by Ron Finch
I picked up my favourite book, The Boy’s Own Annual. It came from England. I’d received a bound copy of the 1927 Boy’s Own Papers this past Christmas. When the 52 weekly papers are bound together, they call it the Annual. That’s what my dad told me, anyway. The Annual was one of my prize possessions, but tonight I thought I would stay away from the adventure stories. Instead, I would read the nature articles and take a look at some of the puzzles. It’s a pretty hefty volume, so there was a lot of information to keep my mind occupied.
I started reading an essay on telescopes by a famous British astronomer. He’d kept the language simple and it was interesting and easy to read so I found myself beginning to relax. And then I thought I felt something.
I stopped reading and picked up my flashlight and shone it around the attic space. From where I was sitting, I didn’t really see anything; but I couldn’t get rid of the feeling that something was nearby. The feeling was strong enough that the hairs on the back of my neck and my arms stood up. I knew that was a response to perceived fear – I’d read that somewhere as well, too – but that rational thought wasn’t comforting. What did I have to fear in my own bedroom? I was in a secure space. I had my flashlight. We had checked the house carefully before we went to bed and I knew there was no one else here but my family. What could I possibly fear?
But fear, I knew, isn’t rational. You don’t have to have a reason to be fearful to be afraid. Still, normal, healthy, average people don’t go around feeling as though something bad is about to happen. I certainly felt that way at the moment.
Just calm down, I thought to myself.
And that’s when I heard my name.
“Joel.”
It was the voice. I didn’t know what to say. I didn’t want to say anything. I didn’t want to start talking to people who weren’t there. I didn’t want to disturb my parents and my brother and sister who were sleeping on the floor below.
“Is your name Joel?” I heard the voice say. It wasn’t very loud, but I could plainly hear it. I wasn’t imagining things. It was a man’s voice.
With great trepidation, I whispered: “Yes.”
“I thought so,” said the voice.
I didn’t know what to do so I said: “Why am I hearing a voice?”
“Because I’m speaking to you,” said the voice matter-of-factly.
“Can anybody else hear your voice?” I replied. “Can my parents or the rest of my family hear you?”
“I don’t think so,” said the voice, sounding thoughtful. “Don’t be frightened. I’m as surprised to be talking to you as you are. I really didn’t expect to communicate with anyone who was alive again.”
This last statement did not make me feel less apprehensive.
“What do you mean by that? Are you a ghost? Don’t ghosts try to scare people?”
“I’ve tried,” the voice responded. “Not to scare people, but to communicate. But they can’t seem to hear me. You are the first. Please call me Walter. My full name was Walter Yost.”
“If I whisper can you hear me?” I said.
“I can hear you if you think about me,” said Walter. “You don’t have to speak out loud. Just imagine speaking to me in your mind.”
“Am I crazy?” I asked him. “Why is this happening?”
“I’m puzzled too,” said Walter, “but I think I may know the answer.”
“I’d love to hear it, Walter,” I said.
“You were struck by lightning,” said the voice.
I was dumbfounded by this and didn’t know what to say. I was terrified. Was I rational?
“Since my death, I haven’t communicated with any other living person,” said Walter, “though I have had very limited contact with others like myself.”
“So are you a ghost?” I said.
“Maybe. I guess it depends on what a ghost is,” said Walter, who seemed reluctant about the label. “I know you and your family have never seen me, and I think if you shine your flashlight around now you still won’t see me. I think the only reason you and I are communicating at all is that you and I were both in this attic when that tremendous lightning bolt shook everything up. It took out that big tree in the yard and messed up anything relying on electrical signals in the immediate area, including your mind, which runs on electrical impulses. You have that burn on your leg as proof and as a reminder. But I’m sure your mind was affected too. I have no rational explanation as to how we can communicate, though. For all intents and purposes, in your world, I don’t exist.
“I didn’t die peacefully,” Walter continued. “I died in a terrible accident. Before that, I went through a situation that was very unfair and frustrating and it left me in an almost permanent state of anger. Perhaps I was so angry, as I lay dying, that I just refused to just stop existing. I’ll briefly tell you my story. It won’t explain why we can communicate, but it will show you how we came to be in such close proximity.
“I’ll start with my family. I grew up on a small farm not far from Chaseford. I had one older brother. He left home as soon as he could. He moved out of the area and my parents never saw him again. We were very poor and my dad was a heavy drinker. That’s likely why my brother left. In 1915, when I was 28 years old, I decided to fight for Canada and proudly joined the Army. I wasn’t married and the war needed soldiers. I was sent overseas, and then to the front lines, where I saw a lot of killing. It was the ‘war to end all wars’. I don’t think it did. There’ll probably be another one. Up until that time, I’d worked the farm with my father and mother. My father told me that, if I joined the service, he would quit drinking and that he’d be able to manage the farm. I don’t think I believed him but I left anyway. If the next tragedy hadn’t occurred, I’d likely have come back to the farm. I’d be out there farming instead of talking to you.
“After I left, my dad drank even more. I know he didn’t do much on the farm. I don’t how my mom survived. They couldn’t even pay the taxes. Then one night in the winter of 1918, when I was overseas, the farmhouse caught fire. Both my parents died in the fire. When my sergeant notified me, I pretty well went berserk. They had to lock me up for a couple of days. I was informed my older brother was looking after things. He arranged a funeral and my parents were buried. Then he sold the farm to pay past taxes. There was nothing left.
“After I got back from the war, I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t have a family. I never did see my brother again. I didn’t even have a place to live. My only solace was my anger. Anger is a jealous friend. When you’re angry, you don’t have any other friends. The one good thing was that I didn’t turn to alcohol. I didn’t want to be like my father.
“After I’d been back in the area for about a week, I did get a lucky break. I’d been sleeping in the basement of one of the local churches at night and during the day I was going around town trying to find any work I could. When I came back to the church one Tuesday evening the minister said: ‘Bob Jones tells me he could use an extra hand at his sawmill’. The next morning I walked out to the edge of town to Jones Lumberyard.
“Bob Jones hired me on the spot, bless his heart. He also found me a place to stay. That’s how I came to live in this house. It was late in 1919 when I moved in. The Spencers owned the house then. They charged me for room and meals and I even got a packed lunch for work. Things were improving. I started to lose the edge off my anger. I became a good employee for Bob Jones. My life had turned around. Then the fateful day January 23, 1922, arrived.
“That’s when I had the accident. I was moving some lumber around in the upper storage area. We had just rough cut some trees into 2-inch-thick pieces. I was on the storage platform above the work area. I stumbled and fell from the work area onto one of the big saw blades below. That blade cut my arm off just above the shoulder. I bled to death before they could even get me to the hospital. The Spencers held a wake for me in this house. I was laid on the table right down there in the living room. Maybe all that tragedy was too much for my soul. My soul i
s not at rest. And I have never left this house.
“I know there are others like me. It’s a small number. The only ones I’ve encountered also suffered a traumatic death. They were murdered or terribly betrayed. Maybe that rage is what prevents those few of us from leaving. There are even a few living people like you around who have been in contact with a ghost. I’ll use the word ‘ghost’ because I don’t know what other word to use. I don’t know what has given other living persons this ability to be receptive to being contacted by a ghost, but I know not many living people are so unfortunately fortunate. In your case, lightning seems to have triggered a latent ability that makes your mind highly sensitive to its surroundings. The good thing about this sensitivity, according to others with your ability, is that you have control over it. Otherwise, your heightened senses would continually bombard your mind and you would go crazy. If you learn to focus this ability your perception of your surroundings will be far greater than a normal person’s. You will have a greater visual acuity, a wider range of hearing, a greater sense of smell and touch. But only when you choose to use it.”
“What about you? Are you friendly? Are you evil? Can you hurt me?” I asked.
“I could ask you the same questions,” said Walter. “I’m pretty sure we would both would provide the same answers. But ultimately it doesn’t matter because I don’t really exist in your world so I’m not sure how I could hurt you. You can communicate with me, and I can communicate with you when you wish it; but otherwise your life goes on as before. I guess the main advantage you’ve gained in having met me is that I’ve been able to provide you with some understanding of the ability you may now have.
“You may also want to be able to communicate directly or indirectly with others that share your abilities. I really only know one other person like you and she seems pretty normal. At least, she hasn’t gone mad, and I would say she lives a fairly ordinary life. But we don’t communicate very often. Matter fact, I really don’t communicate with her at all. Another ‘ghost’ is her intermediary. You’re the only one that I can communicate with directly and I think that this bizarre occurrence happened because of the pure coincidence of you and I being in close proximity in your room when lightning struck.”
This is really weird, I thought. “Walter, can you read my mind?”
“Only when there’s a connection established between us. And that will depend on you,” he said.
“What happens if I tell other people about you, Walter?”
“Nothing happens to me,” said Walter, “but I’m not sure what would happen to you. You don’t seem like the kind of person that wants to go into show business or join the circus. You don’t seem like the kind of person who would try to turn this into a moneymaking opportunity. Who knows? You have pretty good communication skills, and maybe you would be able to convince other people you really are in contact with me, but they won’t hear me and they won’t see me so your credibility may be suspect. Your story will not sound very believable to most people. It won’t sound normal.
“Most likely, one of two things may happen: people may just laugh at you, or they will have you put in the loony bin. In that location, your story may be more believable. So it’s probably better that you and I just be secret friends.”
“Walter, I think you’re right,” I said. “I think your theory is quite likely correct. I’m 99% certain now that I was struck by lightning. That burn on my leg is pretty good evidence of that, and I did hear your voice at the very moment that that incredible lightning struck.”
“Yes, that was my voice. I was as astounded as you were by the lightning and by an apparent connection to a living person.”
“I still don’t know why you exist, Walter, but I guess I’ll go along with what you told me until I know otherwise.”
“You need some rest,” said Walter. “We will talk again. Oh, and I do know about the murder in the bush.”
Saturday, June 2
CHIEF PETROVIC AND Det. O’Neill boarded the train in Ottawa early Saturday morning. They were headed home to Chaseford.
They knew they had a long trip ahead of them, full of bumps and rattles and starts and stops. But this time they knew what to expect. They had even jokingly talked about taking a couple of hotel pillows with them for the trip home. Since they were lawmen, however, they realized that might not go over very well.
They were looking forward to putting the train ride to good use. They had the results of their Ottawa interviews, and there were a number of discrepancies between the statements still to mull over. Careful consideration of what they already knew would help them decide which direction to take the investigation. It was still too early to specify who the guilty party might be, but they could certainly start building a list of suspects.
The trip was uneventful until they got to the edge of Berlin, or Kitchener, as it was now called. The chief remembered the big debate in the newspapers about renaming the city 12 years earlier. The local vote at that time had been a close one, but the name Kitchener had won. Berlin, Ontario, was no more. As the train pulled into Kitchener, they began to notice debris along the sides of the track. It looked like there’d been a bad storm in the area. That made Chief Petrovic wonder what things were like in Chaseford.
The train pulled into the Chaseford Station a little after 8 o’clock in the evening. By the time they’d arrived at the station they’d seen enough of the surrounding countryside and edge of Chaseford to know that there had been a terrific storm.
The chief and Det. O’Neill debarked from the train. Det. O’Neill told the chief that he wanted to be on his way to London immediately. He was concerned about his family. He hoped London had not received as much storm damage as Chaseford had. He told the chief he would be back first thing Monday morning as he was keen to get on with the investigation.
Det. O’Neill had parked his car at the train station Thursday morning, so he volunteered to drive Chief Petrovic to the police station on his way out of town. On the brief drive to the police station, Chief Petrovic worried about his absence from town during this emergency. He hoped that Cst. Herman and Cst. Smith had been able to handle any problems that had come up.
Once the chief arrived at the police station, he went straight to his office and pushed open the door. The first thing he saw was Cst. Herman sitting in his chair. Before the chief could open his mouth Cst. Herman had sprung to his feet.
His face reddening, Cst. Herman blurted out: “Sorry, sir. I didn’t know you were back in town.”
“That’s obvious,” said Chief Petrovic, giving him a hard look. “You haven’t been promoted yet, so stay out of my chair.”
Cst. Herman, who detected no trace of a smile on the chief’s face, apologized again.
“Tell me about the storm, Cst. Herman,” said the chief, reclaiming his chair.
“There was a lot of damage, sir. No buildings were blown down, although, as you saw on your way here, the wind was excessive. There were a few trees uprooted and some hydro poles and telephone poles and fences knocked down. There were four fires caused by lightning, but they were minor and quickly controlled and put out by the fire department. The good news is that no one was killed, and, so far as we know, no one was seriously injured. We had a lightning display that was far more spectacular than anyone can recall seeing in recent memory. Some people were pretty terrified, but, like I said, no one was hurt. I think things are pretty well under control now that the storm is gone.”
“Thank you for your report, constable,” said the chief. “It was concise and clear. I’m going to hang around the office for an hour or so. I want you to find Cst. Smith. I want the two of you to go off duty now and get some rest. I going to give my wife a call and let her know that I’m at home and that I’m staying here for a while.”
“I’m sorry, sir,” said Cst. Herman. “The phones are out.”
“In that case,” said Chief Petrovic, “I have one final job for you, constable. I know you don’t live far from my house,
so would you please drop in and see my wife and let her know that I’m fine and that I’m here. I know you’ve been busy, and it looks like you’ve done a good job, so go get some rest. I need you both back here Monday morning by 9 o’clock so we can bring you up-to-date on our Ottawa interviews.”
Cst. Herman apologized one more time for occupying his chair and then headed out the door.
Monday, June 4
I GOT UP AT MY USUAL time on Monday. My head still felt peculiar.
I’d noticed over the last couple of days that I seemed to be more aware of things. This increased awareness wasn’t particularly disturbing. It was different, but I wasn’t upset by it. It was almost as if I could see more colours than I could prior to the lightning strike and my hearing range seemed sharper as well. When I was outside, I seemed to be able to hear more insects than ever. I seemed to have a greater ability to detect odours, too. I wasn’t sure I liked that part as much, but I was sure I’d get used to it. When I touched things, I felt like I could finally feel the surface in detail.
I’d tried to focus like Walter had told me to – though I guess you might just call it concentrating, something I’d always needed to do better according to my mother and teachers – and I now found that my ability to connect with him extended beyond the attic. I seemed to be able to contact Walter anywhere inside the house and anywhere outside of it as long as I was within a few feet of it. I guess it might have depended on where Walter was, too. If I focused on Walter, and I thought a specific message, Walter was able to respond.
I no longer feared Walter. I didn’t think he meant me any harm. I wasn’t even sure how Walter could harm me. Unless I cooperated by telling people that I was in communication with someone no one else could see. What was he anyway?
