Rooms - James L. Rubart [42]
But this was different. It was the first time an audible voice had spoken to him without being part of a contained scene or a dream. And instead of being a scene from his past, this was in the present and in the house. This wasn’t a changed painting or a room of memorabilia; it was a real, live voice.
He shuddered, once, twice, then moved forward. He inched his foot over the threshold and set his foot down like a dandelion spore settling on the grass in spring. His other foot remained in the hallway.
Laughter again. Warm. Comforting. “Come in, Micah. All the way. I promise, I am a friend. More of a friend than you can imagine.”
He eased into the room another step and then stopped. The room felt familiar. Even more than the rest of the house. It was like hearing a phone number and realizing it was attached to someone he knew but not remembering if the person was from the present or a past long forgotten.
“Now that your heart rate has returned to normal, why not come in a little farther so we can talk? There’s a chair to your right as comfortable as a big cotton ball.”
Micah took slow steps to his right, and his thigh bumped up against the chair. The darkness kept him from seeing even its outline but he felt supple leather. “That’s okay; I’ll stand.”
“I understand,” the voice said. “I knew it’d be quite a shock the first time we actually talked to each other.”
“Who are you?” Micah squinted into the inky darkness.
“A friend who has been with you since the day you were born.”
“Why have I never heard you before?”
“You’re kidding, right?” A smile sounded in the voice. “All your life I’ve been speaking to you. You know my voice.”
It was true. He did. More than familiar, it felt like a part of him. But just when he thought he had placed it, the memory raced into a corner of his mind where he couldn’t follow. Micah spoke just above a whisper. “Yes, I’ll say there is something about your voice I recognize. But I don’t know you.”
“Yes, you do. You know me intimately. Just as I know you.”
“Then who are you?”
“Let your imagination go for a moment. Archie built a truly astonishing house. A home where things that only happen in dreams happen every day. A house so deeply spiritual, miracles happen in every moment.” The voice paused. “You know who I am.”
Micah knew. But part of him couldn’t believe it, and another part didn’t want it to be true. It was too strange, too unnerving. And yet a third part desperately wanted this impossibility to be possible for him. Finally he answered.
“You’re me.”
“Yes.”
Micah held his breath. Then he sipped in a swallow of air and spoke. “You’re my own thoughts, my own voice, my own impressions.” Micah paused, realizing the significance and utter strangeness of what he was about to say. “I’m talking . . . to myself.”
The voice chuckled. “Strange yet wonderful, isn’t it?”
Of course. It made so much sense. This was why the voice was so familiar. He had been hearing it all his life. “Why the dark?”
“You got me. Guess it makes it easier to talk to each other. It blocks out the distractions. Like when we’re praying. It’s the same way here. Rather than focus on anything visual, you can—or maybe I should say we can—focus on the words we speak to each other instead of the weirdness of staring into each other’s faces.”
“How can I hear you audibly here but not outside this house? All my life I’ve heard you through thoughts and impressions and ideas but never like this. It doesn’t make any sense.”
“It makes perfect sense. In this house you’re becoming more attuned to the spiritual realm around you. That alone would make me easier to hear. And you’re hearing the voice of God again, so why shouldn’t you hear more clearly the voice of yourself?”
“Last time I heard God’s voice, He said ‘get ready’ and I lost fifteen million dollars.”
The voice didn’t respond.
“I gotta think this through.