Head-strong ...A Throughly Modern Woman

The question isn’t who’s going to let me, but who's going to stop me?
— Ayn Rand

It’s weird how things people say can haunt you your whole life. My grade three teacher, Miss Tracey, wrote in the comments section of my report card, Sarah is a head-strong girl. Now, that was before the days of standardized reports, when a teacher might carelessly say just about anything that popped into her mind—but ‘head-strong’?

Really, Miss Tracey, whatever were you thinking?

So, that’s a slice of what was going through my mind as I read The Hillsborough Tribune. No wonder my therapist is telling me I have to work more on being ‘mindful’ and ‘being present in the now’. But it seems to me everyone lives out of their past—we all own some suitcase of mementoes we lug around, and every now and then, when we get the chance, we sit down, have a coffee and pull out some mental objet d’art and lose ourselves for the next ten minutes.

At least, I do.

Anyway, to return to the point, I shook my head, centred myself, put my empty coffee mug into the sink and tossed the newspaper into the recycle bin.

Writing for The Trib was one thing, but having to read it was another—I mean, how bland and boring can a local paper get? —Well, in the case of The Trib, pretty mind numbing, I must say.

That’s why I have Harry.

Harry’s the previous owner of my house. He died eighty years ago, but the problem is, he’s never moved out—or on...or whatever term it is that denotes going to the light or the blissful hereafter.

“We need an exorcism,” Midge said.

Midge Cullen is a frizzy-haired, glasses-wearing nerd who hangs around libraries when she’s not driving me crazy. I befriend her because as a Sandra Bullock look alike, I need at least one geeky friend to balance me out.

Hah!

“I’m not calling in the Ghost Busters,” I told her, “and besides, Bill Murray really bugs me.”

“I don’t know about you, but I find it really creepy—and I don’t have to live here,” Midge shuddered, “or worse, sleep here.”

“Well, I am a head-strong girl.”

She gave me that deer in headlights stare and I thought of the bespectacled Marcie in the Peanuts cartoon—all she needed to do was call me, “Sir.”

“You are weird,” she concluded, slowly shaking her head, “and you could use a Bill Murray in your life.”

No sooner did she say that than the antique ink well flew off the shelf and skittered across the hardwood floor, spooking Penelope, my Tabby cat—she took off, claws skittering and scrabbling over the polished floor and Midge, aka Marcie, headed for the door.

“I’m outa here,” she called over her shoulder, “make that call to Bill Murray, or I won’t be back.”

“Love ya,” I chirped brightly, but her words got to me, because an hour later, I began to get down.

Another day in my so-called life, I mused.

It was kind of weird though, sharing my house with a guy who’s been dead eighty years. Why wasn’t I scared? For that matter, why wasn’t I normal like everyone else?

How I longed to be a girly-girl, to phone up some Brad Pitt type who’d come over and fix my life—so-called, or otherwise. Not knowing what else to do, I fell asleep on the couch and didn't wake until 3 pm the next day.

Harry was sitting on the sofa chair, puffing on a huge Havana cigar and looking quite pleased with himself.

“What are you so happy about?” I grumbled as I sat up and tried with both hands to push my wonky hair back into shape.

“You’re a fine-looking woman", said he, holding out his cigar and examining it as if it were some rare specimen of the tobacco trade—which I suppose it was, come to think of it.

Harry looked like Adolph Menjou, dressed in his three-piece suit and sporting a well-trimmed moustache.

“You’re evading my question,” I reminded him.

“Not at all, my dear, in fact, my observation is germane to the subject previously discussed by you and Miss Cullen.”

“Which one—getting an exorcist, or dating Bill Murray?”

“Actually both. In fact, your knight errant is arriving as we speak.” He pointed out the window to a blonde-haired young man, getting out of a pick-up truck.

“What have you been up to, Harry?” I croaked in fear.

“Just made a few calls while you were napping. This fellow fancies himself a spiritualist—let’s see how he does.”

“Harry! How could you?”

The doorbell rang and Harry evaporated.

I cracked open the door about an inch. “Yes, what is it?”

The young man broke into a crinkly smile that instantly did an end run around all my defences.

“I’m here to meet Harry,” he said cheerfully. “He called me on the phone.”

I looked at him as if he had ten lovely heads, instead of just the one staring at me with a boyish grin.

“I think somebody’s pulling a prank on you.”

“Of course—Ghosts do that—I’m sure Harry’s no different.”

“Who are you, anyway?” His cheeky manner was beginning to bug me –in fact, he was starting to look like a blonde-haired, better-looking, athletic version of Bill Murray.

“Can I come in?”

I rolled my eyes heavenward and threw open the door. “Why not? Harry’s invited you, so I’ll leave it up to him to entertain you.”

I stepped aside and he cheekily walked right in. I was a bit flabbergasted, but after five years of Harry, I guess I was immune to just about anything weird.

“Look, Mr—”

“It’s Tom,” he smiled.

“Mr. Tom?”

“Tom’s my first name—I’m Tom Walters and you must be Sarah Night.” He held out his hand and I mechanically shook it, staring into his deep blue eyes—as a matter of fact, I kept shaking it until he asked, “Can I have my hand back?”

I’m a real blusher and I must have turned a few shades of deep red.

“I’m so sorry—I just can’t believe that Harry would do this.”

He sat down and sunk into the sofa chair so comfortably that I was shocked. He then swung one leg over the arm, so casually, I felt I was in his house and I was the visitor.

“Make yourself comfortable,” I said in my best sarcastic tone.

He didn’t blink. I think he was expecting me to offer him coffee—which, like a jerk, I did!

“What’s your angle in all this, Tom?”

He took a big swig and drained his mug and then, sat back, both arms resting comfortably on the sofa arms.

“I get to carry out my research project.”

“What are you—some kind of Ghost Buster?”

“Not exactly,” he laughed. “I’m a graduate of Berkley and I’m a Parapsychologist.”

“I figured as much,” I said.

He read my body language.

“Hold on, Sarah—before you dismiss me, hear me out. I’m proposing that you let me set up my equipment and stay overnight in the house—If I get anything, you’ll get the exclusive on a story to run in The Trib.”

I rolled my eyes.

“The New York Trib,” he added.

My eyes bugged out.

“This could be your big break, Sarah—all you’ve got to do is witness whatever occurs and sign an affidavit of legitimacy.”

“I guess I can’t lose,” I said.

He spent the rest of the afternoon bringing in electronic equipment from his truck and setting it up in my front room.

The evening was spent quite pleasantly. Tom and I sat in the dark in my front room, sipping coffee and exchanging stories about our lives.

I was beginning to like the guy. I never could stomach prissy guys—you know the metrosexuals who shave body hair and wear make-up—just not my type. But Tom—big, rugged, handsome Tom—he was right up my alley.

Midnight came and went. No Harry.

I was beginning to get annoyed. If Harry’s purpose was to call this guy so I could get hooked up, well then, he was really screwing up, because Tom was getting antsy and I could see my newspaper career slowly circling the drain.

Just when I was about to give up and go to bed, the clock struck three and all hell literally broke loose.

Wild, phantasmagoric faces came at us from every side and Tom was pushed to the floor and left to crawl around on his hands and knees. He kept being forced around the room while these screaming banshees deafened me with their high-pitched screeches.

Tom was absolutely terrified and dissolved into a whimpering mess under my dining room table. I was vexed.

“Enough, Harry,” I shouted to the darkness and caught a glimpse of him with his face painted phosphorescent green like some Halloween ghoul.

Tom must have seen it too because he ran for the door, tripping over wires and dragging expensive equipment behind him. The door slammed and he was gone.

“I hope you’re happy, Harry.”

The lights came on magically and Harry was back in the sofa chair Tom had claimed, sitting and smoking a Havanna Reale.

“You’re a beast!” I shouted at him.

He laughed till he cried, and then, developed a coughing fit that lasted a good two minutes. Finally, he caught his breath and looked at me with watery eyes.

“I hope you’re satisfied,” I shouted and glared at him wanting to do him harm—if that were possible.

He calmed right down.

“Forgive me, Love, but I couldn’t resist. I thought he might be your type, but obviously he isn’t—that yellow-spined wimp!"

He saw my face and softened.

"But look on the bright side, Love—you’ll have an exclusive in The New York Trib and be well on your way to a great newspaper career.”

“But what about Tom?” I sputtered.

“Oh him? He wasn’t your type my dear—he’s a wimp and you—well, you’re such a head-strong girl.”

© 2025, John J Geddes. All rights reserved

Photo