The Light in the Shadows: Beyond the Flat Line

"As far as we can discern, the sole purpose of human existence is to kindle a light in the darkness of mere being."Carl JungTiffany's nightmares were becoming unbearable. Each evening she awakens terrorized by dreams that silence her. Searching for answers, she turns to the Hillman Clinic hoping to solve the mystery of the frightening images she can barely remember in the light of day. She agrees to participate in a sleep study using Hillman's newest technological advancement---the CV7. What the digital monitoring equipment reveals, however, is not typical of EEG sleep study imaging, but a scientific anomaly of unknown origin. What it does reveal about Tiffany's nightmares is shattering in its implications---a buried, forgotten truth she desperately wants to keep hidden.The shadowy, supernatural image captured by the sleep monitoring equipment astounds those who have created the technology. What unseen forces have stepped into time and space that allow the CV7 to perform what might be considered miracles? Could it be used to bridge the gap between the living and the dead? Could it become a concrete conduit between man and God, totally transforming how we communicate with those who dwell beyond the flat line?

Andre's love for the camera grew out of the gloom that permeated his west Philadelphia row home. Photographs were his only way of capturing life and light, and the snapshots he took eventually became his mother's only link to the world outside. Even when Helen Monet was diagnosed with cancer, she still continued to be the focus of his father's rages.As his mother grew sicker and weaker, she spent more and more time lying in her bed watching the small black and white portable television on her dresser. Andre took to coming home immediately after school to be with her. She eventually grew so frail she had difficulty getting the lids off the bottles of prescriptions she was supposed to take. Endless containers of pills that never seemed to do any good. Her bedside table was littered with her medicine and old photographs of Freddie. Andre was only two years old when his baby brother was found lying in his crib, not moving, not breathing. He barely remembered his brother except through the scant amount of pictures that still existed of him."If Freddie woulda lived, he woulda played sports. Probably woulda been captain of the football team. He wouldn't of wasted his time running around with a damn camera taking a bunch of stupid pictures."Freddie became his father's fantasy. The impossible fairy tale son Andre could never be.Helen Monet died on Good Friday. The day was unseasonably warm and sunny, and Andre had spent the afternoon reading to his mother from the True Story magazines he secretly bought for her and kept hidden under his matteress."Thank you Andre," his mother said, managing a barely perceptible smile, "I don't have any energy to read to myself today.""It's okay Mom," Andre assured her, patting her hand. "Do you want to see my new pictures?"Helen grimaced and settled further into her pillow. "Let me rest awhile first," she whispered. Andre sat with her for several minutes until her slow, steady breathing told him she was asleep. He quietly left her bedroom and made his way down the hallway to his own room.He spent the better part of an hour searching through his piles of photographs. The pictures he had taken were at the bottom of the stack, snapshots of an afternoon at the zoo. Andre's focus had not so much been the pictures of the animals, but more so the images of the children seeing them up close for the first time. Expressions of awe and wonder captured emotionally frame after frame.The sounds themselves were not unusual. His mother often groaned or called out in her sleep when the pain was particulary bad, but something about the noise was different that day. He carefully put his photographs back into a pile, and made his way back down the dim hallway towards his mother's room. Perhaps she had awoken and decided to turn on her television.His mother's voice was stronger than he had heard in months. He stood quietly in the doorway as he studied the scene in front of him. His mother was smiling and talking and her eyes reflected a peace he had never seen in her before.Andre crept closer to the bed, but she didn't seem to notice him enter the room. She nodded and raised her trembling hand to point towards the wall."Mom?" asked Andre quietly."I know," said Helen, never wavering her focus. "I'm glad."Andre spoke her name again.This time his mother laughed. A sound Andre had not heard in months."It's so beautiful," she said, still staring at the wall.Andre sat down softly on the side of the bed, afraid to breathe. Terrified to disturb what was happening. He finally forced himself to look at the wall and saw what he expected. Faded, flowered wallpaper."Freddie," she whispered. Her eyes closed.The smile gone from her face, her voice silenced forever. Helen Monet passed away at 2:46 that afternoon.Later that evening, as the house slowly filled with neighbors and the aroma of casseroles, Andre sat alone on the back step. He didn't tell anyone what he had heard. He didn't tell anyone what he thought he saw in the seconds after her death.An almost imperceptible mist rising from his mother's body.