Everyone instinctively knows music heard with somebody else, is more than music—that’s why it’s good sometimes just to be alone.
You know the days when the house is still, the rain is falling and the fire is crackling in the grate? That to me, is total bliss. I’ve even gone bowling alone—well okay, I don’t recommend it, seeing as it’s only half bad—but you get the picture.
If you’re a writer like me, you really can’t spend too much time alone or you start to question your view of reality and end up talking to yourself. You might even think you see things—that’s how I explain it to Harry—but he still insists he’s my ghost.
It started innocently enough with a book hitting a wall—I’m sure that happens to everyone. Picture the scene: you’re sitting by the fire, reading Sherlock Homes and a copy of your latest novel is shied at the wall.
Bloody hell! I say, jumping from my chair.
“I can’t believe you write this rot.”
A gray haired fellow, of about fifty, is leaning against the doorframe, looking around the dining room, presumably for something else to throw.
‘Who the devil are you?”
“I’m your ghost.”
Now, I’m the one looking around the study for something to pitch at him—ghost be damned!
“Don’t be bloody ridiculous—how did you get in here?”
“Well, I suppose the answer to that question is, I never left. Dropped dead by the fire—poisoned by Hattie, my second wife.”
“You’ve got to be kidding,” I retort.
“No, actually, I’m not. The damnable thing is, she gets away with it—the house, my stocks, my book rights—leaving me here haunting this old barn.”
“This is a beautiful manse,” I reply—caught up, I suppose, in my own inanity.
“It’s a monstrosity—all done to suit Hattie’s taste—almost bankrupted me to build it. Bloody woman.”
“You’re telling me you’re Sir Palmer Couch? The mystery writer?”
“One and the same.”
I put my hand to my forehead. “Phew! I must be getting light-headed—my imagination is certainly running wild.”
“Don’t be absurd, Kent—you’re the most unimaginative dolt who’s ever paid money to the vanity press.”
“I resent that—lots of writers self-publish—Orwell did.”
“Orwell had talent—you’re a hack.”
I had to sit down in my chair. Sweat had broken out on my forehead and I felt the room spinning.
“I’d gladly rebut you, but I feel quite dizzy at the moment.”
“No doubt—you drank half a bottle of that cheap plonk you call wine.”
He came over and sat casually in the leather wing chair facing me.
The glow from the fire bronzed his features and he looked so real I felt I had to be reassured he was flesh and blood.
I got up and advanced toward him, but alas, as soon as my hand reached out to grasp his shoulder, it went right through him to the leather back of the chair.
“My God, I must be hallucinating.”
“I told you I was a ghost—you can’t contact ectoplasm, you know.”
“What do you want?”
“Now, Kent—calm yourself, Man! —You’re hyperventilating. I want you to listen to my proposition. You want to write, but can’t— I can write, but unfortunately, I’m dead. Why don’t we collaborate?”
“You want me to team up with you?”
“Sure, why not? Lots of authors use ghost writers.”
I groaned. “I don’t believe this is happening to me.”
“How many copies of Dead to Life did you sell?”
I stared at him. I hate trick questions.
“Exactly. Enough said. You need my intervention and I need a living, breathing instrument to transcribe my thoughts.”
“So, you’re suggesting automatic writing?”
“No, you dolt! I’m suggesting we collaborate—a true synergy of past meets present. You’ll help me shape my books to suit the modern taste—the world has changed in a hundred and fifty years, you know.”
He had a point and the truth was, I had sold fewer books than I had given away.
I needed a break and maybe this crazy scheme could work. After all, Harry was my Muse—I didn’t believe for one moment he was the discarnate spirit of Sir Palmer.