Quiet Nights With Ghosts Part 1 0f 2

Do you believe in ghosts? There was a time I didn't but that was before Caroline and my stay at the old lake house.

I'm sitting here now in my Toronto condo browsing through my journal and realizing how much the events of that summer touched my life.

I turn the page and begin to read and allow myself to be transported back to that time.

I went for a walk this afternoon along the ravine. October clouds slowly crested the hill like a flock of sheep. You would have liked that.

You asked, “Did you ever notice how autumn clouds are different from summer ones?”

I said I didn’t.

“Well, they are, you know—they have purple bottoms.”

You laughed.

I wasn’t sure if you were serious, but since that time, I looked at autumn clouds and saw you were right

Typical.

It's all typical of the way I miss you, Caroline.

And I know you’re here, but I can’t reach you.

I put down the pen and gaze hopelessly at the window. It’s been raining again and the dark atmosphere just makes things worse.

How did I ever end up here? But then, I know the answer to that question—the answer I struggled with all summer.

I wanted a change—and got one—and here I am.

“You could spend the summer at the old lake house,” Uncle Bert said. “It’s a bit beat up and could use some repairs, but if you want seclusion so you can write, I can’t think of a better place.”

And that was that—my summer plans settled in an instant.

From the time he handed me the old rusted key, I felt I was embarking on some grand adventure—sort of like Thoreau, retreating to the woods to find himself.

“There’s nothing around for miles,” he reminded me, “except an old general store in Willow Valley—and that’s a good ten miles away.”

“I’ll be all right, Uncle Bert.”

“I gotta warn you—your dad locked up that place and it’s been left mouldering ever since. You may get some nasty surprises.”

“I’ll be fine,” I reassured him. “If it’s really nasty, I’ll camp out in my trailer.”

I intended to tow my dad’s old silver Airstream back of my F-150 pick-up. It’ll be an adventure, I thought.

Uncle Bert looked like he envied me.

When I set eyes on the lake house, my heart leapt. It was lovely. The slate gray shingles shone in the light rain and the lake was placid as a glass mirror.

I felt some trepidation as I turned the key in the lock, but other than a slight musty smell, the house was dry and in good shape and no critters made it their home.

I spent the first two days airing it out and cleaning—but by the third day, the house was in pretty good shape. I set up my office in the study on the first floor, so I could look out at the lake.

I wrote from nine in the morning until three in the afternoon—the rest of my day was mine to do whatever I wanted.

I got into a routine of swimming in the lake or hiking and then at night I'd go online and tweet or talk to friends on Facebook.

I’m fundamentally a shy person—not a partygoer or the sociable type—actually; I find it hard to meet people, especially women.

Anyway, the foregoing is my rationale for what I eventually did, either out of boredom or shyness—I began visiting an ICQ chat room called Quiet Nights.

I’d get a glass of Yellow Tail Shiraz, put on some Rachmoninov and spend a few hours chatting with strangers—it was harmless fun.

Every now and then, a woman named Caroline would come into the chat room and it was uncanny—I’d go to make a comment and she’d say the very same thing I was thinking. It was weird.

One night we got to talking about it and stayed up all night chatting. We had so much in common, it was incredible.

I began to obsess about her. I knew her name, Caroline Dunn, so I looked her up on Facebook—it was love at first sight.

She had this ethereal beauty that filled me with longing—it wasn’t sexual as much as it was sensing I had met my soul mate.

We made a date to meet each night at eight and talk until midnight, but honestly, we often talked until three in the morning. I seemed to lose all sense of time when in her presence.

I did say presence, didn’t I? Well, it was kind of weird—when I talked with her online, I felt she was right there in the room with me. I put it down to my vivid imagination, but the truth was, she was as tangibly present as if she were sitting beside me.

I’d excuse myself to use the washroom, or make a coffee and she’d do the same, and be right there, the moment I came back .

I’d get into the habit of talking to her when going about my chores during the day—much the same way, I suppose, people talk to their pets. It didn’t seem strange—it felt natural—naturally supernatural.

I avoided contacting my literary agent, because what would I tell her—that I hadn’t been writing because I was obsessing over an online relationship? I don’t think so.

It was weird and went on for a month.

It was spooky and a little weird but it seemed like harmless fun.

But I didn’t know then what I know now, and I ignored the clear signals that something was very wrong

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