Richard Matheson - What Dreams May Come

To the Reader

AN INTRODUCTION TO a novel isalmost without exceptionunnecessary. This is my tenth published novel and the thought of writing introductions to any of the preceding nine never even occurred to me.

For this novel, however, I feel that a brief prologue is called for. Because its subject is survival after death, it is essential that you realize, before reading the story, that only one aspect of it is fictional: the characters and their relationships.

With few exceptions, every other detail is derived exclusively from research.

For that reason, I have added, at the conclusion of the novel, a list of the books used for this research. As you will see, they are many and diverse. Yet, despite their wide variation with regard to authors and times and places of publication, there is a persistent, unavoidable uniformity to their content.

You would, of course, have to read them all to prove this to yourself. I urge you to do so. You will find it an enlighteningand extraordinaryexperience.

RICHARD MATHESON Calabasas, California August 1977

For in that sleep of death what dreams may come, when we have shuffled off this mortal coil, Must give us pause.

Hamlet, Act III, Sc. 1

Introduction

THE MANUSCRIPT YOU are about to read came into my possession in the following way.

On the evening of February 17, 1976, our doorbell rang and my wife answered it. Several moments later, she returned to the bedroom where we were watching television and said that some woman wanted to see me.

I got up and walked to the front hall. The door was open and I saw a tall woman in her fifties standing on the porch. She was well dressed and holding a large, bulky envelope in her hands.

Are you Robert Nielsen? she asked.

I told her that I was and she held out the envelope. This is for you then, she said.

I looked at it suspiciously and inquired what it was.

A communication from your brother, she replied.

My suspicions increased. What do you mean? I asked.

Your brother Chris has dictated this manuscript to me, she said.

Her words angered me. I dont know who you are, I told her, but if you possessed the least knowledge about my brother, youd know that he died more than a year ago.

The woman sighed. I know that, Mr. Nielsen, she said, tiredly. Im a psychic. Your brother has communicated this material to me from

She stopped as I began to close the door, then quickly added, Mr. Nielsen, please.

There was a sound of such genuine urgency in her voice that I looked at her in surprise.

I have just undergone six exhausting months transcribing this manuscript, she told me. I didnt choose to do it. I have my own affairs to deal with but your brother would not let me be until I wrote down every word of his communication and promised faithfully to bring it to you. Her voice took on a desperate tone. Now you have got to take it and give me peace.

With that, she thrust the envelope into my hands, turned and hurried down the path to the sidewalk. As I watched, she got into her car and drove off quickly.

I have never seen or heard from her again. I do not even know her name.

I have read the manuscript three times now and wish I knew what to make of it.

I am not a religious man but, like anyone, would certainly like to believe that death is more than oblivion. Still, I find it difficult, if not impossible, to accept the story at face value. I keep thinking it is nothing more than that: a story.

True, the facts are there. Facts about my brother and his family which this woman could not possibly have known unless one goes on the premise that she spent months of laboriousand expensiveresearch in uncovering them before writing the manuscript. In that case, what is the point of it? What could she have gained from such a course?

The questions, in my mind, about this book are manifold. I will not enumerate them but permit the reader to form his own. Of only one thing I am certain. If the manuscript is true, all of us had better examine our lives. Carefully.

ROBERT NIELSEN Islip, New York January, 1978

A blur of rushing images

BEGIN AT THE beginning is the phrase. I cannot do that. I begin at the endthe conclusion of my life on earth. I present it to you as it happenedand what happened afterward.

A note about the text. You have read my writing, Robert. This account may seem unlike it. The reasonI am limited by my transcriber. My thoughts must travel through her mind. I cannot surmount that. All the grains will not pass through the filter. Understand if I appear to oversimplify. Especially at first.

Both of us are doing the best we can.

Thank God I was alone that night. Usually, Ian went to the movies with me. Twice a weekbecause of my work, you know.

That night he didnt go. He was appearing in a school play. Once againthank God.

I went to a theatre near a shopping center. Cannot get the name through. A big one which had been divided into two. Ask Ian for the name.

It was after eleven when I left the theatre. I got in my car and drove toward the golf course. The tiny onefor children. Cannot get the word through. All right. Spell it. Slowly now. M-i-n i-a t-u r-e. Good. We have it.

There was traffic on thestreet? No, wider. Av e-nue? Not exact but good enough. I thought there was an opening and pulled out. Had to stop, a car was speeding toward me. There was room for it to move around me but it didnt. Hit my left front fender, sent me spinning.

I was shaken but had on my belt. Not belt. H-a-r-n-ess. I would not have been too badly injured. But a van came up and hit the right rear fender of my car, knocking me across the middle line. A truck was coming in the opposite direction. Hit my car straight on. I heard a grinding crash, the shattering of glass. I hit my head and blackness swept across me. For an instant, I believed I saw myself unconscious, bleeding. Then came darkness.

I was conscious again. The pain was dreadful. I could hear my breathing, an awful sound. Slow and shallow with sporadic, liquid sighs. My feet were icy cold. I remember that.

Gradually, I sensed a room around me. People too, I think. Something kept me from being sure. Sidayshin. No, re-do. Spell slowly. S-e-d-a-t sedation.

I began to hear a whispering voice. I couldnt make out the words. Briefly, I could see a form nearby. My eyes were closed but I saw it. I couldnt tell if the form was male or female but I knew that it was speaking to me. When I couldnt hear the words, it went away.

Another pain began, this one in my mind, increasing steadily. I seemed to tune it in as though it were a radio station. It was not my pain but Anns. She was crying, frightened. Because I was hurt. She was afraid for me. I felt her anguish. She was suffering terribly. I tried to will away the shadows but I couldnt. Tried in vain to speak her name. Dont cry, I thought. Ill be all right. Dont be afraid. I love you, Ann. Where are you?

That instant, I was home. It was Sunday evening. All of us were in the family room, talking and laughing. Ann was next to me, Ian beside her. Richard next to Ian, Marie on the other end of the sofa. I had my arm around Ann, she was cuddled against me. She was warm and I kissed her cheek. We smiled at each other. It was Sunday evening, peaceful and idyllic, all of us together.

I felt myself begin to rise from darkness. I was lying on a bed. The pain was back again, all through me. I had never known such pain before I knew that I was slipping. Yes, the word is slipping.

Now I heard a ghastly sound. A rattling in my throat. I prayed that Ann and the children were not around to hear it. It would terrify them. I asked God not to let them hear that horrible noise, protect them from that horrible noise.

The thought came to my mind then: Chris, youre dying. I strained to draw in breath but fluids in my windpipe kept the air from passing through. I felt thick and sluggish, trapped in density.