Chapter One: The Intruder (1 October 2002)
“I was even more startled, because I realized that she was one of my former students. However, I was far more startled when I remembered that she had died a few weeks earlier.”65Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡD0LfEwy3MK
We are bound together by invisible threads, and some of us must inevitably be drawn into the webs woven by fate and other people. All the while, some bizarre, mystical dance continues around us, yet we are unaware of the reality beyond the veil. We seek, but we do not find; we look, but we do not see; we listen, but we do not hear.
The fall semester had begun uneventfully enough, although I was becoming steadily more aware of a harsh reality. Each year my students seemed a little younger!
Thanks to a fluke, I was able to teach all my classes on Tuesdays and Thursdays. This two-day work week was my reward for having gone so far above and beyond the call of duty during the preceding semester. When the chairman of the department had become incapacitated, I assumed many of her administrative responsibilities while maintaining a full course load, A grateful dean had let me reap the benefits: a modicum of additional pay and a two-day schedule in the fall.
That Tuesday evening, October 1st, I taught my seminar on the British novel and met with two students during my office hours after class. It was almost 11 pm by the time I opened the door of my townhouse, yet I still felt reasonably alert. And then…
Then, as I stepped across the threshold, I was startled to see a woman standing at the entrance to my kitchen.
I was even more startled, because I realized that she was one of my former students.
However, I was far more startled when I remembered that she had died a few weeks earlier.
For a moment, we just stared at one another. Finally, I regained the power of speech. “Miriam? Miriam Zonenshayn?” I asked timidly. I felt no fear and in fact seemed remarkably calm.
“Yes, Benjamin. Please do not be alarmed. I intend you no harm. In fact, I am in desperate need of your help.”
She was dressed casually: a blue T-shirt, black slacks, and sneakers. The weather was already getting somewhat brisk at night—I certainly needed my sweater—but a quick glance around the room revealed no sign of another garment.
I swallowed nervously. “Uh…excuse my callous observation, but unless all accounts were fabricated, you have been quite beyond my assistance for almost two months.”
She smiled. “That is certainly true in one sense. What you read was correct; I was killed in an automobile accident on August 7th, seven weeks and six days ago.”
I shrugged. “So, you expect me to believe that there really are ghosts?”
“I am not a ghost. I am an ibbur. Surely, the professor who taught The Dybbuk: Or Between Two Worlds is familiar with the term.”
I tried to remember. I was fairly sure I had taught the Ansky play during Miriam’s senior year, spring term of 1992. One of my best students ever, she graduated that semester, and her age had been listed as thirty-two in the obituary notice. I quickly considered the possibilities.
Of course, a home invasion was not out of the question, but Miriam would have been the least likely perpetrator, even if she were on this side of the grass. The person in front of me certainly looked like her, and I had seen her as recently as late March, when she dropped by for a visit.
Miriam was not the sort of person who would have staged her own death. Moreover, I had sent a condolence card to her parents, and they had acknowledged the gesture with a handwritten note, thanking me for all the help I had given their daughter and mentioning how “she always thought the world of [me].”
Could this have been someone who looked exactly like her? If so, how much did this “double” know about the curricula on my syllabi?
“Ah, but you surely remember the Shakespearean passage I discussed the preceding term,” I challenged.
My visitor smiled. “You answer me with Horatio’s skepticism—‘So have I heard and do in part believe it’—do you not?”
She remembered! I had indeed taught Hamlet in that Shakespeare seminar. “Well, if the Bard’s characters had trouble with a ghost, you will surely excuse me if I am baffled by your presence as an ibbur.”
I needed more proof—at least one more test. Miriam smiled, as though anticipating my next question.
“You might ask me something about Medea, unless you prefer to shoot into the 20th century and discuss Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf. I am sure you remember my research paper on the Euripides tragedy.”
That would suffice. This creature, whether living or dead, certainly knew the drama seminar I had taught during her last semester, and that final detail was convincing.
I nodded. “All right. You look like Miriam, and you probably remember our classes better than I do. You claim you are an ibbur, and I suppose I must believe you. Now, how can I be of help?”
And then it happened. She simply disappeared right in front of my eyes, yet even before I could register my surprise, I found my answer. It came by way of what I assumed was some sort of telepathic transmission, although in fact, I “heard” nothing whatsoever. Nevertheless, I became acutely aware of why she had come to me. It was as though the information had been in my subconscious mind all the time and had suddenly burst through to the conscious side.
“This is wild,” I stammered. “You need to complete the mission your uncle and you began?”
Just as suddenly as she had vanished, Miriam materialized in front of me again. “I know; it seems bizarre and irrational. However, it sounds as though I have your attention. Now, if you would really like to know why I’m here, perhaps I can explain. If you are willing to help me, that will be great. If not…well…that will be the end of it.”
I nodded. “Okay, although I’ve been standing since I crossed the threshold. Can we sit down at the table?” I asked, motioning to the dining area.
To my relief, she smiled. “Of course. The full story is rather long, but I can at least give you the broad picture.
And thus started the ibbur’s strange narrative65Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡReOjkTtbya
