Girl in the Picture …Part 2 …Ghostly Apparition
—Paulo Coelho
There’s a girl in my picture who wasn’t there when I shot a photo of the house in Elora .
Now, I’m back home in Toronto still puzzled and musing about how she got there.
My friend, Gus, said he didn’t tave anything to do with it, so how she appeared is a mystery…
But the biggest mystery is how she introduced herself to me by writing, Hello, on the negative of the photo.
Actually, it’s kind of spooky and it scares me so I try to put it out of my head by listening to music but finally end up going to bed, exhausted from the day.
But that night I have a dream.
I dream that I’ve bought the Georgian house and Gus and Katie and a few friends are visiting. It’s a housewarming.
Suddenly, there’s a knock on the door and the girl from the photo enters with a girlfriend.
I greet her and we talk as if we’re old work colleagues.
The party goes on—we drink a lot of wine—and then, I’m alone with her. I think I’m giving her a tour of the house and we’re in the bedroom.
She sits on the bed and softly weeps. I ask her what’s wrong and try to console her. But instead of talking, I find myself softly kissing her.
It’s gentle, and one of the sweetest kisses, I’ve ever experienced.
I never want it to end.
But Katie happens to come into the room, and makes a remark about our sudden intimacy and I feel embarrassed.
Still, I can’t stop feeling drawn to the girl.
I wake up, just past 8:30 am—thunder rumbling softly outside. I can still feel the soft touch of her lips.
I lie there staring at the ceiling and wondering what’s happening to me.
I grab a coffee and bagel at my local Tim Horton’s and head out west on highway 401 toward Elora. I find myself pushing the accelerator pedal hard and wanting to be there.
It’s crazy, she’s not real, I tell myself—but I can still taste those kisses and they’re more tender and real than any I’ve ever had.
I feel an intense longing to be with her—or just near her.
As I drive, it rains harder. The morning seems to be turning into one of those gray days of interminable rain and mist.
The photo shoot will be ruined—I don’t care. I need to see her again.
An hour and a half later, I’m parked in the driveway of the Georgian House. The outside is somber—bricks darkened by rain.
But the overhanging leaves are bejeweled with water droplets and the lawn is covered with a silvery dew.
I get out and stand in the drizzle, feeling helpless, and staring at the house.
I glance across the circular drive at the lawn and my breath catches—there, inscribed in Spenserian handwriting in the dew is the message: Hello.
Some beautiful, invisible finger traced the lovely, flowing script. I crouch down and touch the “H” and feel a warm sensation pass through me.
When I close my eyes I can see her face. When I open them, a vaporous form is standing far off in the gray trees.
I walk toward the figure. It grows indistinct as I approach and vanishes into tendrils of mist.
I spend hours wandering the grounds, getting soaked to the skin, hoping to catch another glimpse.
Finally, I give up and go into town to the restaurant.
I take a window seat where I can see the river and the rain.
As I sip my hot coffee, a thought hits me—the library! The house must have a history.
I’m going to get to the bottom of this mystery before it totally obsesses me.