by then mankind would have
overcome their primitive origins of aggressive
violence, learn better survival skills, peaceful means
of settling differences and disputes. If not, then
humans had the disturbing potential to destroy all
the peaceful grace by which the inhabitants of their
dimension lived. That was partially why death was a
necessity at this point: humans, able to become
immortal, would foster a hostile, chaotic pattern,
not unlike the current situation they seemed to
prefer.

Almost emphasizing this point, early April brought
news reports that in media-conducted surveys, most
Americans missed the war; they'd become addicted
to the daily excitement of danger, the sense of
euphoria created by winning constant battles, and
the bonding of people drawn together for a single
purpose. Helen listened, appalled it took war to rally
human closeness, worried that it would never be
possible to bring the whole of humanity to enjoy
peace and graceful acceptance of serene living, that
it was inherently human to desire conflict, danger
and violence.

During their discussions of the work, Helen asked if
there was a God? Kent couldn't answer, as he told
her those on the other side did not know. All he'd
been allowed to understand was that a possibility
existed of yet other simultaneous dimensions, none
of which could be entered by them except this one.
In fact, he explained patiently that a primary reason
humans were brought over was that the
insubstantial forms of those there could only
manifest here as a light, a smoky substance....until
they mastered the art of securing animals, then
humans into that sphere. Now, they'd gotten precise
enough to allow transformed humans to go and come
between the dimensions, so long as they did their
bidding. 

At this Helen exclaimed "You mean Leo?"

"Yes," he said, "Leo is from the other side. He comes
to keep watch, his vision transmitted to them so they
may be aware of certain activity here. And there is
much to learn, the archaic language still in use by
them, very inappropriate now. Also, sometimes their
attempts to plant mental suggestions in humans
doesn't work, instead causing madness, evil/negative
repercussions, or dire psychological consequences.
Maybe you will be able to help us, as you are clearly
intelligent and educated in modern methods of
psychology?"

She thought she understood some of the
unexplained mental illnesses now, even the horrible
destructiveness of schizophrenic delusions. Once the
other side managed contact, perhaps the human
misinterpreted the information. Yes, she told him,
she hoped to help the other side become familiar
with humans, and how they could be subtly
influenced for the betterment of all. 

Kent then confirmed that humans had misconstrued
contact from that dimension sometimes as aliens,
ghosts, supernatural aura, even mistakenly thinking
their long-dead loved ones were appearing to them,
when in fact the smoky substances, fleeting images
were only misinterpreted phenomenon.

When Helen probed about the origins of the other
side, if it had always existed alongside ours, or if it
had been developed at the time of human evolution,
Kent declined to provide answers, saying only that
such arcane knowledge was not permitted to be
discussed now, but that once she was part of the
other dimension, a council would educate her,
provide answers to all her inquiries.

By the end of April, Helen sent the manuscript to
the spiritual foundation in New York. Kent told her
they would be receptive to the work and locate a
publisher. She mailed it off from the nearest small
town post office, no return address...all proceeds
from sales to be contributed to various charities
throughout the world.

It was an early day in May when they went down
the wooded path to Whiskey Creek. Wildflowers
blossomed, the trees were budding with new life and
a wonderland unfolded as they walked, hand in hand,
to their destination. 

Once on the creekbank, Kent turned to her and
asked again, "Are you sure, Helen?"

She nodded, suddenly overwhelmed at what she was
about to do -- leave her only connection to this
world on earth. Would she regret it at some later
time? What if she arrived there, and found it
impossible to exist in such a realm without a physical
body, physical sensations?

Staring at Kent, she asked, "What if..." She pulled
away from him slightly, standing alone and staring
off into the woods.

He said softly, "I know you have doubts, but only by
being in our realm can you use all the incredible
knowledge and wisdom that will benefit others. It
IS a sacrifice in many ways, but there are wondrous
rewards."

Then as she looked toward the creek, watching the
bubbling, gurgling water reflecting sunlight, she saw
a misty vapor begin to materialize...as it wafted
upward, becoming brighter and brighter, she
suddenly felt the most intense warmth, welcoming
warmth and love...as if looking into infinity, getting a
glimpse of an all-embracing love and acceptance
that touched her heart, her soul...

Kent whispered, "Now is the time, take my hand and
we'll go together."

Helen put her hand in his, but found that she was
already moving toward the brilliant light, feeling
drawn to the mystical illumination of rapturous,
glowing warmth and love beckoning them to enter.

                  End Chapter Thirteen
^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^

News Article January 5, 2,000

Unsolved Mystery Almost Decade Old 

Helen March, author of the worldwide best-selling
book, "Between The Dark And Light" has not been
found since her mysterious disappearance in May
1991. Publishers are still seeking any leads in her
whereabouts. Sources at a New York spiritual
foundation told reporters March sent in her
manuscript to their organization, left no forwarding
address but enclosed a prepared legal contract for
all profits to be divided among charities worldwide.

Law enforcement officials from the small town in
Alabama where March had been staying at a
friend's isolated home, said the woman had
seemingly vanished into thin air. They had been
called in, according to a spokesman for the
Sheriff's Department, at the request of her former
editor at "The Realist" magazine, Jordan Porter.
When March failed to contact him, he went to his
home on Cider Mountain which he'd loaned to her
for seclusion to write.

Porter said there was no sign of March; her
belongings were there, her word processor and
rough drafts of the atheistic book she'd been
contracted to produce, but the woman was gone.
Additionally, Porter discovered photos March had
left behind. Several pictures showed a vaporous
smoky image of a male figure standing in Whiskey
Creek Valley. Lab technicians have been unable to
analyze the smoky substance, but local historians
commented the image resembled a long-ago resident
of Whiskey Creek, Kent McCord who perished in a
drowning at that creek around 1896.

After the phenomenal success of her book,
reporters questioned the residents of the small
town in Alabama about March's disappearance. One
shop owner, Jack Rodale, commented he'd sold her
a TV and talked with the woman. He indicated she
wanted to buy property near the mountain, but he
thought she, "was interested in haints and ghost
stories about Cider Mountain." When informed
March had been an avowed atheist, he said, "I just
figured her for a nosy writer, not a Communist. How
come she wrote that spiritual book then?"

That seemed to be the question of friends and
acquaintances of March. Everyone interviewed
agreed it was unlike her to have written a book with
such overwhelming spiritual significance, a book even
acclaimed by diversely opposed religions as bearing
profound truths, and a guide for mankind's ultimate
unity in peaceful solutions to differing theological
doctrines, as well as a rare blending of Eastern and
Western spiritual philosophy. Jordan Porter said,
"Helen was a wonderful woman, but from our last
conversation, I felt she had been having emotional
difficulties. Maybe not, but this work was definitely
not a product of her rational, skeptical thinking."

March's former husband, Curtis Mann, an esteemed
news anchor at CNN, said, "Helen had been under
tremendous strain. The last time I saw her was
during the Gulf War, and she had mentioned some
odd occurrences at Cider Mountain. It is my opinion
that someone was trying to run her off, or drive her
to a mental breakdown. As for the book, I don't
think Helen wrote it. Perhaps someone coerced her
into helping them write it, but the work itself is not
from the Helen I knew. In fact, I fear she may
have been abducted, murdered after her usefulness
as a writer had been exhausted."

A psychiatrist March had consulted, Dr. Harmon
Ansel, said, "Helen was obviously the victim of an
insidious psychosis and having read her book, it
seems to be the product of a delusional experience,
something she wrote while in an altered state of
consciousness. I'd never counseled her for anything
except grief after her parents death. The last
session I had with her, however, was due to an
apparent panic attack while she was alone on Cider
Mountain. I advised her to abandon the isolation,
come back to the city."

Worldwide UFO experts contributed their
interpretation, saying through a spokesperson that
March was obviously taken aboard an alien craft
and given the messages for her book.

Worldwide religious leaders unanimously declared
March the most profound example of a conversion
to God, her atheistic principles having failed her, and
the spiritual wisdom coming to her through Divine
intervention.

Many widely-known psychics have traveled to Cider
Mountain and they report that the region is alive
with paranormal phenomenon, perhaps the means
through which March received her inspiration for
the book. They refer to the peculiar hazy male
image in March's photos as conclusive proof.

Whatever the reason for March's book, it has been
hailed worldwide as prophetic and a lasting tribute
to the spiritual wisdom of a woman who perhaps no
one will ever be able to locate. Whether she is alive
and wants to remain anonymous, or a kidnap/murder
victim, or simply a profoundly gifted sage for the
new millennium remains for the readers of her book
to determine for themselves.

                                     —The End—

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