vignette en rose

It’s easier to dismiss ghosts in the daylight—Patricia Briggs

It was a 1930’s craftsman cottage, sun-dappled and cheery. I had been looking for something with character and this was it—located near the bluffs with nearly an acre of land and a sweeping view of the lake.

Writers need seclusion and this gem offered the best of both worlds—enough land to ensure privacy and a quick commute to downtown whenever I felt nostalgic for the bustle of the city.

Sam Wright, my literary agent, took it as a good sign I was ready to settle down, but I was just thirty-three, still looking for my life mate, and on this sunny day in late June I was just happy to be alive.

I was exploring my new digs and making mental notes of what needed repairing and what could be put off to next year. I figured you have to live a year in a house to learn what works and what doesn’t, and right now I was dubious about the flower gardens—I preferred bushes and shrubs, particularly the type that changed color in fall and that could be maintained without a great deal of fuss.

I hate fuss, especially anything high maintenance. The beautiful pink climbing roses, all dewy and fragrant, seemed far too demanding and would certainly require a lot of pruning, dusting and fertilizing.

I stood back and stared at the delicate petals and buds, admiring the intricate folds of silken beauty. I inhaled the strong tea rose fragrance. A little occasional maintenance might seem a small price to pay for such loveliness.

And it was then I saw her—a faint image of a lovely blonde-haired woman standing beside the roses as if posing to have her picture taken. She was smiling, her eyes crinkling a little, as she stared into the bright sunlight.

Her image rippled and shimmered like heat waves rising and I was immediately struck by her transparency—she was faint and ethereal as a mist that seemed to fade into and merge with the background.

I held my breath afraid the slightest movement or breeze might destroy the filmy apparition.

She seemed to float like a soap bubble, glistening, fragile and fascinating. Her shaky solitary essence wavered like a watery reflection, at the mercy of the slightest draft of air.

At that moment, the sun slid behind a cloud and she vanished. I stood frozen to the spot, waiting for the sun to reappear, and it eventually did but with a different intensity of light.

The peculiar conditions that created the apparition had dissipated and the image had dissolved.

I realized I was trembling and sat down on the low stone retaining wall at the edge of the garden. I felt weak and faint and it took a long time for the warmth of the sun to restore me.

The experience was subtle, but unsettling—nothing much had changed, other than the quality of the light. Everything else remained the same—the scent of roses – the dewy coolness of the garden – and the soft mellow tones of sunlight.

I watched dark shadowy fingers of poplars stretching across the lawn – the broad leaves and dark shadows of the grape arbor – an owl perched on the fence – the curving path hiding its secret behind forsythia bushes.

All the garden elements were clearly defined—but what was undefined was the memory of that translucent or barely visible shape that shook me with its intimacy—a glimpse of a person so real she took my breath away.

It was ironic. I came here to isolate, to retreat from life—to contemplate the world from my study window, but she invaded me with her personality—with the vigor and warmth of her smile.

This was no Shade—no wispy or solitary essence haunting a particular location—no shadowy outline, fuzzy or unsubstantial image.

This was a real woman and my heart was stirred.

I expected the encounter would weaken over time and gradually fade from memory, but the opposite occurred.

Over the next few weeks I found her haunting me in soft powdery scents–mellow tones of light– soft touches of a summer breeze that caressed me tenderly.

I found myself aching and longing to be with her, and spent hours in the garden or staring at clouds in the wild spaces above the lake. I was obsessed.

I guarded her mystery like a privileged, private revelation, but at the same time sensed I’d have to confide in somebody, because shut up inside me, it was like a fire smoldering in my bones.

And I knew who that someone would be—Bob my friend from college—known professionally as Dr. Robert De Levin, psychiatrist and member of the Ontario Association of Jungian Analysts.

I was unsure what his reaction would be, but had no intention of lying on a couch in his office or submitting to whatever techniques Jungian analysts employ to unlock the psyche.

I elected to invite him to dinner at The Arts and Letters Club and casually bring up the incident over drinks

It just so happened Bob’s office was also on Elm Street where my private club was located.

I was sure the ambience of The Boardroom Café with candles casting a glow on art-lined walls would provide the suitable setting for any intimate disclosures.

“Hmm…I wouldn’t have figured you for a Spectrophiliac,” Bob mused.

I almost choked on my cab sav. “You mean there’s a name for what I experienced?”

Bob’s eyes were dancing and he seemed to be enjoying this immensely. “Sexual attraction to ghosts is not uncommon,” he laughed, “ as is sexual arousal to images in mirrors.”

“Now wait a minute, Bob—this isn’t some kind of fetish,” I said hotly.

He was convulsing in laughter and couldn’t speak for a few moments. Tears actually rolled down his cheeks.

“I’m glad you find this amusing,” I grumbled.

“I’m sorry, Pal—I find it refreshing compared to the kind of things I’m compelled to listen to in my practice. But let’s see—a ghostly lover and you, of all people, visited by a seductive entity. It’s strange.”

“You still don’t get it—she wasn’t seductive. You’re making her out to be some kind of succubus or demon who takes on a female human form to seduce men. It wasn’t like that at all.”

He smiled, “So, no sad wraith vanishing ‘as a vapor, gibbering and whining into the earth?’—that’s Homer, you know.”

“It was nothing like that—nothing scary at least. She was sunny and warm. It was only afterwards, in memory, that her face came back to haunt me and I began to long for her and obsess over her.”

“Well then, I guess she’s no ‘white lady’ either—those were reported to appear in many rural areas, and supposed to have died tragically or suffered trauma in life. So she didn’t fill the bill as a sad pale wraith either?”

“Definitely not. Her skin was rosy and her hair blonde and she was full of color and vivacity.”

“No long-drawn, distant screams?” he smirked.

“None.”

“Well then, he sighed, “it’s probably just a simple phenomenon we call pareidolia—recognizing patterns in random perceptions. Sometimes it’s a trick of the light and the mind logically tries to make sense of what it sees—like seeing faces in door knobs, or a shoe lying on the floor.”

“Or the face of Jesus in a tamale,” I deadpanned.

“Something like that,” he laughed.

“So, it’s my over-active imagination?”

He grew somber for a moment and said, “I’d take a serious look at my life, Nick—figure out what I’m missing. We all carry ghosts in our heads—unlived wishes, failed relationships, even people we tried to leave behind but could never really lose. They all come back to haunt us.”

His words were sobering and I drove home that night feeling embarrassed and mildly depressed.

Is this where life has taken me—to a place where I see ghosts in rose bushes and obsess over something that doesn’t exist except in my head?

I was determined to find out.

© 2017, John J Geddes. All rights reserved.

Image credits: https://goo.gl/images/sUoSZA,https://goo.gl/images/sYl76p,
https://goo.gl/images/sFw1Cq,https://goo.gl/images/FiK2Kg