Free What Dreams May Come by Richard Matheson Page A

that we desire anything too novel in the way of dwelling places.” He made a welcoming gesture. “But come inside, Chris.”
    We walked into Albert’s home.
    Thoughts are very real
    MY FIRST IMPRESSION, as I entered, was one of absolute reality.
    The room was immense, beamed and paneled, furnished with impeccable taste—and filled with light.
    “We don’t have to worry about ‘catching’ the morning or afternoon sun,” Albert told me. “All rooms get the same amount of light at all times.”
    I looked around the room. No fireplace, I thought. The room seemed made for one.
    “I could have one if I wished,” Albert said as though I’d voiced the thought. “Some people do.”
    I had to smile at the ease with which he read my mind. We’d have a fireplace, I thought. Like the pair of fieldstone fireplaces we had in our home. For atmosphere mostly; they provided little heat. But Ann and I liked nothing better than to lie in front of a crackling fire, listening to music.
    I moved to a superbly crafted table and examined it. “Did you make this?” I asked, impressed.
    “Oh, no,” he said. “Only an expert could create such a beautiful piece.”
    Without thinking, I ran a finger over its surface, then tried to hide the movement. Albert laughed. “You won’t find any dust here,” he said, “since there’s no disintegration.”
    “Ann would certainly like that,” I told him. She always liked our house to be immaculate and California being what it is, she always had to do a lot of dusting to keep the furniture polished.
    Standing on the table was a vase of flowers—brilliant shades of red, orange, purple and yellow. I’d never seen such flowers. Albert smiled at them. “They weren’t here before,” he said. “Someone left them as a gift.”
    “Won’t they die now that they’ve been picked?” I asked.
    “No, they’ll stay fresh until I lose interest in them,” Albert said. “Then they’ll vanish.” He smiled at my expression. “For that matter, the entire house would, eventually, vanish if I lost interest in it and left.”
    “Where would it go?” I asked.
    “Into the matrix.”
    “Matrix?”
    “Back to its source to be reused,” he explained. “Nothing is lost here, everything recycled.”
    “If mind creates it and loss of interest can un-create it,” I said, “does it have any reality of its own?”
    “Oh, yes,” he said. “It’s just that its reality is always subject to mind.”
    I was going to ask more but it all seemed too confusing and I let it go as I followed Albert through his house. Every room was large, bright and airy with massive window openings which overlooked the luxuriant scenery.
    “I don’t see any other houses,” I told him.
    “They’re out there,” Albert said. “It’s just that we have lots of room here.”
    I was going to comment on the absence of a kitchen and bathrooms when the reason became obvious. Clearly, the bodies we possessed did not require food. And, since there was neither dirt nor disposal, bathrooms would be superfluous.
    The room I liked best was Albert’s study. Each wall had a floor-to-ceiling bookcase packed with finely bound volumes and there were large chairs, tables and a sofa on the polished wood floor.

Unknown
    To my surprise, I saw a line of bound scripts on one of the shelves and recognized the titles as my own. My reaction came in layers—surprise first, as I’ve said, then pleasure at seeing them in Albert’s home, then disappointment that I’d never had my own scripts bound while I was on earth.
    My last reaction was one of shame as I realized how many of the scripts dealt with subjects either violent or horrific.
    “I’m sorry,” Albert said. “I didn’t mean to disturb you.”
    “It’s not your fault,” I told him. “I’m the one who wrote them.”
    “You’ll have lots of time to write other things now,” he reassured me. Kindness, I know, kept him from saying “better” things.
    He gestured toward