Hallowe'en Tale

When George Edwards fell asleep, he was very tired. It had been a long week of meetings and travel, and he had followed his usual Scotch and water with a carafe of St. Emilion at dinner, so what happened that night might have been a dream.

He hoped it was.

Sometime in the early hours of the morning, Edwards felt the bedcovers pulled away from him. He began, irritably, to adjust them. And then he heard a soft voice--a woman's voice--saying, "Ralph--I knew you'd come back." She pronounced the name "Rafe." Edwards felt something silken press against him, arms curve around him.

He sat up at once, pushed back his eyeshade, reached for the light switch. Whatever was happening, he wanted no part of it. He was a responsible man, vice-president of an insurance company, warden of his church, a Kiwanian, a married man preparing to give his eldest daughter in marriage next month. 

"Madam," he said, "I believe you are in the wrong room." The light came on, and he had only a glimpse of a woman in a blue ball gown fleeing through the door. Or vanishing through the door.

Shaken, he arose, took two of the pills his doctor had prescribed, told himself he would give up red wine, and went back to bed.  

When the telephone rang at the hour he had requested, he got up, still groggy from the pills, ordered poached eggs and whole wheat toast from room service, and stepped into the shower, turning the water first very hot and then very cold.

When Edwards had eaten and dressed, he felt in control of himself, and dismissed the nighttime incident as a bizarre dream, but not one he would recount to Martha.

The bellhop who carried his bag from the front desk to the taxi stand looked too old and bent, Edwards thought, to be doing this, but he knew many seniors and retirees had returned, by choice or necessity, to work. 

The man was also annoying familiar. "Well, sir," he said, "sleep all right last night?"

"Satisfactorily," said Edwards.

"No disturbances then?"

"I'm not sure what you mean."

"Wasn't a lady invade your privacy, come for a late night visit?"

"See here, what are you getting at?" Edwards noticed a peculiar odor about the man--poor personal hygiene, he thought, and moved a step away.

"Well, sir, it's just that you was in 1402, and strange things have happened in that room over the years, always on the same date."

"Um--what sort of strange things?"

"Well, single gentlemen check in, and they say that sometime in the middle of the night a woman wearing a long blue dress comes waltzing in, says she's looking for a fella named Rafe."

"This has happened a number of times?"

"Oh, whole lot. Story is, there was a couple from Boston staying in 1402. Honeymooners. One night, fella says he's going down for cigars. Never comes back."

"And now...?"

"Now she turns up once a year, same date, looking for him. Don't suppose she'll find him, though."

They were at the curb, and the taxi first in line had pulled up beside them. "You seem to know the story well," said Edwards.

"Oh, I should," said the bellman. Edwards noticed that the man was now standing erect, and the old fogeyisms in his speech had been replaced by crisp, Gielgudian diction. "I saw them that evening, carried their bags, and detected a certain weakness in the man. When he came down for cigars, I told him of a private club where he might enjoy many other pleasures.

"And," said the man, as his eyes turned a peculiar orange, "for a short time, he did."

Most unpleasant, thought Edwards, handing the man a bill and taking his bag. "When," he said, "is all of this supposed to have occurred?" 

"In 1921. Have a safe trip, home, Mr. Edwards." And then he was gone, leaving only the pungent smell of sulphur.

"Hey, buddy," the cab driver called, "you gonna get in or just stand there talking to yourself?"

Scary Stuff

As Hallowe'en approaches, we feel it is our responsibility to direct you to entertainments that will scare you out of your socks.  Or, if you are not wearing socks, out of your goose-bumped skin.

Let us look first at stories. A favorite here is "The Phantom," Lee Falk's comic strip about "The Ghost Who Walks," but while clever, not really scary.  There is Henry James's "The Turn of the Screw," which is about as black as it gets, and, on the flip side, Thorne Smith's "Topper," an ectoplasmic romp. A revered archbishop passed along the classic ghost stories of M.R. James, there is the always reliable Stephen King, and Shirley Jackson's "The Haunting of Hill House" should produce some chills. But for our money, trivial as it is, the best (and most urbane) ghost story is "The Green Man" by Kingsley Amis. (We hear a ghostly clapping somewhere.)  

Music: Programmers always go for the obvious, like "Danse Macabre" and "Night on the Bare Mountain," but a truly scary piece of music is the score from Hitchcock's "Spellbound," once the theramin sets in. One of our contributors played this late at night at his radio station to keep himself awake; terrified, but awake. And if you want to boogie, there's "Monster Mash."

Now, coming to films for the haunted night, there are many spooky offerings and some ("Ghostbusters," "My Favorite Ghost") that are pretty funny. Some, too, that are romantic; e.g., "The Ghost and Mrs. Muir." But best of all is "The Uninvited," which is ghost story, mystery, and romance. Who can forget Ray Milland climbing those stairs, candalabra in hand?

(Okay, there is one more movie, but it is so scary I can't tell you about it.)

A good evening to all spirits hovering. 

3-Day Novel News

Melissa, mistress of the 3-Day novel Contest, has reported initial results of this year's literary marathon. (It was the thirty-fourth--one wonders how many of those who entered in Year One are still whacking out words.) 

Over the Labor Day weekend 548 writers produced manuscripts totaling 13 million words. Entries came from Canada, USA, UK, Australia, France, Germany, India, Ireland, Kuwait, Mexico, Serbia, Spain and Switzerland. Increasingly bleary-eyed judges are now wading into this pile of words, and hope to announce the winner in late January.   

Clyde Bicklethorp produced a work of 100,000 words in which, emulating Jack Nicholson's character in "The Shining," he repeated the line "All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy" ten thousand times.

Brad Gassenhoop submitted what he termed "conceptual literature," similar to that brief gallery trend known as conceptual art. This meant that Brad simply wrote his idea for a novel: multi-generational family saga taking place on two continents and involving war, mystery, humor, and lots of sex. "It's all there," said Brad. "Who needs to write the whole thing out?"  

A wave of the ink-stained hand to all those now preparing for the 35th 3-Day Novel Contest in 2012. Masochism knows no bounds.

St. Crispin and Crispian

If you were planing to take your Manolo Blahnik stilettos or your Fox & Fluevog chukka boots into the cobbler today, forget it. He won't be there. Today is the feast day of Crispin and Crispian, patron saints of shoemakers, and traditionally a holiday for those in the craft.

Crispin and Crispian were brothers, born in Rome, who traveled to Soissons, France in the year 303 to introduce Christianity. While there, they supported themselves by mending shoes. (Soles and souls--a little ecclesiastical humor, ha ha.)

Today, their names are better known for the speech Shakespeare gave Henry V on the eve of the Battle of Agincourt: "And Crispin Crispian shall ne'er go by/But we in it shall be remembered." 

A good day to all, and especially shoemakers and menders. 

Raising the Roof

This department has received a copy of a letter sent to Raising the Roof Ltd. by a gentleman who does not want his name made public for fear of reprisals, but does wish to make his predicament known. Without further editorial comment, here is his letter: 

Dear Sirs:

I was pleased when our strata council selected your firm to repair the roof of our apartment complex. I thought we couldn't do better than a company whose slogan is "When It Comes to Roofing, We Top Them All."

And I must say your team did a fine job, although I often wished they had not set up their base directly above us and tuned their radio to "The Hawaiian Heavy Metal Hour" at 7:00 a.m.

But, they did their job and did it well. Then I was most impressed when your customer relations people sent a letter inviting us to alert them to any deficiencies in the workmanship.

Well, sir, I have no complaints regarding the workmanship, none at all. But I do have one small concern. It's Ralph. You may know who I mean--stocky fella, big moustache, not much on personal daintiness. Ralph was working just above our deck, when one day he heard me shaking a pitcher of Martinis. He called, "I'll be right down." 

Of course, I thought he was kidding, but a minute later, he swung through the patio door, and said, "Hope there's not too much vermouth in there." I guess the Martinis must have been okay, because Ralph drank the whole shaker. Then he hit the refrigerator. "Got any brie?" he said. "How about prosciutto? And you really should get better olives." 

Now, I'm as hospitable as the next person, so I tried to make Ralph feel welcome, even playing him my Willie Nelson gold album, while checking my watch from time to time. But came eleven o;clock, Ralph gave a big yawn and said, "Tough day. Think I'll get me some Zs. Got some blankets in the closet?" And he stretched out on the sofa and started to snore. Sounded like an enraged bull elephant.

In the morning, Ralph said, "Not much for me. Just a latte and a chocolate croissant, and maybe a papaya. Although come to think of it, I could go an Eggs Benny. Morning paper here yet?"

Well, sir, that was three weeks ago, and Ralph is still here. He has emptied the liquor cabinet twice, doubled our food bill, and now he has started wearing my clothes. "Lucky we're the same size, ain't it? Although I am a much more virile guy, if you know what I mean," he says, winking at my wife, Velma. I kind of don't like the way he looks at Velma.

So I wonder--is there any chance you could come around and collect Ralph? I have to say that while I appreciate the work you've done on the roof, I would rather have a drip in the ceiling than a jerk in the room. 

Yours truly.

F______ P______ -- floored by the roofer.

The Big Pink Machine

This month the Canadian Football League is targeting breast cancer; thus there is more pink on the turf than we have seen since Jack Hutchinson coached a UBC girls team in the Powder Puff League.

The players, even 300-pound linemen who look ready to bite off an opponent's arm, are wearing pink--pink socks, pink chin guards, pink wrist bands; the coaches are wearing pink--pink baseball caps, pink scarves, pink tee shirts; the broadcasters are wearing pink--pink ties, pink pocket puffs, pink toques; even the officials are wearing pink--pink whistles on pink cords, and they are throwing pink flags. Pink wigs have replaced watermelon helmets, and the white stallion that races around MacMahon Stadium whenever the Stampeders score a touchdown had its mane tinted pink. We have to report that the horse looked embarrassed, probably thinking "What are the guys gonna say back at the stable?" 

In other news, there has been an infestation of bedbugs in some Burnaby libraries. A Ms. T. Gaudet of Nanaimo comments, "This will probably discourage people from reading in bed."

We leave on a chorus of that western classic, "The Mean Old Bedbug Blues."