from the past with a sepia tinge. In reality they were
as vibrant and vivacious as any modern lady...
Buying a 19th century house is one thing, but purchasing a portrait of a mysterious lady from the same era can add an entirely different dimension.
I mean, I think people buy antiques because they’re intuitively fetishistic. They know antiques are relics from a bygone time and they still possess the properties of being able to bend light and shape space around them, the same way they did, for example, when Queen Victoria was on the throne in England.
So, in a sense, by surrounding myself with antiques I was creating the ambiance of the past and in subtle ways it was permitting me to time travel to a bygone era
I don’t know why, but whenever I stand at the bottom of my oak staircase looking up at the landing, I felt transported back in time to the late 1800’s. It’s an eerie yet comforting sensation and sometimes I stand there for up to ten minutes just savouring the feeling.
I don’t tell Melody Bride that—we already share a complicated relationship since she’s my literary agent and personal assistant, but she’s also beautiful and sexy and to tell the truth, sometimes the boundaries between us get blurry.
Speaking of blurry, a fog has set in from the incessant rain and it adds to the atmosphere of unreality pervading the house and its furnishings.
There’s no respite from the feeling as the rain continues all night and into the next day—a leaden sky stretching from horizon to horizon. The streets are even more misty and the distances gray and smoky. There’s no rhythm or patter of raindrops—just continuous, slow, steady dripping.
At noon, Melody drops by and picks up the last two chapters of my latest James Chandler Mystery—The Geo-Cache Murders and then continues on to her meeting with the publishers. I’m left alone in the house with an entire afternoon to kill. I decide to spend it re-reading Dicken’s Great Expectations. I put a log on the fire and settle in for a long afternoon’s read.
The grandfather clock in the foyer is chiming five and it’s dark and gloomy in the house—the only light, other than my reading light, is from the flickering ruddy glow of the fire. I get up, stretch lazily and walk across the front room to turn on a lamp. That’s when my blood freezes.
There’s a movement on the staircase and I look up to see a woman with a candleholder gracefully descending the stairs. She’s dressed in a floor-length, patterned dark blue dress. I realize it’s the woman from the portrait.
I watch, fascinated as she descends softly, like a parachute gently gliding toward the ground. She walks with such sad, deliberate steps. Just before she reaches bottom, she looks up and sees me. She looks startled—I can see her eyes widen with wonder.
We stand frozen like a tableau vivant—our eyes locked on each other and all movement arrested. She’s tall and rigid as a marble statue. As I continue staring, she fades like a mist, resolving into the floral wallpaper of the wall behind.
Melody comes home. I tell her, but she just laughs.
“You must have been drowsy and dozed off—probably were sleep-walking—it’s not uncommon.”
It is for me. I never had an experience like this in my entire life—that is, up until now.
Since then, I’ve seen the lady twice—always on misty, rainy days and always carrying a lighted brass candleholder.
I’ve gone back to the antique dealer and asked for further details about the provenance of the articles, but as far as I can tell they’re unrelated and I’ve learned nothing more than what the tickets already declared.
For some people, discovering a house is haunted is a deal-breaker, but for me, it adds a bit of spice and intrigue to daily life. I wonder if the woman actually lived in the house and owned the candleholder.
As for rainy days—who knows? Maybe spirits need a brooding atmosphere in which to manifest—a special ambiance or mood where there’s not enough reality, not enough actuality—and where the line between present and the past is easily crossed.
I’m not sure why Fate has brought me and the lady together. All I know is I saw a painted lady and I bought her. Now another painted lady is haunting me.
So, I’m out walking tonight in the rain hoping watery wraiths of lovers past will inhabit the doorways. I’m beginning to enjoy the way mist blurs and drowns everyday reality.
Maybe Faulkner was right when he said the past isn’t dead—it isn’t even past. Maybe it just lingers on and cloaks itself in mist and that’s why rain is so romantic.
I don’t know, but one thing I do know for sure—next time, I go for a walk on a rainy day, I’ll take advantage of the atmosphere and make sure Melody Bride shares my umbrella.