as a dead baby, the world itself is a bad dream...
― Sylvia Plath
I’m a reporter for The Toronto Telegraph and Ben Church, my assignment editor, wants me to investigate stange happenings around his neice—seems she thinks she’s being stalked, but not by your average creep, but by a spirit, no less!
It’s raining the day I decide to interview Ina at her apartment. She lives on the 35th floor of a massive high rise in the Yonge-Bloor area of Toronto that’s rapidly becoming a condo jungle.
Her building is particularly elegant and faces the University of Toronto, and even has a view of the lake.
My awe of her residence is nothing compared to my surprise when I see her—she’s stunningly beautiful and cultured. Ben Church’s description of her as ‘really beautiful’ devalued her by faint praise. It’s hard for me believe a girl this striking is shy—but she is, and her artless modesty melts my heart.
“Thank you so much for coming, Mr. Newson. May I offer you coffee or tea?”
The china tea service is out, so I readily reply, “Tea would be delightful, and please call me Zach.”
Her smile totally disarms me. “I think you’ll like the Peach Ginger tea—it’s my favorite.”
As she busies herself making tea, I glance around the apartment. It’s elegant and tastefully decorated, but seems a fishbowl—floor to ceiling windows that afford a spectacular view but make me feel vulnerable. Then again, perhaps, that’s just me.
She hands me a china cup filled with steaming amber liquid. It has a delicious, fragrant scent.
“May I ask what you do for a living, Ina?”
“I’m the editor for The Oxford Quarterly Review.”
I nod while sipping my tea. The Review is a prestigious literary journal. I’m impressed.
“You seem very happy here,” I observe.
She hesitates a moment before answering. “I am—or I was, before these events began occurring. Frankly, I’m so upset I’m contemplating moving.”
“What exactly has happened to upset you?”
She immediately begins to turn pale and tremble. “It’s so upsetting, Zach. I feel I’m constantly being observed. When I’m here in the apartment, all kinds of weird things keep happening. My belongings are constantly moved and rearranged. I keep getting personal messages on my computer that are so intimate that only someone observing me could know.”
I stare round the apartment. “You realize your condo does give the impression of being a fishbowl, Ina—despite the view, there must be several hundred apartment windows all around that face yours.”
“I know. I’ve tried to address that.”
I arch an eyebrow, but in response, she picks up a remote control. Blackout curtains are silently drawn across the windows. It gets so dark in the room she needs to turn on a floor lamp.
“I paid a fortune for these curtains—they’re especially designed so no one can see through them.”
“I believe that,” I grin truthfully.
She comes back and sits opposite me.
“Well, the other night, I arrived home from work, drew the curtains and showered and changed into one of my favorite dresses. I was meeting some friends downtown for dinner and a movie. Just as I was about to leave the apartment, my I-phone chimed. There was a cryptic message: I liked you better in the red dress—black is so somber."
I shake my head in wonder. “Have you had your condo swept for hidden cameras or microphones?”
She nods. “I hired Knight Security to do a sweep looking for bugs or concealed devices. They thoroughly inspected every inch of the condo and found nothing.”
“That’s curious,” I muse, “but what about your cell phone or computers—they could be hacked.”
She shakes her head. “That was the first thing they looked at—as well as any internet devices such as my thermostat that can be accessed through the Internet and my home security system. Nothing. They even checked my car and workplace computers and devices.”
“It sounds like a mystery for sure.”
“The real problem is the messages are so detailed—so intimate and private, that only someone in the same room as me could know what I’m doing. For instance, one day I was scribbling out a grocery list and my cell chimed. The message said: don’t forget the red pepper jelly. I glanced at my shopping list and saw I left off that item.”
I stare at her, feeling helpless.
She’s sitting across from me, legs tucked under, and looking distraught. She combs fingers through her long chestnut hair, scrunching eyes shut to hold back tears, but still they come. Glycerin beads trill down her cheeks.
I want to expunge them—kiss them away—cradle her in my arms and tell her it’ll be all right. Instead, I just sit there watching her cry and feeling totally useless.
“Do you know what it’s like?” she sobs, “I just get out of the shower and am toweling off. I look up and see a message finger-painted in steam on the vanity mirror. I love you naked, Ina. I love watching you – you’re a silent film of gestures."
Her face contorts into a mask of pain. “I felt so violated by that incident—I began to shake and threw up—I vomited into the toilet. I know there’s a presence in this apartment, Zach, and I’m sure I’m being stalked.”
“What do you want me to do?”
She holds out empty hands in exasperation. “What can you do—stay with me 24/7 until you see it too, and know I’m not crazy?”
“If that’s what it takes, I’ll do it. Look, I promised Ben I’d try to get to the bottom of things—and if you’re not spooked having a strange man camped out in your living room, I’ll stay the weekend and hopefully we’ll be able to figure this out.”
Her eyes are shining. “I’m so touched you’d waste your weekend trying to help me, Zach. Thank you.”
“Let me go home and pack an overnight bag. I’ll be back in an hour. Maybe we can order pizza and watch a movie on TV—create a little oasis of calm in your life.”
“I’d like that,” she smiles.
As I ride down the elevator I’m thinking I’m not ‘wasting a weekend’ as she put it—I’m excited at the prospect of spending the weekend with her.
If anything, she’s the one doing me the favor—and thank you, Ben Church!
As for the pervert stalking her, I don’t believe for one minute he’s a ghost, but he’ll wish he were if I ever get my hands on him.