They look at us all the time, and miss being alive.
— Peter Straub
I’m an investiagtive reporter for The Toronto Telegram and am currently trying to unravel who or what is stalking my assignment editor’s niece.
It’s not my usual role to play bodyguard but then, Ina is a beautiful woman in distress and although it’s not exactly a chore to stay overnight in her condo to help her, it seems the right thing to do.
We end up ordering pasta from Mama Maria’s and sip cab sav while watching a movie. It feels more like a date, than an investigative assignment—and as fate would have it, the film on TV turns out to be The Ghost and Mrs. Muir.
After the film, we sit in the living room with candles, watching fireplace flames cast flickering shadows on the walls. It’s peaceful staring out the windows at colored lights, winking and blurry in rain, while within, the flames softly flutter and I’m feeling ensorcelled by the scent of her perfume.
“Mmmm,” she yawns drowsily, “I think I’m ready to go to sleep. There are pillows and blankets in the walk-in closet—it might get chilly during the night.”
“I’ll be fine,” I grin ruefully, wishing I could snuggle with her by the fire.
She extends her hand and shakes mine solemnly. “Goodnight, Zach—I hope you sleep well.”
It seems surreal being with her in this romantic hideaway and then shaking her hand while she goes off to sleep alone.
But after she’s gone, I realize I’m drowsy too, and grab a pillow and blanket from the closet and try to make myself comfortable on the couch.
Within moments, I drift off to sleep, with the rain softly drumming on the windows, and the flames softly fluttering in the grate.
I’m awakened shortly after three by a distinct noise coming from the den. I prop myself up on one arm and reach for the empty wine bottle on the coffee table to use as a weapon.
I silently roll onto the rug and then creep forward crouched down with the wine bottle in one hand.
I pause at the doorway preparing to flick on the den light, when I hear bone-chilling laughter behind me.
“Ha, ha—how absurd, Zach—you look like a Neanderthal with a club.”
I whirl and spot the figure of a man outlined against the city lights shining in through the window.
The figure mocks me. “What are you going to do—disturb the ether with your club or scramble my ectoplasm? Poor boy, you can’t brain a phantom.”
He has a point. We’re in a standoff, with him having the advantage—especially, since he’s more rarefied.
I put down the wine bottle.
“Good choice, my boy—now why don’t we sit down and chat civilly?”
He points to my vacated couch, so I oblige, and he occupies the sofa chair opposite me.
He’s quite dashing—dressed in evening clothes and looking very much like an older, debonair David Niven.
“I don’t engage in fisticuffs and the sweaty and coarse language that goes with it—this is much more refined, don’t you think?”
I nod morosely. Things are definitely not going my way.
“Don’t look so glum, Chum—you can’t catch hold of a shadow—why not just be in the moment?”
Oh, Great! A Ghost practicing mindfulness—just what I need!
“I really mean you no harm—especially, Ina—now that girl is smashing, if I do say so myself.”
I wonder if he’s some kind of prankster—a sort of low-level poltergeist.
“Who are you and what do you want?” I ask.
“You can call me Harry—and what I want, you’ve already given me. I want to be noticed.”
“What’s the point of that?”
“Hmm, you really are spiritually challenged, aren’t you, Zach? Think about it for a moment. I’m a ghost, and what does a ghost want more than anything? Why to be noticed of course!”
“And why the hell would you care about that?” I ask crossly.
A sad look crosses his features. “I just want to feel alive, Zach,” he whispers. “All these elaborate ruses are designed to simply attract attention. The damn thing with Ina is she gets scared—and when she gets scared, she paradoxically gives me exactly what I want—excitement.”
“And I suppose you couldn’t have calmly explained this to her,” I say acerbically.
He slowly shakes his head, “No, actually I couldn’t. She reacted in fear and set up this vicious circle where she wants me to stop, but I need her to continue. She’s not a sensitive like you.”
“So, what are you saying, Harry—is this going to go on with you haunting the poor girl the rest of her days?”
“Oh no, my boy—far from it. I just need to be affirmed now and then. I’ll probably just drop by occasionally and chat with you.”
Lovely, just lovely, I muse.
“You know, Zach, a wise man once observed, that to be, is to be perceived. You wouldn’t begrudge me that would you?”
Well, how could I refuse, seeing as poor Harry needed to be validated now and then? I certainly didn’t want to interrupt his eternal rest.
I reluctantly agreed and added another ghost to my growing company of spectral companions.
Ben Church was pleased, of course—thankful that things that go bump in the night would no longer trouble his niece.
As for Ina, she’s a bit like Harry, and feels a need to talk with me—to have dinner and movie dates, to sit by the fire sipping wine and watching rain. That part of the intervention I really don’t mind.
And I can think of no better way to ‘waste a weekend’ than with my arm around Ina, watching rain and curled up on her couch by the fire.