The Reincarnation of Peter Proud (11 page)

“My God,” Peter said softly. “That’s—frightening.”

“I know,” said Bentley dryly. “It’s an interesting scenario. But don’t count on it. We ran out of miracles long ago, and I don’t think anything’s changed. But if you agree, I’d definitely like to try it. And if it doesn’t work, we’ll try to attack your problem through suggestion hypnosis. That means that I’ll try to get rid of the hallucinations through suggestion—exorcise them, so to speak. Well, what do you say?”

“I’ll try anything at this point.”

“All right. Suppose you be in my office tomorrow morning at ten o’clock.”

When the door closed, Hall Bentley leaned back in his chair and shut his eyes.

It was enough to stagger the imagination.

Listening to Proud’s story, he had at first been incredulous, then shaken. He had fought to stay cool, to present only his professional face to Proud. He didn’t want his patient even to sense the excitement churning around inside of him; it might upset him. Any effective use of the trance itself was contingent on the trust and confidence the patient had in the hypnotherapist; without it, there would be resistance to the induction of the trance itself. Further, the hypnotized subject was very sensitive to everything in his immediate environment, especially the emotional configuration of the hypnotherapist.

He canceled all his appointments for the rest of the day. And that night he was unable to sleep.

The next morning, Bentley saw that Peter was tight, tense.

“What do I do first?”

“The first thing you do is try to relax.”

“That’s pretty hard to do. I’ve got a lot riding on this.”

“The idea of hypnosis bother you?”

“I guess it does, a little,”

“No reason for it. If you respond, you’ll find the whole experience quite pleasant. Now, suppose we get started. That is, if you feel ready to begin …”

“As ready as I’ll ever be.”

“All right, Pete,” he said, slipping into the first name casually and easily. “Take off your shoes and loosen your tie. Lie down on the couch and put your head back on those pillows. Let your body go slack. Take a few deep breaths …”

Then he spoke into the tape recorder.

“This is Wednesday morning. The date is February sixth, 1974. The hypnotist is Dr. Hall Bentley. The place is my office on Rodeo Drive, Beverly Hills, California. The subject is Dr. Peter Proud, age twenty-seven, a professor at the University of California, Los Angeles. I have never hypnotized or regressed this patient before.”

He clicked off the mike. Then he went to the windows and closed the blinds. He walked back to his desk and turned on a small desk lamp. Then he sat down in one of the easy chairs, lit a cigarette, and looked at Peter.

“Still uptight?”

“Yes.”

“Take it easy. Just lie there. Try to empty your mind of everything. Take a few more deep breaths.”

There was silence for a while. Bentley sat in the chair as motionless as a Buddha, watching him. The clock on the shelf, next to the sailing trophies, ticked away the seconds. Peter felt his muscles loosen a little. He began to get a little drowsy.

Bentley reached into his pocket and took out a flat gold disc about the size of a half dollar suspended on a thin chain. He held the disc up to the lamp. It glittered in the light.

“Now, I want you to take ten deep breaths. In and out, in and out, slowly. Deep, deep. Now fasten your eyes on this disc. Keep looking at it. That’s it. Relax, relax …”

His voice was soothing, tranquilizing. He started to revolve the disc on the chain. Peter continued to stare at the spinning disc. Bentley’s face faded. So did the rest of the room. He saw nothing now but the glittering gold disc.

“Now close your eyes. Listen to my voice. I am going to count to ten. At ten you will be fully relaxed.”

Bentley began the count in a slow beat. It seemed to Peter that his voice was receding. It sounded disembodied, far away.

“Your arms and legs are getting heavy. Your whole body feels as though it were sinking down in the couch. You are alone now. You hear my voice, but it comes from a distance. I am going to count to ten again. When I reach ten, you will float out into the distance. Far from where you are now. It will be a pleasant place, but far away. And you will always hear my voice.”

Bentley’s voice slowly counted to ten. It seemed to move even farther away. But he could still hear it distinctly. It didn’t seem to belong to anyone in particular. It was just a voice.

“You can still hear everything I say. Now listen to me. You are free, and you are floating away. You are alone, You are happy, relaxed and alone. There are no more problems. Do you still hear my voice?”

“I hear you.”

“You cannot open your eyes. Try to open your eyes.” The voice was calm. It was serene, soothing. He did not even try to open his eyes. He did not want to.

“You are asleep now. You will not awaken till I wake you. And you will answer all my questions without waking. Do you understand?”

“I understand.”

Suddenly the faraway voice seemed close in his ear.

“All right. You can open your eyes. You will awaken now.”

He opened his eyes. Hall Bentley was sitting in the same chair, watching Peter as before. But now he was in his shirtsleeves. The ashtray next to him was full of butts.

“How do you feel?”

Peter stretched. He was deliciously relaxed. “I feel great. It’s all over?”

“Yes.”

“How did I do?”

“I’ll say this much, You were a good subject. Very responsive. At least to hypnosis.”

“What happened? What did I say?”

Bentley did not answer at once. His face was expressionless. He went to the window and opened the blinds. The sunlight came flooding in. Peter blinked in its glare. He lay back on the couch limply. He felt marvelously rested, as though he had slept around the clock.

“Well? What did I say?”

“You might as well hear it from the tape. Verbatim.”

Bentley turned on the tape recorder. First, the parapsychologist’s voice asked Peter a few routine questions. His name, address, age. His interests outside of teaching. Then, suddenly:

“Now, Pete, you are still asleep. Deep asleep. Now we are going to turn back. We are going to move back through time. And through
space. When I speak to you next, you will be eight years old. You will be eight years old, and you will be able to answer my questions. Now you are eight years old. You go to school now, don’t you?”

“Yes.”

“What school?”

“Larkin School.”

“Who sits in front of you?”

“A girl. A girl with black hair.”

“What is her name?”

“Elizabeth.”

“Elizabeth what?”

“Rhodes.”

“And who sits next to you?”

“A boy.”

“His name?”

“Ernie. Ernest Harris.”

“Who is your teacher?”

“Miss Ellis.”

“What does she look like?”

“Red hair. Fat. And she has a wart on her cheek.”

“What is your favorite subject?”

“Indians.”

“You like to study Indians?”

“Yes.”

Peter listened to the tape, startled—not only because he was able to remember these long-forgotten details, but because his voice had changed. It was that of an eight-year-old boy—high, a little squeaky. He shivered a little.

The tape went on.

“Now, Pete, when did you first learn to play tennis?”

“When I was seven.”

“We are going back, Pete. When I talk to you next, you will be a year younger. You will be seven. You understand?”

“Yes.”

“Now you are seven.”

“Yes.”

“How are you learning to play tennis?”

“I take lessons.”

“Who is giving you lessons?”

“A tennis instructor.”

“What is his name?”

“Corrigan. Mr. Corrigan.”

“Do you play well?”

“Very well.”

“How well?”

“The tennis instructor was surprised. He said he couldn’t believe it.”

“Did he say anything else?”

“He said it was—uh—there was a word he used.”

“What was the word?”

“Incredible.”

“You mean, he was surprised at how well you learned?”

“Yes.”

“Whom did he say this word to?”

“My father.”

“Can you tell me what else he told your father?”

“He told my father that my form was terrific. He asked my father whether I had ever played before.”

“And what did your father say?”

“He said no, it was my first time.”

“And then what did Mr. Corrigan say?”

“Well, he shook his head. He used this word—incredible. He said I must have been born with a tennis racket in my hand.”

“He said that? Those were his exact words?”

“Yes.”

Pete glanced at Bentley. He had no memory of this conversation. He remembered Corrigan only vaguely. The tape went on:

“Now you are six. Do you understand? You are six years old now.”

“Yes,”

“Do you remember your friends?”

“Yes.”

“What are their names?”

“Joe Morris. He has freckles and blue eyes. Steve Marks. He’s dark and kind of fat. Ollie Peters. He’s the biggest, and can run the fastest. Jimmy Drummond. He’s Scotch.”

“What kind of games do you play?”

“All kinds.”

“Is there one you like best?”

“Yes.”

“Which one is that?”

“Cowboys and Indians.”

“Where do you play that?”

“Around where I live. Pacific Palisades. Thirty-two Vista Street.”

“Which do you play—cowboy or Indian?”

“I always play the Indian.”

“Why?”

“I like it. I like being an Indian. All my friends want to be cowboys.”

“Are you any particular kind of Indian?”

“Yes.”

“What kind?”

“A Seneca.”

“You know about Senecas?”

“I know a lot of tribes. But when I’m an Indian, I’m always a Seneca.”

Peter sat frozen, listening. God, it was weird. He had forgotten about these kids years ago. About the games they played, and their names. He wouldn’t have remembered them in a million years. But there they were, coming out of his mouth now. In a six-year-old voice.

The tape went on:

“Now, rest and relax for a little while. I will not ask you any questions for a while. But I want you to go back by yourself now. You are going back into time and space. Now you are five years old. You are five years old. Think about the time you are five years old. Think about some scene then. Think about something that happened to you then.” A pause. And then: “Now you are four. You are four years old. Think about something that happened to you then. You don’t have to tell me about it; just think about it. Now, go back a little more. Turn back, turn back. See yourself when you were three years old. You are three years old now. What do you see when you were three years old?”

The voice was babyish.

“I have a puppy dog.”

“A real puppy dog?”

“No. It’s a toy.”

“What does it look like?”

“It’s black. And it has a bushy tail. And little red eyes. And a white collar.”

“What is its name?”

“Blackie.”

“Where are you now?”

“In a car with my father and mother. I’m holding Blackie. We’re riding in the car.”

“And then what?”

“I lean out the window. And Blackie falls out of the car and on the road. And then another car runs over it.”

“What do you do?”

“I cry.”

“Now you are two years old. Two years old. See yourself as two years old. Now, go back further. You are one year old. One year old. Think of something that happened when you were one year old. Think about it a little while. All right. Now, keep going back and back and back in your mind. Go back to when you were born.”

No answer. And Bentley’s voice again:

“Think. Go back to the day you were born. What do you feel?”

“I am very tiny. I am curled up. In a dark place. I cannot see …”

Suddenly Bentley stopped the tape. He showed Peter a photograph.

“Look this picture of you with a Polaroid. Thought you might find it interesting.”

Bentley had apparently opened the blinds in order to get enough light to take the picture. It was very clear. Peter was curled up on the couch in the posture of a fetus.

Then the parapsychologist turned on the tape recorder again. And Bentley’s voice:

“Do you hear anything?”

“I hear a noise inside of me. Something beating. My heart. And I hear another noise. The same beating sound. Outside of me.”

“Your mother’s heart?”

“Yes.”

“And then what?”

The squeaky little voice suddenly became filled with terror.

“Something is gripping my head. Cold. Hard. Squeezing. It starts to pull me out of the dark, warm place. Everything hurts me. I like the dark, warm place. I don’t want to leave it. I keep moving forward. It’s hard to breathe. Then I come out head first. Something lifts me up, holds me by the legs. I hurt all over. I start to cry. There’s something around my neck. I begin to choke. I can’t breathe. Then they take it away….”

Peter listened, amazed. Suddenly he remembered a conversation his mother had had long ago with friends. He had been only a child then. They had been talking about someone’s pregnancy, and his mother had remarked that Peter had been a forceps baby and had been almost strangled by the cord which had become caught around his neck.

Then Bentley’s voice came in. It was still calm. There was no feeling or urgency in it.

“Now you’re going to go further back. You’re going back, back, back.
Before
you were in that dark, warm place. Yes, you can do it. You can go back, back, further back. Look into your memory. It is before this life you are about to begin. Look back into some other lifetime, some other time, some other place. You will remember certain things, things that happened. You will be able to tell me about them. Think now. Long ago. What do you see?”

There was a long silence. Suddenly, a voice:

“A lake. I see a lake.”

Peter almost jumped from his chair. Now he heard the voice of X. The transition was startling.