You're down at the local guitar shoppe, getting your guitar tuned, and the owner, looking to make a sale comes up to you with a new amp.

"Try this out. Some fancy new technology, scriff-enabled, or something.  Computer geekery stuff, but it does have a nice sound, and it is the very latest."

You shrug, not really needing a new amp, and give it a whirl.  The sound is okay, but you notice some smoke coming from the amp, so you hurriedly reach over to unplug...

A flash of white light engulfs you, and your whole body tingles, and you see the far wall receding away from you...but that would mean...

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You wake up, a little tingle, and jangle running down your nerves, twitching your fingers, and then its gone utterly.  You feel fine.  Not at all like you'd just been electrified, and jolted a few feet across the room to slam into a wall head first.

You're laying on your back.  The temperature is..not cold nor hot.  Humidity is not bad nor great.  The surface under your hands feels not soft nor hard.  In fact, you feel what you might imagine are ants crawling inside your forearms, and then that fades.  And now its your right leg that seems to be infested, first the outside, and then the inside...

PT

For a few moments I'm afriad that I've gone blind.  The world around me is dark ... but not black.  No, not quite.  It's then that I realize that my eyes are closed ... but suddenly I'm terrified to open them.  I keep expecting to hear the sounds of people yelling, ambulance sirens, something ... anything of that nature would feel right.  Those sounds don't come.  What's wrong with these people? I wonder, I was just electrocuted!

That's when I feel the tingling sensation going up my forearms, then my legs.  The feeling like ants crawling up and down my body sends a shiver up my spine and I jerk involuntarily.  The memory of when I was young and had accidently sat atop an anthill coming back with startling clarity.  My eyes fly open as she begin furiously brushing at my legs and arms ... but nothings there.  No ants ... no bugs of any kind.  It's like they're crawling inside me. I think with a shudder, then I look around ...

You're surrounded by white fog, no, by ghosts.  Of trees, and grass, and a rabbit...

The rabbit hops through you, and you feel an itch through your chest, and then your left arm, and it stops as the rabbit recedes behind you.

You stand up, and you see another rabbit hopping just like the one before, but it takes a slightly different path.

As far as the eye can see, you see..ghosts.  You see a building tower above the trees, a skyscraper, perhaps a hundred feet in front of you.  Perhaps a thousand feet in front of you.

And then like you knew something was there, you look to your left.  Your guitar is sitting on the 'ground'.  Its not a ghost.  Its the bright, real thing.  Its got a couple of your picks next to it, and it is about ten feet away, which is roughly how far away it was as it sat on the counter in the music shoppe.

PT

As my eyes take in my surroundings I can feel my breath becoming caught in my throat and for a few moments I can't breathe.  Literally, it's as though my body has forgotten how.  What the hell is this? I think, and try to supress the fear that is threatening to take hold.

I stand up and wonder vaguely how the ground is capable of supporting me, considering it seems to be made of the same wispy, ghost-like substance as the rest of my surroundings ... including the rabbits.  Why rabbits? I think momentarily and then actually bark out a laugh.  It was a stupid question in light of everything else around me.  Why rabbits?  Why any of this? ... I must be dreaming.

I turn my head then and see my guitar and without thinking I'm walking towards it, holding onto it.  Clutching it like a life perserver.  As though this one real, solid thing could make the entire world make sense once more.

"Where am I?" I wonder aloud.

The ground has a layer of ghostliness, but below that it seems more solid.  More gray.  In fact, you note some larger trees that seem to have a tinge of gray to them as well.

And then you see that there is a line of these trees, and another line.  Not all the trees in each line are gray, some aren't. But as you look further, you get the feeling like you're seeing duplicates, like a photographic trick...

You step through a ghost tree to get your guitar, and feel a mild itch throughout your whole body.

And then you see your first person.

You spot him because you can see a ghostly pile of dirt, and you can see his body buried in it . And then next to that you see an empty hole. And you see a man digging while another man holds him at gunpoint. And then further on, you see the digger again, but this time, he runs.  And his assailant fires futilely at him.

You look about and see several dozen different versions of this same event take place.

PT

I'm not entirely sure what I'm seeing until I suddenly notice the men and the grave.  At first the thought of actually being able to see the man lying beneath the dirt gives me the chills but as I look on I see the same man over and over and over again.  Each time playing out a different scene, a different life ... a shadow of a life.  Each slightly different yet somehow the same.

Like the trees, all looking the same and yet as though they are merely shadows of an original ... and the rabbits.  Tons of rabbits all taking slightly different paths, all living slightly altered existances.  I look about expecting to see shadows of myself, and yet I am real and solid.  Like my guitar.  I know I look completely out of place ... if anyone here bothered to look at me.  The man (and his shadow selves) all seem to be caught up in their respective scenes.  As though they are part of some grand play.

Curiously, my fingers still wrapped tightly about my guitar which I sling over my shoulder, supported by the strap ... imagining almost that this guitar is my shield I approach the closest (living) shadow of the man.  The one held at gunpoint.  Both figures are wispy shadows, with no hint of grey like the few trees and the ground so I'm given a certain sense of confidence that I will not be hurt by them.  A ghost bullet would only pass through me, right?  Like the ghostly grass that as I walked sent my skin crawling, or the branches of the trees the passed through my arms and shoulders, one even through the left side of my face.

"Hello?" I ssid, peering curiously at the duo, taking a deep breath I force my body to relax.  This is a dream, this is most certainly a dream.  A very unusual and creative one (bravo to my subconcious) but a dream nonetheless.  I can play any part I want.

You attempt to speak to the man, and nothing.  Your voice falls out of your mouth, and you can hear it faintly, but no one else seems to notice.

Gripping your determination, you try again, this time yelling at the man.

And for a second, color leaches into the area, and you can see, as through a gray mask, the men.  You feel as if you are there.  Or almost there.

"All right, Senator, time to make one last speech."  The gunman says with a cruel laugh.  And then he sees you, pales staring at you, and his gun trembles in his hand.

The Senator, in his old-fashioned suit, and vest, with a loose tie, and sweat on his balding face turns to his left and stares at you as well.  His mouth gapes open.

And you feel like you should recognize him.

PT

I have a moment of clarity as I stand there, staring at the two mens reactions to my appearance.  The ghost world I had just come from must somehow be some sort of world between worlds, or something to that effect.  And although I was real and solid there and these men were merely ghosts the opposite seemed to be true now.  There faces said it all ...

I'm a ghost. I think, and immediately look down at my own hands in wonderment, trying to check my theory.

Then I look back up at the Senator, as the man with the gun had referred to him.  Something in the way he looked at me spoke of recognition ... or perhaps that was only my own feelings.  Something felt oddly familiar about the entire scene however.  Looking at the man I felt I should know him.  Like I had met him before but could not for the life of me attach a name to the face.

I want to help however, so I eye the man with the gun, somehow pleased to see the way his hand shook, the gun looking as though it would fall from his fingers at any moment.  I speak again, loudly, still unsure whether or not the men will be able to hear me, not sure how long this world of vibrant color will last or if I will be pulled back into the shadow of this world once more.

"You want to drop that gun.  And I don't believe any speech is neccessary for that." I say in an even voice, I feel as though it should be trembling but it is not.  I'm an actress after all, and this is merely a show ... a dream ... or at least I try to convince myself of that.  I keep my eyes on the man with the cruel laugh and reach an arm out to the Senator, beckoning him towards me, away from the dangerous man.  Hoping that the mans fear will make him listen to me.  Hoping that the Senators fear doesn't prevent him from following my beckoning arm.

The gunman holds out a hand, as if warding you off, and then he simply flees screaming.  The Senator, meanwhile, has gotten behind you as you directed.

"Well, thank-you, Betsy Ross."  He says, and again, you vaguely feel you should know that voice.  "Good American ghost to frighten off a scummy Bolshie assassin.  I wonder what his masters in Lubyanka are going to say when he turns in his report since they know ghosts don't exist."  He pulls out a cigar from a vest pocket, and begins to walk away.

"Heh."  He smiles as he lights his cigar, and he turns back to you.

"My home is over the hill, Betsy.  I'll invite you to come in, and I admit I owe you a big favor, but right now, I have need of sitting down, and a large glass of brandy.  Ol' Tailgunner Joe ain't as stout-hearted as I used to be.  My knees are still trying to knock themselves out."

PT

A small smile plays at the corners of my lips as the man with the gun ran away in fear.  I half expect the real world around me to fade away at this point ... but it does not.  Instead the man I had just saved this 'Senator' fellow turns and speaks to me.  Betsy Ross.  The name sounds familiar and my mind is working frantically to recall where I had heard that name before.  As the man continues to speak the thought clicks into my head, like a lightbulb clicking on.  Betsy Ross, the woman who helped sew the first American flag ... I'd never actually seen a picture of the woman but I was fairly sure I didn't look a thing like her, and yet here this man thought I was ... how odd.

But the strangeness did not stop there, as he continues to speak I feel like I'm sitting in my sophomore history class ... Bolshies ... Tailgunner Joe?  My brow is now furrowed in thought as I try to recall details.  Had I somehow traveled back in time?  The Senator, that's why he was so familiar looking.  I must have seen his picture a hundred times ... hadn't I just gone to the little indie theatre by my house and seen Good Night and Goodluck.  He was Senator McCarthy.  Everything was falling into place in logical order and yet none of it made any sense because it wasn't possible ... How could I even be here?

And even more, how could I be here, looking like Betsy Ross or all people?  Had I traveled backwards in time or forward?  My mind felt like it was moving a million miles a sec as I tried furiously to get a grasp on this new reality I had found myself in.

Okay, what are the facts? I asked myself, trying to break things down into beats, much like I would do when approaching a play.  Good 'ol Stanislavski.

Okay, fact: I am the ghost of Betsy Ross.  So I'm not real ... except the Senator does not seem at all perturbed by this.

Fact: That is Senator McCarthy.

Fact: I must be sometime in the 1950's if he is here.

Fact: I'm somewhere by his home ... so I'm in Wiscounsin?  .... isn't that the state he was Senator of ... I can't really remember ...

Fact: Senator McCarthy just ever so casually was saved from being shot by a Bolshie assassin by the ghost of Betsy Ross, smiled and invited her over to his house over the hill ....

Shit, you can't make this stuff up ... it looks like facts are stranger then fiction ... Man, that glass of brandy doesn't sound half bad right about now.

I look back up at McCarthy, Just play your part, Laura, that's all you can do right now.  You are Betsy Ross ... now if only I knew more about the woman.

"It appears I came rather in the nick of time, Senator." I say and offer him a smile, "It would be a pity to see one such as yourself fall into shadow before your time." I figure the more I butter the man up the easier I will be able to learn something from him of what the hell was going on.  "I would be pleased to recieve your invitation.  Ghosts from the past do not come without purpose, but first I must learn from you, of you, of the America of today." I say, rather proud of my impromptu performance.  I had always considered myself terrible at improv and yet this seemed to come naturally to me.  Perhaps it was the fact that no one here was aware that I was acting.

"You know, you're my first ghost.  My father said he saw his great-grand-daddy two weeks after the good man died, came to warn him not to start a school on this land which a year later had an earthquake.  Now, I've heard plenty of ghost stories, my favorite, of course, being about you.  They say you saved Abraham Lincoln from a Confederate sniper.  But the only problem I had was that I figured a woman ghost would want to keep her clothing adjusted for the time.  Y'know, stay fashionable.  And then I meet you, and I see I was right."

He laughs, and you come to the top of the hill, and a gate, and a backyard.

He opens the gate, and you can see his hands are trembling so hard he has to try three times to get the gate open.  He curses under his breath, and looks embarrassed.  Finally it swings open.

"I am profoundly indebted to you, of course.  The state of the nation is good overall, but we have a lot of Benedict Arnolds in positions of power.  Friends of the Bolsheviks who are horrible people.  Far worse than King George who was bad enough.  Some of the people I think honestly want to help, and I pity them. Deluded fools, but well-meaning. Some are fearful--they hunt for an excuse to bow the knee because they fear war. Well, any sane man fears war, but some things are worse, and slavery is one of them.  And then, there are those I hate. They know what they support, and they see themselves holding the machine guns come the 'Revolution'."

He coughs, and leans against the outer wall of his brick house.

"I'm planning on dealing with this lot.  And so they got to me.  Stupid really, on my part, maybe theirs.  But, those scientific materialists didn't plan on dealing with a ghost, eh?"

PT

I walked alongside the man as he talked.  I felt slightly relieved as he admitted that seeing me, as a ghost, was an unusual occurance.  It allowed me to ground myself in some sense of reality.  Made my world make a little more sense.  As he mentioned my attire I was glad that I wasn't wearing some strapless shirt or short skirt.  Although my outfit couldn't exactly be considered in the style of the 50's, my capri pants and slightly longer and delicate white top didn't look extremely out of place.

A slight frown crosses my face as he struggles to open the gate, and I feel sorry for the man.  It suddenly hits me that I'm here, talking with Senator McCarthy ... this is completely unreal.  I offer him a supportive smile as he casts an embarrassed look my way.  I'm surprised to not find this man to be at all the villian history books make him out to be.  And why would he be?

Examining my own beliefs I feel that perhaps I really am on his side.  The whole concept of altruism, putting others before yourself.  Eliminating the great so that the mediocre can all achieve equally ... that is not a world I would wish to live in.  I listen to McCarthy's words, nodding my head.  As he finishes speaking I smile.

"No, I suppose they did not take ghosts into consideration ... not something one takes into consideration often." I say with a light chuckle, concern is evident on my face however as he coughs again, "You do not look well, pardon my forwardness in saying so." then a thought occurs to me, "The man - the one I scared off.  He is not a danger any longer?" I glance briefly out the window to the hillside, wondering if it is even safe to be here.

He is standing over by the bar, pouring himself a large glass.  He takes a restorative sip.

"My doctor is nagging me to lose twenty pounds, and stop smoking my cigars.  And after a long walk through the night, digging my own grave, and meeting a ghost, I can see his point.  A bit shaky is all."

You can tell its more than that, but after a couple minutes, he walks into a back hallway, and comes back with a double barrelled shotgun, a vest pocket full of shells, and a hound dog.

The dog seems to ignore you.

"Bozo here tried to warn me.  So I locked him in the bathroom. Shan't do that again."

He sits down in an easy chair with his gun nearby, and drinks some more.  He seems better.

"I should think we are safe. I don't think he will be back with the scare you gave him, but better safe, and all that..."

PT

I nod at his explanation as to why he doesn’t look well.  It makes sense really. I don’t think I’d look to well either if I had just been through what he had … then again, my own circumstances weren’t much better … perhaps I looked like a nervous wreck as well.

He pulled out his gun then, for a brief moment I’m afraid that he might shoot me - not that it would probably effect me, I suppose I am dead already, being a ghost and all.  But then he explains how its for protection.

"I'd have to agree." I say watching him as he sits down with his gun in hand.  Now that I'm here I'm not entirely sure what to do as I take in my new surroundings.  The house is comfortable enough ... part of me wants to just sit down and have a drink as well - but I'm not sure if the furniture will even support my unsubstantial form.  And I figure testing that out in front of this man would make me look more then a little stupid if I ended up falling through the chair.  So I continue to stand.  Trying to decide what I should do next, wondering why this dream seems so really and why I still haven’t woken up.

You stand there for a while, and indeed, he does look better.  You can tell he is about to drift off to sleep.

And then you feel something.  Like the ground vibrating because a stampede is coming, but the ground doesn't seem to move, nor does the glass he was drinking from.

And then a sensation like you've been drained.

The glass of mostly gone brand is no more.

The Senator's chair is empty.

His gun is gone.

You're about to scream, and you put your hand over your mouth to hold it in.  And then you realize your hand is solid.  You're solid.

Its just Senator McCarthy is gone.

PT

I place my hands on the edge of the table, bracing myself.  My breath coming slightly quicker, all of my limbs feelings slightly weak, drained.  Staring down at my hands they are solid, like the table and for a moment all I can see are my hands agaist the smooth grain of the wood.  I wait for a few moments as my breathing becomes regular again and then look back at the chair where McCarthy no longer sits.  Every remenant of him gone.  It was as though he had never been at all.

And here I was, real, substantial.  No longer a ghost of the past. What happened?  I still feel disoriented from the shift, as though reality itself were playing some cruel trick on me.  Bending and molding itself around me, what was real one moment was false the next.

I consider calling out for the Senator ... but I know with a sense of finality that he is not here.  Its not as though he had stood up and left the room.  He had just vanished.  Completely and utterly.

So now what? I wonder.  And as I slide my hands from the table I let out a soft, "Ow!"  Holding my hand up I realize that I had gotten a splinter from a rough spot in the wood ... and it had hurt.  I can feel the beginning tendrils of fear creeping up my spine.  I'm not dreaming.  I look around then in a slight panic, if I'm not dreaming then what is going on?  This isn't possible ... it can't be possible.

"Where the hell am I?" I say aloud this time, wishing there were someone there to answer my question because I know that I cannot answer it myself.

You collapse into the Senator's chair, and shudder at the coolness of the leather seat.  No one has been sitting here.

Maybe the Senator was the ghost...

You look over to the bar, your gaze wandering about the room.  And then your gaze is rivetted back to the bar.  The bottle of brandy is still nearly full, as if the Senator had never drank from the bottle.

Shaken, you remember your earlier thought about having some, and decide now is a good time.

Then with the cup in your hand, you relax slightly, and you notice a feeling like there was something familiar toward the front of the house.  Rationally, it made no sense, but then you seem to be in the 1950's in Wisconsin...

You go to the front door, and still the feeling of familiarity is ahead of you.  You look out, and across the street, and across the cornfield, and see a small grove, with lights in it, and the familiar feeling points right toward that grove...

PT

I really don't understand why I'm getting this feeling of familiarity.  I know for a fact that I've never been anywhere like this before.  Nothing about anything that has happened in the past hour or so is even vaguely familiar - not even remotely so.  And yet I am unable to shake the feeling.  It's a though it is tugging on me, pulling me out the door and across the field.

I'm sure that I don't have to follow the feeling but the compulsion to do so is so strong.  Soon I'm peering curiously at the groove, looking through the trees to glimpse at what lays in their midst.  What felt so familiar ...

Whatever you thought to see as you saw the lights in the grove, a flying saucer on landing struts was probably not on the list.  In the center of the clearing, the metallic craft sits, with its ramp open.

Outide it, two men ...

Men. Humans.

They converse in a language you're not familiar with.

But you recognize the helmet with the hammer and sickle on it.  And the man with it seems commanding, in his uniform, and his general attitude.  The pistol on his hip in a holster adds to the intimidation factor as well.

And the other man..its the would-be assassin.  And he seems to be happy, and reporting to the other man who nods in approval.

PT

My mouth falls open for a moment is just utter shock.  What the hell is going on ... I honestly have no idea how to make heads or tails of this situation.  One things for certain however - I must be dreaming ...

I creep quietly towards the clearing, trying my best to stay out of view though, the man - the assassin one, he might recognize me.  Would he still think I were a ghost?  I know that I no longer look transparent in the least.

My mind is working furiously to try and figure out something, anything that might make sense of the situation.  But spaceships?  There was no way I could still be back in time.  I'm pretty certain they didn't have spaceship like this back in McCarthy's time.  Then there was the matter of the mans uniform ... he appeared as though he must be an army of sorts - a Soviet army by the looks of it.  The language they spoke, perhaps Russian?  I was suddenly wishing desperately that  I were bilingual.  So lost in my thoughts I was that I wasn't quite paying attention to where I was going as my foot hooked under a protruding root causing me to loose balance.  A few attempts at staggered steps to retain my balance failed and I fell hard on my knees into the clearing where the two men were conversing.

Shit! I thought, Shit, shit, shit ...

I looked up at them with a slightly sheepish smile, "Um ... hi ..."

They stare at you dumbfounded, for about two seconds, and then the army man snaps out a command in Russian, and then English.

"Seize her!"  The assasin comes up and grabs your arms.

"Good, comrade.  See, I told you, this no ghost.  Just technical trick, hologram by other timeline.  Now here we have the operator.  Ist very simple."

"Should I take her on board the jumper?"

"Fool. She might be Network. They carry a bomb in their tooth.  No, we interrogate her out here, after I check the area to make sure no other counter-revolutionary running dog agents of the imperialists are around."

The army guy walks away, with his pistol out, searching for your fellow "running dog lackeys."

The assasin grins at you.  Its not a pleasant thing at all.

"I still managed to kill McCarthy after you stopped me the first time.  Just a one day step back, and boom-boom when he got his morning paper."

PT