The Truthseekers

By Jann Jansen

Kaitlyn Hilson and Paul Stedding are a modern couple engaged and deeply in love, two normal individuals with goals and happy lives, until an invisible window between this world and another is left mysteriously, unintentionally ajar and their nemesis from many incarnations returns in spirit, driven as always to lure Paul back into her control and destroy Kaitlyn forever.

The spirit of Marguerite de Valois, third daughter of Catherine de Medici. the Queen of France, has had an obsession with Paul which has never subsided, but has become stronger through each incarnation. Her jealousy and hatred for Kaitlyn has driven her every thought and desire to destroy, becoming the chief focus of her existence throughout time.

As the accidental opening has appeared between realms while she has waited and watched - whether it was due to Fates capriciousness or miscalculation Marguerites spirit slips through into an unfamiliar existence where she is fearless in exploring, occupying and wrecking havoc wherever she can, even when it comes to murder.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Jul 20, 2015
• ISBN: 9781491772003

Jann Jansen

Jann Jansen has been a professor of English at Diablo Valley College in Northern California since 1975. She has a Bachelors Degree in creative writing and two Masters Degrees in literature and psychology. Currently, she has published non-fiction books and many newspaper articles. THE TRUTHSEEKERS is her first novel. Jann Jansen had five children with her first marriage and three adopted children with a subsequent marriage. She is a self-proclaimed lover of all animals, having once operated a small dog shelter. She now lives alone with seven dogs, three cats and a pet dove.

Book preview

The

TRUTHSEEKERS

I’ve seen the light

And I’ve seen the flame,

And I’ve been this way before.

And I’m sure to be this way again.

From Longfellow Serenade, By Neil Diamond

JANN JANSEN

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THE TRUTHSEEKERS

Copyright © 2015 Jann Jansen.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

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Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

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ISBN: 978-1-4917-7199-0 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4917-7201-0 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4917-7200-3 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2015910799

iUniverse rev. date: 07/17/2015

Contents

Prologue

Chapter 1 Paul’s Condo

Chapter 2 Declared Conflict

Chapter 3 Nightmares

Chapter 4 The Truthseekers

Chapter 5 Family and ‘Something’s Wrong….’

Chapter 6 The Séance and Russ

Chapter 7 The Lucy Nightmare and Postponement

Chapter 8 Winston and a First Meeting

Chapter 9 Identification of Relationships

Chapter 10 Tantalus !!

Chapter 11 Dialogue with Evil

Chapter 12 Christina’s Story

Chapter 13 Paris & Chenonceau

Chapter 14 The Parting

Chapter 15 Houseguests

Chapter 16 Lusitania

Chapter 17 Migraines

Chapter 18 Shared Affliction & Gwyneth

Chapter 19 The Fall

Chapter 20 Dialogue with a Ghost

Chapter 21 A Puzzle and Peace

Chapter 22 From Kaitlyn’s Perspective

Chapter 23 Threat

Chapter 24 Research & Identifications

Chapter 25 Finally Comparing Notes

Chapter 26 A Burning

Chapter 27 Proof of Power

Chapter 28 Parallel Dreams

Chapter 29 Proposed Solution & Foreshadowing

Chapter 30 Antoine Gets in the Way

Chapter 31 The Unforgiveable

Chapter 32 Dream Number Five

Chapter 33 Kaitlyn’s Other Option

Chapter 34 Goodbye and Discovery

Chapter 35 Margot’s Prophesy Fulfilled

Chapter 36 Another Beginning

Prologue

Its fingers are not exactly fingers, but thin, shimmering, twisting blades that operate like fingers. Flexible, they slither like silver snakes or purposeful tentacles, struggling and fumbling with a thick, black veil.

They finally part the veil to reveal a small, opaque, sliding window between our worlds, surprisingly unsecured. They awkwardly drag the window open sideways, and then protrude, as if testing or exploring the air of our parallel world.

From the other side, there are sounds resembling conversation that could be discernable only to a few living humans, while on this side of the window and veil, people’s conversations might sound muffled, slower paced.

The two spheres contrast as our world appears grey, dull and one-dimensional, while on the other side, generally seen only by those who are dying or dead, everything is blindingly bright, iridescent, and speech is many times faster, tinny and high pitched to the ear; speech has the same quality as heard from an old transistor radio.

Although the wriggling, twisting blades connect to something unidentifiable, shrouded in greenish vapor, an almost human sound of pleasure is emitted, like a congratulatory sigh as the veil is held aside and the opaque barrier remains open.

Sitting on the roof’s storm drain, a small rat frenetically cleans its whiskers and then suddenly stops, listening, looking upwards. Its small black eyes shine in the new glow emanating from the parted veil above it.

Now the rat remains motionless except for twitching whiskers as the shaking finger-blade reaches for it, almost curiously. With one exploring poke from the blade, the rat explodes into quivering pieces of fur, bone fragments and splattered blood.

Another human-like sound resembling laughter fills the vaporous air as rat pieces flutter noiselessly, leaf-like into the back seat of the BMW convertible parked below.

Unseen by human eyes above the rooftop, the window snaps shut and the veil is drawn, but too late.

Antoine DuVaul, a former Duke University professor and Empath, psychically gifted, sits reading a book in the Toyota next to the BMW. He waits for his wife Frances, who is shopping in the pharmacy.

He quickly slaps the book shut and stares straight ahead, as though he has heard something. He begins to tremble convulsively. Dear God. Something….something important has just occurred. Something terribly evil has just been released, and I don’t know what it is, he says aloud.

Revenge.

Most of us fantasize at some time about how we might get even with a person who has offended us or caused us harm, but wise counsel would advise us to err on the side of inaction.

In a world largely devoid of protective laws, violent revenge during the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries in Europe was not frowned upon, no matter if its perpetrator was unjust. Laws were individually defined, lenient towards the one who sought revenge for some injustice; the greater the offense, revenge often provided pleasure and entertainment for those capable or cunning enough to carry it out as well as for any witnesses.

Getting revenge was inextricably intertwined with personal pride, duty, justice and responsibility to oneself or family. Exacting revenge was expected when facing either real or imagined inequities in life.

The social tapestry of the period throughout Europe at the end of the Middle Ages was often fraught with gruesome violence, torture and chaos. If the one punished in the name of revenge was later discovered innocent, even if that person was murdered, only his friends or family made any outcry; often both his accusers and any governing officials regarded his innocence and fate with total indifference.

People were conditioned to regard violence as acceptable entertainment. Pools of blood on a public thoroughfare rarely would be regarded with much interest. Mild curiosity might make a child pause, but that was all. By the time that child was a teenager, an environment of brawling and bloodshed was commonplace and he was as accustomed to it as he was accustomed to his daily chores.

A shrill, tortured scream in the middle of the night was no more distracting than the chiming of the town clock in the square, unless it was the screaming of one’s wife, daughter or sister.

Even a dismembered body dragged in the dust behind a galloping horse probably would draw little notice. Such was the climate of acceptance in those times.

Marguerite de Valois, (nicknamed Margot) born May 14, 1553, was the disinherited daughter of Catherine de Medici, Queen of France. She was Queen Catherine’s third daughter, stunningly beautiful, an articulate writer and poet as well as one of the most fashionable women of her time. She was a patron of the arts, talented, quick-witted with a sharp intelligence. When married, she became Marguerite de Navarre.

Margot also had the reputation for being one of the most scandalous, promiscuous women of the court and one of the most vindictive and bloodthirsty as well. It was rumored that she actually drooled with excitement and concentration while witnessing the torture of those who displeased her.

As her queen mother dependently relied upon the predictions and advice of her personal astrologer Nostradamus, Margot dismissed him as an idiot, especially when she learned that he had warned Catherine against Margot’s potential for treachery.

Just as the lower jaw of a housebound cat quivers while–in frustration or anticipation–it watches a bird outside through an indoor window, Margot’s jaws would tremble and her teeth could be heard to chatter in excitement when listening to the tortured screams of those she condemned, or especially while watching some offending lover undergo genital mutilation or limb amputations.

Margot, her identity ineffectively concealed in black veils, paid regular visits to the dungeons where prisoners were tortured, and even the torturers and executioners were unnerved to see her lick her lips rapidly when blood flowed. She seemed captivated by the bloodiest spectacles, the most bizarre, the most grotesque, and the most aberrant.

She often demanded to drive the drills through a man’s hands herself. She salivated when taking the torturer’s prongs away to castrate her victims slowly, herself. Margot’s fascination with death and torture was widely known and joked about throughout France.

She initiated most of her sexual encounters, as potential partners feared her reputation for being easily angered if rebuffed. She seduced those men into her bed knowing they would never dare to refuse her.

Margot was lustful, indiscriminate in her sexual adventuring and yet jealously possessive of the men she bedded. Only her jealousy surpassed her lustful cravings; Margot often punished those she cast off if they later became involved with other ladies of the court. Her sexual appetite didn’t exclude her own brothers, either.

Joseph Boniface de La Môle was a French nobleman and one of Margot’s Provençal lovers shortly after her arranged marriage to Henry of Navarre, the future king of France. La Môle served François, Duke of Anjou and Alençon, Marguerite’s brother and youngest son of King Henry II of France and Catherine de’ Medici.

La Môle was accused of making an attempt on the king’s life when a wax figurine pricked with needles, which he had obtained from the astrologer Cosimo Ruggieri, was found in his possession.

After being subjected to questioning and torture, allegedly at Margot’s direction, he was condemned to death. He was quartered and beheaded at the Place de Grève in Paris with his co-conspirator, Annibal de Coconnas.

Despite her part in his torture and murder, historical rumor has it that Marguerite embalmed La Môle’s head and kept it in a jeweled casket in her boudoir.

She was known to be obsessive and driven, paranoid that anyone might take advantage of her. Therefore, no one ever opposed Marguerite de Valois and survived unharmed to tell about it.

Margot despised her husband, Henri de Navarre, having been forced into the marriage by her Queen mother. During a time when men dominated their women, having his Catholic wife reject him was humiliating, but Margot was granted an annulment from Henri, something only an extremely powerful Catholic woman could have achieved so easily in the sixteenth century.

However, after a short time, Henri probably greeted the annulment with relief. Everyone feared the shrewd, easily angered Margot, who always acquired whatever she wanted and was proud of this reputation.

Of all the men she reputedly took as lovers, there was only one–also named Henri like her father and husband–whom she truly loved. Henri, son of the Duke of Guise, had feelings for Margot that were not so clear, however. He most certainly was attracted to her beauty and was initially drawn to the woman’s energy as an independent free spirit, who one day would be queen, but most likely he feared her as well.

When Queen Catherine insisted that no one from the House of Guise would ever marry her daughter and control France, upon learning of Margot’s tryst with Henri de Guise, she and her husband dragged Margot from her bed and beat her viciously more than once, ripping her night clothes and pulling out chunks of her hair.

Margot took these beatings with clenched teeth and silence, while Henri quickly moved on to another woman. Queen Catherine had her own reputation, which instilled fear in her subjects, and he wouldn’t defy her. She respected her husband the king, but she wielded the power.

Margot’s rage towards Henri following his rejection of her didn’t spare her mother, either, and she was relentless in stalking and threatening Henri de Guise when she wasn’t attempting to woo him back to her.

Margot was cursed to love him obsessively, although Henri continued to reject her, as he had found another woman whom he knew was better suited to him.

Secretly, for years unknown to Catherine or Margot, there was another woman behind the scenes with whom Henri had the most enduring romantic relationship. She was Christina de Lorraine. He became as obsessed with Christina as Margot was obsessed with him. His romance, as often is the case, eventually became overt and the subject of court gossip, while Margot fumed and raged.

She turned her frustration, jealousy and fury against the younger woman, determined to have her tortured and killed because Henri seemed truly in love this time. Margot’s plots were always devious and crafty, and Christina found herself in constant danger.

As Margot sought to destroy her rival, even to hiring potential assassins who were unsuccessful, she also failed to win Henri back. But Margot possessed her mother’s cunning and tenacity. She never learned to accept failure regarding anything she went after.

Her spirit remained driven to possess Henri, be it with sexual seduction, intimidation or any other means possible, lifetime after lifetime.

Then finally, after many incarnations of failure throughout four hundred and thirty-eight years following their first encounter, Margot’s spirit found a way in the twenty-first century to reach both Henri and Christina, placing them at a disadvantage. But it was when Margot’s spirit existence and Henri’s and Christina’s earthly lives were not in phase.

It was when the invisible veil between this world and the next one was left mysteriously, unintentionally detached, exposing the unlocked opaque window between that Astral World and ours, that Margot returned in spirit, driven as always to lure Henri back into her control and destroy Christina forever.

Margot’s obsession with Henri never had subsided, but became stronger through each incarnation. Her hatred for Christina had driven her every thought and desire to destroy, becoming the chief focus of her existence throughout each lifetime and each spirit phase.

As the accidental opening was created between realms while Margot waited and watched–whether it was due to Fate’s capriciousness or miscalculation–Margot’s spirit slipped through into an unfamiliar existence where she was fearless in exploring, occupying and wrecking havoc however she could.

At the Neil Simpson riding stables on Morgan Territory Road in Clayton, California, Neil’s fourteen year-old son Joshua and another ranch worker were stacking bales of hay near one of the barns. Something moving about twenty feet away caught Joshua’s attention.

Hey, Carlos, was that a snake? Joshua approached the barn’s entrance to investigate as Carlos paused.

Hell, I could swear I saw a silver snake moving along the …..but if it was, it’s vanished inside. Then he threw down his gloves and stumbled backwards. Holy Jesus! What’s this?

Carlos slowly walked over to where Joshua stood, staring at a two-foot high pile of bloody fur, bones and rat heads of different sizes.

That ain’t no work of an owl, Carlos said solemnly as he poked at the pile with a stick. Looks like they just … blew up or somethin’.

In the residential area of Mitchell Canyon Road in Clayton, the Pierson’s Siamese cat was alerted to a rustling in the Oleander bush by the gate. It stared as something shiny slithered through the dry leaves at the base of the bush. The rustling of the moving leaves made the curious cat get up and slowly approach the bush to investigate. He sniffed, moving closer.

With the sudden flash like a mirror reflecting the sun, the cat sprang in the air, descending in fragments of bloody fur and bone shards. Nearby, the unaware gardener trimming the hedge with shears stopped, puzzled over the sounds of … was it laughter?

Allison Redding’s mother asked her to collect the eggs from the hen house before Allison left for school. As she reached for the door handle to the coop, Allison noted that the ground was wet and dark next to the door. It looked like blood, and now there were dark red splotches that had rubbed on to her new white tennis shoes.

When she walked inside, the entire hen house was white with feathers and the stacked, plucked, bloody carcasses of chickens. Not one of the dozen chickens remained alive, as all of their necks were wrung. Smashed shells and slimy eggs with their dripping, yellow yokes adorned the walls and double wire surrounding the enclosures.

Someone enjoyed what he was doin’, Allison’s father observed later.

Chapter One

Paul’s Condo

Two hours before dawn it moved slowly through the darkened room, a pulsating bluish light drifting towards the bed where Paul restlessly slept. It passed over him almost caressingly as he tossed from side to side, lingering now on his face, then moving down above the covers over his stomach toward his groin. In his dream Paul saw this light, which seemed to lead him into his dream and then disappear.

In the dream he found himself standing in what appeared to be a large French boudoir. Across the room, he recognized himself–like another Paul–standing naked beside a canopied bed. The other Paul looked quite different, but he knew it was himself whom he observed.

A dark haired woman knelt before him, supporting herself with her hands on the floor. The couple was oblivious to him as if he were invisible.

Paul The Observer watched them from the shadows near the doorway feeling mildly uncomfortable, yet he couldn’t turn away. He coughed loudly, but they didn’t hear him or acknowledge his presence.

Suddenly, the Paul standing beside the bed shuddered and threw his head back, then half sat as he collapsed backwards on the bed while the woman crawled onto the bed beside him, also naked. She snuggled against him, smiling.

I still have the power, Henri, she laughed. She spoke in French, but somehow Paul The Observer understood the language.

Yes, that you do! he replied, also in French.

I always will, Henri my love, she said smugly.

It was a curious thing to say, Paul thought, yet as a voyeur he accepted it and felt nothing at all. He didn’t wonder why she called his other self Henri or why he looked so different. Paul marveled for a moment over his own detachment and acceptance of the disparities.

He simply saw the image of himself with a woman whom he believed he recognized, yet couldn’t identify. He’d felt no emotion whatsoever while he observed them engaged in sex. It was an empty, detached feeling as he watched, although slightly disturbing only because he was so objective. He didn’t question anything. He just was.

Paul assured himself that it wasn’t unusual to dream about himself or other people he knew if no one in his dream bore any resemblance in behavior or appearance to themself in real life.

Jarred awake by his ringing cellphone, Paul clumsily reached for it and shook his head as if to dispel his dream while answering.

Paul?

Y-yes. I was just in a deep sleep when you called, Honey.

I’m sorry. Kaitlyn’s tone indicated she detected something amiss. Are you okay?

Sure, it’s….all right. I just overslept.

Well, do you have time for breakfast before your class?

Yes … wait a minute … yes, I think so. What time is it?

Almost 9:30.

Oops … no, I have a 10:30 appointment with Wilcox to review my graduate thesis. How about lunch instead?

My own faculty meeting’s at noon. That’s okay. We can get together tonight. After your seminar.

Shit. I miss you already, Kaity.

Well, that’s what I want to hear, especially since I was over there until after 1:00, she laughed.

Was it that late? That just goes to show how fast time passes when we’re together. Okay, I get home about 6:00 tonight, Kaity. This is a seminar I can’t afford to miss. Three units of entertainment.

He showered and dressed in record time, grabbed a bagel and began the ritualistic search for his cell phone, wallet and keys, swearing to himself that some day he would keep them all in one place.

Paul Stedding’s light and airy condo in Walnut Creek, California had a large skylight in the living room and one in his bedroom. The second bedroom, much smaller than the first, was Paul’s office, although his T.V. and stereo system took up half the room. The living-room area joined a small kitchenette with all the basics, a small wet bar and a counter with four stools on the living room side.

Paul’s décor was simple with the walls mostly bare. In fact, any visitor might think he had just moved in without completely unpacking. Books remained stacked in one corner; in two years’ time they had not moved and were rarely dusted.

Kaitlyn had given him a Philodendron for his twenty-sixth birthday the previous year, but if she hadn’t committed herself to watering it, the struggling plant would have died soon after. It survived in a plastic pot by the window next to the couch.

As he dashed out the door, leaving it ajar just long enough to grab his keys, he didn’t notice the wriggling silver blades that slithered out of his condo and coiled behind the empty planter. Paul ritualistically locked the door from the outside.

He arrived home earlier than he had anticipated, around 4:30pm. He hadn’t eaten all day, so he fixed himself a peanut butter and jam sandwich, devoured it in three bites, then considered for a moment and made two more and poured himself a second tall glass of milk.

Always punctual, Kaitlyn parked her blue Honda Civic in his visitor’s stall and was at his door at 6:00pm sharp.

I was hoping a tall, gorgeous, red-haired woman would be standing outside my door, and here she is! Paul said as he opened the door for Kaitlyn, whose arms were full.

Thanks, Hon. I couldn’t reach my key. And I was hoping I’d be met by a very tall, dark and handsome guy with the bluest eyes I’ve ever seen. She kissed him.

She carried two bags containing white Styrofoam containers of Indian food from a nearby restaurant. Paul looked at the containers and didn’t have the courage to tell her he had just polished off three sandwiches.

Okay, now. She began taking containers out of the large bags. I hope you’re hungry, ’cause I brought Curry Chicken, Chicken Tandoori, Lamb Rogan, Vegetable Pakora and … of course … Naan.

How did that lamb get in there with all those chickens? Not too spicy, I hope? Paul tried to sound enthusiastic. Smells great.

While Kaitlyn lit candles so they could eat by candlelight and began serving them, Paul motioned to give him less.

I love my new class, Renaissance history. Great, serious-minded students, I think. Kaitlyn seemed full of chatter tonight.

Paul nodded and smiled.

Aren’t you hungry, or is this too spicy? she asked.

Not starving.

Dan Garibian in the Registrar’s office just noticed my diamond today for the first time. I told him he needed to be more observant of a woman’s left hand.

Good. Maybe now he’ll stop hitting on you.

Paul! He doesn’t hit on me, not ever.

He asked you out recently. Paul smiled again, patting Kaitlyn’s hand. I hope you told him we’re getting married in the spring.

As a matter of fact, I did. I told him I’d be moving in here right after you get your PhD at Berkeley and get a full time job. His only comment was that a four year scholarship plus two grants tends to spoil a person.

It sounds like he’s jealous, although I do wish you’d move in sooner. It seems like a long time to wait just because of a half hour ceremony. But you already know how I feel.

He squeezed her hand.

Changing the subject, how was your seminar on things that go bump in the night? she asked, pouring herself a glass of ice water.

Quite interesting. I like the professor, Antoine DuVaul.

What’s his background? Do you know?

He recently taught at Duke University. Parapsychology, in fact.

Parapsychology? You’re kidding. They have courses on that stuff?

They apparently have a whole department in that field. Paul just picked at the food. Without saying anything, Kaitlyn watched, aware of his disinterest in eating.

You mean, you could actually major in that nonsense? she asked.

Hmm, there’s more than a twinge of sarcasm there, Ms. Hilson.

A twinge? My sarcasm always has more than a twinge, she said.

You smile when you say that! Look, Honey, while I’m risking that you’ll give me a bad time about this, Professor DuVaul’s starting up a group called the Truthseekers and I want to check it out. They study the occult and I’d like to drop by when they have their first meeting. So bear with me, okay?

What does ‘bear with me’ mean? She folded her arms in mock defiance.

Don’t make fun of me? Or the group? I’d like to feel okay talking about it with you. I’m just curious. That’s all.

Kaitlyn smiled and patted his arm without responding further.

In Paul’s second bedroom-turned office a sudden breeze rustled papers on his desk, as though some invisible presence was looking through them. The first incomplete copy of his doctoral thesis lay on the desk, and pages turned slowly. The snowman paperweight levitated in the air, then dropped. Paul’s pen suddenly was airborne, then landed on his desk.

Finishing her dinner and clearing the table, Kaitlyn looked solemnly at Paul as she sat beside him.

"What actually do you believe, Paul? I mean, about religion and such. I don’t think we’ve ever discussed it in any depth. Maybe I’ve avoided this topic ’cause I’m sure we won’t agree."

We won’t agree. But I guess now is as good a time as any, since it’s one topic we should discuss.

So start discussing it. I’ll always be honest with my opinions. You know that.

"Yeah, well, because I was brought up Catholic and you never were exposed to any religious education as a kid, I’ve avoided talking about it just so we wouldn’t argue. I had lots of clues when we began dating that you didn’t…."

Believe in a god? So let’s talk about it now. She leaned forward, focusing intently on his face.

I want to kiss you when you look at me like that, Kaity.

Later, she said. Now I want to know what you believe about heaven and earth and whether or not my oldest female ancestor sprang from Adam’s rib.

It made a good story to explain creation and obedience to ignorant, illiterate masses.

Yeah, well, there’re masses today who aren’t as ignorant or illiterate, and they’re still believing that one.

Okay, then we agree that the Bible’s full of mythological tales intended to educate people about moral values?

Yes. She remained leaning forward, staring into his eyes teasingly.

Well, since you’re determined to continue this conversation, I also believe we live many lives. I believe that I’ve been here before, that we both have, and that we’ll be back again.

You mean reincarnation. We come back as a goat or a mule, or even a grasshopper? Frankly, I’d rather return as a lazy bull basking in the sun all day with nothing but food and sex on my mind. She hesitated, then laughed. Well, maybe that’s already who I am.

You be the cow, Kaity, and I’ll be the bull.

Kaitlyn kicked off her shoes and stretched out behind him on the couch. He reached down and tickled her feet, making her jump.

No, we don’t come back as animals. His face became serious again. Always as human beings, the same people, but often in different relationships with one another. And hopefully, what we learn in each lifetime prepares us for the lessons we need in the next.

So if someone is a mass murderer, goes to his execution without any remorse for what he’s done, he comes back in another lifetime….to learn about what he did wrong and to make amends?

"Perhaps there is learning that takes place between lifetimes first." Paul stretched, got up and began clearing the table, putting dishes in the sink.

I also believe in Karma, my dearest Kaity.

Oh, the cosmic law that says if I do bad things, bad things will happen to me as well?

Very good. Something like that. Karma is a sum of all that an individual has done, is currently doing and will do, but it’s not about vengeance, punishment or rewarding people for their behavior. Karma is important in a person’s present life and in all past and future lives too. It is cumulative, so all of one’s actions are in a sense recorded.

So, my being a good person in this life isn’t enough? I have more to learn and I have to come back? What if I don’t want to?

Well, you might exist between lives for a long time, but until you have reached spiritual enlightenment and perfection, you’ll probably be making more than a few trips back here.

Kaitlyn got up, shook her head and began rinsing dishes before placing them in the dishwasher.

I’m sorry, Sweetie. I see all of this as one big fairy tale, in the same category as unicorns and gremlins. No one really knows anything for sure, and people through the ages have concocted these fanciful theories to make themselves feel better.

You like the idea of dying and becoming worm food a lot better? No soul? No purpose to life beyond what you make of it?

"There! That’s my point exactly. I like the theory of reincarnation, but I can’t believe in it just because I’d like to believe in it. The way I see things, Man’s existence is a cosmic accident. When we die, that’s the end of who we were. We’re biodegradable. Our progeny carry on our contributions, if any. That’s the only thing that makes any sense to me."

Well, reincarnation makes a lot of sense to me. The only religious theory, as you put it, that I can truly wrap my brain around.

She lovingly tousled his hair.

Both of us have to do some brain-wrapping before tomorrow morning. Let’s get to it, she said.

Paul settled down with highlighter in hand to study his Advanced Statistics notes while Kaitlyn curled up on the couch close beside him, editing essays for the next morning’s history classes.

The comfortable silence between them was like that of a compatibly married couple. As the room grew gradually chilly, Kaitlyn reached absent-mindedly for her jacket, and Paul snuggled back beside her. Neither of them noticed the bluish, hovering orb near the ceiling, two feet above the microwave.

Around 11:30 Kaitlyn yawned, poured the remains of her coffee down the sink and packed up her attaché case.

Remember, I’ve got an 8 o’clock class tomorrow, she said as she kissed Paul’s forehead.

Hey, do I have to stand up to get a real kiss?

She leaned down and kissed him with mock passion. Paul pulled her down on his