I kissed her and she suddenly jumped. I withdrew sharply, not wanting to frighten her. She looked directly at me for a moment, but then her gaze went beyond where I knelt. She turned her head, to the left, to the right, and then behind her. For a little while, her expression was one of bewilderment and then, her tawny-flecked eyes shining, it changed to one of amazement.
‘Daddy?’ she whispered in awe.
Unchecked tears spoilt my vision. I knew she could not see me, nor would she hear me if I spoke. Nevertheless, I said, ‘Yes, Prim, it’s me, Daddy.’
No recognition in her eyes, no sign that she had heard my voice. As I knew there wouldn’t be – I was not a proper ghost.
She frowned and looked around the room again. She moved off her knees and sat on the floor, her ankles crossed as she pondered. There was still puzzlement there on her innocent face but, thankfully, no alarm.
Then she smiled and looked at our picture by the bed.
I smiled too.
48
So that’s my story. I hope it’s been of some interest to you.
Maybe, when you awaken from your out-of-body dream, you’ll have forgotten everything I’ve told you. I know I forgot dreams sometimes when I was alive.
The point is: do you believe me? Well, ask yourself why would I lie? I’ve spent too much time with you to waste on gibberish – it was dark when we met by chance and now the sky to the east is growing lighter. It doesn’t matter anyway. You can trust me or not. It’s up to you.
You might also ask yourself why this storyteller died but his soul did not go to its proper ordained place like most souls? I’m still a little puzzled by that myself, but this is how I see it.
For one, my soul was not in its body when I died – when I was murdered.
Two, there was some work for me to do in this world before I left it. I had more murders to prevent, because Moker’s killing would have gone on and on until she was caught. That’s why I found myself in Moker’s basement flat at the beginning of all this. It seems a Higher Source – at least, that’s what my father called it the last time we talked – a Higher Source guided me there. The rest was up to me.
And three, my unusual status gave me the opportunity to learn about myself and about life. I suspect many other souls get the same chance before they move on but, of course, the living wouldn’t know it. In my incorporeal form – my astral state, if you like – without flesh and blood, and all the hang-ups that go with that, I was pure mind with no physical distractions. The sensory gift we all have, but few of us use, was unfettered, my psyche was liberated. Is liberated – it’s an ongoing thing.
I’ve begun to understand and appreciate just a little about life on this planet. Not much, but way more than before. I won’t bore you with the ‘love is all’ cliché, although that plays a big part in the understanding, and an even bigger part in our next stop. I’m assured – by my father – that it’s going to be something wonderful, but that’s all he said. No, we’re here on this earth to learn acceptance. Yep, that’s right – acceptance. Acceptance of everything that life throws at you. All the good, all the bad – everything. Doesn’t mean you don’t work – or fight – to defeat it or make the bad things good, but sometimes we have no control at all over it. That’s when you have to accept; you have no other choice.
My father told me acceptance leads to forgiveness, which is vital for progression, according to him, but I don’t believe it’s quite as simple as that – for us, anyway – and not as easy. Believe me, I know it isn’t easy. I think acceptance can lead to forgiveness, but it’s too hard for most people. How do you accept a tyrant, a child molester, a rapist – a murderer? I had to accept that last one, although I did my best to stop the killer. But it doesn’t matter to me anymore. I can be objective – forgiving – because I’m no longer part of it all. Because ultimately, in the grand scheme of things, the tribulations in this life are not so important, not compared to what happens next, the wondrous things that will come to each and every one of us.
What’s helped me begin to understand is this gradual disconnection with the world I’ve always known – the place you’re living in now. Jealousy, deceit, anger, acquisition – it’s all trivial as far as the big picture is concerned, and it fades into insignificance when you’re totally free of those imperfections yourself. That’s why I’ve forgiven Andrea, Oliver and Sydney. My mother too. As for my father, it seems there was nothing to forgive. I’ve accepted the emotional pain they caused me. It isn’t easy, nor that simple, but the more my presence here wanes, the easier and simpler it becomes.
The only person I’ve not yet fully forgiven is myself, because I had some of those imperfections or faults I mentioned. But I’m working on it.
You know, even Alexandra Moker should have accepted her disfigurement, but unfortunately it – and the lifetime of rejection she suffered – corrupted her mind and soul. I think she’ll get another chance though, but it’s only a guess.
I don’t expect to be around much longer. But that’s okay. I’ve seen a lot. I’ve finally taken excursions into the countryside and even though I’m becoming more distant from this world, the true beauty of nature took my breath away (metaphorically speaking, yet again!).
I’ve spent ages in art galleries, really looking at paintings and sculptures, really absorbing them and, for the first time, truly appreciating the artists’ intent.
I’ve explored famous old buildings and some spectacular new ones, museums too, gaining insights into other times, other civilizations.
I went to the palace to see the queen again – she wasn’t in the first time. Very tedious, not the kind of life you and I would like, I promise you.
I’ve sat in parliament and, believe me, most MPs are just as lazy and self-important as we think they are.
One dark and beautiful night I tried to reach the stars, but never even got as far as any helicopter might fly. Something pulled me back and I knew it wasn’t gravity; it was as if I’d reached my limits and my own will would not take me further. But I saw stars and planets as I’d never seen them before, zillions of them, each one a separate dazzling jewel.
I’ve seen over our world from a new perspective and I can assure you, it’s more fabulous than you could ever imagine.
Now time’s running out for me.
I can feel myself slowly vanishing, my mind gradually becoming disenfranchised from this place. Look at my arm. It’s almost transparent. And by the way you’re squinting at me, I suspect the rest of me is disappearing too. It’s okay. I feel ready to leave.
Am I afraid? My destiny was daunting to me, but that’s not so anymore. In fact, I’m eager to go on. There are many more answers on the other side as well as more mysteries. I know, because not only have I become acutely sensitive to this world and its meaning, but I’m already beginning to perceive something of the next. I think it’s going to be incredible.
It’s been good to meet you and get so much off my chest. It’ll help me forget the hurt. You’re the only one I’ve been able to communicate with in my wandering, so thanks for listening. Ghosts, yes, but not out-of-body spirits like you. Besides, they never wanted to chat. I glimpsed Moker before and she glimpsed me, but it wasn’t the same as this. There was no contact. Incidentally, I feel I ought to warn you to beware of the OBEs – look what happened to me – but I know you have no choice. Just don’t journey too far away from your host body, okay? And if you can, always leave it somewhere safe.
You know, my feelings of being drawn away from this life have been growing stronger even as I’ve been speaking to you. I think my departure is more imminent than I expected.
Take care of yourself and remember what I said about acceptance. It can resolve many things. And again, be cautious in your spirit state – you’re leaving your body very vulnerable. Don’t abuse your gift, use it only for good things or not at all. Learn things and treat your body like the temple it is. Treat it with reverence – it’s more valuable than you know. Oh, an
d I hope you didn’t mind my little digressions from the main story. Just thought you might be interested. Besides, I haven’t had the chance to talk like this for quite a while.
Okay. Got to go now.
More things to see before it’s too late. More things to understand.
Take good care of yourself. Don’t neglect your body. Appreciate it.
Hey, you’re fading too. Your body wants you back. Try and remember this – it might just help.
Take good care.
See you eventually . . .
In another pla—
Nobody True
‘Nobody True has one of the most unusual plotlines of the year . . . suspense, drama, romance all wrapped up in a blanket of black humour’
Evening Press
‘Nobody True is the kind of horror story when you think things can’t get any more grim – then they do . . . It’s a ghoulishly compelling page-turner’
Daily Mirror
‘. . . intriguing . . .’
Guardian
‘This is one of those books you can’t read quickly enough because you desperately want to know the ending. Its brilliant fast-moving storyline is as good as you would expect from a Herbert novel, full of twists and turns. Exceptional stuff from the master . . .’
Burton Mail
‘Britain’s top horror writer at his spookiest with this tale of an out-of-body experience that has a gruesome twist’
Evening Telegraph
‘Chilling indeed’
What’s On in London
‘Nobody True is gruesome and gripping in vintage Herbert style, yet is possibly his most moving – and disturbing – story to date’
Weekend Magazine
‘It’s superb stuff, well written and totally engaging. This is another classic from Herbert’
Shivers
‘The reader’s tension is stretched to breaking point . . . we can only watch in terror as events unfold’
Newbury Weekly News
Nobody True
James Herbert is not just Britain’s number one bestselling writer of chiller fiction, a position he has held ever since publication of his first novel, but is also one of our greatest popular novelists, whose books are sold in thirty-three foreign languages, including Russian and Chinese. Widely imitated and hugely influential, his twenty-three novels have sold more than forty-eight million copies worldwide.
Also by James Herbert
The Rats
The Fog
The Survivor
Fluke
The Spear
The Dark
Lair
The Jonah
Shrine
Domain
Moon
The Magic Cottage
Sepulchre
Haunted
Creed
Portent
The Ghosts of Sleath
’48
Others
Once
The Secret of Crickley Hall
Graphic Novels
The City
(Illustrated by Ian Miller)
Non-fiction
By Horror Haunted
(Edited by Stephen Jones)
James Herbert’s Dark Places
(Photographs by Paul Berkshire)
Devil in the Dark
(Biography by Craig Cabell)
End Note
1 Art and English: they were my top subjects at school. In fact, so certain was I that my future career was going to be drawing and painting, making up advertisements – I called it advert-ie-sements in those days – to go in newspapers and on wall posters (this was ‘commercial art’ I soon learned, now ‘graphic design’), that other lessons didn’t concern me very much. Maths I hated – I think I’m ‘dyslexic’ as far as numbers go – history was okay because it was stories, although I could never remember the dates of all those historic events (unnecessary in these reforming and ‘new-ideology’ times, I gather). Geography was dull, RI – religious instruction – not too bad because, again, it was about stories. Between art and English, I enjoyed art the most. Sure, I loved writing tales and essays, but I got more satisfaction from pen, pencil, and paint. Eventually, I began to appreciate the masterpieces, initially the works of Rembrandt, Michelangelo, Leonardo da Vinci, all the great but obvious guys, later moving on to artists as diverse as Turner and Picasso (I loved the latter’s earlier stuff, before he started taking the piss), from Degas to Sir Lawrence Alma-Tadema – yep, I know, all the populist stuff, but so what? Only later, when I enrolled in art college, did I learn to value the trickier and more imaginative works.
2 Interestingly, now that Oliver and I were joint bosses, we actually felt more responsibility towards our clients. A long-standing joke in advertising circles is how an art director is constantly devising ways of including a palm tree in the left-hand corner of his layout no matter what the product might be because it meant a photo-shoot somewhere in the Bahamas, a beautiful excursion for himself (and possibly, but not necessarily, for the copywriter) accompanied by glamorous models, plus photographer and his assistants (you couldn’t sell dog food this way, you might insist, but don’t think it hasn’t been tried). Another and even more heavily disguised objective is the D&AD award for best advertising, when fabulous – and very expensive – film or TV commercials (or brilliantly smart ones, but a little oblique as far as selling the product is concerned) are proposed by the agency. These litter the whole media range, great concepts that fail to do their job because the brand name either goes unnoticed, or is never remembered (I’m sure you could mention one or two wonderful TV commercials without recalling the brand they were selling).
It’s a vanity that reveals a lack of respect for the client, but then, more fool the client who allows it to happen. The answer is simple, although often not easy: the truly great advertising always combines a clever (and often amusing) idea with distinct branding (and I don’t mean a large company logo); GREAT COPY, GREAT VISUAL, CLEAR PRODUCT IDENTIFICATION, is the legend that should be pinned to every marketing manager or company advertising director’s office wall, and creative teams should constantly be reminded of it. So, this was our company philosophy and no headlined layout or storyboard ever left our office for client presentation without it being fulfilled. Okay, I won’t pretend we did it every time. Rush or panic jobs, copy deadlines, overnight work, client procrastination, together with their insecurity and occasional inability to recognize a superb concept, all are inherent and expected in the advertising business, so we could not always deliver of our best, but hell, we tried, oh how we tried.
3 Sydney had taught me how to spot this years ago when we first suspected Oliver was a user. Unlike the cokeheads and their habits you might see in Hollywood movies, addicts who bend over glass tables or flat mirrors to snort cocaine, one finger closing a nostril while the other provides passage to the nose’s inner membranes, leaving a slight residue of fine powder like dandruff on a dark suit, coke is never wasted this way. It’s too expensive to leave even the smallest spillage. No, true addicts will always tongue-damp a finger so that it picks up whatever’s left. They will either lick their finger again as though it was some kind of narcotic lollipop, or will rub the substance into the gums. Where drugs are concerned there is no wastage. Doesn’t happen.
4 There is no visible link, although without doubt there is a psychic link. While separated from the host body, the bond between soul and body is too strong and yet too delicate to be broken (think of some of those deep-sea creatures whose flesh is so fine it’s transparent, yet they withstand constant unbelievably intense physical pressure without being crushed; or think of finely spun spiders’ webs that can bear comparatively heavy loads without tearing. I’d say the psychic link between body and itinerant spirit – let’s call this other self that for the moment – is even stronger). This, of course, is not a fact, but something I’ve rationalized as time has gone by and certainly – and this is the important part – I’ve kind of sensed from the beginning; so muc
h in that incorporeal state is sensing, which is considerably heightened in the out-of-body state. Maybe bodiless you’re closer to life’s mysteries. Or maybe it’s some kind of compensation for the absence of one of your other senses: I mean touch, because there is no physical contact anymore, you just cannot feel anything at all material. And believe me, that’s hard to get used to. Your fingers just merge into anything you touch, your body can move through anything solid like liquid through a fine sieve.
5 Let me just tell you about going through a closed door or wall:
You don’t just flow through in an easy, fluid movement like a ghost does it in a movie. What happens is that for an instant you are part of that substance, be it wood, stone or cloth. With the last you become part of the fabric itself, a piece of the weave; with wood you’re the very grain; with stone you’re part of the dust that makes it. You mix with the atoms, integrate with them, become unified until you move beyond. It’s more or less the same when you pass through a living body, only then you also become part of its memories and metaphysical nature; but more of that later.
6 Time is a funny thing in this strange dimension I’d found myself inhabiting. There are kind of blank-outs, whole bits go missing, like in dreams; or like in movies, where every scene is usually relevant to the plot rather than following a natural linear, moment-by-moment progression. Maybe you sink so far down into your own psyche that you reach the subconscious level, which might preclude any tangible thoughts and images. I mean, even if you’re big on dreams, you never ever spend the whole night dreaming; there are long gaps from which you emerge into different scenarios once more.
7 This is just one of the many peculiar things about being out-of-body. You assemble everyday clothes and accessories upon yourself, your hair is combed the way you usually comb it and it can become mussed when you mess with it; you even wear shoes when walking isn’t essential. I knew if I put a hand in my pocket I could pull out a handkerchief, because I existed in a state of false normalcy, so subconsciously I equipped myself with normal paraphernalia, even though those things and I have no substance. I think it’s just a way of preventing your mind from going AWOL; you cling to things that are familiar in order to maintain some kind of reality you can work with.