― Sara Sheridan
Plato used the allegory of prisoners in a cave to describe the human condition. As a psychiatrist, I see the cave as the Psyche, the cavern where we are tied down and held prisoners to certain assumptions that keep us from seeing reality as it is.
It's a bleak view of Man I admit, one in which the individual is beguiled by shadows which he tries to discern as best he can. It's a primeval experience being in a cave in the dark with only the light from a fire and shadowy forms projected on the walls.
And what we make of those dark forms is largely determined by experiences we've had and what they do for us to help us cope. Do they hold out comfort and reassure us when we're scared, or do they terrify us with doubts and make us anxious nights listening to every noise and bump?
We haven't really left the caves―they're unexplored recesses inside our skull where people living and dead compete for attention inside our head.
Such were my musings sitting with Sara before the fire with Sonya long since gone to bed.
Sara was poring over the trove of papers Sonya gave us, trying to gain some insight into the house's previous occupants.
I was meditating about our day, trudging through the woods and up on the ridge only to discover it provided a clear view of the dreaded back room that Sonya feared.
The layman might think these were trivial details that did nothing to alleviate Sonya's fear and pain, but I have found from experience that it's the little foxes that spoil the vines.
"Here's something," Sara whispered, "the original owner of the house was Hiram Graham who was an owner and developer of The Grand Trunk Railway that ran through here in the mid-nineteenth century."
"And why do you find that interesting?" I asked.
"I suppose it was because of an odd remark Sonya made when we were in the kitchen preparing supper. I asked her why she chose to live out here so far from the city and she mentioned she liked the solitude and lying in bed at night hearing a distant train whistle that lulled her to sleep. But I knew there were no train lines here and hadn't been for almost a century."
"That is intriguing―it reminds me of accounts I've read of people living in Rome who often see lines of Roman legionnaires still marching. The persistence of the past, I suppose."
Her eyes were bright with excitement. "I'm going to do a Google search on this Graham fellow and see what turns up."
"Hmm, it might be fruitful," I mused, His surname means Grey House or abode. He might be The Grey Man in the woods."
There was a distant rumble of thunder and a minute later a flash of blue lightning.
"Spring weather's always unpredictable," I said, "throwing us back in winter or ahead in summer. This storm will set the mood for ghost hunting."
Sara came over and curled up on the couch beside me. I put a reassuring arm around her―from childhood she had a fear of storms that she tried to exorcise but finally ended up accepting it.
"You're okay―you're safe," I whispered.
She nodded. "I know, but I still need to hear you say it."
Then, the rain came down in torrents, drumming on the roof, rain trails marring all the windows. The fire bubbled merrily in the grate making us aware of inside and outside and every pair of opposites culminating in matter and spirit.
On such a night, a wraith could materialize in the corner and we'd willingly accept it.
Sara was intently staring at her laptop screen.
"I found an interesting article on Hiram from one of the local papers. Seems he was an extremely shy man who was socially awkward. For all his success and wealth, he was so self conscious he'd have his tailor take the press out of newly-made pants so he wouldn't draw attention to himself."
I peered over her shoulder at his portrait displayed on her computer screen. "That kind of bashfulness is very unique for a man of his stature and position."
"I find it rather endearing," she said. "In a way he reminds me of you―humble and self-effacing."
"I like to think I'm just painfully aware of my own limitations," I chuckled.
"Oh my God!" she said suddenly, sitting blot upright.
"This article recounts intimate things from his personal journal and this one entry explains everything. It seems Hiram loved a woman named Helen who worked for him but he couldn't muster the nerve to tell her. He arranged through a third party to rent this house to her for a very small amount knowing he owned the adjacent land and could watch her from afar. This hidden devotion lasted until his death and he never once made his feelings known to her."
"You're absolutely right," I agreed, "this explains The Grey Man in the woods and Sonya hearing the train whistle. That back room is where Hiram was probably able to watch Helen from afar, most likely at night when the window was alight."
It's so sad," Sara sighed, "a tale of unrequited love."
I nodded, "He spent his whole life observing from afar pictures from another person's life."
The next day when we shared our findings with Sonya she was relieved and not frightened as I feared.
"It's such a story of true love and devotion," she enthused. "I thought the feeling of being watched was threatening, but now that I know what it is, it's like the train whistle―I find it very consoling."
We left Sonya feeling more attached than ever to her house and happy at the outcome. I’ve often felt the past persists and the deeply felt emotions of mortals are immortal—and the case of Hiram and Sonya only confirmed my belief.