The phantom girl seems to flit through my stories (see my post about the Unmentioned Girl below) and she has become a link between my fantasy, young adult and children's tales. Here is a small extract from my unpublished YA sci-fi/fantasy novel 'Elsewhere,' in which the mysterious Mediterranean woman makes her first recorded appearance:
Charlie's gaze fell on the tattered paperback from the vintage bookshop and a shiver ran down her spine. She pulled herself up and sat blinking, knowing she had to read it. It seemed to be goading her, daring her to cross the room and flick through its yellowing pages. She hesitated for a moment, then gave into the impulse, shivering lightly as she bought it back to her bed and settled beneath the covers to read.
Taking a breath she flipped to the introduction and began to read the foreword by some long-forgotten academic.
Ridgeway Heague was something of an enigma. Both a renowned academic and a lay reader in the Church of England, he was obsessed through the latter part of his career with the veracity of early religious experiences and was something of a modern day hagiographer, and yet a pragmatic anthropologist he was also stickler for rooting out the germs of truth behind ancient legends – even if that mean exposing them as utter bunkem. Churchman and scientist, his exposure of hoaxes didn’t shake his own faith one iota – clinging doggedly to the concept of a deeper realm behind perceived reality, a God-ordained order and a supernatural power working both within nature and the human world.
She lay down the book, her mind racing – a deeper realm behind perceived reality. Swallowing, she scanned through the rest of the introduction and turned to the first chapter. My Earliest Days. A deep creaking groan sounded to her right and she gasped instinctively, dropping the book as her gaze darted towards the noise, her heart thudding wildly: just the wind against her window, she told herself as her pulse began to slow, listening for a moment as the elements roared through the night. She took a shaky breath, and picking up the book found herself gazing at section subtitled: The Apparition. She felt her scalp begin to prickle as she began to read:
I suppose that when a man, and particularly a man of unashamed faith, applies himself to the study of other cultures and to their primitive superstitions and religious practices, it is no surprise that he, himself, should come to believe wholeheartedly in phenomena beyond the mortal pail. What one would term the metaphysical or perhaps even the supernatural.
Charlie felt her pulse beginning to race, glancing quickly across the room, as if expecting to see some shadowy form materialise before her. Nothing. She dropped her gaze to the page once more.
And so, it must come as no surprise, that I confess I have seen an apparition (whether angel, or phantom I know not) which has oft-times appeared to me at my most pressured moments, or times of greatest need.
She risked another glance across the room, unable to shake the sensation of unseen eyes, and yet knowing she was utterly alone, then turned her attention once more to the page, trapped somewhere between intrigue and dread.
I first saw the apparition (for the sake of the reader I shall henceforth refer to it as her) upon a long study in the small town of Ephesus in Asia Minor. Here I was staying to observe certain religious customs relating to the most primitive form of the Christian Church and had learned of a legend connected to the town, which ...
Charlie was so shocked, she looked up from the book, sure she would see some phantom shadow standing over her. Ephesus, in Asia Minor – her thoughts shot back to the museum tour, to the ancient shroud she and Gideon had stooped to look at - the woman who had asked them to re-join the tour ... She swallowed and returned to the text, her heart beginning to pound as she read his description of a beautiful dark haired woman, with dark searching eyes.
… And, I must confess (though I wish not to give the reader any cause either to doubt my sanity or accuse me of sensationalism) that I have seen her more than once since that day, frequently even, oftentimes when I have sat in pensive mood. In Santiago upon contemplation of the Shrine of Saint James, and at Lourdes also – and indeed here outside my own rooms from which I pen this very memoir. Watching, waiting. Many times I have rushed up from my books to pursue her, but always she has slipped away from me.
Charlie closed the books slowly. Her mouth was very dry. A beautiful dark haired woman. An apparition. A phantom, stalking Ridgeway Heague since he took the Ephesian shroud. She shivered uncontrollably, the moment the dark haired woman had slipped away from her on the train playing out before her mind’s eye – the way she had seemed to vanish into thin air beyond the buffet car. She was sure that she had been there – certain she hadn’t been hallucinating. The wind gusted loudly once more making her window panes creak and she put the book down with a shudder. Though a part of her wanted to read more – she knew that she had had enough for one night.
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