Free The Reincarnation of Peter Proud by Max Ehrlich

lives, with a past lives chart. Fifty dollars. And then there’s the Spiritual Healing reading. That includesnot only your past lives, but a spiritual message from Miss Bird on your present problems. That’s seventy-five dollars.”
    Live it up
, he thought.
Go for broke
.
    “I’ll take the Spiritual Healing readings.”
    “I think that’s wise, young man,” said Elva Carlsen. “Very wise. We have so many problems these days. So many. You wouldn’t believe the people who come in here looking for help. Now, if you’ll wait a few moments, I’ll see if Miss Bird is ready to receive you.”
    She bustled off, and Peter surveyed the room. The furniture was old-fashioned, Grand Rapids style—upholstered, with antimacassars. Peter was vaguely disappointed. He had expected something more exotic, like lithographs of Indian deities, statuettes of Buddhas, astrology charts, psychedelic sunbursts, incense—anything to illustrate that A Mystic Lives Here.
    He knew that Miss Bird could afford a much more elaborate establishment than this. Her fees for her readings were obviously fat. Such fees would be normal, or perhaps above normal, for any respectable psychiatrist. He assumed that this simple and humble setup was calculated. Edgar Cayce had been a simple and humble man, living in very plain surroundings. And Verna Bird, he understood, was a disciple and admirer of Cayce’s. If you are an apprentice to the master, you emulate the master. The difference was that Cayce had taken very small fees for his “readings,” and sometimes nothing. Verna Bird, on the other hand, apparently knew a good thing when she had one.
    His attention was caught by a series of photographs on the wall. They were pictures of some of Hollywood’s motion picture stars—the really big ones, the ones whose names were currently seen on marquees all over the country. And each of them was gratefully inscribed with a testimonial.
“To Verna, who saved my life”; “To the marvelous Miss Bird, who showed me the light”; “To Verna, God bless you. How can I ever thank you, darling?”
    They were interesting as testimonials go, and in their own wayimpressive. Yet Peter was somewhat skeptical. Actors and actresses dealt in superlatives. For them everything was larger than life. He would have felt somewhat more reassured if the testimonials had been from scientists or bankers or lawyers, or other more pragmatic types. He himself didn’t expect any miracles from Miss Verna Bird. He was a drowning man clutching at any straw.
    The secretary came back into the waiting room.
    “Miss Bird is prepared,” she said. “Please follow me.”
    They went down another dark corridor and entered Verna Bird’s consultation room.
    The room was large and bright. Two big windows faced out toward the overgrown garden and the empty swimming pool. The furniture itself, as in the waiting room, was standard and drab. There were shelves full of books, a desk, and a chaise longue. A tape recorder stood on the table. The only two unusual items were a pair of live Siamese cats, both standing on the desk, staring at him fixedly, and a small altar sitting on a movable tea table in the corner. At least he assumed it was an altar of some kind. It consisted of a small marble slab with a candle on each end, one red, the other white. In all other respects, the room was the kind you might find in any middle-class suburb anywhere.
    “Verna, this is Mr. Proud. Peter Proud.
    Verna Bird smiled at him. “What a strange and lovely name. I’m glad you’ve come to see me, dear.”
    Peter mumbled something about being glad to be there. The clairvoyant was a tall woman—perhaps six feet tall—and thin. She stood straight as a ruler. She was in her late fifties, Peter guessed, with bright blue eyes and dyed red hair piled up cloudburst style. She wore a long, flowing red housecoat and jeweled red sandals.
    “Sit here, dear.” She indicated a chair opposite the chaise longue. “Make yourself