Tonight my Scottish roots reach through the veil as I cut my hemlock steed.
My tale is of my childhood home. At face, and ordinary suburban semi made of red brick. Beneath its skin however, a restless spirit roamed. Her perfume would waft upon the air but only her living sisters could smell it. A sweet, lightly floral message from a lass long gone.
I saw her once as a child. Dressed in shades of soap bubble pastels her beaded flapper dress and hat hovered as an overlay to the room behind. We watched one another in silence before she slowly faded away.
Years later my mother was grieving the death of her younger sister. As I greeted her one morning, she told me she thought she’d seen Jenny. I went to speak but something made me pause. I asked mum to describe the lady she’d seen… Mum, that’s not Jenny, it’s the spirit who lives here.
We most often felt her presence whenever my mother rearranged her bedroom. Our mystery lady really didn’t like the bed headboard to be against the stair wall.
Small objects, such as pens, would vanish only to reappear weeks or even months later in exactly the place we remembered leaving them.
Her visits were never scary but we’d sometimes glimpse movement from the corner of our eye as if someone had come into the room we were sitting in. I would turn my head toward the door, so would my mum and our female dog. Never my father nor my brother.
Several of my female friends said they didn’t like visiting my house as the lounge was ‘cold’ even though it was warm.
We never found out who she was or what might have happened to hold her in the living realm. I still think of her.
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