What a difference a year makes! A year ago, in early July, my Montreal Jazz Fest mini vacation was cut short by a fall off an e-bike and a seriously fractured knee that required surgery, heretofore referred to as The Incident. I’m sure you remember. What followed was a whole summer sitting on my ass or hopping around with a walker on one leg. The only good thing to come of that experience was well defined triceps. Ha. But this year? What a difference.
This year, we made it to Montreal mid-fest, saw Pink Martini live! Went to the big tent at the pier and finally saw Cirque du Soleil. If you have never experienced it, you must go. It matters not what show is being performed. The story-telling, acrobatics and athleticism is a wonder to behold. Afterward, we caught up with a college buddy who was in town with his daughter for the week – we did not meet his daughter, as she had no interest in hanging out with old people (LOL.) Saw some very cool young musicians that were incredibly talented – here’s one from my favorite, L’Eclair called “Endless Dave.” IYKYK. Ate at amazing restaurants. Tried finding a good Belgian beer – much, much harder than it would seem.
We finally were able to get up to Mount Royal – this was supposed to be the destination we were heading for when The Incident occurred. We drove up this time and then walked the trail to the city overlook. It was hot, sweaty, and crowded. Somewhere in that cityscape is a portrait of Leonard Cohen on the side of a building. Dave thought it was Anthony Bourdain at first. I have one complaint – it’s really hard to enjoy the panoramic view with vegetation in the way, so summer probably isn’t the best time to get a good view.
I tasted maple “cream” for the first time, too. Spent a whole day walking Quebec City. And then finally, drove to Pittsfield, MA to spend the night at my brother’s home before going back to New Jersey. All this an entire year after fracturing my knee and being housebound and one-legged for the entire summer of 2023.
The ghost
I love my brother and sister-in-law’s home. They bought a true fixer upper and have restored and remodeled their early 1900s home mostly themselves. It’s spacious, comfortable and beautiful. I’ve been visiting them in this house since they moved in and began renovating, and usually sleep in the former nursery. I’ve been there at least 20 times, maybe more. In all that time, I have not once encountered anything remotely paranormal.
Of course, this time was different. We went up to bed at a reasonable hour – we’d had a couple of local beers, ate a lovely dinner, and were tired. Dave has sleep apnea, so he uses a CPAP to keep from snoring all night long. Dave also moves around a lot in his sleep, largely because he can’t find a sleep position that is comfortable. I will often find him upside down if I wake up in the middle of the night. Remember these seemingly unimportant details.
Sometime around 4:30 or 4:45 in the morning, I am between deep sleep and wakefulness, that gauzy, other-worldly place that you’re peripherally aware of what’s happening around you. I felt what I thought was the dog at the end of the bed. As I nudged the weight with my foot, I thought, “How did Lola get in here? The door is closed and the gate is up, too? Strange.” I rolled onto my right side facing the other bed where Dave was plugged into his “anti-snore machine” and took a peek at him. Sure enough, his head was at the foot of the bed. Upside down Dave. Smiling to myself, I started to drift back to sleep. That’s when I felt something lay down behind me. Now I am awake (or so I thought) and I know that isn’t the dog.
At this point, I am alarmed. Alarm turned to terror when I see an arm reaching over me from behind. I am looking straight at sleeping Dave and try to yell for help. I see a full-on apparitional arm and hand hovering above me and I am damn sure that whatever that is, it’s gonna have me in its clutches unless I wake up Dave and get him to help me. But all that comes out of my mouth is a strangled croak. I work on the call for help for a good 20 seconds all while keeping my eyes on that creepy arm, to no avail. I am making no discernable sound. I rationalize that I must still be asleep and the only way to banish this entity is to fully wake my ass up. I force myself awake and jump out of the bed.
Dave continues to sleep peacefully, upside down and attached to his machine.
I go to the bathroom and then do a walking survey of the room, checking windows, doors, fireplace, any possible entry points for either ghost or beast. Finding none, I try to calm my furiously beating heart and tell myself I have to get to sleep. It’s only 5 am.
The aftermath
After about fifteen minutes of anxiously surveying the room and the air above me for paranormal activity, I finally fall back to sleep. I wake again around 8 am, and go down to the kitchen where my brother is having coffee and watching reruns. As I pour myself my own cup of coffee, I relate the terrifying events of the early morning to him. We decide that I must have been dreaming, as no one has ever encountered an apparition in the house before.
Dave eventually comes down for coffee, and I tell him the story. And how he slept through the entire event, not once waking to come to my rescue.
“Oh, I heard you making noise,” he says, “but I just thought you were dreaming so I ignored it.”
WHAT?!?! I need to reevaluate this relationship. He knows now that if I am croaking in my sleep, he must rescue me from whatever it is that is creating the disturbance.
A new legend
While we are discussing the possibilities of ghosts in the house, my brother says, thoughtfully, “Well, the guy who built the house, Cornelius, did die in it, too. Back then, there were no funeral parlors, so he was probably laid out in that room.” Hmmmm. Probably was laid out in the front parlor, but for the good of the story, let’s go along with this musing.
“Well, Cornelius better keep his ghostly hands off my woman,” says Dave, now trying to make up for not vanquishing Cornelius when he should have.
We decide to move onto other subjects, like the front page story of the Berkshire Eagle, about a cornhole tournament. Front page story. Cornhole. Another head shaker. “Where I come from, cornhole has a whole other meaning,” Dave says to my brother. “Sure does,” Jim says, “Took me a long time to understand these people were talking about beanbag toss.” We laugh appreciatively. We’re all from NJ/PA. IYKYK.
At this point, my sister-in-law comes down to the kitchen and we fill her in on the events of the morning, from the front page cornhole story to the ghost of Cornelius trying to get friendly with me while Dave ignored my croaks for help. “That guy, CornHOLEO, was trying to make moves on her,” Dave says to Libby. We are now crying laughing, all three of us. And thus, the legend of the ghost of CornHOLEO was born.
And so went the re-do of our visit to Montreal, one year after The Incident. FIN
