Clare of Great Beauty Part 3 ...Drawn to the Light
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I kept telling myself this can't be real—it can't be happening.
All my life I prided myself on being grounded and practical and now here I was, sitting on a prime piece of real estate I couldn't develop because it was haunted by an obnoxious ghost.
How did my life go so wrong?
Harry Blakely, or so this vexing spirit was called in life, was smiling charmingly playing the part of the southern gentleman.
Nothing fazed this spectre—he was thoroughly enjoying my discomfiture and was so laid back at the whole affair I expected him to plop down on the settee and clomp his boots up on my chippendale coffee table.
Well, he didn't do anything that gauche, but he did casually saunter over to the fireplace mantel and strike a jaunty pose.
But as he went to lean on the mantel his elbow passed through it and he staggered forward looking awkward and embarrassed.
Even this poseur couldn't quite carry off the graceful art of being a southern plantation owner.
Still, it was disturbing to think that a rakish young man who looked so debonair and vibrant was in reality on a level with a bed sheet ghost.
I struggled to wrap my mind around the fact.
“Oh, great! I always thought it was just art that required a willing suspension of disbelief.”
“Heh, heh. I don’t care if you don’t believe in me at all—it doesn’t work that way.”
“What do you mean?”
“I exist, whether you believe it or not.”
He had a point, but I also had a sizeable investment in this project, ghost or not.
“Look Harry, we’ve got a problem here. I own the title to this property.”
“On the contrary, dear heart—I see no problem. Your piece of paper establishes rights over the brick and mortar in the here and now. But I decided a long time ago I liked this setting and purposed to stay here in perpetuity, regardless of whether the house stood or fell.”
“So you’re saying this is your haunt?”
“Oh, please, Madame—why must you continually use these words?”
“What words?”
“Oh, you know—terms like ghost and haunting as if I’m some kind of turn-of-the-century Spiritualist’s efforts. There’s not one bit of ectoplasm in me, I assure you.”
I had to admit he didn't look transparent, but he was obviously rarefied.
“Yes, but you are a spirit.”
“Ouch! You really know how to hurt my feelings, don’t you?”
“I’m not trying to be insensitive.”
“Well, that’s quite apparent.”
“What is?”
“It’s apparent you’re not insensitive—I mean how else would you be able to see me? I am non-corporeal, you know.”
“Aha!” I shouted triumphantly. “Then you admit it!”
He sighed and sat down on a wing back chair.
“I don’t understand you dearest—I never denied it. I prefer to see myself as materially challenged. The fact is, I have difficulty negotiating contact with things.”
The air went out of me and I plopped down in another of the canvas-draped armchairs.
I began to weep.
“Oh no, what am I going to do?”
Harry, for his part, seemed genuinely taken aback by my tears. He looked flustered. He reached for a Kleenex, but of course, his hand went right through the box.
“Well now, that’s not going to work is it?”
“Nothing’s working,” I wailed.
“There, there,” Harry consoled me patting me on the shoulder and watching his hand pass through my body. “Drat! …Still, it’s the gesture that counts.”
“Why can’t you just leave me alone and go on an extended vacation to the Elysian Fields or the River Styx or even Valhalla for that matter?” I wailed.
“Never did get along with Scandinavians—Couldn’t picture rubbing shoulders with Old Norse gods.”
“What am I going to do? I can’t sell a haunted manse.”
It seemed we were both caught in an unfortunate situation.
Oh no! It is like saying that a beautiful woman is the same as an ugly one; after all, they are both made of the same stuff, inside and outside.
I'm more shallow, the appearance is what mostly matters to me. Add some charm, a bit of kindness and I'm a sucker, trapped by my own way of seeing them.
As long as they don't smell. I guess that would not be a problem with a ghost.
ha ha, I find most of my ghosts are attractive and maybe that's why they are haunting - I like to think that if one is going to persist they shouldn't present as a dreary apparition - it'd be like hanging a dismal picture on the wall. Why would one do that?
I wrote my comment in the hopes of making you chuckle. I'm glad I succeeded.
you did succeed, my friend :)