and the window that should not have been open.
—T.S. Eliot
This whole business about weird paranormal events in the house is upsetting, especially seeing an apparition of Marianne in my closet.
I mean, hell, the girl isn't dead so why am I seeing her living ghost?
And then, Bill tells me about rumours that Marianne got mixed up with Satanism or witchcraft and suggests I should see a beautiful clairvoyant. What's that all about?
I think I'd have been more comfortable consulting an exorcist, but instead, I took the middle path and went to see Simon Brenner, my psychologist who put me on pills.
Okay, I'm exaggerating a bit here. I'm not on ‘pills’--I'm taking one 25 mg dose of Zoloft a day, but I still feel uncomfortable about it.
I know it's the lowest dose possible and it's a mild anti-depressant, but still...
I just want to get past being obsessed with things that go bump in the night and I think seeing a clairvoyant would do the opposite. And I don't want to take a pill like it's an apple a day to keep the devil away.
I don't think I'm being unreasonable, but I am feeling frustrated that nobody seems to get me.
This is crazy—it’s ten in the morning and I'm already so worked up that I can't concentrate.
I just wanted to spend the day doing the last edits to my mystery novel so I can get on with my new project—what is is, I have no idea as yet, but I'm sure it won't involve the paranormal.
I pop the pill Simon gave me like a good little boy who's done his duty.
And yes, I know I sound bitter, but anger has its privileges.
An hour later I'm still in my office staring at the computer and re-arranging my desk so I can get down to work.
Hah! That's ironic.
I finally give up and go for a run on The Bruce Trail. Nothing like aerobic exercise to shake off the cobwebs and see things from a whole new perspective.
By 130 pm I'm back home and finishing lunch and contemplating whether to eat a second donut.
Decisions, decisions, I smile cynically and then surrender to the temptation. I mean, what the hell—it may sweeten my imagination.
But nothing's popping and I feel I may go out of my mind with boredom. The temperature's dropping outside and there's snow on the wind and I'm going nowhere.
I finally chuck the whole enterprise and uncork a fresh bottle of wine. In vino veritas the ancient Romans used to say. I light a fire and toast the Muses who have chosen to cull out a holiday by taking the day off.
Well, I'll drink to that—I don't blame them.
And then a strange thing happens—I get a sudden inspiration for a novel ending and grab my laptop and feverishly start writing.
One thing about me, when I really get into writing, I'm mono-focussed.
As Marianne used to tell me, they could drop a nuclear bomb and I wouldn't notice. And that's the place where I'm spending the afternoon, in a hyper-aware yet paradoxically hypnotic, lucid dream state.
I won't stop until I'm finished, except for the banging of a loose shutter in the wind that's so annoying I finally growl in frustration and go in search of the offending window so I can fix it.
The noise is coming from the cellar which fortunately is also where my tools are located.
I stomp down the stairs and feel right away there's a draft and a slamming noise coming from the old disused coal bin in the back corner.
I grab my tool box and head back but stop dead in my tracks. There's a movement in the corner of my eye and I turn in time to see Marianne with blood in her eyes staring at me with murderous intent.
The room goes dark and I blackout.