the oldest and strongest kind of fear is fear of the unknown.
— H.P. Lovecraft
I’m a writer—a journalist like Hemingway—although, where that leaves me, I have no idea.
I’m in limbo between Ben Church, my assignment editor, who thinks I’m a hack and Bill Hay, the editor-in-chief, who wants me to churn out tawdry features on haunted houses to appease The Telegraph’s readers.
I get a sick feeling each time I’m summoned to Ben Church’s office knowing he’s waiting behind his imposing oak desk, swiveling impatiently in his chair, while staring out the window at the lake.
What the hell is out there on those gunmetal waters, anyway?
I’d like to do an investigative report on that—find out what makes Ben Church run, or what makes him obsess over the changing moods of clouds and waves.
But I suspect he’s just like me—a man of hidden stories—haunted by something that happened long ago, and now, making it up as he goes along.
“Sit down, Newson,” Church grumbles.
His back is to me and he’s taking one last look at that lake before confronting me. Maybe water is his element, his oracle—and his glassed-in-view of the lake, a portal for divining the will of the gods.
Or, maybe, like me, he’s haunted—not afraid of what lies without, but deep within in the nooks and crannies where griefs, like cobwebs, collect.
He swivels back to face me. “I’ve got a favor to ask, Zach—and you don’t have to say yes—this is completely off record. You can tell me to go to hell and I won’t think less of you.”
I smile inwardly—I doubt Ben Church could think any less of me than he already does.
“No problem, Boss—what’s the favor?”
“I have a niece—Ina Christiansen—a really beautiful but shy girl…”
I groan inwardly, while outwardly maintaining a brittle smile. Oh, Great! Do I need to endure a pity date?
Church’s face softens as he thinks of his niece and I see a side of him I didn’t know existed.
“To cut to the chase, Ina is convinced she’s being stalked. I was wondering if you’d look into it.”
I’m totally dumbfounded and am pretty sure my face shows it.
“But surely you’ve contacted the police?”
“No—no police. That’s what Ina wants—the whole thing embarrasses her. I had trouble convincing her to allow me to help.”
“But—but,” I sputter, “I’ve no expertise in this area, Boss—besides, it’s a police matter. Your niece could be in real danger.”
Church reddens a bit and turns back to stare at the lake.
I feel completely helpless.
After a few long moments he begins to speak—talking in a kind of sacred whisper, awe-like, and his hushed tone makes him sound like he’s praying.
“There’s something I haven’t told you, Zach—something that’s right up your alley, so to speak. Ina thinks she’s being stalked by a ghost.”
I feel kicked in the stomach, and this time I don’t even try to conceal my emotions. My breath comes hissing out of me like a balloon pricked and suddenly deflating.
Church sees my apprehension, and softens a little.
“I know this sounds really eerie, but face it, Son—Bill Hay thinks you’ve a knack for ferreting out facts behind spirits and the paranormal. He thinks you’re a young Conan Doyle.”
“Need I remind you, Boss? Conan Doyle himself got fooled into believing in fairies—and he was a famous debunker of frauds—a real imposterologist when it came to spirits!”
He softly chuckles at my Zoltan Kaparthy allusion. I think behind that gruff exterior, the guy genuinely likes me.
“Alright, Zach—if you don’t want to look into the matter, I understand—I really do. But I figured you and Ina are about the same age and she might be more willing to open up to you than a silver surfer like me.”
I get that Church is out of touch with modern technology and it probably makes him feel inadequate to relate to his niece, but for me, that ‘silver surfer’ expression of his conjures up ludicrous images of him on a surfboard, out on the leaden lake, riding the face of a great wave in search of a mystery.
I almost laugh out loud and do my best to stifle a smile. Truth told, I’m beginning to feel sorry for the old guy.
“Okay Boss, I’ll talk to your niece and try to get to the bottom of what’s happening. I can’t make any promises. I never know myself the way these things might unfold, but it’s worth a try.”
Church smiles. I never knew he was capable of it—but he bares his teeth without malice, and that alone is worth the time spent listening to his tale.
When I leave, he’s back to staring at the lake and pondering whatever deep thoughts still lie buried, way down, deep in his past.