I think it always was there, this unsettling feeling, this strange disquiet inhabiting dark peripheries.
It was always there throughout my childhood, in somber stares and silent pondering, giving rise to doubts and questioning far beyond my years.
None but Nan understood it and she bed-ridden from what Father called non compos mentis but Mother dismissed as hardening of the arteries.
I understood it to mean old age.
Still, things happened around Nan that didn’t happen around others in the family and I spent long hours with her up in her room.
I state all this as an apologia pro vita mea and an explanation for seven years of Latin inevitably leading to a vocation in the church which I forsook, mea culpa, to pursue a career as a psychiatrist.
Laying a ghost was not a respectable career choice, nor being an exorcist, so I settled on exploring the dark cave of the Psyche and conversing with its residents spirits.
But it wasn't easy spending long nights in darkened hospitals reading through patients' records and by third year I was slowly sinking until rescued by Sara Kent, one writ with me in sour misfortune's book―an angel who took pity upon me.
"How long have you been sitting here tonight, Malachi?"
I shielded my eyes against the glare from the reading lamp and saw beautiful Sara looming like a wraith on the edge of the circle of light.
"Does it matter?" I called out.
"It does, because I'm starving and you haven't had supper either. Let's call it a night and head to Cyrano's."
"Oh please, I'm not in the mood for a pub atmosphere."
She came over and put her silken arms around me,"Of course, you're not, Love―I meant downstairs in the restaurant. You can tell me about your discoveries."
She coined the term to refer to insights I gleaned poring over patients' files until my eyes went bleary. But, in all honesty, she was as passionate as I about the field of psychiatry and in those early years we became an inseparable team.
"You deserve better than me," I told her later sitting in Ragueneau's, the downstairs restaurant part of the tavern.
"We're kindred spirits, " she laughed, "we're not just soul mates, but twin flames―the same soul cut in two. I'd be lost without you."
I leaned across and kissed her. She was right but I wanted to give her so much more, perhaps the good life, the conventional suburban house and picket fence.
"Don't even go there," she smirked, reading my mind, "We're young and have lots of time for children but right now we have work to do."
Our work at the moment consisted in helping Sara's friend, Sonya Orlov who was troubled by past trauma and a frightening presence that made her life hell.
Sonya was an intensive care nurse who recently purchased an old farmhouse on the outskirts of Toronto. The moment she moved into the house she began experiencing strange phenomena.
We both felt great compassion for the young woman who was exhausted from work and a flood of paranormal activity that overwhelmed her.
We promised to spend the weekend with her assessing the situation, so the following morning being Saturday, we drove out to her house.
It was obvious what attracted Sonya to the place—it was situated on a small road near a tiny woods and had a small plot of land.
The house had been built in 1870 and was originally part of a large farm, but the house and the small plot was all that remained. It was built of local fieldstone and had a rustic charm.
It was a misty and rainy morning with the sky overhead lowering and the gloomy weather seemed a harbinger of a weekend of storms.
Sonya was relieved to see us and made coffee and lit a fire in the huge main floor fireplace.
"Did you have a good night?" Sara asked.
Sonya nodded, "It was surprisingly quiet and peaceful—almost made me feel foolish for inviting you both out in such miserable weather."
"It's always the way things go," I smiled. "It's like an illness whose symptoms disappear the moment you visit a doctor. Don't be fooled by a temporary lull. We've come to expect such things."
My words reassured her we understood the problem and would take her concerns seriously regardless of conditions at this moment.
Sara patted Soya's hand to encouraged her. "Tell Malachi what you've told me about what types of things you've been experiencing."
"I feel I'm constantly being watched. It's an oppressive feeling. And things happen, such as objects falling off the table or shelf for no apparent reason and power failures."
I nodded. "That would wear on your nerves. Have you seen any manifestations or apparitions?"
"Yes," she whispered, "not in the house, but in the fields and woods—I sometimes glimpse an older man dressed in grey clothing but he vanishes as suddenly as he appears."
I moved to the window and drew the curtains aside. "Can you point out the places where you've seen him?"
"Two places mainly—at the edge of the woods and up on that small ridge that runs along behind the house."
"And you’ve seen no manifestations inside the house?"
She nodded, "That's right—only a prickly feeling at the nape of my neck and the sense I'm being observed."
I glanced in Sara's direction. "We'll take a walk later and get a closer look at those locations."
Sara nodded and asked her friend, "Is there anything in the house that upsets you or you feel is unusual or uncomfortable in some way?"
"The back bedroom," Sonya answered, "I intended to use it for a sewing room, but I never go in there. For some reason, I find it oppressive.”
I knew without seeing the room it wasn’t the house but Sonya who was oppressed and Sara and I were determined to find out why.
