"Each friend represents a world in us, a world possibly not born until they arrive, and it is only by this meeting that a new world is born." - Anais Nin

Chapter Six: Patient Zero

Chapter Six: Explaining The Impossible: Patient Zero/September 1974

By Professor A. Vincenzo.

(Excerpt)

With some trepidation, and the uncomfortable sensation that I was being observed by someone unseen, I eyed the creaky old stairs to the second floor apartment on Quarters Lane.

The landlord had permitted me entrance to the ratty building in somewhat begrudging fashion and then led me quickly – almost nervously - to the narrow, vertigo-inducing stairwell. It was clear he wouldn’t be going upstairs with me.

When questioned even briefly about the second-floor apartment and its former inhabitant, the landlord was evasive and twitchy. I asked him about more recent occupants and he insisted the place hadn’t been rented, hadn’t been inhabited, hadn’t even been touched, since the incident in September 1974.

“It’s haunted, the whole apartment...” he claimed; his voice barely a rasp, hardly a whisper. “I never believed in things like that, you know. Not in my nature…”

“…But sometimes…at night…I still hear her singing,” he confided wistfully. “Always will I’m afraid.…”

I didn’t know how to respond, so I just listened. He seemed willing to continue, and I was fascinated by his sudden outburst and its unexpected intimacy. Like he had been longing to tell somebody this; longing to share some secret part of himself. It was like he was a whole different person.

“She was beautiful,” the landlord said softly, as if somehow, some way, he had been in love with her, with the siren. Then he stroked his goatee almost unconsciously, and I saw that he was a million miles away. His dark, expressive eyes went downcast, and I tried to imagine the place he had gone to; the daydream he was visiting with such intensity.

I tried to imagine her too. Tried to imagine the woman I had met just days before, but in this world of the past. The 1970s. It might as well have been another planet.

Still, I could almost picture it. I could almost picture her as she must have been in her glory days. I’d seen photos of her from the time period, after all. From a time before
REDACTEDXXXXXXXXXXXXX
END REDACTION.

So I smiled and listened and tried to keep an open mind. I don’t know that I believed the old man’s tale of a ghostly singer at first, but when I finally let myself into the upstairs apartment, I knew he was being truthful; or more accurately, I knew that he believed what he said.

I can’t claim that I felt the presence of ghost at first. I must report (with disappointment) that I heard no songs from the spirit world. It was more like I felt…the presence and weight of history bearing down on me. Do you know that feeling you get sometimes in a museum? When you realize that people of historical importance – someone who lived long ago - once wore the very clothes on display? Or had sat in the very furniture laid out before your eyes?

It was that kind of feeling. A resonance of a past life. A connection to a time gone. More than thirty years past. And yet, in that “haunted” space, after the landlord’s unexpected lapse into emotional memory, I felt like I had gained access to the other world. I could almost touch the past.

The first thing I did upon entering the apartment was take a deep breath. I inhaled and tasted the air. I wasn’t surprised that it seemed stale. Like a tomb: dusty and untouched. And somewhere, ever so faintly, I thought I could detect the subtle bouquet of a woman’s perfume. Like she had been present as recently as yesterday.

I cast my eyes ahead. The apartment was laid out awkwardly and without regard to comfort. An alcove above the angled staircase led to two oddly-proportioned, relatively small rooms: a bedroom and a bathroom. A black rotary phone, still plugged into a jack, caught my attention in the alcove. It had played a legendary role in the case of Patient Zero, and I immediately went to it with anticipation. I picked up the heavy old receiver with curiosity and listened for a dial tone. Disappointingly, I heard only a few intermittent clicks, nothing out of the ordinary. The phone was apparently dead, the service long since terminated.

I continued my tour. The bedroom was sparse. A twin bed, unmade, dominated the room. To one side was a makeshift night table. A little green lamp sat on top of it beside an old, dusty eight-track player.

Behind the table, I could make out the outline of an old guitar case. It was dotted with graffiti and bumper stickers, a telltale sign of the owners’ independence and personality. There was a peace sign, a notation to “END THE WAR” and what looked like the symbol or icon from a TV band, the Partridge Family. All drawn in her hand. I was certain of that: the style matched exactly the writing I had seen on REDACTED XXXXXXXXXXEND OF REDACTION.

I couldn’t resist the temptation to pick it up, but when I opened the case and felt the weight of the guitar in my hands, I was surprised to detect a folded piece of paper inside the hollow instrument.

I reached in and unfolded the old paper cautiously, expectantly. It was a hastily-scrawled composition; some kind of ballad…a song. Wondering what I had stumbled across, I started reading, searching for clues as to its meaning.

Your good intentions paved the way/for me to learn to hate.

Your rules and restrictions and contradictions led me to my fate.

The chill between us broke me down/more than I care to say.

I'll sacrifice/if that's the price of your love then I will pay.


Chorus:

You left me unclean/Now I wander from room to room
in the House Between.

You may see Heaven or Hell /According to your doom
but I'll eternally dwell in the House Between

These walls will hold me away from Grace...until the End of time.

No Mercy Shown/I'm own my own, just like I was in life...


As I read the lyrics for a second time, I suddenly detected a flutter of movement in the bathroom beyond. The smell of perfume inexplicably grew stronger.

I quickly folded up the piece of paper with the composition on it and headed into the lavatory at full speed. I was certain I was going to catch an interloper, confront...a ghost?

But the room was ominously empty. My eyes had been playing tricks on me.

And my nose as well?

And then I realized that the flurry of movement had gotten the better of me, at least in some fashion. The bathroom was the room of the “event,” a room I would not have entered alone either willingly or unprepared, not without proper meditation. I knew that much about the paranormal at least. It was a novice’s mistake, and I immediately felt tricked.

A part of me - the superstitious part - couldn’t help but wonder if something had known all this; if something or someone had drawn me into the room deliberately. Before I was ready. When my mind was still open; still vulnerable.

I grew discomforted and reached into my pocket. I felt the outline of my cell phone, and felt a little better. I could still call for help if need be.

A porcelain white claw foot tub drew my attention next. There were rust-colored stains near the drain. Tiny brown droplets arranged in a trail. I realized somewhat belatedly it was dried blood I was looking at, and grew nauseous.

I reached in my pocket for a handkerchief when I inauspiciously received my second jolt. I turned around and felt a shock of adrenalin when I caught sight of my reflection in a broken mirror above a pedestal sink. I jumped out of my skin.

For a fleeting instant, I could have sworn my reflection had auburn hair…

I steadied myself and looked more closely. In all the literature I had read regarding Patient Zero, and in all the research I’d personally completed on the case, there had been no mention of a shattered mirror.

I stepped toward the mirror to get a closer look and heard a strange crunch. Then I felt a stabbing, stinging sensation. I gazed downward and saw that a shard of glass had penetrated my sandal, and dug into the side of my right foot.

I was bleeding. Badly. Without thinking (again!), I hurried to the tub and stepped into the basin gingerly, my foot now throbbing as the crimson fluid fountained from the cut. I turned on the spigot, and a torrent of brown, smelly water burst forth. Not exactly what I wanted to clean the injury with but I realized beggars couldn’t be choosers. I felt sick, and the odor of the fetid, stagnant water made me want to retch.

I bent down to touch the wound and at that precise moment, a buzz sounded. It echoed through the empty apartment. I couldn’t determine what it was at first. I didn’t recognize the sound.

Then realization coursed through me like an electric shock. It was the rotary phone.

The old rotary phone was ringing.

It was a phone that hadn’t been used in decades. In an apartment that hadn’t been lived in for just as long. And it was ringing.

I shivered and felt cold, and then stepped out of the tub to make certain I wasn’t hallucinating.

There was no mistake. The phone was buzzing. It was a plaintive, almost desperate sound, one I felt compelled to silence. I ran to it. I ran to the alcove as fast I could go, leaving a trail of my blood on the wood floor.

I picked up the receiver and held it close to my ear. I listened.

There was a series of clicks, and then a sound that I will remember to my dying day. It’s a sound that haunts my slumber, and calls to me in my nightmares.

A brittle, ancient female voice spoke to me. It had reached out from somewhere…dark.

“Mind the glass…” She said.

And then she laughed.

The phone went dead, and I slowly lowered the receiver, gooseflesh bubbling on my arms, the hair on the back of my neck standing on end.

I took a single step back. Then another.

I heard something rustle in the bathroom. Afraid of what I was going to see, I turned anyway.

I turned slowly and deliberately…my eyes watering with fear. There was a coruscating shadow on the wall, moving quickly. In a minute, I would catch sight of what I had waited my whole life to see. A ghost.

I stepped forward, and at that moment, the guitar in the other room struck a note by itself. It sustained eerily, sounding warped.

As the shadow moved closer to clear view, I felt a firm hand land on my right shoulder. It belonged to the landlord. His piercing eyes were watering, as though he were expecting to see not a ghost, but the spirit of a loved one he had long ago lost.

"She's here," he whispered in a reverent tone, and his voice caught, a lump forming in his throat.

There was something about the way he said it-- it wasn't as much terrifying as it was anticipatory -- and I experienced a sudden flash of insight. As much as I needed to pay attention to the event occurring in the next room -- to my interface with the paranormal -- I knew I needed to be paying even closer attention to the landlord.

Foolishly, I had written him off too soon; discounted him as an uninterested party. But on the contrary, he was a crucial player in this. I looked into his dark, soulful eyes, and saw another glistening tear form.

And then I knew. I knew for sure. The ghost wasn't just haunting this place. It was haunting him. And what's more. He longed to see it.

"I never see her," he whispered, shoulders quaking. And then his big eyes turning downcast. "She always comes here. But I never actually see her."

"You know what happened, don't you?" I asked him, bewildered by the turn of events.

"When the breach occurred here, two worlds intersected," he explained, suddenly sounding like a lecturing professor. "I don't know how or why precisely the breach occurred, but the two worlds continue to...push against each other. Occasionally there's spill over...and she returns. She comes through."

"Are you a...medium?" I stammered the question like a child.

"No," he answered, an ironic smile forming on his lips. "I'm a...dabbler in...quantum theory...."

Chapter Five: Theresa

Excerpt from Twenty Years on the Frontier of Death: The Death Experience and Shifting Death Iconography By Professor A. Vincenzo)

Chapter Five: Theresa (Pages 242 - 246)

It was late September 2017, some seven months after Papa’s passing that I first began to hear “rumblings” about an unusual young patient – a woman - in one of our local hospitals. You must understand, I have “ears” at many such facilities around the country. These are dedicated “believers” who watch for signs of the NDE, but who – for personal reasons – wish to remain anonymous. I can’t blame them. Much of my research is still despised and denigrated by vast swaths of the world’s population, especially among the chattering pundit class that seems to guard the gateways of our mainstream media. To establish that you believe in the “dream” or “the vision” promised by the NDE is roughly akin to saying that you believe in little green men from Mars. You make yourself a target if you claim adherence to such sacrilege or heresy; even though our numbers are rapidly becoming such that we could be considered a modern spiritual, if not religious movement.

But back to the story. My contact at North East General, someone who had provided me reliable information on occasions in the past, called me during office hours on a Thursday morning, and began immediately running down some background data on the girl in question. There was no doubt this information was coming from a private medical record, and that it violated the law, but I listened with keen interest regardless.

These were the facts as they were described to me over the phone. Seventeen years old. Of Asian and African-American descent. With above-average IQ. And a fairly typical suburban family. Her name? We’ll call her Theresa.

Theresa first experienced the NDE following a radical physical trauma; which is a common way for our psychic “receptors” to be activated. Our research has determined that in some cases of head wound, there is a “jolt” or “jump start” to the region of the central nervous system that we believe administrates psychic abilities (whether they be astral projection; Psychometry, or as here – awareness of the Near Death Vision).

In the case of this young woman, she was struck by a speeding automobile on a crosswalk. Had she not been rushed to the hospital immediately, she would have died on the spot. The loss of blood was considerable.

Even given state-of-the-art medical care, Theresa fell into a coma for some time following her head injury, and it was at this stage of quiescence that one of her nurses (and I suspect, my secret but reliable informant…) began to detect odd occurrences in her ward room. Curtain shades suddenly flying up to reveal the sun upon daybreak, and so forth. No doubt this was the first significant clue that another “new human” had been “activated.”

My urgent task was to contact Theresa and hone her abilities before her friends and family could encourage her to suppress these powerful new changes in her physiology. At the moment of psychic “dawning” as it is called in the field, there is, for lack of a better description, a fight-or-flight instinct that comes into play for most of us.

Either the percipient “fights” for the vision to take hold and desires to learn more about this new pathway; or conversely slips into denial and old patterns, permitting society’s myriad pressures to dismiss and debunk the changes going on inside the brain. Once the “flight” mentality has taken hold (and this stage often takes the form of a suicide attempt), it is exponentially more difficult to assist a psychic in the process of accepting his or her legitimate abilities and status as different.

Instead, what occurs is nearly Freudian in its psychological elegance and simplicity. That which is repressed (in this case, telepathy, ESP and psychic visions…) begins to bleed out from the subconscious in unhealthy, unhelpful forms…often taking the form of nightmares, hallucinations, or precognition.

A footnote: Professor P. Darrow’s research indicates the marked propensity for this particular happening as occurring in strongly-religious households or environs (Darrow; Seeing the Light Now, Americas University Press, 2018, pages 332-334), though why religious belief or denomination should affect who experiences the “dream” is baffling. It is something I have seen no empirical evidence of in my own studies. At least not yet.

Regardless, when Theresa emerged from her coma, I waited an appropriate length of time, and then made my first visit. Having known her now for several years, it’s difficult to go back to the moment of our awkward first meeting; to re-experience this remarkable young woman as she was then and there, in that snapshot of time: a frightened young girl reckoning with a larger – and more frightening - world for the first time.

The first thing that struck me about Theresa was her inarguable, virtually transcendent physical beauty. A delicately-lined face housed inquisitive but absolutely penetrating and dark eyes, and her lips were like bee-stings: curved and ample. Her skin had seemingly formed itself in an immaculate presentation, sans blemish or discoloration, and there was a mysterious, almost saturnine mystery underlying her very appearance. The first time her enigmatic, inscrutable eyes met mine, the meeting nearly took my breath away. I sensed from those orbs many things. Intellect, curiosity, and not some small degree of animal cunning. Theresa was clever and careful. That much I understood immediately.

For a short time, Theresa was reluctant to open up to me about the specifics of her vision. I could tell she was sizing me up; trying to figure out if I was “for real.” She played her cards to the vest, and didn't like the idea of embarrassment. She was proud. But after a few visits and some assurances that I was no callow interloper, but genuinely who I claimed to be, she began to tell me about her NDE. About “the dream.”

Or more accurately…the nightmare it had become.

As described in Chapter Three: The House: Why the NDE Changed and What it Shows Us Now, the light at the end of the tunnel had given way to something…less pleasant and far less welcoming. Specifically, an a corridor of blackness beyond the light.

As Theresa described it to me, it was like being surrounded – nay, bathed - in the spirit of nighttime itself. But no stars; no street lights, no illumination whatsoever broke the hold of the pervasive darkness.

Instead, Theresa likened the corridor of ebony to that hair-raising moment when you first enter a dark room and can make out absolutely no detail whatsoever. In such circumstances, our eyes rapidly adjust to the darkness and soon -- like a curtain rising -- details begin to emerge and we can make out the things and objects that surround us. This patch of darkness was creepily different because that moment of blackness lingered and lingered. Unchanging and seemingly eternal.

Except, Theresa noted, for one measly, infinitesimal pinprick of light. A point of illumination nearly microscopic at first. And for a long time.

Theresa remembers dwelling in that blackness for what felt like an extended period of time before even recognizing the existence of that speck of bright dust; that island of sunlight in the surrounding moat. She couldn’t even say for certain whether she approached the light in the abyss; or if it approached her. But however it happened, the point of light eventually coalesced itself into a recognizable if baffling shape.

A two-story Victorian house. One constructed in the early years of the 20th century, she estimated. Floating alone in that quiet sea of solitude and emptiness. Clapboard boards ran horizontally across the house’s breadth; yellowed paint peeling and alligatoring. A black metal roof separated a pillared porch (replete with swing...) from second story. On the front left-hand side of the house was a tall gable, topped off, on the uppermost level by a small rectangular bit of gingerbread detailing. At the bottom of this section was a kind of three-prong bump-out featuring three large windows. What existed behind the windows - inside - was obscured by closed curtains.

But it was the front door that quickly drew Theresa’s attention.

I asked her why this was so. She noted that it offered her the most clear and unfettered peek inside this unusual domain. What struck her as significant about this proved to be vital to our understanding of the NDE. What she could visually inspect of the house’s inside was this: the house's interior appeared as empty and as endless as the blackness outside the house.

Emptiness inside emptiness.

TO BE CONTINUED…

Preface: The Dream

Twenty Years on the Frontier of Death:
The Death Experience and Shifting Death Iconography

By Professor A. Vincenzo


Preface: The Dream

People always get around to asking me the same question. And usually right after we first meet. Why study death? What is it about me, as both an instructor and a student that makes this subject not just irresistible, but an obsession?

I have my own stock answer to that question; as all people who end up in the public eye develop official “myths” about their histories, proclivities and loves. And my story is mostly true, even if it (purposefully) glides over some of the intricacies of the subject that I hold dear to myself and therefore keep close to the vest. That’s the place in the recesses of my own personal psychology no one else really need see; the places special to me and me alone.

But the simple – and public – answer regarding my two-decade long study of the frontiers of death rests with my father. Papa is what I called him with affection since first learning how to talk as a child, way back in the early 1960s.

It’s with some sadness that I report Papa died in 2017, but before he did - long before actually - he experienced a brush with death with that changed my outlook on the subject. And more than that - paved the path for the remainder of my professional career.

It was the year 2000 – the year of a contested presidential election in the United States - that I received an unexpected and urgent call from my Mother. The news wasn’t good. My father had been rushed to the hospital following a very serious heart attack. He was in cardiac arrest even as I spoke to my mother, and I’ll never forget the timbre of her voice during that exchange. It was unsteady, but more than that – hopeless. I don’t remember her exact words, but the message was simple and crystal clear: my father might have only hours, moments - seconds to live. It’s exactly the call you dread and hope you’ll never get, but which at least part of you understands is absolutely inevitable.

I left the campus in a hurry (I remember dropping my office keys probably three times before getting out of the science center) and then raced to the hospital. The entire trip, I felt this gnawing, acidic pit in my stomach. If you’ve ever lost a loved one; or almost lost a loved one, you understand the sensation. Not to be cute or simplistic, but it is bit like excessive hunger, only heavier...deeper. And nothing can make it stop. Nothing can sate it.

When I arrived at the facility, my father was – thankfully – out of the woods. I spent the next few hours at my mother’s side and didn’t get to see Papa again until he had been transferred from the ICU to his own room. I’ll never forget my first glimpse of him post-op. I had expected him to look ragged, wasted…almost gone. And truth be told, he looked more fragile than I’d ever seen him. But when he first awoke and laid eyes on me, I saw something behind his smile and behind his glare. What I saw surprised me. It rocked me back on my psychic heels because it was so thoroughly unexpected.

It was fearlessness.

It was the satisfied, contented look of a pioneer who had taken the first steps into a new world and staked out a piece of ground there. It was the look of an explorer whose trepidation had passed; who had realized that there was nothing to regard with terror or fright or discomfort in that “new world.” I was so glad to see Papa recovered and on the mend that we didn’t talk about that look of fearlessness for some time. Months actually. But eventually, when he was out of rehabilitation and home safe, we had the talk I had been eager to have.

Papa had seen what exists at death’s door; at the precipice beyond death. In the lingo of the field (the so-called world of “paranormal studies”), he’d experienced an NDE (Near Death Experience). We all have some passing familiarity with the standards of the NDE thanks to decades of speculative science fiction television and film. The common elements of the NDE include a tunnel of light; a feeling of peace and serenity; and a meeting with friendly faces from the percipient’s life who have already “passed on” to the afterlife. Indeed, this is the very vision – the dream – my father shared with me. It was a reckoning with our Maker; perhaps with the universe itself, and one that was not to be feared or dreaded. It had given him hope. The end was not the end. It was a beginning.

There was life beyond death; and the NDE showed Papa the doorway to that world; to that “new” realm of human existence.

Not surprisingly given my childhood love of fantasy, I became fascinated by my father’s story; not merely because I’ve feared death since early childhood (a fact related – I’m certain – to the fact that I was raised during the age known as the Cold War; when annihilation was but a press of a button away….) I began teaching myself subjects that my colleagues and my spouse scoffed at. I learned about a decade’s worth of OBE studies; apports; Psychometry and the like. And very shortly, I began conducting my own primary research. I traveled around the world - to Toronto, Hong Kong, Mumbai, Helsinki, and Paris - to follow up on accounts I had tracked down of other people experiencing the NDE.

I learned everything I could about the history of the Near Death Experience including its beginnings in man’s prehistoric past; “visions” commemorated by Neanderthals in the Upper Paleolithic Period some 100,000 years ago and uncovered decades ago in Western Europe, particularly the Dordogne cavern complex in Southwest France.

But where my first-person catalogue of the NDE differed from other academic work regarding the subject is that I began to compile a psychological profile of those who experienced “the dream.” I began to find certain commonalities among these percipients. Each of my subjects was tested using a Weschler Adult Intelligence Test (WAIS) to start, and each scored much higher than is normal. Extensive brain scans followed, and what I discovered with my team of (volunteer) physicians was a literal (and considerable) “spiking” of activity in sections of the central nervous system previously seen to be dormant; and yet dormant in us – those who haven’t experienced the NDE.

I didn’t understand what this meant when I first undertook these studies two decades ago. I didn’t comprehend that what I was witnessing in the NDE percipients was nothing less than an awakening of the human brain – an awakening of psychic capabilities – in those who had come to experience what lay “beyond the end.” Truthfully, it took me years to realize the obvious: that evolution had taken its next protean step. Why did I miss what seems so abundantly clear in hindsight? Perhaps because those hidden psychic abilities did not truly manifest in tangible ways until the NDE – the iconography of the death experience – began to change a few short years ago. (See Chapter Three: “The House”).

It was this changing of something heretofore “concrete,” something that had been consistent throughout the human race - since prehistory – that spurred real psychic changes in NDE percipients, and led to what I believe is the next stage of the human race.

That’s the story I endeavor to tell in these pages. Of how the psychic power developed in the first generation of “new humans” and in the prematurely aged ones that we now refer to as the augurs. Of my discovery of the most talented and mentally superior young woman I’ve yet encountered. A student named Theresa who – at this moment – is poised to launch what I call the Psychic Apollo Program.

And perhaps most importantly, you will read in these pages of the so-called “NDE” Rosetta Stone; a baffling case that to this day confounds and staggers experts in my field; myself included. It’s a case study of a single NDE from the early 1970s. I will provide my professional interpretation of those frightening and inexplicable events, as well as report on my exploration of the apartment where the case began. It is my belief that the percipient -- Patient Zero -- was, perhaps, the forerunner of the augurs, and therefore a legitimate genetic anomaly.

You’ll read transcripts of my interview with this “Patient Zero" who first experienced – and then altered an NDE – in the closing months of 1974. The result of this bizarre experience on the human mind? Some claim insanity and decay; but I disagree and continue to treat to the patient to this day.

What you will see exposed in these pages – and hopefully come to understand – is that something; some force outside humanity – is preparing the species for a dramatic change in our reality; and perhaps for a battle with an enemy outside what we would consider “consensus” reality. We are being aided by an outside intelligence, one with a very specific and perhaps even biological connection to our race.

Subconsciously, I maintain, we all know this catastrophic change is coming; it’s all there in plain sight; for the reading in our combined psychic gestalt…a looming doomsday. And yet there is hope in the form of a biological, built-in response in us, in the human animal, that can provide our salvation; a change in our brains, a change in our physiology that I maintain we must exploit to its fullest if we hope to see the human race survive the next turbulent century. How did this come to be here? How could the answer to a future crisis be embedded in the ancient construct of our caveman brains? These are questions that are as yet unanswered but again relate to that outside intelligence.

In closing, let me offer this thought: Papa did not live to see the NDE change and degenerate into what many have called a nightmare. He did not live to see the “new world,” the frontier of death, turn into a nightmare world. As his sole surviving child, I see it as my responsibility to make it to the world he foresaw. The world with the light at the end of the tunnel.

Since I first began studying the frontiers of death, I believed we could get back to this paradise; but to do so, we must change as a species. There are students – youngsters today – who are ready to do that, and will build on the work you see laid out before you in this text. Theresa. Sange. And the boy-child discovered after disaster, who, for reasons of anonymity, we will call "Thomas." Will we take that challenge? Will they?

The future depends on it.


TABLE OF CONTENTS

Chapter One: Near-Death Experiences in the Upper Paleolithic Period: What the Neanderthals Saw and How They “Saw” It.

Chapter Two: The Normal NDE: Two Hundred Generations of Peace and Paradise.

Chapter Three: The House: Why the NDE Changed in 2000, and What it Shows Us Now.

Chapter Four: Developing a Psychic Hierarchy: Explaining the Augurs, Psychic Astronauts and the New Psychic Apollo Program.

Chapter Five: Theresa.

Chapter Six: Explaining the Impossible: Patient Zero/September 1974.

Chapter Seven: Thomas and the Tornado; Temper Tantrum or the First Taste of Power?

Chapter Eight: The Next Step Beyond – Final Assessments

Epilogue: The "Dabbler" with the Dark Eyes, Or Quantum Theory and the Birth of Sentience

Notes

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The House Between Soundtrack Now For Sale!

The House Between is an original science-fiction/horror TV series concerning five strangers who awaken one day to find themselves trapped inside a strange, empty house. These five diverse people struggle to get along with one another, find trust, and understand their odd predicament...all while they deal with a house where each new room represents a different mind-state, a different manifestation of their inner selves. The house understands their secrets, their guilts, their fears...their dreams... their nightmares.

The house "at the end of the universe," as one character describes it, is utterly inescapable, and surrounded by a zone of blackness, of "null space." But that doesn't mean there aren't ripples in the void...creatures who lurk in the dark outside the house and are desperate to own that which the five strangers already have. Food. Heat. Light. Warmth. Life...

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