Girlfriend Electric — Good Witch Riding the Storm
Here you are again—home alone in your Victorian manse and it’s raining. You never did get over your fear of ghosts. You tell yourself it’s puerile and foolish, but as the lights dim and brighten, your fears wax and wane, as if on cue.
The rubber plants conspire. The wind backs up water in the drains. The house is sighing, creaking, humming like a reed in a harmonica, and everything is singing with a strange music.
Then she appears, a schoolgirl dressed in a uniform—blouse and kilt and knee socks—long blonde hair cascading to her shoulders.
“What do you want?” I ask.
Her dark mouth moves. No words come out.
The lights dim again, lightning crackles and she’s gone.
Girlfriend electric—good witch riding the storm.
“So, it happened again last night—same dream?”
I yawn. I’m sure Margot, my therapist, thinks me mad—but then, that’s why I’m here, isn’t it?
“Ya, it did—same old—same feeling.”
“You’re cavalier—quite all right with it then?”
“Bloody hell I am!” The outburst surprises even me.
Her pen scribbles.
“Well then, I think we should discuss this.”
“Oh, by all means, Doctor Freud. I’m here for writer’s block, paying you several hundred an hour and you want me to piddle away my time discussing a dream?”
She leans back and sighs, pushing away a stray curl of red hair. She’s awfully good-looking—for a mature woman, that is—she’s got this Prime of Miss Jean Brodie vibe going.
“You have to let me help you, James—you have to trust I know where to go and I’m not out to fleece you as Inge did.”
That hurt—really stung.
Inge chewed me up, then, walked away, my blood still dripping from her teeth—took me for what I was worth—not much back then, but everything.
“So what is this—reality therapy?”
She smooths her tight beige skirt, re-crossing her long legs—everything unconsciously sensual with her.
“Are you going to cooperate or play a hindering role? You’re the one who’s dragging this out, James.”
“Me? C’mon Margot—I’ve been through hell and back trying to unravel me. I’ve tried everything—even Scientology. Hell, I held two cans in my hand and was processed through an e-meter till I was cleared of engrams.”
“That doesn’t mean you’re not avoiding things now.”
She’s right. I’ve been skirting the issue in more ways than one. Truth is, I find her attractive and I’ve been avoiding my real angst—my fear of women.
“Okay, so what do you think’s going on?”
She laughs softly, “Nice try, but I ask, you answer.”
I stare her straight in the eye and lie.
“I haven’t a bloody clue.”
“Really?”
“What do you mean?” I eye her suspiciously.
“Who’s the girl?”
“You think I know her? I don’t—she’s just a figment of my imagination.”
She arches an eyebrow.
“She’s not flipping real.”
“If you say so.”
“Ah, I get it—you think I’m repressing something—like she’s a part of my past, or something like that.”
“Are you asking, or telling?”
I look at her in despair. “Honestly Margot, I don’t know—I don’t know who she is.”
She looks at her gold wristwatch. “I think we’ll begin here next time—there’s something here, James. We need to look at this.”
“Okay,” I nod. She walks me out to the receptionist.
“Make an appointment for James at two next Wednesday, Sylphide.” She pauses and looks pointedly, “And this time, try not to be late.”
I open my mouth to protest, but she glides away—as graceful as a colorful kite, broken free of its tether and sailing toward Spain.
“Mr. Randall?” Sylphide is staring up at me, perplexed.
“Oh, I’m sorry, Sylphide.” I take the proffered appointment card, “Wednesday will be fine.”
She smiles and returns to her computer.
I really have to get a grip—but what I really want is a drink. I punch in Harry’s number on my cell and arrange to meet him at The Sly Foxe.
Harry thinks I’m mad too.
“You were only twenty-three, James—much too young to handle the pressures of marriage, let alone having a best-seller.”
“But that’s all water under the bridge now, isn’t it?”
He smiles his crinkly-eyed smile. Harry’s my publisher, my mentor too—older and wiser—wavy white hair, blue eyes, Savile Row suits—you get the picture.
“If you mean your marriage—yes. If you mean your angst, no.”
“Aw, c’mon Harry—”
He raises a well-manicured hand to stop me, takes a sip from his Pimm’s and whispers conspiratorially, “Now don’t get me wrong, I’m not complaining—made a bundle of money off your angst—just saying, it’s still there.”
“And what exactly do you think it is?”
He winks and sips again, “Don’t know and don’t care. Personally, I hope to hell you never find out—just keep pumping out those novels and we’ll muddle through, the two of us—all the way to the bank.”
I grab my coat and chug the last of my ale. “Well, I’m not going to find truth in a bottle—I’m going home, kick back and maybe even write.”
“It’s just a rough patch you’re going through, James—all writers hit it sooner or later.”
I pause in the doorway to wave goodbye, more depressed than when I came in.
Harry’s already chatting up the waitress. That’s me in a way—always could get to square one—just couldn’t get past it.
I smile bitterly at my older alter ego.
James Randall, celebrated author and man-about-town—made it, but never arrived.
Back home, the house feels bigger and emptier than ever. Why I bought it, I have no idea, other than the fact I just love beautiful things and the romance of a bygone era.
I light the fire and settle in with a glass of Shiraz and a copy of Shakespeare’s sonnets.
Ah, the Bard—there was a man who could write about women, but was his personal life as stormy and unfulfilled as mine? Somehow I think so.
A jagged arm of lightning strikes an anvil—the roar cannonades across the sky shaking the leaded windows.
The atmosphere feels charged.
A white orb, about the size of a bowling ball, floats into the room. Ball lightning?
The orb hovers, floating like a huge soap bubble above the carpet. A prickly, tingling sensation creeps up the back of my neck—strange toneless music is playing.
The bubble pops into a prismatic shower of particles, reminiscent of a fireworks burst, but then the sparks coalesce into a shape.
The girl from my dream appears before me, and I’m mesmerized by her presence—unable to speak.
We stare at each other. She’s about seventeen, blonde and graceful—skin lovely as pale rose. I have never seen a girl so beautiful.
I recover my wits and my voice.
“Who are you?” I ask.
She opens her mouth to speak. Her dark lips move, but no words come out.
She’s standing opposite me in her school uniform—gray skirt, white blouse, gray stockings.
“Can you sit down?” I ask.
She complies.
We sit there staring at each other, but it’s not uncomfortable—I feel safe with her.
She can’t talk to me, so I talk to her—only, instead of the usual patter, I start telling her about myself—about my feelings.
It’s weird, but it seems right for us to be there together—she draws strength from me and I from her.
I lose all sense of time—maybe I’m enthralled, but we sit there until dawn—and then she slowly fades.
I’m not sure what happened that night.
The encounter with my schoolgirl changed me. I still sense her aura around me, especially in the house—sometimes when I enter a room the lights turn on, or a radio begins playing—it’s weird.
All the phenomena seem connected to electricity, as if that’s the medium through which we communicate.
I know the girl’s name—it’s Mariska—I don’t know how I know, but I’m positive that’s her name.
Ever since I’ve met her, my angst has disappeared. I can actually talk to women about my feelings—I mean, I can be vulnerable and honestly open up—I could never do that before.
I don’t know why Mariska can’t talk—maybe she’s an empathetic. All I know is since I opened up to her, I’ve been able to start writing again—and not just potboilers, but sensitive novels with nuance and depth.
Harry’s happy—says my writing’s been kicked up a notch—a more literary style.
But f I’m haunted, it’s an intelligent haunting at least—I now no longer need to see Margot—although I do miss her legs.
I used to think paranormal experiences were terrifying encounters—evil energy malingering, or negative emotions persisting—now, I realize it can sometimes be as therapeutic as dreams.
It was Stephen Vincent Benet who said, dreaming men are haunted men. I think he’s right.
I know it’s that way with me.
The girl of my dreams sings to me, electrified by raindrops and wind.
My muse sings to me in toneless notes, in wordless lyrics of mysterious force.
