UNRELEASED EXCERPTS: Possible SEQUEL to Superstar Passage the Reincarnation of Karen Carpenter

                                                                                                                        

                                                     
                                    DG Farnsworth

Superstar Passage the Reincarnation of Karen Carpenter

HARPER: Does Time Really Exist?
   
Unlike most scientists, Harper didn't work at a government lab or university (though his lecture that evening--Does Time Really Exist?--was for university colleagues). He was humble and downplayed his talent; said he struggled with equations, still. Harper felt not many people really thought about time. It was taken for granted--always just there. Basically, there weren't many freelance theoretical physicists in the world like Harper Kincaid. And some of the world's most prominent scientists took his unconventional ideas seriously. 

Imagine an entire universe, Harper thought, where there is no past or future; time is an illusion: everyone's immortal. Harper was certain of our immortality. But he wasn't speaking of a Greek-God-like immortality (one wouldn't stay young forever). One would surely die from age. But life and death would occur alongside one another.
"Always, we are stuck with the notion of one NOW," Harper often said. "It's not like we pass through time; it's that every instant that is new is a completely different universe. Nothing ever moves or ages (in these universes)--because time isn't present," he often added. 

As he theorized, one might be an infant under the care of mother in one universe (but one would never move from that still scene in that universe). However, in another universe one might be a moment from death. Basically those universes--and infinite others--permanently exist alongside one another: In essence then there is not just one immortal self but many.
Many times Harper thought that as strange or weird this concept of a world without time appeared.....the stranger something to contemplate was just the mere fact of our existence. Often he exclaimed, "Creation....just the fact that anything is....well, for me is the real total mystery. I mean....just the mere reality that "we are" is totally a mystery."
And although time "stares one in the face" all the time, most folks didn't think about its implications (because it has little to do with the practical--of the immediate). Harper figured most people didn't care that if a space traveler sped 50 years through the depths of space--he'd come back 10 years younger than the world he'd left. Sometimes at his lectures he'd throw out strange facts: light pulses can be accelerated up to 300 times their normal limit of 186,000 miles per second. Thus, making light arrive at its destination before it has even begun its journey. 

While the very idea of Harper's theory appears crazy, it was just recently that black holes seemed crazy. The freelance scientist realized that our brains are excellent at lying to us. Often the brain can create a "reality" that is not precisely what the senses think. So Harper knew the brain could be fooling one about time, also. At this juncture in his lecture, Harper Kincaid talked of movie film: that consists of thousands of still frames. If the movie is projected on a screen
simply one frame every hour--time will not seem to pass; and no motion is perceived. Of course, if the film is speeded up to 16 frames per second, the same still images watched previously project the illusion of motion--along with time passage. Again, one's brain has been deceived. 

As Harper made a panoramic view of the countryside, he attested that the Ravencraft estate looked virtually the same as it did over 200 years ago. Looking at the compound Harper realized that moment and everything it held would never change. Time and motion were merely illusions. In his universe every moment of each human's life exists forever (each instant one lived being eternal). Harper recognized his theory seemed preposterous--and often had a difficult time, himself fully accepting it. But he sincerely felt that our thoughts/theories about the passage of time were simply wrong--as wrong as those that once felt the earth flat. 

And often Harper's voice grew flat from countless explanations of his theory (and he often quoted fellow physicist Julian Barbour--his mentor): "Time is nothing but a measure of changing positions of objects. A pendulum swings, the hands on a clock advance. Objects--and their positions--are then more fundamental than time. The universe at any given instant simply consists of many different objects in many different positions." 

"Think about some of the highlights of your life," Harper sometimes suggested. "Certain scenes you remember are like "snapshots"....like a photograph....maybe one recalls not just a snapshot but a few stills of a movie. Your most imprinted and vivid memories don't just take place in a second. Aren't they like snapshots in the eye of your mind? There's no duration...no fading. Like pages from a book those snapshots in your mind just exist. Do you ask how many seconds a page lasts? It just is.... 

People were always asking Harper if we don't then shift from one frame to another. But there is no movement from one unique (static) universe to the next one. What happens: some configurations of the universe contain small "patches" of consciousness--other humans--with memories (of what they refer to as a past--built into the NOW). He felt the illusion of motion occurred since the many slightly different versions of us (and none of those versions ever move) inhabit universes simultaneously....with matter slightly re-arranged. 

"We are never the same in any two instants," Harper always explained....and really, nothing ever moves. The consciousness (or information content) that makes each of us aware of our being....of possessing a particular identity....is simply present in many NOWS that are different. In essence, remember that NOW's are like snapshots. It looks like things are moving because snapshots have a structure that is unique--extraordinarily special. You, me--everyone--are part of that special structure. All the experiences anyone has ever experienced (and will ever have) are lying forever fixed.
Harper Kincaid was fixated on his theory: Our parents....our children....our friends....Kate....Tatum....Katharos...Karen Carpenter--are ALWAYS there. What a soothing vision of comfort. How beautiful it was. In time, he'd surely know..... 


HARPER (childhood)

Quite transparent, invisible--like a ghost: how Harper Kincaid had always felt. His life had been one of exhaustion growing up; for, he'd always played the hero. This was all due to the gargantuan degree of responsibility laid upon him by his parents. Harper was plagued with deprivation, personal demons. He had exhausted himself without mercy: achieving goals that were not obtainable by many. And his striving for perfection colored both his childhood and adult life. Everyone threw critical acclaim his way growing up--both his parents and those outside the family. 

However, concerning his research and current work, he had become paralyzed. For whatever reason, he could no longer make a decision, concentrate. This Phi Beta Kappa and overachiever had hit a drought. Everyone depending on Harper had taken its toll. And the reality: the fact his alcoholic mother was (after all these years) destroying him.
Since his mother's need to drink was SO STRONG, Harper's method of dealing with the alcoholism resulted in overachievements: he became lost in his work at school. Over and over he heard about how he was the "perfect child" (at least when his mom wasn't drinking). Harper was "Superman" to most. No student was any more perfect than Harper (and he stayed in school far longer than most). All this transpired into his young adult life: the scientist who could do not wrong--who NEVER made a mistake. 

Harper grew up way too fast. He exemplified a maturity unreasonable for one his age, by taking on the weight of problems far beyond his means....far beyond his years. However, the problem: he never got the self-esteem that should have resulted from his being viewed as somebody that was just worthwhile....just being himself. Instead he was forced to prove he was adequate, worth having around by stupendous achievements. What few people realized: there was no real confidence inside Harper. What his self-esteem was dependent on were external rewards like grades....the showering of praise at school or other outside gratifications. 

Deep inside, though, Harper thought that by being "Superman" all the time, somehow he was creating a balance for his inadequate parents. Harper Kincaid's way of always being the "hero" was his way of handling a toxic childhood. All in all, his hero role had allowed him some semblance of structure; it was safe. Most of all, Harper was hardest on himself. And today he had reached a point common with most perfectionists. His insisting on perfection in all areas of his life had reached a head: paralysis. 

Deprivation was the impetus that drove Harper to perfection. He had always been an "invisible" child. And as he grew, he still felt "invisible." Harper had never really developed a sense of self-worth. His parents had always made him feel he "just took up space." Neither his mother nor step-father had ever validated ANY of his feelings. While his mother stayed drunk so much of the time, her needs overwhelmed his emotional needs. Harper had always been there for his mother. Even though he had a half-brother and half-sister (by his mom's second husband) Harper always was the one there for his mother. Harper was a nonentity--loud and clear. If Harper made his parents feel terrible, then he was terrible. And if he made them feel good, then he was good. Sadly, he had learned to define himself by the way they felt; not the way HE felt.
The way Harper felt....well, he really didn't know. Defining his identity was difficult. He had been brought up with the notion that his own feelings, his way of thinking and needs didn't matter. No one ever encouraged him in this direction. Frankly, he really didn't know who he was--let alone what to do--or anticipate--if involved in a relationship that proved actually loving. Harper (through his intelligence) was cognizant of all these dilemmas. And he tried to work
out much of the suppressed anger he had inside himself; and his severely deep thoughts concerning his own emotional abandonment. 

Being abandoned by his real father at an early age further enforced the idea of invisibility for Harper. When his mother remarried he was simply expected to call his new father "Dad" and move on as though nothing had transpired unusual. Then, he dad remarried (stayed in California) and "set-up shop" with a new family; his dad had another son with his new wife right away (in fact, Harper's real Dad eventually married a total of five times). This abandonment had resulted in Harper's habit of self-deprecation (this despite his extreme intelligence and his uncanny ability at articulation). Usually, he thought others had ulterior motives; he trusted no one. And on more than one occasion he had heard his parents repeat: "Harper has "nerves" (meaning he could never sit still...ever stop moving). 

Moving back East with his mother and life with his new step-father had resulted in a huge void for Harper (plus, he was forced to take on the new name of his step-father--Kincaid--which troubled him....further resulting in identity loss, confusion). Harper had been devastated that his real father had never even sent him a Christmas card or birthday card. He just never heard from him again. And he always felt to blame (though this feeling was unconscious). He had rationalized that he must have been inadequate for his father to just exit and "disappear" from his life. Thus, self-hatred abounded with Harper. As result Harper Kincaid was always unhappy and restless. Just some sort of minimal contact with his father certainly would have eased the pain of deficiency Harper carried on into adult life. So, this abandonment at a very young age set the stage for Harper: no development of a sense of lovability; and a marked impairment of self-worth.
Basically, Harper's abandonment by his father reinforced his feeling that he was, indeed, invisible...


GRACE and Psychic Phenomena

Grace had always been a singer. She just didn't anymore--sing. "Perhaps," she thought to herself, "now would be a good time to start singing again." Then, she was reminded of a song by Karen Carpenter: "At the end of a song there's no one, after the last note is played...only the memory stays...and even that fades away...and there is nothing so hard...as convincing your heart...that you should start singing, again..." 

Although music had brought her a great deal of joy growing up, it had brought a fair amount of pain. While the petite woman was an accomplished pianist, singing was her forte. Grace had that something special in her voice that drew others to her like a magnet. It was truly a gift. However, her mother had a bad habit of waking her up in the middle of the night when she was young--and insisting that she sing to her dinner party guests. Grace hated it. Usually, by the time she'd feel her mother's tap on her shoulder, her mother was well on her way to drunkenness. And when she was very little, she didn't mind coming downstairs in her nightgown to sing--but as she grew older, she felt foolish.

While her mother loved showing off Grace's voice, often times Grace didn't get to practice the piano (her first love) as she wished. "Stop that awful racket this minute," her mother would scream, "I've got a migraine and that repetition is driving me crazy." So while Grace's mother insisted she master the piano, she often times couldn't "tolerate" all the practice that went with it. And that just exemplified so many things that were so irrational concerning her mother. Grace suffered from it.
Sometimes her mom would insist she play the piano and sing for her guests. But mainly, she just wanted to show off her voice: that she had perfect pitch. (Grace's dad not only played the guitar, but sang beautifully; and she suspected that's where she got her talent. His dad had sang and played fiddle in a country and western band.) 

So, Grace would stumble down the the long circular staircase to make her entrance, as her mother often stumbled behind her (again, intoxicated)--as her mother's audience waited with baited breath.
"Sing that song that I like so much, Grace....the one you sing so lovely," her mother would ask.
And each time, Grace was frightened to death--horrible stage fright (that she still suffered from today; that was the real hindrance in her progression as a singer). But she would carry on (her mother's favorite Tommy Edwards' tune): 

Many a tear has to fall, but it's all in the game Soon he'll be there by your side, with a sweet bouquet You have words with him and your future's looking dim But these things your heart must rise above
Once in a while he won't call but it's all in the game... ....then he'll kiss your lips and caress your fleeting fingertips And your heart will fly away 

Then everyone would clap, spellbound at the low register of Grace's voice--the power of her delivery. Everyone would actually cheer. Many times Grace would become upset, especially in her teenage years (when her body began to develop). Undoubtedly, there was always some inebriated male at her mother's party that insisted on putting his hands all over her--"giving her a feel." It sickened her....and there were a number of men like that she'd encountered over the years. And she often wondered if her mother really knew how disgusting some of her best girlfriends’ wives' husbands really were.
Grace had always been like "an old hippie." And her mother just couldn't stand it. She likes to smoke pot--which almost killed the relationship she had with her mother. Grace had classic beauty. It about destroyed her mother that she wouldn't do ANYTHING....behave in ANY WAY as she wished. Her mother never forgave her for the "embarrassing" incident at college. Grace, along with three other girls, had been caught smoking pot in the dorm. This resulted in Grace being kicked out of the sorority--the sorority her mother, her mother's mother and even HER mother had been in.

"Goody goody," Grace thought. She hated being labeled a sorority girl--especially the snide one her family insisted she join. During college Grace had gained a lot of weight; she was so unhappy. The curly-haired honey-blonde Grace wore her tent-like jean dress all the time. It almost destroyed her mother. And the more her mother harped on her weight when she was in college, the more she ate. (Of course today, she'd become obsessed with her weight--and exercised to the degree of excess.) 

The degree Grace was like her mother was....well, very little. Grace always thought she was like her dad. The instability growing up in the early years had taken a toll on Grace. Her dad had worked for the F.B.I. all his life. So many times she had come home from school, and to her surprise find all the rugs rolled up....things boxed up, and the moving van in the driveway. And it was off to another school and town. (Her dad had worked for years on cases involving the Black Panthers; which later became known as the Symbionese Liberation Army (S.L.A.)--famous for the abduction of Patty Hearst. 

Grace, too, was a California girl. But when one day her dad came home with his arm in a sling (from being shot by a member of the S.L.A) Grace knew something big was up--as they moved so quickly that time to New Haven, Connecticut. At least she'd finally been in Connecticut long enough to consider it home.
Home of all the witches and stuff--that's what friends would tell her. Although she only confided in a few, Grace saw herself as somewhat of a "witch." She'd always had the ability (through her dreams) to see future events unfold. Grace possessed the ability to size-up people in an instant. Often she wondered if she got "her sense" from her dad; being he did work for the F.B.I.....and certainly, that "knowing things" could be of great use in a job like that; and probably what led him to that kind of work. 

Over the years Grace had experimented with various psychic phenomena. At first she became entrenched in the Tarot cards. However, she was so good at it actually it scared her. The last set of Tarot she had she cut in half with scissors. For the cards had foretold events she just couldn't believe...that, she thought, just couldn't possibly happen. And all those events appeared to be falling into place today. The Ravencraft estate appeared to be at the center of turmoil. 

Today Grace was totally into Rune readings. She and Dee Dee had a lot of fun doing readings. Sometimes one of the Runes (if real hot, she'd say) would actually jump out of the bowl. And if there were one Rune that appeared with consistency in Grace's readings it was Naudiz--a literal need or want. Well, Grace certainly had always felt something missing from her life.
Missing from her life today (although she was married) was a husband. Thinking back, Grace often wished she'd just "had sex" with Chase; and not gotten married (because then, she knew for certain she WOULDN"T have married him). He might have a world-renowned reputation as a baseball player. But as a lover, Grace thought, there was little to be desired. When thinking of the affair he was having with the 21-year-old, Grace felt it a cosmic punishment for the girl: she was doing Grace a favor--the infidelity. After many Rune readings, Grace was convinced divorce was the answer. She had asked Dee Dee to ride into town with her that week to file the papers. 


DEE DEE

Somehow Dee Dee had always felt inadequate; felt she didn't measure up. Years of neglect by her mother had not helped. While her mother insisted she was a "perfectionist" Dee Dee never understood her sort of "perfectionism."
Growing up Dee Dee had been ashamed to bring any one of her friends home. Her mother had what she called "the hoarding disease." One couldn't even move freely about the house because of all the accumulation....waste from the dogs and cats. Her mother had always blamed her perfectionism on her inability to ever throw anything out....to ever pick anything up....to just let everything pile up to the ceiling. "If I can't have things the way I want them--perfect--then, I can't even begin to clean up this mess," Dee Dee's mother often replied.

Even though her mom might buy three of everything--and never even use the merchandise (much of it lying unopened in various closets)), she neglected the needs of her four children: clothes, food, medical, etc.. (Often it was Dee that had to visit the food bank at the church so they could eat. Her mother was more preoccupied with liquor.) Dee Dee often told the story of how she begged her mother for a new sweater for her senior picture. Her mother refused. And often, Dee Dee would point out to others how ashamed she felt at the obviously visible tear in her senior photo.

Though they'd always been dirt poor, the home situation deteriorated with the death of her brother: Michael had been out into the wee hours of the morning (drinking and partying) with his friends; and had fallen asleep in the backseat of the car. Their car was speeding, ran off the road--and, Michael died in his sleep. His mother became another soldier in King Alcohol's Army. Michael had been her mother's favorite--the one always doted on. The woman became obsessed with spiritualism, Gnostic books, the supernatural, psychic phenomenon, etc.. But Dee Dee never forgave her mother's coldness for making her get on the school bus and head for school, just minutes after hearing of her brother's death.
The death of Dee Dee's brother certainly had worsened her home life. And despite all the wealth she had accumulated marrying into the Diggles Yogurt fortune, she still felt inadequate. Grace, she knew, didn't know how poor she'd been growing up; and she never wanted her to find out. Grace had had the life of a princess. Dee Dee was afraid the disparity in their childhoods would drive them apart (if Grace knew).

Dee Dee knew it was bad enough that the entire dissolution of her marriage had been played out in the media...and the embarrassment it had caused her. Somehow she blamed herself for the end of her marriage to Rex--even though she
was in no way responsible. Never would she forget that day she encountered Rex at their cabin in the woods. After being on a camping trip for five days (Rex said "alone")--Dee Dee (who had become lonely) decided to surprise Rex on his last day at the cabin with a gourmet picnic--catered and all. She'd gone to a lot of effort for the surprise. But little did she know that the "surprise" would be on her: When Dee Dee secretly entered the cabin in her lingerie for her "surprise", she received the shock of her life: she found Rex in the shower--showering with another man--in a very "compromising" situation. 

Of course, Dee Dee divorced immediately; and tried to move her life in a positive direction. However, she'd never really been alone; thus, she got little Sandra Dee as a companion. But she was lost--didn't know what to do with herself, despite all the money....

"Oh my gosh," "Dee Dee exclaimed, brought back to reality--as she glanced at her digital watch, "It's 4:44. I've got to run. The dog show starts at 5:00 and I've still got to drive across town!" 


KAT TATUM (Karen's reincarnation)

After putting her Amaryllis in a vase with water, Kat Tatum grabbed her "hippie-like" shawl, big sunglasses and large floppy hat. She headed for the side-entrance/exit, as she roamed down the long hallway--filled with rich artifacts and artwork. The sun was so bright outside--and at such an angle-- that it filled the hallways with an eerie light; a light that almost had a life of its own--that led Kat outside...to freedom....to TODAY. Yes, she was pleased with her headstrong decision: a daytime adventure through the neighborhood; and even maybe into the heart of downtown New Haven....
From I-95 West Kat took Exit 47 (The Downtown New Haven Exit); and used the last exit ramp. It was almost like her car was in auto-drive--with a mind of its own: like it was leading her exactly where she wanted to go. An inner sense....intuition (she didn't know the exact word) guided her...directed her to a destination. 

At the third traffic light Kat scanned the area right and left as she fiddled with the radio, trying to tune in a song she loved--that she'd not heard in ages: Harry Nilsson just floored her, as he sang "Without You." She began to sing-along: "No, I can't forget tomorrow when I think of all my sorrow....how I had you there and then I let you go....and now it's only fair that I should let you know....what you should know...I can't live if living is without you...." 

"Something" told Kat Tatum to take a right on Howe Street. Then, she cruised along Howe Street to the fifth traffic light; and she felt the urge to take a right on Elm Street. And as she drove about one-and-a-half blocks down the right she spied an old, very small coffee and sandwich shop....and under her breath she whispered, "The Doodle."
Had she been to "The Doodle" before? Why did it seem so familiar? As she approached closer she eyed the TYCO building behind the restaurant--and noted the actual name: Yankee Doodle Coffee and Sandwich Shop. The logo, with a man carrying a food tray and putting his leg and foot forward (like the famous "Trucking' logo), resonated with her.
As she entered the old little shop with just 12 stools at the counter, and eyed an antiquated cash register (that didn't ring up more than $2.00 at a time)--Kat sat at one of the silvery stools; and removed her shawl. Actually, although it was a "mystery" how she knew about "The Doodle", she realized it WAS the place she wanted to be at the moment. For she overheard a man a few stools down whisper to his girlfriend, "Best chili dogs in town!"
A chili dog had been on Kat's mind since she left Willows Bend. "I'll have a chili dog and cheese," she retorted gleefully to the man behind the counter. 

And all the room was silent. An obviously excited middle-aged man exiting the diner exclaimed to his partner, "Did you see her? I can't believe it! Right here in downtown New Haven."
"No, honey, who are you talking about?" the woman muttered, though the dark haired woman with the floppy hat looked remarkably familiar to her--perhaps from the movies.
"It was Karen...", he exclaimed excited.
"Karen?" the woman replied, but realized exactly then who he was talking about.
"Yeah, Karen Allen...they must be making a movie in town, or she's here on some sort of promotion," his voiced faded away, as he exited.
But fading into the mind of Kat and Harper (who was home)--almost simultaneously--was an old familiar song: 

....It's a lesson to be learned, and a page I should have turned I shouldn't cry but I do, like an Ordinary Fool When his ordinary dreams fall through
How many times have I mistaken good looks and laughs for bad news? How many times have I mistaken good looks and laughs for the blues?
".....when a road I walked before ends alone at my front door...I shouldn't cry but I do...like an ordinary fool when his ordinary dreams fall through..."  (Ordinary Fool: from Voice of the Heart)

 THE MIRROR

Kat's hands were trembling. She sat down on the soft silk sofa in the entry way--and turned away from the mirror. She refused to gaze into its reflection for several minutes, while reviewing her experience. Could this possibly be all in her mind? "Of course not," she whispered defiantly. "I know what I just saw...and it couldn't have been a hallucination."
The mirror's malevolent influence stirred her to turn around--to examine the hyper dimensional reality that existed beyond the constraints of space, time and intellect. Though Kat was almost afraid to look with fixed eyes into the gold-antique mirror's reflection--she was drawn to do so. This time, however, nothing...just a normal, antique mirror--casting the reflection of the heavy, wooden, double doors across the room. Yes, she'd been up exceptionally late the night before--lacked sleep; and actually felt quite exhausted from the late picnic. "Maybe that's all it was", she told herself, "some sort of weird daydream...Oh, no, no, no...it was no daydream." 

Then her mind wandered to the previous days of haunting...and how things had settled down...how Harper said the reason there'd been so much unrest in the house...so much spiritual chaos--was because the house had been empty so long (quiet)...and probably disturbed and "stirred up" by all the recent human arrivals. A possibility entered her mind: she heard of "haunted" objects, possessed and ghost mirrors...spirits attached to objects...objects so cherished by someone in life--so important--it could be watched over by that same person...ghost later on.

"Well, Lysander swears from time to time he's 'seen 'something and 'heard something' coming from that mirror, "Daisha laughed.”But I told him to please stay out of the cooking sherry!"
"Really, Lysander, that's interesting," Kat spoke with amazement. "Well, just for the record I might be interested in getting together and talking about what you think you saw...or heard, Lysander," Kat said seriously.
"Oh...I saw nothing...never saw anything," Lysander nervously retorted.
"Have either of you seen Rave today?" Kat asked, changing the subject.
"No...Not today," Daisha answered.
"I was just a little concerned about him. He disappeared so fast when the thunderstorm hit...I didn't get a chance to even say goodnight. Dee Dee said he looked a little ill at the end of the night...and I just wanted to make sure he was okay today," Kat said with concern. 

THE DOLLHOUSE and DOLL

A tiny replica radio, the source of Karen Carpenter singing "(A Place To) Hideaway" softly filled the air:
I hear you whisper and I must obey, blindly I follow where you lead. Knowing tomorrow brings only sorrow, Where can I go to find A place to hideaway?
Bright-colored pinwheels go round in my head. I run through the mist of the wine. But night and the music remind me instead The world once was mine.
I'll save my pennies for a rainy day. But where can I buy another you? Dreams are for sleeping; love is for weeping Oh how I long to find A place to hideaway? 

The hidden doll's eyes had known evil and had been gouged out--removed--by a previous owner, Jorianne (a witch), Daisha suspected "Eat though not the bread of him that hath an evil eye"--warns Proverbs 26:3. Eye contact with witches was peculiarly malevolent, she realized. Yet, Daisha felt eyes watching her...just staring: an itchy burning feeling on the back of her red-haired head. Witches were said to possess the Evil Eye in ancient Rome. Calamity or sickness could result from even a wayward glance at a witch. Even today people still say: "If looks could kill." Daisha had found the mysterious doll earlier in the week. It had been forcefully pushed up against the wall at the edge of shelf in the study closet. The strikingly beautiful domestic servant was searching for her camera. And she was surprised to find it resting in the dolls hand--almost clutching it. She shuddered and gasped upon the discovery.

The doll was china with a cracked face, wild brown hair, small painted red lips with long painted eyelashes; wearing a vintage brown dress with lace and chiffon around it in two places; and vertical yellow stripes next to the lace; a chiffon/lace bib--wearing pantalets. A binding box set on the floor way in the back of the closet covered by burlap. When she touched the doll it was cold like an ice cube--which caused her to drop it. She was afraid to touch the doll, again; and used a pair of tongs from the kitchen to place her in the box. However, today Daisha had found the doll setting on the closet floor, out of the box--and penetrating her with a glare; making her feel uneasy. Somehow the doll had communicated to her that she needed someone to contact the spirit inside (or help or befriend her in some way). For some unknown reason (Daisha knew) dolls seemed to attract spirits. A poor soul was anchored to the doll. Often a doll became easily filled or imbued with the spirit of the child to whom it was most closely connected. This was not her first viewing of the doll. She had seen it setting by the fireplace...in the past...an image produced by the haunted mirror in the house entry foyer (though she had not told Lysander that she, too, was seeing images emitting from the old glass). So Daisha knew the doll had witnessed the murder of the music teacher by Tatum's brother--during an attempted rape. Perhaps, it had been Tatum's doll (she wondered). Daisha knew to show the doll respect, to not manipulate it: not to force it or make fun of it. It had to be treated like a human being. 

The discovery of the doll had at least answered a number of unanswered questions about the house: waking up to hollow pattering footsteps, weird humming and singing, dancing feet, gnawing on the bedpost, scratching on the walls, the jerking of blankets off the body, objects that had gone missing or had turned up broken. Also, for weeks Daisha could not figure out why the dogs had been barking at the closet where the doll set. And she had been hearing screams in the night: "Mama!"...as well as experiencing nightmares caused by the doll. The housekeeper returned to the kitchen to retrieve the tongs. She tried to have a conversation with the doll; since she felt she wanted to talk back to her. But Daisha sensed a spell had been placed upon the china girl to keep it from doing so. The figurine was trying to tell her something--but she couldn't pick up what. Then Daisha carefully placed the disturbing figure back into the binding box. As she did so she felt a surge of heat shoot through her arms; and a horrible sick feeling rushed through her body. A cold draft surrounded her while the lights began to flicker. After placing the doll back on the shelf, the door slammed behind her...and Karen Carpenter's magical voice filled the closet with singing low as a whisper: 

I hear you whisper and I must obey, blindly I follow where you lead. Knowing tomorrow brings only sorrow, Where can I go to find A place to hideaway?
Bright-colored pinwheels go round in my head. I run through the mist of the wine. But night and the music remind me instead The world once was mine. 

Daisha trembled with horror. Her head was wet with perspiration. As she wrung her hands, her pinned-up silky red hair began to fall about her face...she felt anchored to the floor, unable to move due to fright. The poor woman was mystified. What was she going to do about the doll? 


It was such an eerie feeling...hearing music coming from that ghost-like doll house--like it was alive, yet empty. If a ghost were there, thankfully I didn't see it. Which brings to mind the song I have not been able to get out of my head since: one of Karen’s Carpenter’s most haunting ballads, “The Uninvited Guest??"
"'The Uninvited Guest' is one of my favorites. Harper reached for the "Lovelines" disc and inserted it into his car disc-player. As the music played softly in the background, he caressed Kat's body slowly all over; and drew it closer to his own. Kat looked deeply into his hazel eyes, and pushed his blonde hair back off his beaming face--before giving him a light kiss on the lips. And within seconds, the two lovers became so physically involved with each other that they completely escaped from the world, itself...with no thoughts of ghosts anymore--just enveloped by the serenity of the waves that crashed on the rocky beach in front of them; and soothed by the haunting melody of Karen Carpenter: 

A ghost is there I can see the outline of her shadow traced in the air. Sometimes I see her bended over your shoulder I think what lies has she told you And I see a smile light up your face You like what she says And I wanna cry, it's killing me but I play dumb instead.
She's the uninvited guest who lives in our house. She's the other woman who’s on your mind Who's in your life And has to be blind, not to see it, not to feel it. And I'm running second best To the uninvited guest And it's breaking my heart.
You don't know how I know If it all was in the open you'd deny that is its so. Just like the old song 'Torn Between Two Lovers' It's not happening to others It's happening to you and me And the pain is intense I should leave you but I love you Oh, it doesn't make sense.
(Repeat Chorus)
I should leave you but I love you Oh, it doesn't make sense. She's the uninvited guest who lives in our house. She's the other woman who’s on your mind Who's in your life And has to be blind, not to see it, not to feel it. And I'm running second best To the uninvited guest And it's breaking my heart. And it's breaking my heart
(Uninvited Guest: from Lovelines--Carpenters)

MORGAN (the gardener)

"Hey, you," Morgan, the intoxicated gardener, inquired, "what on earth do you think you are doing? This is private property. And there ain't nothing in there for you to see," the old man continued.
"Oh, I can't apologize enough," Harper replied, startled. "I....I was just so overcome by the drumming I heard from the house. Yet, there appears no one home...." he added.
"Drumming?" the crippled gardener asked, truly clueless. "There ain't been no drumming in this house.....not since over a hundred years ago, I suspect," the rough-looking codger slurred. "Only drumming I ever heard of in this house was almost 150 years ago.....little Rave Ravencraft--little boy always with a drum in his hands....His painting shows it....right next to the one of Kate Ravencraft in the foyer.....And, hey....by the way. Wasn't it you I saw snooping around the old mausoleum earlier today?....Yeah, bet it was you....Well, you best stay away from there, especially. Lots of weird things happening around that crypt for years...Now, who did you say you were?" Morgan asked again.
"I'm Harper Kincaid, your new neighbor. I just moved in next door...and again, sorry to have troubled you. I am on my way home...was just over here helping neighbors find their dog,” Harper lied.
The wrinkled and bearded Morgan dropped his shovel, since he was so drunk. Also, he could barely hear what Harper had to say--let alone any drumming, music or singing coming from the house--for he was profoundly deaf.
As the gardener reached to retrieve his shovel, Harper shouted, "Goodbye, pleased to make your acquaintance." Then the befuddled neighbor shot out of sight.

Morgan, the gardener, stood motionless with fear, rigid with terror—for he was not visualizing an earthly event. A dark shape floated past the mausoleum and disappeared over the hill. A phantom. He slowly began to walk through tunnels of massive oaks—that appeared sinister in the darkness: beckoned onward by dancing crook-necked writhing shadows. Suddenly he was overcome with a chill as he searched the mausoleum from top to bottom. Clawvern Ravencraft—dead for over 20 years—was wandering about the periphery of the mausoleum, wringing his hands in distress. After picking up a shovel the specter disappeared quickly without a trace. Morgan (who stopped dead in his tracks) rubbed his eyes…and reached for the silver flask in his hip pocket; while he took a swig of bourbon. The burglar alarm had activated itself—what brought Morgan out into the dead of night to investigate. The lights near the mausoleum had switched on and off with no warning. The door to his quarters had locked and unlocked itself—unnerving the old caretaker…drawing him curiously to the outside. All at once he turned around--startled by doors and windows banging in his distant tiny white house. The old, peeling shutters he had closed had opened up. Morgan ran like lightning to his home. From a distance, he saw the huge chandelier in his front room switch on. A radio in the back room began blaring music: Karen Carpenter, sadly singing (Where Do I Go From Here):

Said our love was more than time
It’s colder now
Trees are bare
Nights are long
Can’t get warm since you’ve been gone
Can’t stop singing sad songs
Where do I go from here?
Tell me where I do go from here?
You said you’d take me through the years
So where do I go from here?

Through the window, he viewed a poignant, long-haired, extremely thin figure in 1980’s- style clothing floating about the house—shovel in hand. Clawvern. Boards creaked and the faded walls became imbued with a definite chilly aura. Then, just light formations and unexplained noises and footstep as the trembling gardener entered his house.
“I ain’t afraid of you, Clawvern Ravencraft. You’re dead. I know it!” Morgan screamed.

Footsteps became heavy in the air; and the disturbing sounds of a shovel being drug across the floor intensified—as it echoed across the property. Trembling, Morgan took another drink from his flask; spilling some of the liquid upon his clothing, as he entered his home. Although the gas fire burned, the inrush of air from the room was supernaturally cold. A stack of papers rose to the air from the table; a markedly unusual draft whirled them about in a circular motion. Before fluttering to the floor, the papers continued to circle around for 30 seconds. Morgan clenched his hands in fear. Turning around, he stared directly into the eyes of the specter; eyes that were half-decomposed in black cavities. A horrible smell gave him a nausea that was deadly: a decomposing-corpse smell. Morgan gasped loudly; releasing the grip of his silver flask, that fell to the hard oak floor. And as quickly as the commotion began, it ended. Minutes later, far in the distance the shaken gardener heard the sounds of a shovel digging into the earth…and the deposit of dirt falling onto the ground.

The howling wind blew Clawvern’s pitiful animated conversation with himself through the meadow--crying, “The Maya stone box…it’s priceless…and belongs to Kat. I must take it to her. Elliot Ravencraft purchased that box in good faith. It wasn’t his fault. When he realized the artifact was stolen it was too late…and he got scared and buried it….then, drowned without anyone knowing where…”

The words of the thin, gaunt figure were interspersed with the gardener’s downing copious amounts of alcohol. Morgan realized what he had heard: He also knew there were very few stone boxes from the Maya world…and even rarer very few with the intricacies as this one. Along with the abundance of Mayan precious goods—like jade, pyrite, obsidian and Quetzal feathers-- the box was believed to have held ancient Mayan codices… encryptions or books….and the hieroglyphs on the side of the box helped with the understanding of a deep Mayan secret. What was amazing: how THIS secret had not escaped the Ravencraft compound after well over a century; that only the inhabitants that occupied the estate were aware of the mystery…and Morgan’s family of caretakers heard the whispers and rumors: The finest carvings of the stone box could be found on the lid, itself: they depicted the Early Classic Maya maize god, as well as the moon rabbit (a character symbol denotes the vessel is his house). The 16- by 10-inch box is supposed to hold a tapir leg bone. (A tapir is a mammal—medium size—related to the rhinoceros and the horse; and could have been put in the box as an afterthought, centuries later.) Inside the priceless vessel is a Maya ancient book (manuscript) or codex; this, according to the box’s symbols or hieroglyphs. Before the stone artifact was stolen, it had been discovered in a cave; which set right in the path of one of two Mayan routes of trade (for the transportation of precious goods). When discovered it was among about 40 clay pots. Most likely the cave was a shrine for merchants on their journeys. At that time, the Maya believed it to be a portal to the Underworld. What artifacts that were found inside the cave had been left as Maya Gods’ offerings, as well as for ancestors. And rumor through the ages was that although Mayan artifacts were plenty (including those underground)—no one had EVER seen anything like the missing mysterious stone box before.

Morgan dropped his tool and covered his ears…that song again: a signal that Clawvern Ravencraft was around, once more. He’d been putting off for years: cleaning up the cemetery. Neglect, along with decay, continued to creep unrestrained among the graves. Advancing vegetation’s roots split apart the glorious tombs—leaving their convoluted masonry sprawled crosswise collapsed stonework. A low moan emanated from Clawvern’s grave (where Morgan had placed an iron rod)—and anxious pacing footsteps prompted Morgan’s head to spin around in their direction. For but an instant, the old limping gardener caught a glimpse of a spectral hooded figure that appeared through the wall of little Rave Ravencraft’s mausoleum. Raucous cackles and maniacal laughter intermixed with the soft, haunting melody of Karen Carpenter’s “A Song For You.” The doleful revanant wandered closer; for a zone of intense cold surrounded the trembling gardener. About two feet off the ground a pinpoint of light began glowing near the wrought-iron gate of the cemetery. The light increased in height—taking on a pearly, opaque quality. A feeling of utter despondency overtook Morgan, as his legs and arms become heavier. Suddenly, like the bursting of a bubble, the ghost vanished. Hovering in the darkness were peculiar orbs of light; while the music reached a fevered crescendo. A dreadful crushing sensation quickly descended upon him; while Morgan limped about the crumbling tombstones. As he shook, the disheveled caretaker swallowed another swig of whisky from his silver flask. Abruptly he became unnerved when he experienced the sensation of a heavy garment over him. Morgan uttered a chilling scream. While he frantically struggled to free himself, the cloak was grabbed from behind. And someone (or something) pulled it tightly around his neck…his throat. The phantom assailant’s sinister grasp actually left marks on the poor old man’s neck.

Without warning the freaked-out gardener found himself unexpectedly knocked down by a horrific force—that appeared to move smoothly and effortlessly off the cemetery’s fence. But when the overwrought, trembling gardener shined his flashlight upon the creature, the thing faded away into one of the tombs….


DAISHA AND LYSANDER (servants)

Daisha glanced at the clock, exclaiming, “11:11. That’s the second day in a row I have looked at the clock and it’s said 11:11.”
“That’s synchronicity. I used to see 444 everywhere. Synchronicity comes to people in a number of ways,” Lysander explained, as he prepared lunch. “Sometimes it’s the odometer on the car with maybe the digits being all lined up in order…finding pennies and picking them up…sometimes it’s the sports game time clock or license plates and of course, the clock—especially digital.”
“Out of nowhere I look at the clock. It’s not like I am wondering what time it is…I haven’t looked at the clock for a long time. Then, that synchronistic number appears,” Daisha spoke, baffled.
“Your higher self is guiding you. Whatever you were just thinking, pay real attention to it since it is very significant to your spiritual evolvement. To get guidance you have got to pay attention to this synchronicity, Daisha. You must open yourself to the reality that you can receive a message in this manner.”
“Oh, I’m open to it, my dear Lysander. I’m just not sure if I’m going to like the message,” Daisha spoke with concern. “Plus, you know how I feel about timekeeping on Earth. We both realize that ‘time’ as kept by Earth is not the same time anywhere else in this universe. Minutes, hours and seconds are all manmade, as are days of the week, months and years for that matter.”
“Yeah, people miss the fact time happens in memorable increments, often going by unobserved. We just have not been schooled to observe those increments. The increments arrive in groups of numerous Earth years at once,” Lysander spoke while chopping vegetables for the salad.
“Yeah…like in the sacred writings of the Maya and other ancient civilizations…the great writings of ancientness…Shakespeare, Mark Twain…” Daisha mentioned with interest.
“Even the Bible spoke of ‘seven lean years’ and ‘seven fat years’…´Lysander vocalized.
“You’re considered legally dead after seven years…” Daisha said.
“The statute of limitation is seven years…” Lysander recalled.
“You can declare bankruptcy only every seven years…” Daisha remembered.
“These seven-year time lengths are derived from ancient Roman Law and Hebrew Law. Why seven years? The seven-year itch…seven years of bad luck” Daisha asked.
“Well, it has nothing to do with so-called Earth timekeeping but obviously it is meaningful in some manner. It suggests some repeating outside pulse, a rhythm or tide…a cycle having to do with our part of the cosmos. Every seven years something happens. There is some kind of turnover, aberration…maybe things are reevaluated,” Lysander suggested.
“Now that I think of it, Scrooge in Dickens’ ‘A Christmas Carol’ gets visited seven years after Marley’s death,” Daisha laughed.
“And in the Bible after that section about Adam and Eve…like you, I don’t know much about the Bible but do remember this: after working seven years Jacob got a piece of land, then got his choice of wives after working another seven years. I truly believe that time comes in qualities of less active and more active, you know gradations of time—periods of rest and activity…activity like a tide coming in,” Lysander explained while removing Cornish hens from the oven.
“You know I’ve never been one for wristwatches and calendars. Like my mother, I am on Celestial or Planetary time,” Daisha laughed, as she sampled gravy. “My mother taught me that just like at conception when chromosomes form a singular predisposition blueprint that might not even show itself until later in life, every instant of time has its own sort of genetics—a set of attributes that is unique to that moment. So the planetary constellation that shares that moment is a good gage for its capabilities.”
“We see Nature’s cadence everywhere, sensed by animals and plants. Even though we don’t always sense the cadence of nature (its cycles) we are still being affected by the rhythm of these same tides,” Lysander noted, as he whipped mashed potatoes.
“Yes, human beings have a remarkable ability to deny what they are sensing. To deny participating rhythms of the cosmos or attempting to force our systems way past their power to operate, people get psychological or medical trauma—maybe more regretful.”
“People are generally clueless when it comes to space/time versus time/space,” Daisha relayed matter-of-factly. “Space/time delineates our waking experience…where we move our bodies freely from one place to the other in this so-called Third Dimension. Time/Space refers to our life experience in-between lives with each existence or entity being kind of immobile; there, the entity experiences all lifetimes as though they were happening all at once. So in essence, the action of incarnation regards a passage from time/space to space/time. Of course, in space/time we have no control over the linear process. In time after many lifetimes a space/time entity will acquire a conscious knowingness of its being ness in time/space, and then might take on a more dynamic, participatory function in its development. And we know there are people with uttermost psychic powers like our neighbor, Miss Grace, for example, that are able to communicate with the existences on the other side.”
“Like time/space beings can manifest in our reality of space/time….things that we all call ghosts,” Lysander added.

Can’t say I miss Morgan's bitchy, angry attitude. That old man…he certainly didn’t fit the theory my mother held—with his lack of compassion: that the real intent of having a physical body that weakens as we age is to propel us in the direction of caring…compassion while every human observes everyone’s body degenerate. I don’t see Morgan every learning this caliber of Love to move to a higher density—to an incarnation much longer. I still question whether I should contact the police about his disappearance, or just let it be. Anyway, I know that 13th missing Mayan skull is buried underneath the ground…just know it. I believe Morgan does, too. And no doubt as theories suggest, it is linked to extraterrestrials. You You do realize the time is imminent when all the crystal skulls should be laid collectively and coordinated with the 13th skull—which will allow for consciousness to come back to its instinctive state of light.”
“Oh, my dear, Daisha, I feel the truth will soon be disclosed: who we are and why we are here,” Lysander answered, as he prepared lunch. “You and I both know the crystal skull it but another tool of divination…transmitters and receivers of energy with magical powers—for healing, and increasing one’s psychic powers. The skull left behind by ancient Mayan elders is an instrument to arouse human consciousness.”
“Indeed. The crystal skull is the legacy of a higher intelligence…ancient space travelers that seeded the human subspecies.”
‘I believe as my mother—that these skulls have the capability to allow us to look into the past, present, and future. What’s so interesting is that the make of the skulls—their construction—baffles normal logic. All the skulls together hold the mysterious history of mankind,” Daisha furthered, as she tossed a salad. In a manner of speaking, the skulls—some as old as 100-thousand years-- were sort of the ancients’ computers: they each hold data that will aid humankind to transcend through into the coming Golden Age. Research has recorded various holographic images of ET’s and UFO’s within many crystal skulls. Where do they come from? Why are they visiting us? Oh no, we are not all alone in this universe. Then, there’s Miss Kat, from the land of the Mayans. Most of all what is our dear Miss Kat’s relation to it all?”


1840
LYNN (Tatum's brother)

The musical prowess of savants is many times limited to playing thousands of songs in a stiff and mechanical way from memory. But Lynn was a prolific composer. His improvisational skills were phenomenal. So, Lynn had the precocious ability of a savant; while possessing the melodic imagination of a seasoned musician. (Savants are more like the rest of us than the medical world once thought. Actually, the extraordinary skills of Lynn tapped into areas of the mind that function like supercomputers, compiling massive amounts of data from the senses to create a working model of the world
The enhanced skills of Lynn clustered in the narrow domain of music--drawing on the strength of the brain's right hemisphere. Basically, it indicated that Lynn (like many savants) with a healthy right brain hemisphere was overcompensating for damages to the left. Lynn, as many savants, was left-handed with language deficiencies. His lisp was quite apparent. As a very young child he was overwhelmed by an acute sense of hearing. The clatter of everyday life--machinery or whatever--was excruciating to him. While he appeared unusually bright--with the ability to read signs before he was one--his speech was odd.

The odd constraints of harmony and rhythm were of comfort. His improvisational freedom gave him sort of a release that was measured. Particularly, savants gravitate toward the piano. (This, itself, subdivided the world so nicely: a linear map with 88 keys.) The piano to Lynn was much like the calendar: it brought order to the chaos of experience--brought into a system of "proportions at work." A philosopher and mathematician who encountered Lynn noted that music was an "unconscious counting" for Lynn. In essence, mathematics was the music of Lynn's consciousness.


KAT'S FATHER

Kat’s father once encountered a priest who had a transparent crystal skull. The skull was tested with care: oscilloscopes, psychometric and sound-frequency testing, magnetometer, and light spectrometer. Tests proved it was a pure case of crystal technology. Some believe the crystal skull can be an instrument of healing in experienced hands. To increase beneficial energy the crystal skull’s frequency may be aligned to the frequency of the mind and body. This influence can be noted first in the patient’s aura. (The crystal acts as a collector of Earth magnetism. The magnetic poles directly above the eyes are stimulated, as the amount of energy entering the brain increases. The result is para-psychological and psychic phenomena. Basically, the crystal skull plays the role of a transmitter and amplifier of psychic energy, and energy forces of the Earth.)