to living in it.
As I’m packing my things, I think of an old saying with a slight variation: When the salesman’s away, the cats will play.
The Awakening of Amy
Amy and I met in a haunted house, a real one. And it was quite by chance and right next door.
My story started when I walked into the realtor’s office for the second time. I told her I had decided on the house and wanted to pay cash for it. She’s surprised for two reasons.
“That’s quite a feat for a man of such a young age.”
“I guess you could say I’m self-supporting. I invested in the stock market and invested wisely.”
“Well, you don’t have to come up with the whole sum at one time,” she explains. “We can offer a great financing rate.”
“The price is right in this market, and I see no sense in losing the savings by paying finance charges.”
She studies me for a minute. “I could use you for my financial consultant.”
I laugh.
“And what I told you Monday hasn’t discouraged you any?” she asks.
* * * * *
It was during the showing of the house. “I would be remiss in not telling you the reason this house is going at such a great price. The house next door is considered to be haunted,” she said.
“Oh, really?”
“Oh, yes. A young lady was murdered there three years ago, and you know how imaginations run wild.”
“I’m new to the area. What happened?” I ask, my curiosity aroused.
“The young woman, Amy Lynley her name was, was strangled there. They think the boyfriend did it, but not enough evidence was found to charge him. The distraught parents moved away and have been trying to sell the house ever since.
“But having the words ‘murder’ and ‘haunted’ tagged to it, it has been a tough sale. They have a yard crew that keep the grounds up, and a maid service comes for the inside.
“If you decide to buy and start hearing stories, I don’t want you thinking I misrepresented anything and put you with a ghost next door.”
* * * * *
“I don’t believe in ghosts,” I tell her plainly.
She laughs.
We finish the transaction, and I start making plans to move in. On the third night in my new abode, my sleep pattern has changed. Not bothered to say or interrupted or made restless, but more like someone is reading my thoughts (or dreams), enjoying the pleasant ones I’m having, and comforting me when they’re not. Something inside my being tells me that it’s urgent to meet this person (or spirit), and it would be in my benefit to do so.
I awaken not knowing if this is a dream in itself, but almost sure it’s more than that. A dream would be a simple explanation. An inner need, more than a conscious effort, leads me to my bedroom window.
In the window across from my own, I see a twinkling of blue light pass by and then come back. It’s not a light really but more of a translucent glow. It senses me, comes closer to the window, and seemingly radiates its warmth out to me. I think now I’m fully awake and try to study this phenomenon in more detail.
The window rises at half mast on its own power, and the curtains blow in and drift out as if they are beckoning fingers urging me: “Come…come, John. See what I’m about.” I’m intrigued and apprehensive at the same time, but my legs carry me to the closet anyway. I grab my flashlight and make my way outside.
When I get to the house next door, I shine my light down both sides of it. Sometimes I have seen kids in the yard during the day but never at night and never inside the house. And I doubt that’s the explanation for the early-morning glow coming from it now.
I walk up the steps onto the porch and turn the knob. At the same time, I can feel help with it from the other side, like someone is unlocking the knob as I turn. I open the door slowly and walk in the same way, not knowing what to expect.
It’s cold this morning and very dark, but the front room is pleasantly warm, and a dim glow lights it even though I know power is not running to it.
“Please take a seat, John Parker,” an unearthly, but distinctly female voice says to me. I’m not sure if it is actually spoken or transferred to me mentally. “I’m glad you came to visit.”
There’s a sofa and a recliner seat in the great room, but for some reason, I’m sure she means the dining-room chair pulled out from the table. I sit down and notice dust on the furniture and cobwebs in the corners. It’s apparent the cleaning crew doesn’t come as often as the yard crew.
“Since you already know my name, may I ask yours?” I say to still air.
“Mine is Amy Lynley,” she says from the other end of the table. She didn’t walk from the other room or run down the hall, float down from the ceiling or crawl down the wall; she just appeared. “It’s nice to make your acquaintance, John Parker. We are of a kindred spirit, you and I.”
She must have been very beautiful in life because she is stunningly exquisite the way she is now. Although a bluish fog surrounds her, I can see that her hair is dark and flowing, and her eyes are dark but bright. And a sharply cut white robe exposes a delicate neck, porcelain shoulders, and the darkness of her cleavage contrasts with the ivory orbs of breast. A black and white portrait framed in a bluescape.
“How do you know my name?” I ask. “And more importantly, how do you know how I am?”
“Please don’t be mad at me, John. Spirits can sense these things, and after you moved in, reading your thoughts has been easy. I know a lot about you.”
“I can’t be mad at you…I hardly know you.”
“You know my history?”
I think back to what the realtor had told me.
I could lie to her to spare her feelings, but what’s the point? She can read my thoughts.
“I heard you died too young and died horribly.”
“It could have been worse, I suppose.” She watches a good-sized spider crawl toward my hand, snatches it from the table top, and pops it into her mouth. “Nasty creatures,” she says.
I could jump and run, but where to and what from? I don’t think she’s an evil phantom or a vengeful presence. She seems sad to me, one that desires company and deserves sympathy. And for some reason, I think she has developed a fondness for me.
I am entranced by her absolute beauty and can’t help but stare and explain the reason for it. She thanks me for the compliment and tells me I’m not so bad myself.
“I also heard your boyfriend was responsible for your death. Do you want me to get him for you? I know a good private eye.”
She looks intently at me. “I know what the small minds around here think, but Jody didn’t murder me. It was my first cousin.” She goes on to tell me that her Jody died a few months ago in a car crash, that her cousin will get what’s coming to him, and that I should let it go because she doesn’t want to lose me too.
I don’t really know how to take this last statement, so I let it go. I tell her that since he has passed on, that maybe they could be reunited. She imparts to me that there are many phases of the afterlife, that it can be hard to find someone you knew in real life, sometimes impossible.
“I thought it was the big three: heaven, purgatory, or hell,” I say to her. “Couldn’t you narrow it down some?”
“Those are the places. But there are many pathways to take and stopping-off points along the way before getting to your final resting place.”
I