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.
