The building that Rachelle and I live in is over 100 years old, at one time serving as a rather grand hotel, and later, as a rather slummy hotel. Thousands upon thousands of people in varying stats of ecstasy and despair have passed through the space we now call home, and I have little doubt that untold tragedies and wonders have unfolded in our apartment.
Sometimes, I think I can feel their residue.
Gerald Sparrow is a large, bald, egg-like man. Once, when I woke up in the middle of the night, I saw his silhouette writing at a desk near the fireplace.
Major Donald Neville-Willing, a diminutive, dapper figure sporting a red carnation, appeared briefly one day in the reflection of a mirror in the living room. Just for a split second, and then the image was gone, but we can still tell when he’s present by the scent of pipe tobacco and tweed.
Sylvie Gagnon is little more than five feet tall and looks to be about 16. She likes music, appearing on two separate occasions, both times when the song Bohemian Rhapsody by Queen was playing.
Heidi barks at the first two ghosts, but not at Sylvie.