It was frustrating. I bought a 1930's Craftsman's cottage near the bluffs thinking the sunny retreat would encourage me to write, but the opposite happened—I saw a ghost and now she's haunting me.
I confessed my angst to Bob Levin, my psychiatrist friend, but to no avail. He downplayed the whole experience .
He told me frankly I simply had to stop obsessing about a spirit or an illusion and get on with my life.
So, here I was, sitting morosely at my desk for two hours staring at a blank page.
Nothing’s popping! I shouted in exasperation to the four walls, and then fell silent as I realized I was now close to being certifiable—hell, I was even talking to myself.
Tsk. Tsk. Thee is mad, boy.
And then, I looked out the window into the garden and my heart stopped. There, beside the roses, was my girl—well, at least, the vision I made up in my head.
But she looked mighty solid, standing there in the garden as my eyes scanned over her shapely figure and colourful dress.
I got up and went outside, fully expecting the vision to dissolve—but it didn’t.
“Can I help you?” I called out, trying to remain calm and establish contact.
To my shock, the figure turned and the smiling wraith I saw the day before whose lovely face imprinted itself on my memory, was now smiling directly at me.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t meant to intrude,” she said, “I just lived here before—a long time ago.”
I stared in disbelief.
She saw my shocked expression must have thought I regarded her as a trespasser. “I’m so sorry to have upset you,” she said, and turned to leave.
“No wait!” I blurted out. “I’m not upset you’re here.”
She looked at me quizzically. “Do I know you?”
“No,” I said, “My name’s Nick Hargraves—and I just recently bought this house.”
She relaxed, and the smile returned. “Rosemary Reid,” she said, extending her hand to shake mine. “This used to be my grandmother’s house. We actually planted these rosebushes.”
“No kidding?” I grinned.
She gazed wistfully at the house and the scudding clouds over the lake. “This was the one place I loved to be as a little girl—here, with grandma… and the bluffs and the lake.”
“So, it’s got good memories, huh?”
She nodded. “My parents died when I was nine and this was the only place I ever felt happy and loved.”
“I’m sorry.”
“I still come here,” she smiled, “often in my head and imagine I’m standing right here looking at the roses and the lake—and I feel warm and loved all over again.”
“Would you care for some tea?”
She stayed and we talked. We’ve been talking ever since.
“She’s a fetch,” Bob laughs. Psychiatrists can be so unpredictable.
“You mean a catch?” I correct him.
“No, I mean a fetch—an exact, spectral double of a living human.”
I look at him suspiciously. “Hey, aren’t you supposed to be a scientist—and skeptical of these things?”
He shrugs. “Jung had all kinds of paranormal experiences—even saw ghosts. His exploration of the psyche took him deep into the world of religion, myth and the paranormal.”
“So, what are you saying—that Rosemary and I were somehow fated to meet?”
“I’m saying she may have reached out, searching for meaning—for something familiar she could grasp onto—and maybe what she found that was your hand.”
Well, ever since that day I’ve been giving some thought to what Bob said—turning things over in my head.
I’m not sure I see the same shadows on the cave of the psyche that Jung did, or interpret them the same way.
Maybe my head’s being held at a different angle and I’m chained down to a different set of beliefs, but when Bob said Rosemary reached out for my hand, it touched me—and not long after, I asked for her hand in marriage.
Was this synchronicity or an active imagination? I have no idea.
All I know is I’ve found my soul mate and together, Rosemary and I are, dreaming the dream, but onward this time...in our sunny Craftsman's cottage by the bluffs.
