The series of episodes concerning the unusual events just before and after the death of my father continues. Coming from some chapters in my memoir, "Wilt, Ike & Me," the series began when my father told me he would never be the grandfather to the child who was about to be born to my brother and his wife. Then I unexpectedly came upon two haunting stories about the death of Abraham Lincoln. And a few days later, for no apparent reason, my father had me make a solemn promise before God that I would say the traditional mourner's prayer for him after he died. He was just 52 years old and in fine health, so I didn't even give it a second thought.  In this next episode, the series gets a little more intense…   Two nights later, Monday night, I had a disturbing nightmare. Someone was trying to kill me. I was desperately running for my life on a deserted part of the beach in Atlantic City, in front of the Boardwalk. It was daytime, but the atmosphere was dark and heavy, like a major storm was coming.   As I ran frantically, the would-be killer kept firing a gun at me. But the assailant, the gun, and the bullets were all invisible. Still, I could hear the loud crack of the gunfire and feel the sharp zing of the bullets as they whizzed past my head and exploded in the sand in front of me. The assassin was hell-bent on my destruction, relentless, and getting closer all the time.   In sheer terror, I ran under the Boardwalk to hide.  But once I did, the whole scene changed immediately. I was standing in a dark cave and everything was completely silent. Before, when I was running for my life, I heard the panting of my breath, the thumping of my feet on the sand, and the hiss of the bullets as they flew past my head. Now everything was dead silent and absolutely still.   I was standing in front of a large, old, brown wooden cross, with hundreds of lit candles all around. A monk in a dark-brown, hooded robe stood in front of it. The hood concealed the monk's face entirely. "Behold! The cross of the Crucifixion!" I seemed to hear inside my mind. I knew it was somehow coming from the monk. Then, oddly, a few complete ideas appeared in my mind. Unlike linear thinking, where one thought follows another, they all became clear to me at once.      I knew this was the actual cross from the actual crucifixion and that things were serious. I understood that it was a symbol for death, commonly used to mark a grave. Then, I got a final message – "You have come upon it." I looked at the monk, then back at the cross. Everything seemed frozen in time, like a picture. The candles had stopped flickering and nothing moved. The stillness seemed to have a presence all its own.    Suddenly, I felt a sharp slap in the middle of my chest, right on my sternum. I gasped in an enormous amount of air and the next thing I knew, I was lying in my bed, in my pajamas.  I was in my room, it was morning, and I realized it had all been a dream, a nightmare. My right hand was resting on my chest. I must have stopped breathing in my sleep and then subconsciously slapped myself awake.  I was pretty shaken and didn't move for a few minutes. I finally got up, got dressed, and had my breakfast. But as I started driving to school, I was still disturbed. I hardly ever had nightmares and certainly never anything like this before.  By the time I pulled into the school parking lot though, I was more relaxed and decided to let the whole thing go. After all, it was just a bad dream. Maybe it was something I ate. The rest of the day was uneventful, and everything seemed fine. And it would have stayed fine, except that night, Tuesday, I had the same exact nightmare again, right down to the tiniest detail, through to the very end. Now I was rattled. This was more than just a nightmare, it was a recurring nightmare, which made it really weird. Then, to my extreme shock and dismay, the next night, Wednesday, I had the exact same dream. Again, I was being chased along the beach by an invisible killer, firing invisible bullets at me. I ducked under the Boardwalk, and it turned into a cave. There was the cross and the monk. And I got the same set of inner understandings, ending with the message - "You have come upon it." Then I slapped myself awake.    I didn't know what to do. Three straight nights of this recurring nightmare seemed really serious. And on top of that, the fact that it had a big cross in it was deeply disturbing. The truth is, I didn't like crosses. They always made me feel uncomfortable. And it wasn't due to any religious differences. It was much deeper than that, a visceral feeling, like getting punched in the stomach.   I felt it the very first time I saw a crucifixion scene, which was when I was about six. We still lived in the Northeast, across the street from the church and I was having a catch with a friend. The ball went over and landed near the front door of the building. When I went to get it, I noticed that the church door was opened. The place had always been mysterious to me, so I thought I'd go in and take a peek.    The first thing I saw in there was a huge cross with a lifelike porcelain statue of a nearly naked man nailed to it. The guy was dead. And there was a crown of sharp thorns stuck into his head, with blood streaming down his face. Thorns! I couldn't believe it. My mother grew rose bushes and always warned me to be careful of them. Still, I got stuck in the finger once. It bled a lot and it really hurt. Seeing a bunch of thorns stuck in this poor guy's head was appalling. The rest of his body was a real horror show too, with whip marks all over it and nails hammered into his hands and feet.  It was the most gruesome sight I had ever seen in my life. It made me sick to my stomach and I ran out full speed, crossed the street and collapsed onto our lawn. My head was spinning, and I was out of breath. But the firm ground and familiar smell of the grass made me feel better. After a few minutes, I calmed down.  Then, out of nowhere, an unexpected fury came over me. I was filled with anger and rage. "Look what those goddamn bastards did to him!" I thought. I was only six, but it wasn't a six-year-old's thought. I felt like I wanted to kill somebody.  Crosses always bothered me after that. Later, in college, I studied the symbol's deeper meanings, along with the ennobling concepts of sacrifice, grace, forgiveness, the soul's triumph over death, and its eventual reunion with the immortal father. And while they're all comforting ideas, the cross still reminds me of humanity at its worst, and of things gone horribly wrong. And I still get the same visceral feeling.  The symbol had played a central role in three recurring nightmares, and I decided if it happened again, I would definitely talk with my mother. Maybe it was time for me to go see a doctor or something. *** That next day, Thursday December 2, flew by normally. My father was leaving for Boston the next day for the big 76ers - Celtics showdown in the Garden. After dinner, I finished my homework, goofed around a little and finally went to bed. As usual, I put on the radio and listened for a while, but I never got sleepy.  I was much too agitated. I kept thinking about my social life, my schoolwork, and the upcoming game with the Celtics. But I knew that wasn't the real reason I couldn't fall asleep. I was just too afraid I was going to have that nightmare again, and I couldn't face the idea of going through it all one more time.   I don't remember getting tired or drifting off to sleep. I was just lying in my bed with my eyes closed and the very next thing I knew, I felt a funny sensation in my stomach, like I was in a moving car that had just come over a hill and was on its way down. I opened my eyes and saw my hands resting on the steering wheel of a car. I looked over them at the hood and realized I was driving my father's Cadillac.   I came down the hill on Spring Avenue and turned left onto Heather Road, as I had done a million times before. Our house was on the corner. I noticed that there were a few cars parked in front as I drove by. I made a right turn into the driveway, pulled up, and got out of the car. I walked around to the back door and into the kitchen. My mother was on the phone with her back to me. She didn't seem to notice that I had come in and didn't turn around. My Uncle Ray, my father's younger brother, was standing in front of the stove. He had his arms folded across his chest and was staring down at the floor. He didn't look up or acknowledge me at all. It was like I wasn't there. I walked through the dining room, into the main hall, and up the stairs. I turned left at the top and walked down the hallway toward my sister's room. As always, her door was closed, but it was opened just a crack. I walked up to the door, put my right hand on it, and stopped for a moment. I stared at the back of my hand and thought, "Well, this is it." I pushed the door open. Sybil was standing in the back of the room near her bed, with a few friends. She looked up at me. "Daddy's dead," she said. "We don't have a daddy anymore." "This is terrible," I thought to myself. "But why are you talking like this? You're twenty years old, and you sound like a four-year-old."  I didn't say anything and walked out of her room, down the hall, and into my room. I sat down on my bed, and suddenly got overwhelmed with an intense anger at God. "Why did you have to do this?" I thought. "Why in the world did you have to do this?" I smashed my fist down on the large end table next to my bed. As soon as my fist hit the table, everything changed, and I was startled to find that I wasn't sitting on my bed anymore. I was actually lying in it.  In another moment, I realized I must have fallen asleep and the whole thing had been a nightmare. The room was gray with the first light of dawn. And according to my clock radio, it was a few minutes before six. Of course, my first feeling was relief. I had just gone through a chillingly lifelike experience that had ended with my sister telling me that my father had died. And now, thank God, none of it was real. It had all been just a bad dream. But in actuality, there had been nothing dreamlike about it. In fact, it had been every bit as real as any experience I'd ever had in my life.  I was happy about one thing, though – at least I hadn't had a repeat of that same nightmare with the killer and the cross, which was a plus. Luckily, that was over.

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