I write a series on haunted houses for the Toronto Telegraph, but my experiences with the paranormal didn’t quite prepare me for this.
I feel like a stray cat. I followed a ghost home to her 19th century house—and although she was attractive, I wasn’t aware she’d be so unsubstantial.
“Oh, dear!” A look of concern furrowed her lovely brow. “I didn’t intend to cause you any dismay. Let me help you—drink some of this.”
She reached for a crystal decanter on a side table, poured some port wine into a glass and handed it to me.
I swallowed some and immediately felt better, and began to relax as the warmth glided down my throat and spread into my chest.
She poured some herself and took a small sip, her huge brown eyes staring at me.
“You’re quite handsome close up. Your picture doesn’t do you justice.”
“That’s a consolation,” I said bitterly. “I’m trespassing on a heritage site and talking to a ghost—the fact that you’re beautiful doesn’t help at all. It just makes me feel more desolate.”
“You find me attractive?” she smiled.
“I do. You’re stunningly beautiful and I can’t take my eyes off you. I suppose this is how people go mad when they experience an apparition. They either see a horrible goblin or an alluring temptress, but either way, they lose their mind.”
“Who said you would lose your mind?” she asked angrily.
“That’s what people say. Shakespeare said it in Hamlet. Besides, I’ve had a few paranormal experiences and they’ve knocked me out of kilter.”
“I see,” she smiled grimly. “I suppose a little knowledge is a dangerous thing. I mean, that’s why your articles in the newspaper are so dark. You believe you must fear the spirit realm.”
“Well, duh! C’mon, it’s not natural to be sitting here talking to a ghost—whether she’s a beautiful one or not.”
She came over and sat beside me, so close, I could inhale the powdery scent of her perfume.
“Do I intimidate you, Mr. Newson?”
I nodded. “You do,”
She leaned over and kissed me long on the lips. My heart was thudding and I couldn’t breathe—but I didn’t want her to stop. And when she did, I let out a gasp.
“Are you all right?” she asked, putting a hand on my forehead to check my temperature. “You’re a bit flushed, but not feverish.”
“How—how did you do that?” I stammered.
She gave a slight shrug. “I just kissed you,” she said simply.
“But I thought you were nonphysical,” I insisted.
“If I were, how would you see or hear me?”
I looked at her dumbly. “I don’t know. I suppose I’d see and hear you in a vision.”
“Oh, I see. I’d be real, but in a spiritual way.”
“That’s right!” I shouted. “You’d communicate in a spooky, transparent form. And if I touched you, my hand would go though you and I’d be chilled to the bone.”
“Were you chilled to the bone when I kissed you?” she asked sweetly.
“Uh, no…not exactly.”
“Well then, how did you feel?”
“About the same way as when I kiss any woman—only better.”
Her eyes were shining. “You learn quickly, Mr. Newson.”
“Would you mind calling me Zach?”
“No, of course not. And you may call me Gwen. My full name is Gwendolyn McIntyre, and I own this house—or, at least I used to own it, once upon a time.”
And that’s how we began.
Gwen decided she’d mentor me, teaching me about spiritual things, and I in turn, allowed myself to fall in love with her.
It’s not the usual fleshly relationship shared by people in love—it’s more rarefied and soulish—but it’s not Platonic either. We do kiss and embrace, but can’t go beyond that.
After all, there are laws that govern things, and keep things in their places. I have to respect certain boundaries.
I can’t take latitudes with Gwen.
I’m now learning respect for things—for people and places. Learning to leave the past like unspoilt snow, undisturbed.
To allow Gwen to dwell in a candle lit glow, and not subject her to an electric glare.
