When Sir Roger Edwards requested my presence as a journalist, I didn't think twice about it. Edwards was a family friend, and goodness knows I owed him a favor or two. If I could help him with the project he'd been isolating himself for months to make headway on, then I would. Of course, on the train ride to his holiday home in Hungary, I began to have some doubts. While I gazed out the window at countless indistinct trees, I began to wonder whether having been alone for so long Sir Roger may have become a dangerous individual. But the letter had seemed rather sensible. I removed the letter from my pocket, and had another look at it:

Dear Goodrick,

Finally, I've been able to make sustained

progress on my latest project.

I urge you, as both a friend and a professional,

to meet me at my estate.

I'm sure you have many questions,

but please wait until you arrive – we will discuss

it further then.

Salutations,

Sir Roger Edwards

Certainly, there was a barely disguised element of juvenile glee, as if he were an eight-year-old who had discovered a secret passageway in the house he had lived in all his life. However, I could not find a hint of madness in the words he had written. They merely had his usual style of exaggerated pomp, a habit he was never quite able to shake and which was the subject of much teasing. Several years ago he was knighted by the Queen for discovering the secret to combating death by aging. Turned out he had the last laugh as well as enough funding to fly to Mars and back.

I arrived at his home without incident, and his servants took my suitcases to a guest room I was to sleep in. I waited at the door for him to make his appearance, glancing occasionally at my watch. He descended down the stairs to greet me. He was wearing an inexpensive, but quite serviceable black suit, and black shoes that squeaked at a rather annoying pitch with every alternate step. We shook hands amicably, and I couldn't help but notice that his hand was somewhat clammy. I wiped my hand off discreetly on my pants leg, and we engaged in small talk. We must have brought up everything under the sun from weather to family to current events before we finally reached the topic I had come all this way to hear from him about.

“Please, keep what is about to proceed in this house. Don't tell anyone the details of this yet, or even the bare basics. The world is not ready for what will transpire.” Sir Roger grew visibly pale, and glanced behind his shoulders nervously. He motioned me to follow him, and I did so with a mask of composure that belied extreme curiosity. He led me through his cavernous hallways, at a steady pace that amplified the sense of climax. As we progressed, the lighting became dimmer and dimmer. Opening a creaky door, he revealed a stone stairway that was so long and so steep that it must have led to the core of the Earth. Somewhere along the way I tripped on a crack and almost fell, but managed to steady myself. I swatted off a spider that had climbed onto my neck. Staggering slightly from the impact, I continued to follow in the grim shadow of Sir Roger.

Eventually, the long staircase gave way to a claustrophobic room. The size of a broom cupboard, it was tiny and cramped. Sir Roger pointed his finger forward, where I saw a thin window. Gazing through it, I let out a high-pitched scream. As I stared through the glass, a rotting, filthy corpse stared back at me. Fortunately, it did not seem to be alive. Although it was seated on a chair, the pose was unnatural; clearly it had been placed there. The body was that of a middle-aged man, with creases making a complex maze on his face. It was clear that he had lived a difficult and stressful life. He wore a saucer-shaped helmet on his head, with wires branching out into his forehead and back up inside the helmet like spider legs, ending in electrodes. Sir Roger procured a similar helmet without the electrodes, and implored me to wear it. Hesitantly, I slipped it onto my head. Almost immediately, a humming sensation entered my mind, and searing pain enveloped all of my senses. When I came to, I could feel Sir Roger's hand on my shoulder, reassuring me.

After a few seconds passed, a voice echoed in my mind. It was a thin presence, barely audible, yet I could hear it perfectly. At first, it seemed to be rambling in gibberish, but slowly the words came into focus.

“..n you hear me?” the voice reverberated. I began to speak, but Sir Roger stopped me and motioned to my head. At first, I didn't quite understand what he meant, but then it dawned on me. My physical words would not reach him; I had to use my mind. Focusing, I sent my thoughts to the body.

“I can hear you fine, now. I assume there was something you wanted me to ask about?”

A brief feeling of joy could be felt in a far corner of my brain. He had been waiting patiently for my arrival, and
was now ecstatic about finally meeting me.

“You are Goodrick?”

“Yes, that's my name. I assume the man next to me told you I would be coming?”

I noted a tugging at my head, which seemed to be pulling me in the direction of Sir Roger. I could only reason that the dead man was trying to identify Edwards, using me as a channel with which to do so.

“Oh, yes, of course. We had a rather long discussion on some rather fascinating issues, and he suggested we request the assistance of a professional journalist to document them. I thought it was a rather good idea. Granted, I agree with him that mankind isn't ready for this, but I trust you to keep this information safe until the world is prepared.”

I was not completely convinced that whatever we had to say should be such a secret, and I responded as such. He seemed to mull over his words, choosing them carefully, before he retorted.

“Well, certainly there are individuals in the world who would understand what we are saying. You, for one. Unfortunately, there are just as many, if not exponentially more, who have no idea what they're doing in this life or the next. You'll find that humans have rather rubbery sensory appendages; they tend to see and hear what they want to see and hear. If they decide to see fault in something, or even the slightest bit of bias, they will discard the entire concept as a falsehood. In reality, there are fundamental truths that can be found in even the blackest and most malicious of lies. What separates the scholar from the fool is the ability to piece together the truth even in a cascade of fog.”

 

“Then you consider, or rather considered, yourself a scholar?”

“Goodness, no. I was just as daft and selfish as the man next to me. Lying in a giant hole in the ground for eternity can do wonders for your priorities. By the way, I don't think I ever gave you my name. It's Frederick, but for the sake of brevity you can call me Fred.”

His name was Fred. That the thing sitting awkwardly behind the window had any sense of identity was puzzling, and the obvious question that came to me immediately was trying desperately to burst out of my mind.

“You want to know how it is that I can speak to you, yes? That was the first question I thought you would ask me.”

I nodded silently. Despite not being able to see my movements, Fred seemed to pick up on them.

“Its been a long time since the day I was killed. I wish I could tell you exactly how long ago it was, but I lost my sense of time that day. I still recall the reason for my death, though. I was executed justly for a crime I committed. Namely, the theft of property. I don't harbor any ill will towards my executioners. After all, I had done the deed and had been caught red handed. Unfortunately the last wallet I had stolen had more identifying marks than a Native American bear wrestler. Still, I don't regret what I did. Despite my death, I managed to fund my family rather well. By shouldering the blame myself, I kept them all alive.”

“I suppose there's a spark of nobility in how you describe your actions, but if you expect me to praise you for petty wallet thefts you're looking at the wrong man.”

“What do you think the deceased need praise for? I'm just stating my viewpoint.”

“Never mind, just carry on if you'd please.”

“Right. So, I was executed by the noose. It's actually not that cruel a death compared to the other possibilities. Sure, there's a bit of rope burn, but the strangling doesn't last that long. I couldn't help noticing my manhood stiffening after the fact, though.”

I couldn't help but choke at that image. The last thing a family needs to see after a hanging is the father doing some hanging of his own.

“And then, I was dead. Real bummer, I'll tell you. The first thing you notice is an omnipresent disconnect, as if the wires holding together your functions were all being pulled out at once. The first moments are scary as hell. Your memories slowly leave you, and you not only don't know who you are, but you also have no idea WHAT you are. Are you human? No idea. A kangaroo, perhaps? Dunno. Maybe you're a bit of strawberry jam. And finally, you begin to understand. You are not a man, shrimp, or oak tree. You are Dead. That is what you are, and that is all you ever will be. A dead caribou is no longer a caribou, and a dead human is no longer a human. All you are is a huge shit pile of particles, loosely held together. And yet, your mind continues to work. It's extremely slight, but it's still there. Tiny, insignificant electronic signals still travel within heavily restricted areas of the mind. Son, do not misunderstand me: there is no life after death. Your mind will never again control a body. However, what there is is a death after death. You die once, and lose all functions of your body. You die the second time, and it's a more complete death. Even the mind is completely shut down. There is no activity in your being save the maggots eating it. Usually, these deaths are not far apart. I had my first death, but somehow managed to avoid the second. Don't ask me or Edwards as neither of us quite know why yet. We're trying to deduce it based on my experiences.”

“So the body can no longer interact with the outside world, but the mind can?”

“Normally, no. It's the contraption that sits on our heads that allows us to communicate. Apparently, it stimulates the regions of my brain that produce the fibers that connect it, in order to restore some functions. I am not completely reborn of course, as all my motor functions cannot be repaired. However, many of the intellectual portions of my mind are virtually the same as they were before my death. Some are even improved. However, speaking with the outside world is extremely taxing, and this machine can only provide me with so much energy. My mind is steadily decaying, but this machine is reversing the effect. I'm afraid I cannot answer any more of your questions for now, but I would be glad to continue our discussion sometime in the near future.”

I said goodbye to the deceased, and removed the cap that facilitated our communication. After handing it to Sir Roger, he invited me to tea upstairs. I accepted, and spent the night discussing Fred's many paradoxes with him. It had proved to be an interesting day, and I wouldn't be surprised if going to sleep would reveal that the whole ordeal had been a bizarre dream. However, what I had witnessed was all tied to reality, even if by the thinnest of threads.