when I've made some new ones now?
― Sylvia Plath
Mae and I were arguing, ostensibly over the house—an art deco masterpiece that always came between us.
Still, it wasn't that, but something else—something much deeper—perhaps the riddle of us.
Architecture aside, it was all about our lives.
Mae was right about one thing though—the house was my choice, not hers.
I loved the house. The architect who conceived it in the Thirties designed the curved windows to capture as much of the light as possible. And that was not a bad thing on a rainy day such as today.
All in all, I thought it was a very good purchase, not to mention the fact it appealed to my nostalgia for an era long gone.
I had adjourned to the study in hopes of picking up the thread of my writing, but couldn’t. The set-to with Mae robbed me of the momentum and I didn’t feel like going back over my draft trying to regain the flow of the narrative.
I was done for the day. Great! What now?
As I sat pondering possibilities, I heard, or rather sensed, a presence in the adjoining room. The hair on my arms stood on end reminding me of my troubled childhood in another detached house that was undeniably haunted.
But I was no longer a child, and I doubted this house was haunted.
I resolved to face my fears. I stood up and boldly strode into the front room, but was totally unprepared for what I saw.
A woman about my age, with long blonde hair and dressed in a light green jersey knit suit was standing with her back to me, peering out the window. I noticed the skirt was mid-calf length and gently accentuated her curves.
“I know you’re staring,” she whispered.
“Who are you?” I said.
“Blythe Summer.” Her voice was so soft as to be scarcely audible—actually, less a voice, and more a gentle breeze. She stood there, not turning around to look at me, but continuing to part the curtain and gaze out at the street.
“What’s your name?” she asked, in a musical, slightly mocking voice.
“Dawes Cooper, I said knee-jerk, then caught myself. “Look, the point is, what are you doing in my house?”
“I might ask the same thing,” she said in a lazy singsong drawl that I found very attractive. I couldn’t believe I was standing here, talking to a ghost and obsessing over her voice.
“I live in this house,” I told her sternly.
“So do I. We have something in common.”
She turned now to look at me and I felt my mouth go dry. She was breathtakingly beautiful. She struck me as looking the way a woman in the Thirties ought to look—well put together and full of glamor.
“Don’t get out much, huh?” she teased, smiling at my rapt appraisal of her beauty.
I flushed and looked away. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to stare—it’s just not every day that I get to meet a ghost.”
“Isn’t that funny,” she laughed, “I was thinking the same thing.”
“Now wait a minute,” I said hastily, “you’re from the past—about 80 years ago. That makes you a ghost.”
She was unfazed. “I see. Well, you’re from the future that hasn’t happened yet—what does that make you?”
I had no answer for that. I was drawn into her madness despite my misgivings.