Dear Brutus,

One might be persuaded to believe that I did not want this dark and sacred madness to continue. You'd be forgiven, Brutus, my only friend now as I've pushed away all else to focus upon this fantasy of whispers. For she was real, not just a figment of my fancy. She was really there upon that staircase, sitting on my recovery bed. Her features grow clearer the further I wander from the scene, like a dream realizing itself within the boundaries of the sad space of waking life. Her teeth, oddly sharp, her voice, low and mesmerizing. Her gate awkward, like she didn't belong in this realm–and surely she doesn't. A demon or an angel would trip over our dense gravity, and thus she treaded.     

The laughing men, the glowing eyes, the singing chums. I focus widely and acutely upon whether that or this is the true reality. What folly. Those dreams were insane. They occupied all my waking thoughts. They are what led me to the nightly ritual of applying an amber fluid in my eyes as specified by my physician.

"This'll help the insomnia." 

I surveyed the contents of the vial. "But what is it?"

"Nothing really, a little melatonin and something. N space N, five space five," O, I don't really know what he said, I just took it. Anything to be content with my current reality and apart from those terrible dreams, that basement, that house, no. It is a vacant lot, and everyone knows it. What if!

"You ever read the Mayfair Letters?" asked the doctor, whose office sat below a few suites on 43rd, eight doors from a brutalist concoction of underpasses and towering cement columns. "Sounds like your dreams."

He couldn't have read my little submissions to your site, and anyway, wrong name. I doubt very much that my letters have been seen by too many eyes. 

"No, never." and I grabbed my peacoat, bounded toward the door, and picked up my prescription for refills at the counter. 

Of course it wasn't real. As surely as I was no professor, that there was no Town, no Rand, and no infernal ritual in the basement of no house that sat upon an empty lot on Bute and Nelson. I'm losing myself, dear Brutus. I can't keep track of what's real and what isn't. I've stopped drinking, mostly, but not from discipline, but rather from my fear of falling in again. Again into the strange delusion. That a man of no passion, no renown, and very little dignity to speak of, would wake into a world of being lauded for his thoughts and cheered for his contributions to the upper crust of the fin-de-siecle Vancouver elite! What garbage! What insecurity! Let me not fall prey to self-aggrandizing dreams. And to Rand... that a diamond mogul's fiancee would look into my eyes in such a way. To the depths with it.

Shaking, I hobble through my apartment door and prepare for a nap. I have exactly seventy-two hours and forty-one minutes until my first class of the week. A rest is in order. Let me don my sleeping garments and apply the amber fluid. Let me slip into my dreams, and let they be black as death. I breathe deeply, until the breath stretches to the end of my lungs, lying in thrall to my warm flannel sheets. I drift, and drift, and drift, and then.

My eyes spring open. Carnal theatre distracts the mind from cosmic truths. Rand is as much a part of the manor on the empty lot as I am. We are prisoners, though I have taken a drug to convince myself that time has progressed a century. All I need to escape the prison is to become sober. But how?

Something in the basement beckons. A mystery, a memory that I have blocked out from a great trauma that keeps repeating itself through echoed pulses. Each decade that passed since the incident is a bar of the jail cell. They hold candles as they walk on the other side of the river. I know I want to join them, but going through the water seems impossible, seems as though it might lead to my death. 

I run down the stairs of my apartment building and into the street dusted by desperation, riddled with intent. I run to the source of my beating heart past a panorama of flashing lights and threading sounds. The property on Bute and Nelson pulls me through its front gate, and I no longer have the strength to deny the illusion. I climb the patio stairs, burst through the door and immediately seek the door to the basement.

I hear voices, shouting and laughter, the clear command of Town… now hold on, professor! He’s too late. My body has made my decision for me. I hurl my body down the creaky plywood stairs, surprised that I don’t stumble to my death. A few men stand around a great light that both darkens and illuminates the area around it, held upon an altar table laden with crystals, metal tools, and lines of salt. They avert their eyes from the anomaly, and they instantly sense my presence. 

The men rush toward me, they attempt to restrain me. I look deep into the electrical fire of the luminous being on the altar table. The entity seems to reach out towards me, and sends three more light-limbs to subdue my aggressors. All tension in my body fades as it pulls me closer, directly into its white-hot heart. 

My audience is paralyzed, gazing upon me as I wander blissfully into the entity. The footsteps of more onlookers descend into the basement, led by the gruff voice of Henry Town. 

“Professor, are you sure?”

A hissing voice from the caverns of my sinuses escapes my anaesthetized face. “Yesssss.”

The world goes white. Then black. Then voices. Unmistakably, Miss Rand’s.

“But darling, there’s nothing in Calgary. If they had a Templeton or a Bowen Island, it would be worth the trip, but all we can anticipate is a week walking through cow shit. How should I feel about walking out of the affluence of East Hastings into a slough swamped in bovine blood?”

I found it impossible to open my eyes. The bed beneath me felt familiar. I’m quite sure something happened, but my casual surroundings indicated that whatever happened, it happened in this delusion of the past. 

The next to speak was undeniably Henry Town. “Well, Alfie doesn’t live in slaughterhouse slough, and we’ll spend some time with William and Patrick if we can. I want to see where their development is.”

“If we must. But what do we do with the professor?” asked the lady.

“I think this would catch his interest. You know, before his obsession with the humanities, he was quite well-versed in agricultural sciences. Let’s hope he rises before the carriage comes.”

Footsteps paced from the bed to the door. There remained a presence in the room. 

"I know you can hear me."

I opened my eyes. "Miss Rand."

She sat on the bed and looked deeply into my eyes. "You aren't the first person to go into the light, you know."

The light. There was a lot of information in that light, but my mind struggled to discern what exactly it was. 

"At first he considered sending some of those Musqueam Indians for the sake of experiment. Said he'd convince them it would put them face-to-face with their Crow God or some such tale. I persuaded him that they wouldn't be able to communicate anything of substance if they did survive. Beyond that, it was only a decade ago that they were ravaged by some plague, so they say. They've suffered enough, and to have to become human sacrifices to Henry Town's experiments."

"So that's why you went in? To save the..." The word hung in my throat.

"Oh, no, nothing of the sort. Their lives are of little consequence, they'll probably die out within the decade. Terribly unorganized folks, and not too bright when it comes to affairs of state. It is a shame how they're treated. This is old news by now, but apparently Gassy Jack took a 12-year old Indian girl after the aunt had gone. No, I cannot say with honesty that I was even considering them when I took their place."

"Then why?"

"Well, I should be honest, because I feel we're now connected, in that we are the only two to have gone into the light. But it's difficult to admit."

I hung on the silence. She started a couple of times, but emotion held her from confessing the real reason she cast herself upon the altar. Finally, her shield dropped and she exploded with bold and earnest conviction.

"I absolutely hate it here!" she cried. "It's nothing but dirt and mud, rich developers and poor labourers. There's nothing here, nothing! You of all people should be infuriated, with all your effort, and couldn't even make quorum to build the university. How can you stand it here, in this hell? Even if we did build such an institution, it would be meant only to arrange handshakes between landowners, cattle barons and policy makers. I would rather Paris, New York, London, Amsterdam, even the East. There's no beauty here, no activity, no soul. I dream of an enlightened class, one that thinks of more than how much food they can stuff in their mouths. No one here has any imagination, just childish and self-centred greed. But there's nowhere else for one of my circumstances to go. I must remain here. I know not the sin I committed to be cast into hell."

She seemed to pause indefinitely, so I felt it necessary to cue her conclusion. "And so?"

The blushing lady took a deep breath, "and so, I thought, if this is all, then I had thought... I had hoped the light would be my end. But even the demons in Henry's basement won't release me."

Her glance cast downwards, I was at a loss for words. How could someone so affluent be so ill at ease? The natural beauty alone was enough to vindicate the region, but she wasn't seeing it. All she saw was wealth, juxtaposed with poverty. Many can survive without art. But the absence of a petite-bourgeoisie to an educated dame of society is the absence of life, it is death itself. 

"It would seem that civilization would be difficult to build in such circumstances," I began, doing everything in my power to avoid calling her mi'lady. "But I can assure you, the seed you're planting will grow over time into a renowned metropolis, one of the greatest in the world. It will be a place of culture, and prominence, rivalling New York, Paris, London and Amsterdam in every category. Buildings with mirrored windows will reach higher into the sky than the Tower of Babel. High fashion will not only be worn here, it will originate from here, and top academics, artists, playwrights, musicians and actors will call this place home."

A moment passed in silence, the surroundings plagued with an uneasy air. Then she smiled. Then she laughed, a good, hearty, earnest laugh. "Professor!" she exclaimed, giggling lightheartedly. "You mean to tell me this is what you saw in the light? Or are you using that vivid imagination of yours to cheer me up?"

Easy now. I remembered nothing from the light. If my experience was exceedingly disparate from hers, I would come off a fraud. It was worth the risk, though, for I would come off a lunatic for telling her I'd come from the future. "Yes, the light told me this, and more. What did you see in the light?"

She breathed deeply, her tone turning instantly grave. "Well, the light must have had different messages for us both. In it, I saw the worst torture one can witness. A farm in which a swine of a man had buried the bodies of countless women he'd killed. Children being torn from their homes and families. These children being thrown into schools more like penitentiaries. They were beaten, molested, murdered, and buried in mass graves. Blood. Death. Disease. Horrid hands of vile commodity pour poison down the throats of the innocent. Their toxins turn the people of this land into wretched addicts who'll do anything to perpetuate their consumption of poison. The conditions of apocalypse, genocide, famine, and massacre spread upon this land and its people. What kind of terrible devil, demon or monsters could have wrought such horrific designs?"

I felt sick. I knew exactly what she was referring to, but I couldn't possibly tell her. Did she deserve to know the truth? I'd learned all about it composing my ESL lesson plans to help newcomers to Canada take their citizenship tests. If my students could handle the truth, surely Miss Rand could. 

"Us."

"I beg your pardon?"

"It wasn't devils, demons or monsters, Miss Rand. It was in fact us, the settlers, who were the cause of all that blood, death and disease. The victims were the native inhabitants of this land we've been discussing. We were the ones who did all the terrible things you've seen."

Again, she laughed. "You're a comedian, Professor, you really are. You have no idea what I've seen, and yet you claim that I'm the one who has caused it. You're off your rocker. Nothing I could do comes anywhere near the horror I've seen."

"That's the thing. Nothing we personally do causes this mayhem. It is the inertia of the system we collectively support, the personal greed we all have that lives within us, that builds the towers I've described–at the expense of the doomed victims you've described. Yes, there is beauty in this land, and in our developments, but it is built upon the mutilated carcasses of tortured souls. Our children's children will take no accountability for the crimes of their forebears, and do little to repair the damage that bequeathed their entitlement."

Miss Rand stood up quickly. "No, Professor, you haven't a clue what you're saying. Whatever game you're playing, I owe little fondness to it. It sounds like the delusion of a wicked mind, and I hate you for even suggesting such filth. I think the light has destroyed your genius, which was once so bright. I'll satisfy myself with your previous journals, for the macabre direction in which you've turned is deplorable to say the least. And I have no reason to doubt that my fiancee will concur. Good day. Please decline Henry's travel invitation if you wish to remain civil with our estate. I've no wish to encounter you again. But my thoughts are now reformed. I don't hate this land where wealth can flourish. The pessimism of art is now an unwelcome thought to me. Town is on the right side of history. You, sir, are not."

She stormed out and thudded down the spiral staircase. I wondered. What was the effect of my revealing of this knowledge? I suppose I would soon find out. I got to my feet and completed my outfit. I opened the door just as Henry Town was on his way up the stairs. "Professor! I wonder what's made my fiancee so cross. I suspect she's anxious about the trip. We should leave while it's still early. Are you prepared to travel? Please do not deny my request professor, for I require your expertise and assistance."

"I really couldn't–"
"Couldn't? Couldn't what?"
"Couldn't afford the expenses associated with the trip, Mr Town. Thank you for the invitation, however."
"Oh, we're overmuch aware of your standing, and I won't let you spend a penny. The driver is waiting. I need to make a few arrangements while you make yourself comfortable. See you shortly."

"Wait–" Alas, he was off. The enraged spectre of his fiancee haunted the entrance. I stepped past the threshold of the manor onto the veranda and saw the cold face of Rand in the carriage outside the gate. I trembled as I walked. That face, which once filled me with such joy and promise, now pierced my chest, burned with frigidity. She no longer took note of me, saying with silence that I knew my welcome had heard its death-knell. Step after step, footfall after footfall, I approached the gate, the carriage now as large before me as it ever would be.

I walked through the gate. Predictably, the carriage vanished. The city lights in the early dawn still blazed, the tall towers I'd described to Rand reappeared. Bakers drove the golden-lit passage, sounds of engines roaring down Granville and Main. The air again filled with petrol fumes and baked breads. I took a deep breath. The delusion was done for good. Never again was I welcome to return, and therefore I had the liberty to remain in my own time for the rest of my days. I turned around to face the empty lot in the meek hours of sunrise, to gloat in my success of having defeated a ghost. Nay, a whole estate full of ghosts. And yet.

Before me on the corner of Bute and Nelson was the manor. I rubbed my eyes. I looked behind me at the early morning traffic. I looked back. I walked through the gate and looked up at the house. The paint was different. More vivid, modern. The front yard had a memorial plaque on a sign reading, Rand House. One man stood on the veranda. He looked at me and took off his hat. I recognized the man. It was Stanley Raymond.

"Can I help you?" asked Stanley. 
"Officer Raymond. It's me. From the pub."
He looked confused. "Officer? Sorry, I think you have me mistaken."
"You're not Stanley Raymond?"
"That's my name. I don't think we've met."
"Oh. Okay."
I had no further questions. The shock of the occasion drove me back to my apartment. I climbed the stairs and entered the room. It was certainly my apartment, but the decor was off, and there were many more books, though none of my ESL books were present. In their place were numerous editions of Literature anthologies. On the desk, a much more impressive desk than my own, was a tag. There was my photo and name, along with the title, Associate Professor. Photos lined a corkboard on the wall. My face appeared in the photos, but the places the photos were taken were locations I'd never visited, with people I've never met.

Brutus, I struggle to understand how this is all possible, but I have a theory. I have no idea what the doctor gave me. How likely is it that whatever it was, it messed up my mind? I have eased into my life as an associate professor at UBC, and it wasn't difficult. I picked up the reigns as though I had been on the academic track my whole life. Perhaps I had. 

My dear Brutus, there's no way that I have influenced the timeline of Vancouver's development. What a ludicrous proposition. It must be the drug. As I write this now, as my life as a humble ESL teacher fades, I realize that life in my dream was never mine. Even this apartment in the West End is far too desirable to have been inhabited by a minimum wage earner. As the tenure track becomes clearer, I have already had my documents approved to purchase an attractive two story residence near the University. 

What an odd hallucination, though, don't you think? Could there be any merit to it at all? Yet still, in my dreams, they hold candles as they walk on the other side of the river. What it means is a mystery to me. Life is a mystery, that is for certain.

This is the last correspondence I will address to you, for I do not predict any further hallucinations.

Forever yours,

Professor Weller Mayburn.

Read the next letter:
8/21/25>>