I have problems relating to women—I suppose that’s why I’m experiencing visions of a ghost girl, but she doesn’t talk with me either.
Margot, my therapist, believes the wraith represents some deep seated angst—in other words, I’m emotionally disturbed .
Harry, my publisher, thinks I’m mad too.
“You were only twenty-three, James—much too young to handle the pressures of marriage, let alone having a best-seller.”
“But that’s all water under the bridge now, isn’t it?”
He smiles his crinkly-eyed smile.
Harry’s my publisher, my mentor too—older and wiser—wavy white hair, blue eyes, Savile Row suits—you get the picture.
“If you mean your marriage—yes. If you mean your angst, no.”
“Aw, c’mon Harry—”
He raises a well-manicured hand to stop me, takes a sip from his Pimm’s and whispers conspiratorially, “Now don’t get me wrong, I’m not complaining—made a bundle of money off your angst—just saying, it’s still there.”
“And what exactly do you think it is?”
He winks and sips again.
“Don’t know and don’t care. Personally, I hope to hell you never find out—just keep pumping out those novels and we’ll muddle through, the two of us—all the way to the bank.”
I grab my coat and chug the last of my ale. “Well, I’m not going to find truth in a bottle—I’m going home, kick back and maybe even write.”
“It’s just a rough patch you’re going through, James—all writers hit it sooner or later.”
I pause in the doorway to wave goodbye, more depressed than when I came in.
Harry’s already chatting up the waitress. That’s me in a way—always could get to square one—just couldn’t get past it.
I smile bitterly at my older alter ego.
James Randall, celebrated author and man-about-town—made it, but never quite arrived.
Back home, the house feels bigger and emptier than ever. Why I bought it, I have no idea, other than the fact I just love beautiful things and the romance of a bygone era.
I light the fire and settle in with a glass of Shiraz and a copy of Shakespeare’s sonnets.
Ah, the Bard—there was a man who could write about women, but was his personal life as stormy and unfulfilled as mine? Somehow I think so.
A jagged arm of lightning strikes an anvil—the roar cannonades across the sky shaking the leaded windows.
The atmosphere feels charged.
A white orb, about the size of a bowling ball, floats into the room. Ball lightning?
The orb hovers, floating like a huge soap bubble above the carpet. A prickly, tingling sensation creeps up the back of my neck—strange toneless music is playing.
The bubble pops into a prismatic shower of particles, reminiscent of a fireworks burst, but then the sparks coalesce into a shape.
The girl from my dream appears before me, and I’m mesmerized by her presence—unable to speak.
We stare at each other. She’s about seventeen, blonde and graceful—skin lovely as pale rose. I have never seen a girl so beautiful.
I recover my wits and my voice.
“Who are you?” I ask.
She opens her mouth to speak. Her dark lips move, but no words come out.
She’s standing opposite me in her school uniform—grey skirt, white blouse, grey stockings.
“Can you sit down?” I ask.
She complies.
We sit there staring at each other, but it’s not uncomfortable—I feel safe with her.
She can’t talk to me, so I talk to her—only, instead of the usual patter, I start telling her about myself—about my feelings.
It’s weird, but it seems right for us to be there together—she draws strength from me and I from her.
I lose all sense of time—maybe I’m enthralled, but we sit there until dawn—and then she slowly fades.
I’m not sure what happened that night.
The encounter with my schoolgirl changed me. I still sense her aura around me, especially in the house—sometimes when I enter a room the lights turn on, or a radio begins playing—it’s weird.
All the phenomena seem connected to electricity, as if that’s the medium through which we communicate.
I know the girl’s name—it’s Mariska—I don’t know how I know, but I’m positive that’s her name.
Ever since I’ve met her, my angst has disappeared. I can actually talk to women about my feelings—I mean, I can be vulnerable and honestly open up—I could never do that before.
I don’t know why Mariska can’t talk—maybe she’s an empath. All I know is since I opened up to her, I’ve been able to start writing again—and not just potboilers, but sensitive novels with nuance and depth.
Harry’s happy—says my writing’s been kicked up a notch—a more literary style.
But f I’m haunted, it’s an intelligent haunting at least—I now no longer need to see Margot—although I do miss her legs.
I used to think paranormal experiences were terrifying encounters—evil energy malingering, or negative emotions persisting—now, I realize it can sometimes be as therapeutic as dreams.
It's said that dreaming men are haunted men. I think that’s right.
I know it’s the way with me...
The girl of my dreams sings to me, electrified by raindrops and wind.
My muse sings to me in toneless notes, in wordless lyrics of mysterious force.
