Amelia
Chapter 1
“I’ve seen how you tremble, whenever he walks through your mind. Stirring up memories that cloud up your eyes, where the light of our love ought to shine ... He’s just a ghost story. So don’t let him scare you. He’s not really there like it seems ... And tonight when I hold you, I’ll hold you so close, I’ll love him right out of your dreams...”
The Don Williams song came out of the stereo speakers, the beat of the music in time with the sound of the Bridgestone four-track tyres on the tar beneath the SUV. Ghosts and spirits were far from my mind; something I saw on TV or read in a book, but never paid much attention to. How this will impact my immediate future, I had no idea.
It was late afternoon when I finally took the N1 highway out of the central business district of Cape Town. This was a Thursday afternoon, just before 15:00, and the traffic was moderate on the M62. So, keeping to the middle lane before the N1 highway began, the running was smooth. I left the intersection with the last traffic lights behind, and with traffic thinning out somewhat I set the cruise control to 80 kilometres an hour. Later, past the industrial suburb of Paarden Island, I will up it to 120 km/h.
My destination was Franschhoek, or rather Berg River Dam, on the Berg River, flowing through a green valley between the high cliffs of Skerpheuwel, Dassenberg, Olifantsberg and Afrikakop mountains. The Berg River Dam was a blue jewel nesting in the valley. It was not a big dam, but not your run-of-the-mill farm dam either. It more or less represented a small lake, or “loch,” as Uncle Alex used to call it. This is South Africa and here a loch looks more like a lake to me.
With the sun over my back to the west, I was driving east. The music from the stereo system surrounded me, enveloping me at a moderate sound level. No, not a Tchaikovsky or Mozart or Beethoven; that will come later, savoured with a nice Pinotage red wine. This was more of drive-along music, something to ease the monotony of driving alone on a smooth flat top.
Not a care in the world troubled my soul. This trip would come as a well-deserved long weekend for me. My businesses were in good hands. Clive, my sidekick, and Lizz, my personal assistant, would run things until I got back on Tuesday. Leaving the sound studio and the many artists on my books in the capable hands of Clive was something I needed to do long ago and take a break. There were not any big concerts or events coming up, and my personal appearances were few and far between. So, why not take a break?
Although this weekend was a well-deserved rest, it was also an investigation of a property I inherited from my “long-lost uncle.” Okay, I knew Uncle Alex; I visited a few times at his estate on the Berg River Dam and found the old soul to be a leftover from the Scottish descent I hail from. Uncle Alex had many stories to tell and was also my introduction to the tasty fruits of the Scottish Highlands: single malt whisky!
Uncle Alex had wandered all over the world and somehow ended up settling here in South Africa. He always longed to go back to his beloved green hills of Scotland, but never got around to doing it.
At eighty-eight, he departed to the green hills up yonder in the sky, where all old warriors go. He will no more wander far away. He is at peace now, after the last piper called him home, and left me the estate.
The estate was, well, a castle that he replicated from Sorn Castle in Scotland. Stone for stone, rafter for rafter, and window for window, he replicated McIntyre Castle. And now it is mine. What the hell am I to do with a Scottish castle in the heart of Africa? Time will tell. Well, it doesn’t look like a typical castle, more like a big manor house on steroids.
And then the estate came with its own support staff: a butler; a housekeeper; two cleaning staff; a cook; and three groundsmen. On the grounds to the side of the pink sandstone castle, olive trees, apple trees, and a small vineyard were maintained by a few of the locals on a permanent payroll. And then there was land, somewhat further away, that was rented to the local farmers. That land provided more than adequate income to sustain the estate.
Well, let me introduce myself. My name is Bruce. Bruce McIntyre, forty-eight years young, never married. Six foot two in the old imperial measurements, or one comma eight nine metres in modern metric tongue, if you prefer. Sandy hair just touching my shoulders, blue eyes and not too skinny, neither obese. Just right. Not even looking like any of my far-off Scottish nieces and nephews.
Now on with the story.
From the south of Muizenberg side, a bank of clouds was rolling in from the sea. The expected cold front was on its way, and by nightfall Cape Town would be shrouded in dark clouds with cold rain sifting down. By that time, I would be at the estate, an hour and a half away. It will be cold, but with the relative screening from the mountain, there may not be rain falling in the valley ... but one never knows. The weather does what the weather wants to do.
In the meantime, the Range Rover purred along at a hundred and twenty kilometres an hour. The cruise control was set to 127 Km/h, and that equated to precisely 120 Km/h on the GPS, and the Cape Flats of Joostenbergvlakte slipped into my wake. South Paarl was the next turn-off and there I will take the R101 off-ramp, all along the Berg River, towards Franschhoek, and Berg River Dam.
The hills are bare now, and autumn leaves lie thick and still across the carpet of green lawn grass around the castle. The trees around the yard were showing signs of winter rest, and stood like black and grey skeletons against the darkening sky. Fog rolled in over the mountains surrounding the estate, bathing everything in a misty shroud. The dam had just about disappeared in the mist. But even though the fog blotted out most of the sight of the water, the sound of the water lapping along the shore told anyone who listened that it was still there and restless.
Despite the fact it was not even dusk as yet (for it was only just past five in the afternoon), the gloomy fading light caused the lights inside the castle to be on. Yes, the castle was electrified during the early ‘70s, therefore bright light streamed out of most of the windows on the ground and second floors.
As I said before, this castle looked more like a big manor house on steroids than a castle with a drawbridge over a moat. In front (okay, let’s call it a manor house), the house has a covered car park sort of thing. There must be a name for it, but that detail escapes me now. You know that thing where you stop your car before the front entrance, and a pageboy opens the car door for you? Well, now you get it. That thing. Oh, yeah! Thanks. The old mind works a little slow. It’s called a porte-cochère.
I pulled up to the porte-cochère, and as I got out, I was greeted by Samuel, the butler.
“Good evening, Sir! You arrived just in time before the rain sets in.”
“Hello, Sam! You look good. You did not age at all since the last time I was here.”
“Why, thank you, Sir,” Chuckle, “Although the old bones say otherwise. Come, let me get your bags and get you out of this chill.”
“I only have two bags, Sam. Don’t worry, I’ll just hitch it over my shoulder, and carry the guitar case in my hand.” Sam knew me and that I was sort of a man on my own. I was always friendly and respectful to the staff and treated them as equals and not as lord and master over them. Thus, putting up a fight to carry my bag would be fruitless.
“As you wish, Sir Bruce! If you give me the keys, I’ll go stable the car in the garage.”
“Here you go, Sam,” And I handed him the keys to the Range Rover.
“Magda has prepared the master bedroom for you Sir Bruce. Let me escort you up to the bedroom. You can freshen up and supper will be served in the dining room.”
“Thank you, Sam. I hope you did not have a full spread done as always. I am not that hungry!”
“Food won’t waste around here, Sir. There are some hungry mouths around that would appreciate the leftovers.” Chuckle.
“Are the cats still around?”
“All seven of them. Just keep your bedroom door closed, or they will come and shove you off the bed or bring you some dead lizards as gifts!”
“Ah, Sam, I don’t mind the cats or their gifts. But let’s get inside. I think we are in for some icy weather.”
“Good, Sir Bruce. Come, I will take you up to the master bedroom first.” And he turned and walked into the house. I hitched my duffle bag up on my left shoulder and followed him into the big entrance hall.
Everything was just as I recalled it. The big stairway leading to the upper floors was right in front of us. To the sides were doors to passages leading to the west and east wings of the castle. The smell of the place brought back memories of long forgotten excursions to the estate. Somehow, I felt at home. I will just miss the booming voice of Uncle Alex.
Outside the fog started to cover everything. Like a lace curtain it folded down, wrapping everything with an eerie, misty blanket. The dark skeletons of the trees in their winter rest stood with wet fingers pointing to the sky, slowly fading before my eyes in the fog and the gloom.
Closing the big oak front double doors with a heavy clunk, Sam strode up the central stairway, and I followed suit. At the top, he turned to his left and took the left-hand stairway to the first and second floors. This old castle had a basement floor, a ground floor, a first floor, a second floor, and then of course there was the attic or third floor, evident of all the windows in the roof.
At the second floor landing, he turned to his right and went down a passage to the last heavy oak door on the left, where he stopped and opened the door.
“Your bedroom, Sir Bruce. You are now the owner of the estate, and thus the master bedroom is yours. Welcome to McIntyre Castle, Sir!” He said. I went into the huge room, and Sam followed me in.
“Thank you, Sam.”
I have been in this room only once before: the time when Uncle Alex wanted to show me one of his shotguns he got in the hope of ever going duck hunting in Scotland, but never did.
The room was big, with wood panelling on all the walls. The ceiling was painted a dark shade of pink, more of a faded maroon than a pink colour. It contrasted sharply with the dark, deep brown rafters and the light brown wall wood panelling. A thick white carpet covered the floor.
To the foot of the double bed, there was a white marble fireplace and one green high back easy chair stood to the side of the fireplace. On the other side of the fireplace another pastel green easy chair stood, and under the single window there was a third easy chair covered in white fabric.
A radiator type heater was along the wall to the right of the bed, but what caught my eye was the painting of a beautiful blond girl, staring at me with her pale green eyes. Who she was I did not know, but there was no mistake that she was dear to Uncle Alex. I even recalled his words he whispered that single time I was in this room with him.
“If those lips could only speak. If those eyes could only see. If those beautiful golden tresses were here in reality. I could take her hand, as I did when you took my name. But it’s only a beautiful picture in a beautiful golden frame... ”
I never did find out who the girl in the picture was. No-one said anything and Uncle Alex never spoke on the matter to me again. I only assumed it was his wife, although no-one ever mentioned an “Auntie Alex.”
Now she looked at me, out of the golden picture frame, with those same pale green eyes; never looking sad, never looking happy.
“I can have the painting removed, if you wish, Sir Bruce?” Sam questioned.
“No ... No, Sam ... Leave it for the time being...”
“As you wish, Sir Bruce.”
“Who was she?”
“That was Lady Amelia, adopted by Sir Alex, and given a home here in South Africa.”
“But ... Sam ... Ain’t she entitled to the estate then?”
“She died tragically in a car crash on her eighteenth birthday. She was run over by a drunk driver ... Both she and her horse...”
“You knew her, Sam?”
“No, Sir Bruce, she died the year before I started to work here at the castle.”
“Is she buried here on the grounds?”
“Yes, Sir. Out back near the Loch ... ah, I mean the dam, Sir. We see to fresh flowers on her grave every week.”
“I never knew ... no-one ever spoke of her. You said her name was, Amelia?”
“Amelia Iona Sinclair. After Sir Alex adopted her, her name was changed to McIntyre. A sad story: both parents died during an IRA bombing in London. She was only a five-year-old child then with no family. She ended up in a foster home, but that did not work out too well for her. That is all I know about her. Sir Alex did not say much more.”
“Thank you, Sam.”
“You’re welcome, Sir Bruce. All I can add is that lady Amelia would have turned forty-four this year, but you could find that out yourself if you go to visit her grave. Her bedroom is still untouched and three doors down from yours. Now, if there’s nothing else, let me go and tell Maggie to lay the table for you, Sir.”
“Thank you, Sam, that will be all,” I said, and he left the room, closing the door behind him.
I found myself staring at the painting again. Rooted to the spot and not knowing why, I could not tear myself away from those pale green eyes.
“If those lips could only speak ... those eyes could only see. If those beautiful golden tresses were here in reality ... You look so serene, Amelia. I hope I can call you Amelia. You are now stuck with me, but I’ll not have you ever removed from here. I’ll go visit your grave tomorrow...” I said it out aloud, and then shook my head. I was speaking to a painting! Can you believe it? A sane man, speaking to a painting.
After a refreshing shower and some more warm clothing, I left the bedroom and went down to the dining room. Magda, or Maggie as Sam called her, surprised me with a hearty cooked meal. This was not my usual way to sit at a table and eat a cooked meal. I just usually wing it and eat whatever, whenever I was hungry. It felt lonesome to be sitting down at an oak table that could seat twenty guests at a time, but hey, I’m now Lord of the manor. If I stay here, I need to find some alternative to dining in the dining room. Maybe ask Maggie just to do something in the kitchen for me.
After the nice supper, Sam told me that there’s a decanter of Scotch available and asked if I would like to retire to the private lounge.
“No, thank you, Sam. I would like the Scotch, but I will retire for the evening. You can tell the staff to do the same,” I instructed.
“Very well, Sir. There’s an intercom in your bedroom, Sir. Whenever you need me, just press the red button.” There was a look in his eyes that conveyed a message that his words did not say. Whatever it meant, I dismissed it.
“I don’t think it will be necessary, Sam, but thank you.”
“Then I will bring you your Scotch, Sir.” And with that, he strode out of the dining room.
I lingered a while longer and then made my way up the stairs to the master bedroom. I was contemplating reading a book I brought along and was just getting comfortable in the green easy chair, when Sam knocked on the door and entered with a silver tray, On the tray was a crystal glass decanter, an ice bucket and a glass.
“Shall I pour for you, Sir?”
“Nah, Sam. I’ll do the honours myself. You can go for the night.”
“Thank you, Sir Bruce, and good night, Sir.”
“Good night, Sam.”
After he left, I poured myself a measure of whisky and dropped two cubes of ice in it. I settled down with my book. The room felt warm, and I realised that Sam had turned on the heater in the room. It felt cosy despite the large floor surface of the room.
At just past nine, I felt drowsy after two glasses of scotch. The book was good, but now it was time to turn in. My eyes were getting watery, and a yawn or two had me thinking of the bed. I switched off all the lights in the room. The bed felt good. Uncle Alex did have good taste when it came to sleeping. The mattress was not too hard, but not too soft either. Nice and fluffy pillows too. I drifted off, and soon I was asleep.
It was just after midnight when I woke up. Something woke me. A sound? No, not a sound. It was a feeling. I could not place it, but still had the feeling that something was afoot. I was lying on my stomach, so I turned over onto my back, scanning the dark room.
The room was completely dark. No light was visible anywhere, as it should be, this being the rural country with heavy cloud outside blanketing out any starlight or moonlight. During the night the rain had started to mist down. No hard rain, just a soft sifting rain, wetting everything, and was good for the garden and crops.
I was instantly awake and with my full senses. My night vision could distinguish between dull objects in the room. Then I saw it. Something was watching me! At first, I could not see it clearly. Then, a face took shape! There was a face looking at me from out of the mirror in the short passage to the bathroom. A face in the MIRROR!
I froze, feeling cold fear gripping me. How did an intruder get into the manor house? What are his intentions? Why is he just watching me?
Then things became a little clearer. The face was that of a woman. She looked like a grey misty apparition. A reflection of something. She looked like a reflection? A reflection of what?
That is when I became aware of the person sitting in the pastel green easy chair to the right of the fireplace. At first, she just sat motionless, blending with the chair. Her features were ghostly pale. Her long hair, face, arms and legs, even the long summer dress she had on, were of one colour. Pale whitish grey, as if she was a picture in grey scale. AND transparent!
Am I seeing a ghost? Whose ghost? Lying perfectly still, not moving and making like I was sleeping, but terrified, I looked more closely at the apparition. Slowly I became aware that I have seen that face somewhere before. But where?
What do you do when confronted by a ghost? Yell, and scream? Run the hell out of the room? She did not look like she was in any way trying to scare me. Just watching me.
“Who ... are ... you? Why are you watching me?” I croaked. My throat, dry and scratchy.
“You can see me?” the most beautiful soft female voice came to me.
“Yes ... I can see ... you ... Who are you?”
“If those lips could only speak ... those eyes could only see. If those beautiful golden tresses were here in reality ... You look so serene, Amelia. I hope I can call you Amelia.” The apparition repeated my words of previously in the evening. “You can call me, Amelia. I don’t mind...”
And before my eyes the ghostly apparition transformed from a transparent grey-scale image of a young woman to that of a colourful version of the ghost sitting in the chair. The transparency faded. She looked lifelike and real.
“Amelia? Are you the Amelia in the painting?” She did not answer me, but got up out of the chair and moved around the bed towards the painting above the heater. Like magic a burning candle in a candleholder appeared in her left hand. She stopped next to the painting and turned to me, holding the candle up, lighting up the painting and her face.
“What do you think?” She asked, and I was speechless. Before me I saw the same girl, twice!
“My God! It is you!” I exclaimed. “But ... but how, how is this possible? What are you, a ghost?”
“First, don’t ever take the Creator’s name in vain, and secondly, yes, it’s me. And how? Well, I’m stuck here in your world and can’t pass over to the light. AND, I’m not a ghost ... I’m a spirit...” She said and lowered her hand. The burning candle vanished. Again, it was dark in the room.
“Ghosts are memories caught between two worlds. Memories that did not leave with the souls of their masters. Therefore, if you see a ghost, it will more than likely just stay in one place and slowly vanish from your sight. But it will forever be caught in the same state, never to be released or moved. Spirits on the other hand ... Okay, you’ll come to know in time.”
She got up on the bed and sat at the foot of the bed, her legs curled up under her. I noticed she was barefoot. I even felt the light ripple of the bed yielding to her slight weight.
With a flick of her head, she tossed those long golden locks over her shoulder to hang behind her like a flaxen waterfall. She was gorgeous. The most stunning ghost ... eh, spirit I’ve ever seen. Well, I did not SEE any spirits or ghosts until tonight.
I was still a bit apprehensive. What does she want from me? Why me?
“Am I the first to ... see ... you?” I asked, the trembling in my body was subsiding a bit. Looks like she held no danger to me.
“Yes. And that stunned me. Not even Dada Alex could see me ... For twenty-six years, nobody saw me. Now ... maybe it’s a sign...” Amelia said, and it looked like there was a wetness showing in her eyes.
“How ... how did you get into the room? Through the wall?”
Giggle. “I opened the door, silly. You did not lock it, and I don’t walk through walls. After the realisation set in that I was dead, I tried to walk through a wall, but bumped my head. Ouch! It was sore for a few days.”
“You can feel pain?” I asked.”
“Yes. Very much, yes. I get cold, I get warm, I feel pain, I experience emotion ... Like when Dada Alex died, I cried for a week...” She said. “Speaking of getting cold, I better go back to my room. I’m freezing right now.”
“I would like to chat with you some more. Get in here with me. Sam set the electric blanket to cosy.” I said, lifting the blanket and duvet covers up.
“Hey, I’m not that kind of spirit to jump in bed with every stranger I meet!” Giggle. “Although I checked you out many times that you visited here.”
“So, then I’m no stranger...”
“Nope!” Giggle. You’re not a stranger, but, I’ll catch you again Bruce. Yes, I know your name. ‘Thank you, Sir Bruce, and good night, Sir!’” She repeated Sam’s words from previously in the evening, and I felt a cold hand grip my heart. When she spoke Sam’s words, it was with Sam’s voice! AND, she was here in the room! She must have heard Sam. See us! Was she here all evening?
“Good night, Bruce. Catch you on the flip side...” Amelia said and jumped off the bed with that youthful bounce of a young teenager. Barefoot, she sort of floated to the bedroom door. It seemed like her tiny feet did not touch the floor, or moved. She opened the door, looked back at me with a smile on her face, and just disappeared from sight; evaporated into thin air before the door closed, as if the door had a life of its own. I heard the door close, but there was no one in sight to close it.
What was that? What just happened? Stunned, I just lay there. Sleep was very far away. How is this even possible? Why is this happening to me? Am I losing my marbles? First speaking to a painting, and now that painting became alive, well sort of alive, and spoke to me... “If those lips could only speak... ” I thought to myself. Those lips did speak to me. Those eyes did see me. And those golden tresses were here in reality. Or was it? Did I dream it?
Have you ever seen an aircraft flying overhead and you told someone that you saw it? You have seen it, experienced it, yet you cannot PROVE, that you saw it. I spoke to Amelia. Was she really here? I can’t prove it, yet it felt real. It was not a dream. I’m awake, and to prove that I’m awake, I got up and went to the bathroom. Yes, I am awake, Amelia was here ... Proof or no proof.
Morning came with the promise of a bright winter’s day. A few scattered clouds drifted about in the slowly brightening sky. There was even some cheerful bird song drifting through the window.
Fully dressed in my day uniform of chequered fleecy long sleeve shirt, blue denims and walking boots, I left the bedroom. While opening the door, I glanced over to the painting on the wood panelled wall next to the window.
“Good morning, Amelia! Slept well?” I said and could swear I saw the girl in the painting winking at me. Damn! This is getting weird! If she can be around all the time, visible or not visible, it can become awkward. She’ll be looking if I take a shower and get dressed. Little rascal.
Then it struck me that I was thinking of her in terms of a live person. She said that she can experience pain. Therefore, she could experience pleasure as well. Awkward.
I went down to the kitchen and caught Maggie in the process of preparing breakfast. It smelled yummy.
“Good morning, Sir Bruce! Slept well?”
“Like a baby! And a hearty good morning to you as well, Maggie. What’s for breakfast?”
“A good wholesome farmhouse breakfast, Sir Bruce.”
“Ah, Maggie, drop the ‘Sir’ part. I’m just Bruce.”
“Ooo, I could never do that! My mother would turn in her grave,” she tittered. “If you care to go to the dining room, I’ll bring you some coffee, Sir.”
“Maggie, don’t go to all that trouble, just dish it in, and I’ll have it here at the kitchen table. At least I’ll have someone to talk to.”
“Are you sure, Sir? It’s no trouble to set the table in the dining room.”
“Nah, I’ll just have it here. The kitchen is the best place in any house.”
“Okay, Sir. Let me get your coffee for ye.”
“Are those flowers from our garden, Maggie?” I asked at seeing a bunch of freshly cut flowers in a pail of water to the side of the back door.
“Yes, Sir. George cut them not a half hour ago.”
“Maggie, will you ask him to cut me a bunch as well, I want to take it to Amelia’s grave.” Maggie looked at me over her shoulder, there was a strange look in her eyes.
“Sir Bruce, that is what George did cut it for. We keep putting flowers on her grave every week. Samuel will go place it later.”
“I will take it, if you don’t mind.”
“Very well, Sir. A nice thought from you. Here is your coffee.”
Chuckle. “Dear, Maggie, this cup looks too dainty for me. Next time, drop it in a mug, would you?”
“Okay..., Sir. I’ll remember that you like your coffee in a mug. Should I swap it now for ye?”
“Nah, I will take it for now, else you have too many dishes to wash later.”
“I see a much more relaxed air around here. You know that you are now five hundred and sixty-fifth in-line to the British throne, don’t you?”
“Yeah, Maggie. If that will ever matter,” I said, laughing. “I don’t think I will ever do as a stiff upper lip member of the Royal chitty-chitty-bang-bang. Just leave me as is and let’s all enjoy this old castle in Africa.”
“Thank you, Sir. Now ‘ear is ye breakfast. You can sit here on the other side of the kitchen table, and out from under me feet.” Chuckle. “Royal chitty-chitty-bang-bang, what a way to describe the lot.” Maggie said, her brown eyes laughing, but keeping a straight face.
Breakfast was good. Too good.
The grave was a simple white marble slab with a headstone. An angel with slightly folded wings and looking sad guarded the headstone on the left side. Two marble flower vases were cemented on each side of the headstone. As with all, or mostly all graves, this one was placed so that the head was facing east. It is said in scriptures that the Son of Man will come from the east, therefore, graves face east, to see the Son of Man arise.
The words on the headstone told in a few words that: Amelia Iona McIntyre, born 6 July 1972, died 27 August 1990, aged eighteen. “She asked for so little, yet she gave so much...”
I stood there for a few moments, thinking of the enigma I experienced. Last night I spoke with this girl, heard her voice, her giggle, and yet, here she is in her grave. Did I imagine it? A flight of my twisted mind? Can such a thing even be true?
“The flowers are beautiful. Thank you,” A voice said by my side, and I jumped, turned, and there she was. Barefoot and still dressed in that ridiculous long summer dress. “Thought we spirits can’t be running about in daylight? That we only come out at night? Boo!” Amelia teased.
“You little rascal! You made me jump!”
“Sorry. I did not mean to.” Giggle.
“George did cut the flowers...” I said, not knowing what else to say, holding the flowers out to her.
“As always, George cuts the flowers, and I guide him to the ones I like best. But you brought them, that is the difference. You brought the flowers to me. Thank you, Bruce.”
“Are you going to run away again now?” I asked.
“I stopped running a long time ago ... Bruce ... A long time ago, I gave up running away. Now, maybe, I have something to run to ... For a short while, until...”
“Run to what, and until when?” I asked.
“Never mind ... let it be ... for now...”
“Then let’s walk in the meadow and talk. I like talking with you.”
“Ahh, thank you, Bruce. It’s nice talking with someone after twenty-six years of silence!”
“You are welcome, Ammi.” I said and green eyes searched my face.
“You gave me a pet-name. Why?”
“I ... I just felt like ... doing it.”
“Thank you, Bruce,” she said and looked away. I thought I saw her blush. A spirit can blush? This is getting weirder by the minute. Then she looked back at me, a smile formed on her lips, and she said:
“I have a better idea. Come with me to the edge of the meadow, where the forest starts. Don’t be scared. I wouldn’t let you get hurt.” Giggle.
“You want to show me something?”
“Yes. Something of my world ... My current world. Come meet two friends...” She said, and I just got worried. More ghosts ... ah, spirits?
Then something happened that left me stunned. Amelia reached out and took my hand in hers. Her hand felt warm, almost as if she was real. Laughing like a child she pulled me towards the other side of the meadow, skipping along beside me. A happy ... what shall I call her? Child? Do eighteen-year-old spirits skip? The maths are making my head hurt. She looks like she is eighteen, yet she was silent for 26 years! That makes her forty-four years old!
“Don’t think of my age in human years.” She giggled. “We spirits don’t count our ages in years, but in centuries, and in that sense, I’m still a baby!”
“What? You can see what I think?”
“Yes, I can. I’m a spirit! I can see inside your head, and your heart, and your soul...”
“And?”
“I like what I see...” she said, and smiled over her shoulder at me, sunlight reflecting out her pale green eyes. Giggle. “You can’t hide anything from me.”
“Damn! Then I must watch what I even think.”
“No, don’t hide it. Think free. Be the same you, you were always, and are, and will become...”
“You are making me see another side I did not even know existed.”
“You will soon see something that few humans have ever seen. Don’t be frightened. Enjoy it. You will be safe.”
“What?” I asked as she led me into the thicket of the pine forest next to the meadow.
“Here we are!” She said and then called out softly, “Zeus, Apollo...” And right there between the thicket of the forest, two white horses appeared from nowhere. They just were there, where moments ago nothing was.
“Now, I know you can ride a horse, but meet Zeus and Apollo. They are two friendly stallions that you can ride.” Amelia said, looking sideways at me through those golden locks of hair, a sly smile on her lips. I stood transfixed. I thought to myself: ‘Were these two animals spirits too?’
Apollo nuzzled me, lifted his head and whispered in my ear: “Yes, we are! And you should hold on tight. Ever heard of Pegasus? And just like Pegasus, we fly through the sky!”
The bright laughter of Amelia echoed through the forest, as she swung herself up on Zeus’s back, that summer dress hiking up to her mid-thigh, revealing long slender legs.
“Come on, Bruce! Let me go show you your estate from up above the clouds! Yee-haw!” Before my eyes Zeus sprouted huge wings and flapped them. The wind from the flapping wings blew the twigs and dry grass away in a swirling blizzard. Then Zeus took off vertically.
“Come on, Brucey-boy! Get up on my back ... We can’t let a little rascal teenage spirit put the lead on you.” Apollo spoke in my mind.
My heart was bouncing about in my chest. What the hell? Where am I? Can this actually happen?
I blinked my eyes. Yes, it is still day. I can smell the forest, the grass ... and the horse, but this is a universe inside my own world. Is this the seventh dimension? A parallel world to mine? When and where did I go through the portal?
A bigger question: Where is the portal?
END CHAPTER 0001
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