Friday Fiction: The Tzaddik Who Could Walk Through Walls

THE TZADDICK WHO COULD WALK THROUGH WALLS

 

     Mr. Williams, the gray Head of the Department of Extranatural Affairs, walked through the marble halls that led to the obscure office hidden in the vast bowels of the greater government building that had absorbed their little concern after the late Mr. Lincoln's war. In the early morning hours his stiff footfalls echoed distinctly with each step, and the doors he opened and shut clacked with a clatter that reverberated like pistol shots through the empty corridors.

     Williams loved this time of day, before any other member of his Department arrived, indeed before any other person of the bureaucracy had shown up. For a little while Williams could feel that the whole government (or at least this part of it) depended on him. It made him feel like the President.

     Only Mr. Saunders, the old black custodian, who had finished his nightly ramble of the halls and settled in the lobby, would be there to let him in and then lock the front door again until office hours. But this morning when he had come in and greeted Saunders there was a difference.

     " Good morning, Mr. Saunders -- quiet night, I hope?" 

     "Yes sir, the night was quiet enough, sir, but, uh ..."  the man's yellowed eyes darted in the direction of the labyrinthine halls that led to the office. "You already got a customer."

     "Oh? Oh, dear. So early?" Williams quickened his steps a shade.

     It was with a little deflation that he found the bearded man in a formal black suit sitting calmly on the wooden bench outside the office door, his hat politely set on his knees and his round glasses turned into mirrors by the rising sun. As Williams approached cautiously, the other man stood up, unfolding his lanky frame and respectfully holding his hat on his chest with both hands as he bowed slightly.

     "Good morning, sir," he said. He had a slight accent that Williams couldn't place for the moment. "Department of Extranatural Affairs?"

     "Indeed, sir." Williams put out his wrinkled hand and they shook. This close he could see the man's eyes behind his lenses: they were soft, brown, and unsure, but determined to see something through. The secretary had seen that expression a hundred times in this kind of business. He reached for his keys. "Allow me to open up and we'll see what we can do for you."

     The man bowed deferentially and waited as Williams jangled his key-ring at the lock, then followed him inside and sat in the chair in front of the desk when the secretary courteously presented it with a short wave of his hand. He waited patiently as Williams pulled the blinds open, letting the morning sun stream into the room, started a small spirit-stove in the corner to boil water, lit the desk lamp, and, sitting down, pulled a ledger and a pen from the desk drawer. He leaned forward, hands folded together.

     "Now," he said, "How may your government assist you, Mr...?"

     "Ah." The bearded man reached into his coat pocket and brought out an ivory slip of paper. "My card."

     Williams took the card and began confidently enough.

     "Now then, Mr... er, Siz... Mr. Sick... Mr. Sizzik...," He fumbled into silence and looked up helplessly at the man across from him.

     The fellow sighed as if acknowledging a familiar dilemma and sat down looking suddenly tired.

     "It is Szyk, Immanuel Szyk. Sounds like 'Shik,' rhymes with 'stick'," he said, as if trundling out a weary explanation for the hundredth time. "It is Polish."

     "Oh, indeed." Williams flipped open the ledger and cheerfully made a quick note. He referred to the card again. "Kosher Butcher." Another note. He handed the card back and smiled. "May I congratulate you, sir, on keeping your name when so many others coming to our country have had theirs changed for the convenience of their new neighbors. It cannot be easy."

     "I was born here," the other smiled. "It was my father's stubborness that brought him across the ocean and made him insist on keeping his name, even though his papers have him listed as 'Smith.' I suppose his stubborness is what brings me here today."

     "Is he having problems? Did he send you on his behalf?"

     "Actually my rabbi sent me here. When I told him about the troubles, he flat out said it was nothing with which he wanted to deal. But he'd heard about the Bureau. He said this was the place to go, if I really wanted advice. So here I am."

     "Well, we certainly aim to help," Williams said, dipping the pen once more in the inkwell. His hand hovered, poised over the ledger. "What is the nature of your ... situation?"

     Szyk stirred uneasily.

     "I'm not quite certain I know how to describe it. Maybe I should just tell you the story, and then you can decide. I'm sure you have much more acquaintance with these things than I."

     "Absolutely. You begin, I shall write, and in a few moments--" Williams glanced at the pot on the stove "--we shall have some coffee. Now, how did it all start?"

     "Well, it began a little over five years ago." Mr. Szyk leaned back and settled into his chair. "My wife and I -- I hope you will pardon me not mentioning her name; she is another one who would rather not be included in this business -- my wife and I had already been living in my father's house almost ten years while I worked and saved and built my business, in hopes of someday having our own little place. That worked out well for my father, as my mother had passed away some time ago, and the need for a womanly touch in my childhood home was sorely needed. My wife and I were happy enough to be there ourselves, but there are limits to what one can do under another man's roof, and we longed to be our own masters, if you see what I mean.

     "So one day about five years ago we went to see a house on the other side of town we had seen advertised in the paper. It was very nice, and big, and to tell the truth we knew it was far out of our price range, but we liked to go and dream about moving in anyway. It had gotten to be sort of a habit, looking at houses, and a good afternoon out.

     "So the estate agent took us all over the house from top to bottom, and we finally admitted it was not for us, and we loaded up in his carriage and set off down the street. As he drove us back to his office he seemed distant and glum, and at first didn't answer when my wife tried to draw his attention to a house we were passing.

     "'There, that house there, with the sign,' she said. 'What's the situation of that house, there?'

     "He raised his head briefly, then looked away fast. 'Oh no,' he said. 'You don't want that place.' He tried to drive on.

     "'Why not? It looks perfectly fine to me. A little dark, maybe, but a nice quiet spot, some nice trees. Come on, stop, let's take a look at it.'

     "He sighed and sort of looked up to Heaven, then  pulled over and we went in. Everything was dim and dusty, and it was still full of shabby furniture and crumbling rugs and everywhere solemn cob-webbed cases of books, books piled on desks and tables and next to sagging chairs, and piles of papers where the scrambling mice had written strange letters in the dust with their feet. I didn't like the look of it at all.

     "But my wife saw something underneath, some kind of potential or challenge. She wanted to put flesh on these dry bones again. We went over it, gutters to drains. 'How much?' she finally asked.

     "The agent hemmed and hawed a bit, then finally came out with a number. We were stunned. It was far, far below what we could have hoped even in our wildest dreams. I wanted to buy it, then and there, but my wife's suspicions were aroused. She frowned and gave him the eagle-eye. 'All right, what's wrong with it? Termites? Wood-rot?'

     "The agent puffed up like a porcupine. 'There's nothing wrong with this house! It's sound as a dollar! Wonderful location! Handy for schools, library, and shops, you name it. There's only one thing against it. It might just be --and you realize I'm not saying that it is -- perhaps there's a chance that it's a little, tiny bit ... haunted.' "

     "Ah." Williams smiled wryly, handing him a cup of coffee. "There it is."

     "Well, believe it or not, we laughed. A ghost, in this day and age! We were modern, progressive, scientific -- still very pious, you understand, but not given to thoughts of boogie-men or bad luck or superstition -- that's how my father raised me, none of that old world hokum, as he always said. It was part of the common outlook that brought me and my wife together. We laughed, and the agent laughed with us, but he was looking around kind of nervous as he did so.

     "As he locked up behind us and we got in the carriage my wife kept talking and she talked all the way back to the real estate office and there we sat down and talked some more, and the upshot was she bargained the price down even a little further. He finally said we could have it at this rock-bottom price on one condition. It was that we would never try to go back on the contract, and sign another legal agreement to that effect. And that's what we ended up doing, on the spot and in the heat of the moment, and thought we were getting a great deal.

     "My father, when we told him, wasn't so sure. In fact, he was livid. He was sure there must be something wrong with the house, we couldn't possibly have looked at it close enough, a deal so good must have a sting somewhere in its tail. A ghost story? Some kind of smoke screen to cover a real problem! We had been suckers, fools, calves to the slaughter. My wife gave it back to him hot, and they went at it hammer and tongs.

     "It broke my heart, I can tell you, because I saw that, under my father's anger, he was really unhappy and afraid. He had been comfortable with how things had been for ten years, you see. He was the boss, the papa, and when we moved out he'd be on his own and all alone. This was happening suddenly out of the blue, and was going way too fast for him. But my wife was determined and we weren't looking back.

     "So we started with a cleaning, from top to bottom, and getting everything we didn't want (and that was most of it, except for a few sturdy pieces of furniture) ready for a neighborhood sale. I was putting a bunch of books in a box preparing the shelf for cleaning and dusting them up and bending over to put them away when I suddenly was startled to hear a mild but definitely annoyed voice asking me 'What? What are you doing with those books?'

     "I looked up. There was a short stocky man dressed in black, with a long grizzled beard, standing with one hand on the little table next to the armchair. He peered at me from behind heavy black spectacles.

     "I was surprised, so surprised in fact that I didn't take it as unusual as it really was. A stranger suddenly popping up in the house out of nowhere? Like I say, he seemed like a mild, matter-of-fact man. I just answered him.

     " 'I'm getting these books ready to sell. Why, would you like to buy some?'

     " 'What? Why would I want to buy those books? They're mine already!'

     " 'No they're not! They belonged to Mr. --, look, you want I should tell the name?"

     "It couldn't hurt," said Mr. Williams, with a faint smile, pen at the ready.

     "All right. 'They belonged to Mr. Berkowitz, and now we're going to sell them.'

     " 'Well, I'm Mr. Berkowitz, and they're staying right here in the house!'

     "I was shocked enough, but just at that moment my wife comes walking into the room, saying 'Who are you talking to, Manny?' and Mr. Berkowitz jumps a little like he's startled and fump! he just vanishes away, and Sadie screams and faints down dead -- and now I've told you her name, and I promised that I wouldn't." Mr. Szyk looked down guiltily.

     "Oh, there's no trouble. I don't have to put it in the report if you don't want it. It'll just be between you and me," Williams assured him. "And then what happened?"

     "Well, when she came to and we had a good talk about it, she said like fun we wouldn't sell the books, as we had bought them fair and square and nobody, not even a ghost, would tell us what we could do with our own things. 'You hear that?' she said to the air. There was no answer, but I felt a kind of thundery feeling all around us.

     "So the day of the sale came, and plenty of people come walking by, but nobody stops to buy anything. They just look up at the house and they hurry on by. Once I see a good friend and customer walking past, and I run out to see if maybe he wants to get something, but he runs off before I can reach him, looking wildly up at the house. I look up, and there's Berkowitz staring down from the second floor window, looking grim and shaking his head.

     "End of the day we brought all of the stuff back inside. Not a thing had sold. I put all the books back on the shelves in the sitting room, and as I closed the door behind me I looked back. Berkowitz was sitting there, gazing happily at his volumes. I shuddered, and closed the door quietly behind me.

     "After that, he was always around. Most always in the sitting room, but also in the halls, and in the parlor, and in the kitchen, and down in the washroom. Sometimes even in the bathroom I could smell his pipe-tobacco, which, let me tell you, had permeated the whole house before, but there was never any other manifestation there. He was never really interfering, as such, but he seemed to watch everything we did, sometimes raising his eyebrows, looking judgmental, or even bored. Never particularly angry, or like he had any purpose. It just seemed that he had nothing else to do.

     "The one place he never showed, thank the Lord, was the bedroom, and almost every night Sadie and I would sit up and talk, trying to figure out what to do.

     "We consulted with our rabbi, and he didn't seem to believe us. We invited him over, and Berkowitz never showed himself, and now the rabbi, who was a sort of modern fellow, thought we were crazy. And I can't say I blamed him; we had thought exactly the same way when we bought the house. Berkowitz turned up the moment the man had left.

     ""Why didn't you appear?' Sadie asked angrily. 'Afraid to face a holy man?'

     "Mr. Berkowitz shook his head. 'Too embarrassed,' he said. 'Do you know how bad it is being dead? It's worse than being naked, let me tell you.'

     "'Well, why don't you just leave, vamoose then? Why inflict yourself on us?'

     "He shrugged. 'Where else can I go? The cemetery is too depressing, and besides, all my stuff is here.'

     "So what could we do? We kept improving the house, cleaning up, even making alterations. No builders would touch the place. They believed. But thankfully I knew a little carpentry, so we were able to make a few changes we wanted. I am not very expert, the Lord knows, and having Berkowitz criticizing me over my shoulder wasn't helping, but we got them done.

     "Finally we had got all the renovations finished, and the house was in the best shape we could get it. Sure, it was still bursting with Berkowitz's rather shabby belongings, including several thousand well-thumbed books. Lord knows we tried to get those books out. Sadie even tried to smuggle some out under her clothes. She would get to the door, and then some tugging force wouldn't let her pass until she had yielded the concealed volumes. So now they stood, at least dusted and the best volumes in the bookshelves, and others crammed hidden away into cabinets and cupboards. The house was in order, and it was time to have company.

     "Of course, the first person we had to have over was my father. He had wanted to visit before, but we kept putting it off and putting it off. I, for one, didn't want to tell him we knew the ghost was real. In the first place he wouldn't believe it, and in the second place he'd say we were idiots to believe it, and in the third place, I was sure when he saw that it was there he'd say we were crazy for buying a house with a ghost in it, and it was just the fool sort of thing he'd expect from me. So it was with some dread, and after a lot of persistent inquiries, that I finally felt that we couldn't delay anymore, and I invited him over for the week-end.

     "I knew -- I just knew --he would be extremely critical of the house, and he was, right away. The yard was too small, the rooms were too dark, the water tasted funny, and on and on. He was like a jealous suitor who had lost out to another man, and the man was the house. When Sadie finally made a strategic withdrawal into the kitchen to check on supper before she lost her temper, my father and I sat down in the parlor. After he commented on the ugly wallpaper and the creaky chair he settled into, he pulled out a cigar and lit up, breathing out a harsh cloud of disapproval.

     "'So,' he said. 'Where's this so-called ghost of yours? Or did you just make him up in an effort to keep me away?'

     "'Father, you know we wouldn't do that to you. In fact you'd be welcome to stay with us if you wanted to--'

     "'Which you know I don't, so that's a pretty safe offer. I'm sure your wife would really like that, too. I'm the reason she made you move out!'

     "I began to protest, kind of feebly, as he was somewhat right, but he cut me off quick. 'So where's the ghost?'

     "'I'm right here,' came the voice. There sat Berkowitz in the chair opposite him, clothes black as a thundercloud, with an expression to match. 'I've got to say, if that's how you always act, I don't blame them for leaving you. And what's wrong with my wallpaper, anyhow?'

     "Well, I jumped in surprise, but to give my father credit, he didn't. He just looked at the other a little critically.

     "'You don't look so scary,' he said. 'What kind of spook are you anyway? You don't seem like much of a monster to me.'

     "'I never said I was,' the other bristled. 'I'm just a scholar who wants to live a quiet life, read his books, and not have my things thrown out and disparaged.'

     "'Live a quiet life? I think you're past that, my friend. Why don't you move on into the bosom of Abraham, or whatever?'

     "'If you point out the road, I'll gladly be on my way. But for now I'm here, I'm comfortable, and I'm not going anywhere.'

     "They went on like this for ten minutes. When I timidly suggested that I go see how supper was coming, they completely ignored me, and kept on arguing. I crept away into the kitchen and found Sadie smacking the meal into shape. 'Well?' she asked.

     "'They've met,' I groaned.

     "'And?'

     "'It's going about as well as you'd imagine,' I said.

     "'Well, that's just grand. Help me set the dining room table.'

     "After I'd set the good dishes out I went back to the living room. They were still arguing. My father was saying something about the latest scientific astronomical discovery, while Berkowitz was quoting Maimonides. With difficulty I herded my father to the table, and the dead man followed arguing all the way. The only moment of peace we had was when everyone paused while I said benediction.

     "'You can't be much of a dybbuk if you don't even groan during a prayer,' my father said right after the amen.

     "Like a dybbuk would be chased off by a blessing on a meal? And who says I'm a dybbuk? It just goes to show how little you know about the subject. Rabbi Isaac Luria..."

     "'I think we've come a little ways since the Sixteenth Century...' my father began, and they were back at it, hammer and tongs. I don't think my father tasted one bite the whole meal. I could see my wife's temper coming to a boil as course after course passed without a single comment. When I timidly tried to compliment any dish, the two completely ignored the hint, and it just turned the temperature up a little higher.

     "Finally we were finishing off a nice piece of cake for dessert. My father had just wound up some point he was making when he reflexively reached out and poked Berkowitz to punctuate his words.

     "We froze. Never in all the weeks we had lived in the house had we dared touch the dead man. But it didn't phase my father one bit. He just poked him again, and looked as if realization was dawning on him.

     "'Hey!' he said. 'I can feel you!'

     "'And I can feel you!' said Berkowitz, wincing under my father's stabbing finger. 'Stop that!'

     "'Are you even a ghost at all?' asked my father, rising up and grabbing at the other's coat sleeve. 'I thought spooks were supposed to be all smokey! Manny, I think you've fallen for some kind of scam.'

     "'I'm materialized, you numbskull. It's only polite. Ow! And hands off the material, bub.' Berkowitz began to walk angrily away.

     "My father got up and began to follow him.

     "'Admit it, you're a hoax, a swindle, a flim-flam!'

     "'I'm not, I'm not, I'm dead and I've got a certificate and a plot to prove it.' Berkowitz turned his frowning face to me as he started to flee the room. 'This is some old man you've got here. No wonder you ran away from him.'

     "'Hey, he didn't run away, I let him go! He's a thirty-five year-old man, for corn's sake, it was about time he left home!'

     "'That's not the way his wife tells it.'

     "'Leave me out of this, thank you very much!' Sadie yells, and goes sweeping out of the room, off to the back of the house. Berkowitz goes speeding away from my father, heading into the living room, my father hot on his heels, yelling, 'Come on! Fess up!' I threw my napkin down, and after a moment's hesitation about whether I should go see to Sadie, I followed the old men.

     "'Confess!' my father yells, "You're some kind of fraud! You're imposing on my son and his wife in some way, and the poor schlemihl has fallen for it! He never had the sense God gave a flea. If a sheep didn't have eyes, he wouldn't know which end to cut the throat!'

     "Berkowitz kept pacing from room to room, shaking his grizzled beard, making faces under my father's assault, trying to get out of his presence, and my father pursued, needling him. Finally the ghost stopped in the hall next to a piece of wall I had just put up last week.

      "'See that?' says Berkowitz. 'That used to be a passage to the bedroom. They've boarded it off on this side to make a closet. Well, I'm going through anyway.' And he starts to walk through the wall, not only to prove he's a ghost, I think, but just to get away.

     "Well, my father he assumes it's some kind of trick. He's determined to follow the ghost wherever it goes to find out what's going on. He put his hand out, and he walks through the wall, right after the ghost! I'm left on the other side, gasping, flabbergasted, tapping the place I had closed up myself, with good strong pine, too.

     "I started to run around to the other side of the closet, and I must admit it was a much longer trip to get to the bedrooms without the passage. I was just turning the corner when I heard my wife scream. I ran into the bedroom and there she was sitting on the bed, the closet door open and the ghost and my father sitting there amidst the dresses and the suit coats, jabbering excitedly to each other, happy as clams.

     "'That was amazing!' said Berkowitz. 'A wonder! A miracle! A living man, walking through a wall! I mean, I'm used to it, I'm a spirit, but you!'

     "My father blushed modestly, happily. 'I just thought that where you could go, I could follow,' he said. 'I don't know how it happened. Maybe just because I was skeptical, and thought I could, I did.'

     "'You must be a Tzaddick! That's the only explanation! A holy man! A living saint!'

     "'Really? You think so?' I could see my father literally swelling with pride. My wife bounced up off the bed.

     "'You really think so?' she snorted. 'This old goat?'

     "'It's the only explanation. The holy simplicity! The singleness of mind! The only explanation for this ... this miracle!'

     "'A miracle?' Sadie yelled. 'If it was a miracle, it was a stupid miracle! A miracle of stubbornness, a pig-headed miracle!'

     "'A miracle?' my father said to himself, in wonderment. He looked up; a light seemed to shine from his face. 'Berkowitz, I've got an idea.' He walked out from amidst the shirts and clanging coat hangers like Moses parting the waters. He turned back. 'Berkowitz,' he said, 'Why don't you leave these young folks alone and come and move in with me?'

     "The ghost grinned and bowed his head.

     "'I would be honored, Tzaddick.'

     "And so it came to be. We loaded up all Berkowitz's books and tchotkes and some pieces of furniture and moved them to my father's lonely house, and set up a room of his own for the old ghost. He promised, in his turn, never to manifest while the hired help was around in the day. The overcast Monday when we drove Berkowitz over in our own carriage was maybe the happiest I've ever seen Sadie.

     "In fact, everybody was now happy. Sadie was happy to get rid of the ghost, and was grateful and more affectionate with my father for having helped us. My father was happy to have company, and somebody he could always talk at. He even grew more religious, after his peculiar little stunt. And the ghost was happy to talk with him about it, to discuss, argue, and go over his books, especially since he felt that somehow my father was special because of that one miracle. A miracle, let me say, that was never repeated, though there were several bumps and bruises that attested to further attempts. And me? I was just happy that everyone else was happy, and I settled back into a contented daily routine."

     Szyk sat back in his chair and took a huge sip of his now lukewarm coffee. Williams smiled at him.

     "Perhaps your father is, after all, in an odd way, some type of saint. From what I understand, they are seldom easy to live with. But his simple act of kindness, of charity, has brought happiness to you all."

     Szyk frowned and set his cup and saucer down.

     "Maybe he was. I don't know," he said. "He passed away, a couple of weeks ago, you see. That's really why I'm seeking counsel."

     Mr. Williams put his pen down, laced his hands together, and leaned forward.

     "What are your concerns?"

     "Well, it's strange. I mean on top of all the other strangeness. After the funeral, when I went back to his house, I half expected to find him and Berkowitz, still yakking away in the library, but there was nothing. My father was just gone. And what's more, Berkowitz was gone. Not there, not back at his old house, just gone. So I started worrying."

     "About what?"

     Szyk shifted uneasily.

     "So what if Berkowitz was some kind of dybbuk after all, you know, an evil ghost? What if he shortened my father's life or dragged him off or something? Is ... do you think ... is my father all right?" he blurted out.

     Williams smiled gently.

     "From what you tell me, Mr. Berkowitz didn't seem like any sort of monster. And together, he and your father only accomplished good. It sounds to me, Mr. Szyk, that their meeting was wholly providential, for both of them. Tell me, have you ever heard of an ibbur?"

     "I can't say as I have."

     "I can't say I'm surprised. The gentler forms of hauntings aren't much talked about; who needs to? It's the violent forms people worry about. Sometimes a righteous soul hangs around and interacts with people, so it can complete a task or perform a good deed, a mitzvah. And then it..." Williams shrugged. "... moves on. I think your father and Berkowitz needed each other, and then, they didn't."

     He paused, cleared his throat, and looked at the younger man with old, compassionate eyes. "Ha’makom yenahem etkhem betokh she’ar avelei Tziyonvi’Yerushalayim," he said. "May God console you among the other mourners of Zion and Jerusalem." Szyk looked at him in surprise. Williams added, "I'm sorry for the loss of your father. I do not think, in the circumstances, there is anything further the Bureau can do for you."

     The lanky man rose, smiling wryly, gratitude in the soft brown eyes behind his glasses.

     "Thank you," he said, bowing slightly, gesturing with his hat. "You have helped set my mind at ease. What more could I want? Thank you, again, and good morning."

     He stepped out the door. Williams could see him through the glass, looking left and right, then inevitably choosing the wrong way and leaving. The agent sighed, made a few last notes in the file, and tucked it away. Stealthily, reverently, he reached beneath his coat and pulled out the tassels of a shawl hidden underneath. He leaned back in his chair, eyes closed, hands not quite in prayer position.

     "May the Lord bless them and guard them," he murmured. "May the Lord make His face shed light upon them and be gracious unto them. May the Lord lift up His face unto them, and give them peace."

     All around him the great building was stirring into life. There was a clatter, and Mr. Saunders poked his bald, black head through the door.

     "'Scuse me, Mr. Williams," he said worriedly. "The Three-Horned Hodag has got out of the basement again."

     Williams slapped his palms down on the desk and hauled himself wearily to his feet.

     "Oy vey," he sighed.

Notes

The Tzaddik Who Could Walk Through Walls: A Dream Story

A Jewish man and his wife who have lived with his father for years have finally got a house of their own. There's just one problem: the ghost of the little old man who used to own the house keeps appearing. He's not a terrifying haunt and never does anything spooky, but he keeps turning up unexpectedly and complaining about what they've done and are doing to his house. The wife especially is nerve-wracked. When the man's father comes to visit he is very skeptical about the ghost. Even when the ghost turns up he still thinks its some kind of trick. He starts to argue with the ghost as they walk around the house, very calmly but spiritedly, which starts to annoy the spirit. At last they come to a blank wall.

"See that?" says the ghost. "That used to be a hallway to a bedroom. They've walled it off on this side to make a closet. Well, I'm going through anyway." And he starts to walk through the wall.

Well, the father just thinks its some kind of trick. He's determined to follow the ghost wherever it goes to find out what's going on. He puts his hand out, and he walks through the wall after the ghost. He ends up in the closet, right next to the ghost.

The ghost is astonished! He's impressed! He thinks that only a Tzaddik (a righteous man) could have pulled off this miracle while in the flesh. The father modestly explains that he only thought where the ghost could go, he could too. He thinks it was this profound skepticism about what was real and possible let him do it. The ghost wants to shake his hand, and they might still be in the closet with the ghost enthusing and the father deprecating if the wife hadn't gone to get a coat.

They explain what happened and the four hold a conference. The wife thinks if it was a miracle, it was "A stupid miracle! A miracle of stubbornness, a pig-headed miracle!" But the father has an idea. He suggests that the ghost come and haunt his house. Since the couple moved out, he's been kind of lonely. Over there, the ghost won't be annoyed by looking at the changes to his house. The ghost, who has become quite friendly with the father, agrees.

Some years later when the old father dies, the ghost disappears; it is speculated they both crossed into the next world together.

This was the original dream (somewhat embellished) recorded on 5/11/2018. I added the Bureau of Shadows framing as I developed it.