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The Ghost Project By Anon Allsop With a sensory score that was off the charts, Heath Carroll thought his ship had come in. Unfortunately for him, our government was the entity doing all of the testing. Early on, he had been sought out for his uncanny ability to self-induce a trance and Astral Project himself across great distances. At first it was thrilling to be able to physically occupy one separate plane of space, then within mere moments he would appear in another. His recklessness, even after friends warned him, attracted the eye of a secret military faction within the government. They wined and dined the youth, fed him with their promises, then recruited him under a cool-sounding name of The Ghost Project. Heath's mission was to Astral Project himself, locate and remove a threat they deemed necessary. At first, Heath was proud to belong to such a secret and covert service. To seemingly appear from thin air, and to strike a blow for his country, was awe inspiring. Unfortunately, the longer he was involved with the organization, the more suspicious he became. The freedom that he once enjoyed eroded over time. His missions of rooting out evil became a hunting expedition to eliminate a threat who opposed the views of his handlers. As he completed more and more of the missions, he became aware that he was nothing more than their assassin, a pit bull with a deadly bite. Heath began to resist the missions that they were sending him to; growing more and more unwilling the further into The Ghost Project he became involved. Today, the door to his cell suddenly swung open. As he sat up from his cot, two men wearing suits walked in. Heath recognized one as the person who brought him into the Ghost Project, but he did not recognize the other. Both men appeared to be in their mid-forties. The one whom he knew set a briefcase down and fiddled with the contents inside, while the other casually walked within the confines of his cell. The man at his briefcase dropped a photo on his cot. As soon as it came to rest, Heath quickly looked up. "What's the meaning of this?" he snapped, shaking the photo as he spoke. "Let's just say it is our insurance policy." The wandering man spoke without turning. He was examining an old benign Norman Rockwell calendar hanging on the wall. He looked up at the man who had dropped it. "I told you that I won't be murdering any more of your enemies!" "You can see by the photo in your hand that what you want is irrelevant. You will do as we say, when we say, and how we say to do it!" Go to hell you bastard! I'll not project for you or anyone else any longer!" Heath snapped back. "Boy, do you recognize the person in that picture?" the wandering man asked with his back still toward Heath. "You know damn well that it's my father! If you harm one hair on his head, I'll..." Heath started to stand but the other man pushed him back into the cot. "Sit down, kid," he hissed as he pushed. Finally the wanderer turned and scowled at Heath, "I don't really think you are in much of a position to demand anything. You see, boy, if you don't help us, I can't guarantee that something won't happen to him." As Heath settled back on his cot, a slow smile crept across his face. "Okay, okay... sure, I'll help you." His young mind began to formulate a plan, a plan that the men in front of him wouldn't like. "I see something in your smile that I don't care too much for." He turned toward his companion who was closing his briefcase. "Our friend is thinking about being bad." As he picked up his briefcase, he turned toward Heath. "You may be thinking about now, that you can just project somewhere on the outside and take us out... I assure you that we have thought of that too." He grinned evilly. "Other scientists who have performed vast amounts of research in the field of Astral Projection have come up with a theory which we plan on using to maintain our control of you." He glanced toward his partner. "Have you ever heard of a 'Silver Thread'? It is a word that many like you who project use to describe what allows them to return to their physical body. Without it, you would be trapped in the dimension you have traveled to." The other man laughed, adding, "Floating in an endless sea of thought patterns and with no way of ever returning to those who love you!" "So you see, you will do as we say or we will 'snip' your tether and allow you to simply drift away." He floated his hand in front of the youth. "Not to mention what we will do to your father!" Heath glared at the two. "Bastards!" he hissed. After the men left the cell, one turned to the other. "Can we really disconnect his 'Silver Thread'?" The other shrugged. "As long as he thinks it allows us to maintain control, do we really care?" Heath sat inside his cell; the sound of their conversation with him was still fresh in his ears. He wasn't sure if it would be possible to sever his tether, but if they could sever it; his earthly body would simply die. He knew that much, but the whole 'Silver Thread' was merely theory at best. He stood and walked to his window and looked through the wire mesh that prevented his escape. He frowned and looked back toward his cot where the photo of his father still lay. Returning, he picked it up and stared at it. His father had been quite sickly, and the photo was proof of that. He was confined in a nursing home on a respirator. Agent Orange and years of heavy smoking had taken their toll. Emphysema and most recently, lung cancer, would run their course and end his father's turmoil. Until that day, The Ghost Project would have their thumb on him. Heath sadly looked down at the tile floor; it was a shame that he could not see his father one last time before he passed. Anger boiled in the youth - for the five years he had been involved with The Ghost Project he had been sequestered here in this cell. His young life wasted away each day he remained a prisoner. He could say it: 'Prisoner'... it was true. What he had once thought would be like being a special agent, a "007", had become nothing less than a lifetime sentence to do their damn bidding. He was a hired assassin without a true home, forever surrounded by these four gray walls. They constantly feared he would find a way to alert the outside world of their intentions. They were even more terrified that Heath could turn his abilities upon them until they perfected their constant surveillance of his father; they continued to hold the threat of his father's life over Heath's head. He sat upon his cot and thought about his abilities. What allowed him to be able to Astral Project like he did? Could he ever use it to perfect an escape? His mind once again returned to his father. As long as they could reach his dad, they would be able to control Heath. He had attempted to reach out to his father, but something they were doing wouldn't allow him the access. When he asked them in a roundabout way, they said it had to do with his Silver Thread. He knew that it was a lie, because the Silver Thread was only a theory and it had to be something more to it. So here he was, stuck waiting until they would need him again... a prisoner in his own mind. He lay back on his pillow and folded his arms beneath his head. There on the wall was the picture on his calendar, a print of an old Norman Rockwell painting. He knew from previous examination that it was entitled 'Flowers in Tender Bloom'. To be as happy as the young couple in the painting would be the freedom that he could only imagine. Enjoying a tender moment while seated with the one you love upon the grass without a care in the world. He felt his eyes growing heavy as he continued to study the image. *** The sound of birds came to his ears, yet tempting as it was, he refrained from opening his eyes. Often the feeling was this way when he would begin his astral metaphysics to lower himself in the trance-like state that would allow him to project. Strange smells came to his nose. They were of flowers and grass, two things he had not smelled in years. There was a light breeze, warm and inviting. Even with his eyes closed, he could tell that it was a bright, sunny day. There was a tickle upon his face, feeling like a spider's web or long strand of hair had suddenly blown against it. Suddenly like a vacuum in time, he was yanked into the present. At that very moment, his eyes fluttered open. Once again he was surrounded by the four grey walls. His heart sank as he looked upon them. On a stand near the door was a tray of food. Reluctantly he reached out and pulled it toward him. He ate it, thinking of just how real his dream event was. He knew it wasn't any sort of Astral Projection because what it was of. He glanced toward the calendar as he was chewing, although it did feel real at the time. He pondered over what he remembered most vividly, what he had heard, felt, and smelled. He knew it was impossible to Astral Project into an image...but what he felt seemed so real. Was it possible? Had he just done the impossible? He knew that if it had really happened, he must conceal it at all costs, for if they suspected it, they would terminate him. He arose and examined the image. Everything was there - flowers, grass, and her hair close to his face... the dog. He could vaguely remember smelling a dog nearby. His heart began to beat rapidly! Never had he heard of projecting into an image! If it was possible at all, surely there would have been documentation of it before. He glanced at the photo of his father, lying on the bed near death. Was it possible? Could he project into his father's room without them knowing? He smiled slowly. He would attempt it, at least one time before his father passed, or Heath would die trying. Heath contemplated his decision of trying to see his father before he was gone, knowing full well that his handlers would know when he began his trance-like state. He studied the sensors embedded in the wall, knowing that their very existence was all that held him within the confines of his room. He quietly bit into an apple left over from lunch, and chewed while he stared at the portraiture of his father lying in the hospice bed. He appeared so old and tired, a mere shadow of the man he remembered. Once again, Heath stretched out on the cot with his hands underneath his head, and his breathing became slow and steady. Glancing up at the calendar he again thought of the possibilities of projecting into an image. He had always been told that it was impossible, that he would need 'nudges' of energy pulses to herd him to where he was needed. His handlers treated him like cattle as they pushed him along a set path toward his next victim. Like tunnel vision, his eyes locked upon the image, his peripheral elongating and becoming blurry. Once again he was there, on the grass, birds chirping from the nearby trees. He felt the soft, summer breeze once again. The warmth of his jacket covering his shirt caused little beads of sweat to rise upon his lip. To his ears he could hear the rhythmic breathing of the dog just behind him and the earthy smell of its breath as it labored in the warm sun. Heath could make out how the dapper collar felt against his neck. Carefully Heath opened his eyes. Across his knee he felt a walking cane; her wide hat with a very broad rim lay just at his fingertips. Almost in his lap was a spectacularly beautiful young woman, her honey blonde hair piled upon her head, held in place by a long pink ribbon. Her nearness brought a soft wisp of perfume to his senses, a delicate scent of lavender that seemed to swirl around her. He could feel her soft body as it leaned against him for support. Beneath him he felt the ground, the well-manicured grass surrounding the two of them as they were enveloped in the moment. A basket of daisies lay just beyond, the young beauty beside him creating a chain of the flowers. He looked upon her smooth cheek, so inviting it was to his kisses. Leaning forward, he gave her a quick peck; she did not recoil or spurn his advance so he leaned in again. She turned her head, her blue eyes sparkled with delight, and then with a smile, she kissed him full upon his lips as young lovers would. Heath felt the warmth of her lips; the softness of hers against his own created a stir within his stomach. As the two lovers parted, he felt a jarring that knocked him over onto the floor. Once again he was back within the gray walls of his cell. "I said get your ass out of bed!" Again one of his handlers kicked at him as he laid half in and half out of his cot. "Got a target here for you to do your thing on." "Go to hell!" Heath hissed, narrowly avoiding a swipe of the burly man's hand. "Shut up, punk, or your father will feel the brunt of our anger!" He threw a manila envelope at him and walked out of the room. Heath opened the file and dumped the contents upon the bed. "Bastards!" he shouted at the closed door. As he began to scour through the files on the 'target', he again glanced at the photo of his father, and then his eyes returned to the calendar. Heath now knew beyond a shadow of doubt that Astral Projecting into an image was entirely possible...or, perhaps he himself had evolved to that ability. He smiled, for it appeared that somehow he had advanced well beyond their rudimentary measures. He knew what was expected of him, so he picked up the file of the man who had become the most recent target. Without the monitors seeing, he held the photo of his father, shielded from view of the two cameras in the opposite corners of the room. To them, he knew it would look as though he was studying and memorizing the papers in his hand. He began to concentrate on the photo, the tunnel vision drawing his mind forward and into the image. Beeping came to his ears, and the smell of medicine alerted him that he was within the room of his father. Outside he could hear the conversations at the nurses' station, so he moved close to his father and reached out, touching his hand. With heavy eyes he looked upon his son for the first time in many years. "You have come at last, my son." His voice muffled from the oxygen mask on his face. "I have been waiting for a long, long time." "I don't have much time, father. Once they know I have escaped the room, they will pull me back by my Silver Thread." He kissed his father upon the forehead. "I wish I could have taken you from here before you die and do over all of the years we have missed." He smiled through his oxygen mask, and slowly raised an old photo in his withered hand. "I won't be long now, my son." The youth looked at the photo; it was of his parents when they were first married. They were leaning out of an old 1940 Plymouth Business Coupe, mugging for the camera. Heath realized then, that there was more to his father than he had thought. Dying, his father had been waiting to see Heath one last time. Now that they had reconnected, it could be time for him to go. As if on cue, he mouthed the words to his son. "I love you, son." Tears began to cascade down on Heath's cheeks, for he knew he would never look upon his father's face again. Yet there was something about his father's courage that buoyed the young man's spirits. "I'll not say good-bye, Pa... until we meet again. I love you...!" He choked out the words as he reached forward to take hold his father's hand. The old man gently grasped Heath's, and lowered his eyes to the ancient photo. His father's stare became intense and focused, for only a moment he turned them on his son and mouthed the words...break the thread. Slowly his tired eyes returned to the photo and became intently focused. As the distraught youth looked on, his father slowly closed his eyes. Moments later, he ceased to breathe. Heath stepped away from his father's hospital bed, sadly he allowed the 'Silver Thread' to slowly draw him away. Within moments he was lying prone on his cot against the wall of his cell, the photo of his father still held in his hand. Glancing down at the image, he knew he must act quickly, for once The Ghost Project learned of his father's death, they would attempt to devise another way to try and control him. Sitting up quickly he walked to the window and looked out, the unchanging scene of countless other days like today lurked in his mind. He knew that his father was no longer in pain, finally free to be with his wife once again. Like a bolt out of a clear blue sky, Heath sat down hard. His knees weakened until they would no longer hold his weight. His mind repeated his last thought over and over ...finally free to be with his wife once again... finally free to be with his wife once again... "Could it be?" he whispered incredulously, thinking again of watching his father pass. "Oh shit!" he whispered smiling. There is a point where thought becomes conviction and Heath was at that junction right now. Deep in his heart he knew that his father didn't just pass before his eyes, but rather projected himself across time through the photo. He became giddy as a schoolboy, for his father had thwarted them by projecting at the last possible moment. Heath smiled uncontrollably, so happy he was that his father didn't just die where he lay. It gave the youth a conviction to try anything to remove himself from their vile clutches! Sitting down on the edge of the cot, he wondered how long his father knew about Astral Projecting. Had he always held the ability or was it something new that he just developed? It didn't matter to the youth; he had escaped and now Heath could have his chance too. But where would he go? He had tried before to project using only his thoughts to create the trance, without anything to focus on each time, it was like a car upon an icy road and he would slide horribly out of control. No, he needed a target... "Target," he whispered, remembering the file lying upon his bed. "Oh, shit!" he swore to himself as he realized that they would be expecting news from the outside that he had accomplished his mission. He again glanced at the photo of his father laying in bed, sickly and pale. Heath knew that his passing would soon reach the men who ran 'The Ghost Project'. One question nagged at the back of his mind: how could he separate from the 'Silver Thread' without being lost 'in-between'? His cell door suddenly swung open so hard that it banged against the wall. His gaze quickly darted up, startled from the sound. Suddenly appearing in front of Heath stood one of his handlers. He was a big man who had no liking for the youth. "Been busy I see." He snatched the photo from Heath's grasp. "Figured killing him would get you free of your sentence with 'The Ghost Project', did ya!" "I didn't kill anyone!" Heath snapped back in defense of himself. It was apparent that the handlers thought he killed his own father in an attempt to be free. The man roughly jerked Heath from the bed and threw him across the room. "We have ways of convincing you to stay the course and do your little job!" "I'm no assassin! I won't do it anymore!" he screamed as he was thrown into his dresser. While he scrambled to his feet, the man had overturned his cot and was advancing menacingly toward Heath. "Sure you will, kid, or I'll kill you with my own hands!" His big hands grasped the youth by his shirt and flung him into the corner of the room. As Heath struggled to stand, he was struck with a chair upon his back. In pain he fell against the wall and was struck again, as a chair leg came into contact with the wall it broke and rained down wood and splinters upon his head. Heath slid to the floor in pain, and was forcefully yanked to his feet. Bloody and battered, the big man shook him like a rag doll. "You got a half hour to fulfill your obligation to 'The Ghost Project'...you fail and I'll make sure you wished you was dead!" With brute force, he threw the young man into the corner, causing him to fall over the metal frame of his cot. In a heap upon the floor the youth lay, his eye severely swollen and blood running down from a wound on his cheek. The man looked about the room and saw the photo laying on the floor where it had fallen, bending down he picked it up and then smiled evilly. "Looks as though you may have dropped something." He grasped it in the center and began to tear it into tiny pieces. "Would hate for something bad to happen to the photo of your father...like it being ruined or something." He flipped his hand and laughed as many tiny pieces twisted and floated to the floor. "Oops!" he roared. Heath tried to stand but the handler kicked the cot into him, causing the young man to be wedged between it and the wall. "Too bad for you, boy, you've seemed to have used up several valuable minutes of your time." He began laughing as he leaned against the door jamb, waiting for Heath to struggle from the floor. As he began to stand, the handler again kicked the bed frame into the wounded youth. "Having trouble getting up, sonny?" he sneered as he spoke. Heath looked at the small squares of the snapshot as they lay strewn about on the floor. Tears welled in his eyes from the loss of the photo, his last link with his father. With a trembling hand he attempted to pull himself up, blood running from a wound on his forearm down to his fingers. With a great effort he turned his head and looked toward the wall; there tattered and torn hung the calendar. Like Heath, a great jagged wound tore a hole in the image, and part of it was bent over and hanging. The youth again struggled to stand, as his laughing handler kicked the frame once more into him. Falling down against the floor, his eyes returned to the image. He fondly thought back to the warmth of the sun and how the soft grass beneath him felt. Birds had been chirping, there was a soft breeze, and the smell of her perfume filled his nostrils. He felt the cot being pulled away, in the distance he heard someone yelling, "Don't you go dying on me, you little shit." His eyes shifted minutely, for he could feel death closing in. As the youth's eyes once again returned to the image, he could feel death trying to pull his damaged body in. His last conscious thought was of his father mouthing the words, 'Break the thread.' He realized what he had to do. As the tunnel vision resumed and elongated everything in his peripheral, his astral body turned and began to tug upon the 'Silver Thread' that tethered him to his earthly body. In what seemed seconds, once again he could hear birds chirping...a bee buzzed loudly as it flew on by, the sound rapidly fading the further away it flew. He wondered if he was able to sever the cord and to free himself into the world of the image. The aroma of a lake or pond came to his senses so he leaned back. Even through closed eyelids he knew it was a sunny day. As his eyes slowly began to flutter open, he realized that something was strangely amiss. His mind raced - he didn't remember leaning against anything, yet a gentle hand was resting upon his right shoulder. His eyes flew open, and he saw a thick blanket of pink and white stripes lay upon his legs, covering them completely. He was utterly confused. He quickly sat upright. From his small hands and cascading across his lap was a chain of daisies. A basket that lay close by was filled with them, and red shoes peeked out from under the blanket... as he leaned forward, surrounding his delicate wrists, there was a ring of elaborate lace like that of the woman in the image. He leaned further forward, the hand upon his shoulder traveled down to the middle of his back. Though the caress was gentle, the feeling that raced through his body was troubling. Heath held his hand out slightly, examining the delicately tapered fingers with their elongated nails. His foot moved, his eyes quickly traveled downward. Diminutive feet were encased in tiny red feminine shoes... was this him, was he now a - she? She began to attempt standing, the cumbersome dress making the effort nearly impossible. The young man stood quickly and offered his hand, so she took it and he pulled her to her feet. Not exactly sure on what to do, she struck out walking slowly, her long pink striped dress flaring out with each thrust of her tiny foot. She pulled up short at the edge of the pond, and the young man followed and stood just behind her. "Catherine, I know I am unable to offer you the grand life you deserve, but I will give to you everything I am able if you will only say... yes." She could feel him watching her as he slowly approached her side. Behind them both, the dog raised its head and thumped his tail against the grass, once satisfied that they weren't going far, he laid his head back down; preferring lazing in the sun to walking at the moment. Her mind raced as she tried to sort out her memories and her feelings. She began to slowly walk along the pond's edge, closely followed by her young suitor. While he talked, she wandered over a small bridge and onto a gazebo, her long skirt swaying with each step she took. The gazebo rose above the water; she gracefully moved toward the rail, and placed her tiny hands there in support. The young man stood at the bridge, just inside the shadow of the gazebo. His expression held hope that his love would answer in the way he desired. She looked down into the water and saw her reflection looking back. She was beautiful! The solid pink bodice was broken only by the ruffles of her blouse. Her age proclaimed by a youthful bosom - she could be no older than twenty. The reflection she cast was of a lovely young woman in the prime of her life. Behind her she could just make out the young man who had inched up and was only a few feet away. Her mind was in disarray; somehow she had done what was not possible and projected herself into a calendar image of a long ago painting! And the fact that she was still here spoke volumes to the young woman! She thought back to what seemed like only minutes before - she was hurt and beaten when she projected. She remembered attempting to sever the 'Silver Thread' as she settled into the image. As she leaned forward and rested her head upon the back of her forearms, she could hear the gazebo boards creaking as the young man adjusted his stance. She thought back to how she had been treated while working with 'The Ghost Project', and compared it to how she felt so free now... could she return? Did she even want to return? She thought about the idyllic image that Rockwell portrayed, the young lovers sharing a tender moment in the grass. Wasn't that what she wanted all along, to be anywhere but working as an assassin? She felt a gentle touch upon her back, just above her waist which sent chills racing up her spine. When she looked at the young man, he smiled in return. Just the mere emotion sent a multitude of butterflies flying within the pit of her narrow waist. She found herself smiling back. She knew it was impossible to occupy space in an image, but somehow she was here and it all seemed like a 'new' reality to her. Her mind was still hers, although it too seemed to lean toward the female persuasion. How was this possible? What about the 'Silver Thread' - should she expect to be immediately yanked back into the world from once she came? The man beside her was Edward Sergeant, grandson of a famous clock maker. She could not fathom how she knew his name, but it was there all along with other memories she should not know. She knew that her name was Catherine Forrest, the only daughter of Constance and Charles, made wealthy from the modern shipping trade. She could sense Edward beside her, patiently waiting for her answer. She knew that she may have Astral Projected for the last time, forever remaining within the confines of the image. Deep down she felt content with the answer, but to remain a woman forever? She would be expected to bear this young man's children, living a life that would trap her much like her past had. She studied his tall stature, his handsome face...no, a lifetime with this man would be nothing like being 'trapped', nothing like her past. She inwardly knew that in this 'new' life, she would still be free, that she could make a name for herself beyond being Mrs. Catherine Sergeant. Slowly turning to face him, she tilted her head ever so slightly. Did he truly love her, or was his love for her family's money? His eyes were kind, and his smile made her heart leap. No, Edward was genuine, a man's man with a sensitive soul, and he loved her with all his heart. His eyes were hopeful, though the length of time she was contemplating his question created a slight shadow of doubt in them. Did she love a man she just met? It seemed she had known him all her life...so yes, she did love Edward. Catherine slowly began to nod, smiling broadly the more vigorously she nodded her head. There were tears in Edward's eyes as he gently sank to his knee and removed the ring from his vest pocket. "Catherine my love, will you do me the honor? Will you become my beloved bride? "Yes, my love," she squeaked with emotion. Without a second thought, she allowed him to raise her hand as he slowly slipped the ring upon her finger. "We may never be as wealthy as you are used to, but we will forever be happy." He leaned forward and tenderly kissed the small hand he held. She smiled at him, as her love for him seemed to envelope her completely into 'Catherine'. "As long as we are together, I will be happy." "Even after the children come along?" he whispered as he rose to his feet. "Even after..." She smiled and paused. "No, it should be...forever after." He drew her close and kissed her sensuous upturned lips. The passion he had for her was intense, and the kiss seemed to her as one for the ages. But wasn't it always supposed to be that way with young love? "Come, my Catherine, let us announce our engagement to the families! By the way, my love, when should we set our date?" He paused and turned toward her the moment their feet returned to the shore. She smiled coyly. "Please let it be soon. I don't think I could stand a long engagement!" *** Was she trapped somewhere in an old calendar, or did her presence within the image, create a reality that was just as real from the other side? Either way, she was where she wanted to be, free and content, with the one she loved. I would like to thank JP for all of his hard work helping me with my story. It is greatly appreciated!