A shocking turn of events

The press of carpet fibers against your skin rouses you to the full meaning of your predicament: you are physically manifested, in a hotel room with a stranger who can see you perfectly well. You concentrate, trying to turn yourself back into a ghost, but nothing happens. To your horror, you notice that you are completely naked, and try scrambling away. But you are not used to being corporeal, and are sluggish. Your "date" watches you contemptuously for a few seconds, then goes over to a dresser, takes out some large striped pajamas, and tosses them to you. Then he sits down in a chair and watches you, carefully, with amused, cat-like attention.

It should be very hard to explain to him who you are and how you got here. And yet he doesn't seem the least bit surprised by your presence. Beyond that: If you can't turn back into a ghost, it will be very difficult to get out of this hotel, let alone out of Paris or back home. Has the man **** you? Does he know what you are and what you've been doing? How much trouble are you in?

Your confusion is interrupted by the sound of the door opening, and you look up to see another man enter. He is also middle-aged, with hair that is starting to grey, but he still has a full head of the stuff, though it is closely cropped. He is dressed in a dark but impeccably tailored suit that even to your unpracticed eye looks very expensive. The new entrant pauses in the doorway before he lets the door click shut behind him, and looks over you, and your date, and the body you had been riding, with an amused eye. Then he crosses and sits in another chair, to join the first man in watching your discomfiture with detached interest.

There is silence for a few moments. Finally, the new visitor lets an irritated grimace flash across his face. "It's very difficult conversing with someone who is so incompletely dressed," he says casually, with a trace of an unplaceable European accent. "Do put on the pajama bottoms, at least. You'll feel better if you do so, and I know I will."

Slowly without rising from the floor, you struggle into the loose cotton trousers and then throw the top on. You're still crouching on the floor when you finish, though. There's no place else to sit; and, to your own shame, you feel safer in the quasi-fetal position.

"Well, that's somewhat better," the second man murmurs when you're done. "And how was he, Laurence?"

"He was a natural," says the man who led you into this room. "But perhaps he was just letting the girl follow her instincts."

"Well, that is all that's required," replies the other. They are silent again. "I thought Kellogg would be here by now," the visitor says with irritation in his voice when he speaks again. "But perhaps he's waiting. Do get on with it," he adds in a louder voice.

A movement in the corner of your eye catches your attention; the girl you'd been riding twitches, and then begins to raise up, her arms jerking as though they are on the end of a puppeteer's strings. Her eyes are glassy and unfocused. With horror, you realize that you are seeing her being possessed by another "ghost". She hangs for a moment on the edge of the bed, and then a shudder runs through her. When she opens her eyes, they are intelligent again, but hooded. No one says anything as she quickly dresses and quietly slips from the room.

You feel your companions' eyes on you again when she's gone, and you flinch when you look back at them. But they seem more relaxed now that the girl is gone. The second man takes out and lights a cigarette with a small silver lighter. "Oh, do say something," he says with playful impatience after blowing out a thin stream of smoke. "You must be full of questions."

You are, you suppose; but your position seems so terrible you have no voice. You just swallow nervously and shrug.

"Oh, very well," says the second man with a sigh. "I can guess easily enough what you're thinking." He taps some ashes onto the carpet.

"To start with, as you might have deduced by now, we are the gentlemen who made that little pill that gave you so much entertainment. Well, not Laurence and me," he adds, gesturing at his companion. "But we have people who know how to make them. Also, people who know how to, er, reverse the effects." He lightly taps the aperitif bottle. "And people who know how to keep track of those whose have taken the little pill."

"Mr. van Ark exaggerates," says Laurence. "It is actually only one man."

"Oh, but he so versatile," van Ark interjects, "that I can't help thinking he contains multitudes." Your mind goes back to the old man in the strange little shop. "Actually, you've never met him," van Ark continues, as though reading your mind. "We keep him in a very safe place. He is very happy, and has never once remarked on the absence of sunlight."

The effect of the two men—so soft-spoken, and yet so menacing—is deeply creepy, yet the accumulation of malice has finally shocked you into finding your voice. "What do you want from me?"

Van Ark's eyebrows shoot up in surprise. "So he has a voice, still," he remarks. "Sometimes the subjects lose them, at least temporarily. That's good." He becomes more energetic in his speech, though he remains seated calmly, relaxing with his smoke.

"The fact is," he says pleasantly, "that we have a proposition to put to you. You are extremely lucky, I suppose. We only ever put this proposition to boys like yourself. That is, boys of a certain age."

"Boys just coming into their priapic years," says Laurence with a slight sneer. How did you miss the ice in his eyes when you were inside the girl?

"What Laurence means," van Ark says, as though trying to soften a blow, "is that we only approach people we think will be amenable to our proposition."

"Teenage boys are so pliant," says Laurence. Van Ark tuts him into silence.

"The point is, Jay," says van Ark. (He clearly sees no need to explain how he knows your name.) "The point is that we are not going to ask you to do anything that you will find objectionable. We are going to ask you to carry on just as you have been doing. Only—" He drums his fingers on his knees. "Only, you are not going to have the freedom to choose your playmates, as you have been doing. We will be doing the choosing for you."

You lick your lips as van Ark regards you speculatively. Whatever the meaning of his words, you can't help fearing their consequences.

"I tell you what," says van Ark suddenly. "I'm not going to bore you with a lot of details and proposals. Tell me that you agree, that you'll accept our little offer. It will make things much easier and quicker and more ... pleasant." There's no mistaking the steel in his voice as he speaks that final word.