Some people think cemeteries are haunted. They’re not. Graveyards are merely repositories for corpses.
Don’t get me wrong—I’m not saying I don’t believe in wraiths and shades and specters and spooks—I do, but they don’t inhabit desolate places. Spirits, blithe or otherwise, prefer to be among people or places where they’ve lived their entire lives.
Anyway, everything I know about the spirit realm I learned from Gwendolyn McIntyre—she’s my silent partner and mentor for all things paranormal.
Every Wednesday night we hold midnight sessions of our Ghost Club and she deepens my knowledge of things that go bump in the night.
She’s a lovely wraith who swears me to secrecy about our clandestine trysts and is captivating and enchanting for a woman who died at the turn of the century.
And as you’ve probably figured out by now, Gwen’s not just my counselor—she’s a ghost and my secret love.
“Don’t get frisky, Zach—my ectoplasm is fragile, and I have no desire to go back to being transparent for a century.”
“So, what are you saying—you don’t have needs?”
“Let’s put it this way, Dearest. My desires are now more spiritual.”
My desires aren’t.
I’m admiring Gwen standing by the fire in her ankle length diagonally layered white gown with pearl beading. It’s form fitting and flatters her figure—or her aura, or whatever substance comprises her spiritual body—if she has a body.
“You’re staring,” she whispers. Her cheeks burn and her eyes lower. I’m mad with desire for her, but can’t penetrate her mystery. She has all the attributes of flesh, but none of its weaknesses. Poor me.
“How can I resist, Love? You’re breathtaking.”
“You need to sublimate those urges, Zach, or you’ll just end up being tormented.”
“Too late for that now, I’m afraid.” And I mean it. I’m obsessed with the girl.
I recall the wintry night I followed her down Hyde Street, totally enraptured by her beauty.
I caught a glimpse of her at the corner as I left The Slye Fox. I had intended to go home and work on an article for The Toronto Telegraph, but did an abrupt turn and followed her down the street.
At the time I wasn’t thinking about spirit communication, spiritualism or second sight—I was more focused on taking a second look at this ravishing beauty—actually, to tell the truth, I was taking one prolonged look.
We walked several blocks through the snowy twilight before I noticed she left no tracks in the snow. I could have turned around right then and headed in the opposite direction, but didn’t.
I was enthralled and determined to pursue her.
When she turned in at the wrought iron gate to The Grange, I was fascinated. The house is on the edge of the old Distillery District and looks straight out of Dickens—which, of course, it is—having been built in the 1830’s.
I’m a firm believer in grand gestures though, and now having committed to a certain course I was bound to follow it through.
She entered the house, leaving the front door ajar, and I, oblivious of consequences, fell straight for her trap.
As I entered, she was standing by the fire pulling off her gloves and didn’t even bother looking up.
“This is an unwarranted intrusion,” she said matter of factly, as she proceeded to remove her bonnet, glancing in the wavy mirror and fluffing her hair.
She was incredibly beautiful. Her blond hair shone like spun gold in the glow of the gaslight sconces.
“If you insist on coming in, could you please close the door—it gets very drafty.”
I grinned at her, but complied. “I doubt you feel the cold, since you’re dead.”
She looked at me askance and began adjusting the lamp flames.
“You’re unaware of the spirit realm, Mr. Newson. It makes me wonder why your newspaper lets you write those articles.”
I was taken aback. Not only did she know my name but she read my articles.
I began defending myself.
“It wasn’t my idea to write about haunted houses—it was Bill Hay’s decision. He’s the editor-in-chief. Hell, even Ben Church, my assignment editor, disagrees. He knows I’ve got no insight.”
“I didn’t say you had no insight. You’re a sensitive, and you don’t even know it. What I’m saying is that you have zeal without knowledge.”
My knees suddenly went weak. I just managed to collapse down onto a rather rigid curved loveseat.
What the hell am I doing? I’m talking to a ghost.