Apprehensions and Other Delusions by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro Page A

over them,” he said without any greeting. “It’s still a mystery, but we’ve been able to add a few more wrinkles to the mystery. That might or might not help you out.” He indicated the stairs to his flat. “I’ve got some fresh coffee brewing.”
    “I ought to shower,” said Fanchon, but followed him up the stairs.
    “There really are some words in that noise, did you realize that?” he said when he offered her a white mug filled with hot coffee.
    “Really?” She didn’t care about the words, just the noise. She had nothing to contribute to his revelations.
    “And they’re recognizable with a little fiddling with the tape.” He sat down opposite her. “They’re from a song that was popular back in the early seventies, done by a local group called The Spectres. They never got very far, and apparently they broke up in seventy-four or -five. Their lead guitarist went to a better band, their main songwriter went to L.A. to write lyrics for commercials—they tell me he’s been very successful—but the others just ... disappeared.”
    “Okay.” Fanchon tugged at her fleece pullover. “So they disappeared. What has that to do with the noise in my flat. If anything?” She thought about the many times she had used the present to make a bridge to the past, for she did it often in her classes. But what could a rock band have to do with a history instructor?
    “I said disappeared,” Eric repeated.
    “College towns are like that,” Fanchon reminded him. “Take any five-year period and about a third of the town will change.”
    Eric ignored her. “And no one knows what became of them. We called the two we could locate and they haven’t heard from the other four since they broke up, and that was years and years ago. They don’t know what became of the others.”
    “What’s all this leading up to?” Fanchon asked, drinking the coffee he offered her. It was strong and bitter; she found it very satisfying.
    “People disappear. They disappear all the time and no one really notices, especially in a place like this. Students move and transfer and drop out. No one expects them to stick around, so they don’t pay much attention when they go.” He held up his hand. “Bear with me.”
    “Go ahead.” There was some noise in his flat, but not very much, nothing like what she endured downstairs.
    He gathered his thoughts. “People disappear. We always assume they go somewhere else. And in a certain sense, they do. Everyone goes somewhere; into a grave or ... away.”
    “Is this physics or mysticism?” Fanchon asked, looking past him to the window where tree branches waved.
    “It’s something between the two, probably,” he answered without a trace of embarrassment. “Consider this: a person disappears sideways, to use a metaphor. This person goes somewhere else not spatially but dimensionally.”
    “More spooks,” said Fanchon. “Naomi suggested poltergeists.”
    Eric would not be distracted. “And when there is someone who is also slipping away—”
    “Now, wait a minute—”
    He went on. “When someone is slipping toward the same dimension, they become sensitized, like an electric eye, and ... and that person, it’s as if they’re being drawn to that sideways place. Do you follow this at all?”
    “Not really, no,” she lied.
    “You’re triggering this because—”
    “You mean it’s my fault? I’m going sideways and all this noise is the result?” She put down the mug. “A few unsuccessful rock musicians disappear fifteen or twenty years ago, and this noise is the result? And it’s my fault?” She started to leave, but he took hold of her wrist.
    “You live alone, you do most of your work alone. You have no close friends here, and your family is scattered. That makes you—”
    “Makes me what, Dr. Muir?” She pulled away from him; she slammed the door as she left.
    “Fanchon!”
    Outside, she paused long enough to shout, “Just do something about the noise, that’s