I picked it up, put it down. I was no longer hungry. I abandoned my noodles and went directly to my computer to document the strangeness of this moment in an e-mail to a friend. And while I was waiting for the Wi-Fi to connect, I happened to look up.
I don’t think anything caught my eye. In my memory, I looked up idly toward the doorway of the office leading out to the hallway. In my line of sight was an IKEA desk lamp with a blue-green embroidered shade. The moment I laid my eyes on it, that shade spun around exactly one time… and stopped. Not a slow, wobbling movement, nothing that could have been caused by a gust from the air conditioning or a fan or the motion of my walking by and sitting down. No, it was a quick and very precise spin, and it was the single freakiest thing I have ever seen.
I’ve probably never moved as fast as I did after the lampshade spun around. I grabbed my keys and phone and ran outside, where it was sunny and bright and hot, and I called Adam to finally ask him what the hell was going on.
The landlord’s son laughed when I told him about the lampshade. He was surprised, but also not surprised, to hear from me. Apparently, that sounded just like James, who’d been a friend of his. He told me no, James had not been murdered in the basement, but he had died in the building. He had slit his wrists in my clawfoot bathtub. (That’s when it occurred to me that Adam’s willingness to discuss the matter was probably the real reason his bigwig father had not allowed him to speak to prospective tenants before the lease was finalized.)
“We aren’t legally required to tell the tenants!” Adam whined and went on to tell me that James had been a former seminary student and that an exorcist had been called. The two tenants who’d lived in the apartment in the three years since James’s death had reported some problems.
“You know, like with the toilet, the plumbing,” he explained, which did not explain things at all. “But the lamp, wow. That’s wild.”
We hung up, with Adam promising to come by and look at the toilet the following day. I stood in the street for a while, not entirely sure what to do with myself. I didn’t believe in ghosts. But I did believe in what I’d just experienced, so maybe I believed in ghosts after all.
When I finally mustered the courage to go back into the apartment, my cat meowed pitifully at me. I said, just to see, “Is anyone here?”
Nothing happened.
I gave the lampshade a full inspection. It was screwed tightly to the base; it didn’t move at all when I tried to spin it myself. Nevertheless, I unplugged it and took it outside to the garbage.
Then I got the basement key out of my file cabinet and, sweaty-palmed, opened the basement door, bracing myself for the jolt of experiencing what I’d felt the first time I’d looked down there. But this time, it just looked like a basement. Still, it was one I wouldn’t want to spend any time in and one I locked firmly behind me, just a regular old basement.
The following day—no, who are we kidding, several days later—Adam stopped by to look at the toilet, but of course it wasn’t running. The condensation on the toilet tank had dried up, too, and the hexagonal tiles were chilly but not ice cold. This could have been explained by the fact that the hot weather had broken and I had the windows open, a cool breeze ruffling through from the backyard.
Or maybe there was another explanation.
“You probably scared him off with all your screaming,” Adam said, and he laughed. “I mean, I’m assuming you screamed.”
I didn’t remember if I’d screamed, though I probably hadn’t—rigid, petrified silence is more my style. But, regardless, I never had another issue with the plumbing. Nor with sentient kitchen tools or spinning lampshades. My cat, while still refusing to enter the bathroom, stopped wailing pathetically from the hallway.
That might be the biggest coincidence of all—that the weirdness in my apartment ceased immediately. Let’s say the spinning lampshade was unrelated to the missing colander, and both things were unrelated to the plumbing, which was unrelated to the deceased tenant, which was also unrelated to the immediate hell, no I had felt about the basement; if each of these co-occupations of the same space is written as mere coincidence, doesn’t that make it even weirder?
I know how it sounds. I’m putting myself into a column here, one titled people who believe in ghosts. I know I’m in good company, but I also know that there are plenty more people who are firm nonbelievers and uneasy agnostics on the subject. To me, it doesn’t feel so much like a matter of believing in something as it is trusting my own senses. I also know what I saw, and I know that there was no rational explanation for any of it. Call it a ghost, a spirit, energy, the universe, an army of invisible butterflies; say I moved the lampshade with the current of my anxiety or the power of my own mind. Regardless of how it happened, it definitely happened, and it forced me to reevaluate the way I thought about woo-woo.
Once you believe that energy can exist beyond batteries and electrical cords, once you’ve actually witnessed with your own two eyes that it does, then you realize the true vastness of the possible, and one possibility is that there may never be an explanation for any of it and that coincidences are really just the beginning. And therein lies the mystery.
THE MYSTERY OF DECEPTION
– Lynn Cahoon –
I WAS CLOSING IN ON MY FORTIES. I’D JUST LEFT A VERBALLY abusive marriage. I’d been raised in a home with violence. I was done with men and relationships. I just wanted a little fun. A little relaxation time while my son finished high school. Then it was off to Seattle for me, where I’d rent a little condo and figure out what I wanted to do with my life. I had just started playing with the idea of being a writer, and I was taking classes after work at the local college, working toward a master of fine arts in the creative writing program.
Everything was an adventure.
But then my life was uprooted again. And I was a prime candidate for what happened.
A friend and I started going to an upscale bar on the weekends. I drank merlot because she did. (I found out a few years later that I enjoy white zinfandel a lot more.) Even in my wine choices, I was picking something because someone else liked it. We tried cigars and shooting oysters. It was a life I’d never imagined living. Then I’d go home and work two jobs to keep the lights on while I raised my son.
One night, a man with a stellar singing voice and a twang of Southern started hitting on my friend. She blew him off; she was looking for a man with more tangible assets—read: money—to keep her in the lifestyle she’d come to love during her first marriage. When he turned to me, I was surprised.
We spent the next few hours after my friend left talking and laughing. He sang to me. Looking back on this night, I don’t remember actually offering to drive Adam home, but I must have. He was new to the area and hadn’t found a place, nor had he bought a car.
Trust. It’s built on one little action, one situation at a time.
I drove him back to the no-tell motel where he was sharing a room with a coworker. Definitely not the Marriott, but I wasn’t worried about that. I wasn’t shallow. I gave him my number.
He called; he was charming and offered to cook me dinner at my house the next day. At work, I grinned like a fool. I’d found the perfect man. Maybe it was the filter that I’d had about men and people in general that made me skim over the warning signs.
We started dating. I was entranced by his “Southern charm.” He held the door open for me. He asked about my day, told me funny stories about his boss and the men he worked with. He listened when I talked about the failure of my first marriage. He talked about breaking up with a long-term girlfriend.
He liked what I liked. Country music was a shared passion. I told him about the concerts I’d attended, and we made plans to attend more that upcoming summer. Life was looking up.
By the end of the month, he was living with me. I can’t remember who came up with the idea first. He wanted to help me pay my bills, which was a struggle for a single mom of a high school senior, even with two jobs. He wan
ted me to quit the second job so we could spend more time together. And with our joint income, we would be fine. We seemed to be getting along well. He worked nights. I worked days. I felt safe. I felt taken care of. I felt loved. I was part of a couple again. He and I became a we.
Our lives were normal. Or so it felt. Adam fell into my routine easily. He encouraged me to see my friends. He encouraged me to get out of the house, to do activities my ex-husband hadn’t allowed, such as visiting the art museum or attending quilt shows. Because he worked nights, I continued to take classes at the local university. We’d have an early dinner together, and then he’d go to work and I’d do whatever. I was happy.
I thought my luck had taken a turn for the better. I had a man in my life who not only loved me but listened and supported my dreams for the future.
Except… my friends were worried. They kept telling me that it was too soon. Something felt off for them. As I introduced people to my new boyfriend, I found that they either loved the guy, or their warning bells went off as soon as they met him.
He did things to make me feel special. He brought home flowers. He woke me with kisses when he got in each morning. When I commented on his manners, he’d laugh and say his mama had brought him up right. My male friends asked me when I’d become a princess when I paused to let them open doors.
He’d trained me to expect the courtesy. Then he started training me to accept other facts in our lives.
Our lives got busier still when I received an unexpected visitor at my office. One who just added to the chaos.
I was working for a social services agency in the financial assistance program. A social worker from child protection came to talk to me. He asked me why I hadn’t mentioned my sister to him or told him about her children. When I showed my confusion, he told me that if I didn’t take the kids in, they were going to be placed in foster care. My sister needed time to get her act together. So, soon after Adam moved in, we added to the family. I took in my nieces for almost a year. Adding two elementary-aged kids to the mix also added homework and school functions and play dates. Adam encouraged me in this step. He helped with the girls, but he was at work most evenings. He was the perfect father figure. We went swimming and enjoyed other activities as a family. If Adam was busy, it was just the three of us girls. My nieces fell in love with him.
Adam started going to the bar on his nights off. I was concerned, especially with the kids in the house and what this might do to our family unit. The kids had already been moved out of one home.
He assured me everything was fine.
I kept life going. Work, classes, being a substitute mom to two kids and raising an almost independent son who treated me more like an ATM than a mom, but something felt off. Adam was still attentive, still considerate, still an overwhelming presence in our lives. I figured it was just a phase. That he was meeting new friends in the area. That he needed man time.
Then one morning, before work, we had a long talk. I was surprised when he told me that although he loved me and saw a future for us together, he needed some space. Some time.
I didn’t like the idea, but I thought he’d come to his senses. I was raising three kids, taking night classes, and keeping the household going. I was too busy to argue. Every time he changed the rules, I thought it was because what I’d known about men was filtered through the craziness of my old life.
I didn’t see the signs.
Later I learned that he’d already started dating other people, even when I thought we were a couple. We’d stopped being intimate about a month after he’d moved in, but I told myself it was because of our schedules. I didn’t have time for romance, anyway. It’s curious how much in the love game I accepted as reality. I never considered that his admission was less about my welfare than about his freedom.
The truth was, he just wasn’t into me.
I know. You’ve heard this story before. It’s on all the cable channels, and the endings are usually the same. The woman is found dead in her car, miles from the house. Or buried in the backyard after years of his claiming that she took off one night after they’d fought about her wanting a different life. I’ve always wondered how women in bad relationships didn’t see the monster they were living with. I’d gotten away from one monster when I divorced my ex-husband. Had I jumped into the frying pan with another one?
Adam and I spent long hours on the Internet. AOL chats were the in thing back then, and we built a group of friends from the chat room. We met up off line to talk and drink. He traveled to other towns for work and met “friends” there. This was just a phase. Our situation was working fine as more than roommates, less than a couple. Well, almost fine.
From the time he moved in, he’d insisted on my depositing his check into my bank account. He didn’t want me to keep track of what he deposited because he wanted to share the money he earned to take care of the family. I signed for an ATM card for him so he could access his money. I thought it was only fair. And that way, I didn’t have to keep pulling out cash. I realize now that he had no identification in the name he’d been employed under.
He needed a car, so I took out a loan because his credit was bad. He got a pager (on my credit) so work could get hold of him. Trust. I believed him when he said his credit was bad, which was the stepping-stone for the next lie.
We went out on nights he had off… if he didn’t have other plans. Then he started limiting where I could go in town. I wasn’t allowed to go to the country bar that was his hangout. Where he had his friends. I told him I was taking line dance classes at that bar and didn’t want to drive to the next town. He grudgingly gave me limited access to “his” bar. This was probably one of the first incidents where I stood my ground.
It didn’t matter because I was making my own friends. And I was busy with the house, the kids, and my classes. And I was beginning to see a pattern.
The finances got tighter as he started spending more than he was bringing in. He kept telling me that he was up for a promotion at work. We, meaning I, applied for a credit card with him as an authorized user. I refinanced my house, pulling out the equity to pay off bills, and took out even more credit cards. Then he signed us up for a cell service. The bills were always in my name.
When I pushed for more information on his past, he admitted that he’d been in jail in Georgia. That was why he had to keep this night job for which he was so overqualified. Which was something he mentioned often. He was so much smarter than his boss or any of the other guys. His probation officer had set up the job for him. However, he never met with the officer, claiming they kept in touch via e-mail. He invited one of his friends over to our house, someone from his past, his childhood home, which turned out to be California. She was now living in the area. She pulled me aside and asked if I knew everything. Since he’d told me about the DUI that had landed him in jail, I assured her that I did.
I was wrong.
I didn’t know half of it. She called him Patrick. Not Adam. Since I had a first name I hated from my childhood, I understood changing it. I agreed, I understood, I swept the inconsistencies under the rug. Even if we weren’t lovers, we were friends. And I trusted him. Little actions building up. But his story was wearing thin.
The older niece started racing bikes. I bought her the uniform, the helmet, and the expensive bike. Adam took her to practice and all the competitions, her sister with them. She loved the sport, and I saw her grow in both confidence and self-awareness. The three of them would take off on Saturday mornings and come back later that day, hungry, dirty, and tired from the dirt track. I loved that he was helping her find her passion.
By this time, money was even tighter. He started hiding bills from me, claiming he’d paid them. When I found the $5,000 cell-phone bill, my heart sank. I had to admit it: I was in a financial mess. I was going to lose my house. There was no way I could pay all of the bills.
July 4th was filled with fun. We went to the beach and swam for a couple hours. Then out to my mother’s fo
r a barbecue. Finally, we went to a small town for the fireworks display. I started throwing up after the fireworks. I was so sick, a friend had to drive me home. She suggested that maybe he’d tried to poison me. I was stuck in bed for three days. He claimed I’d gotten food poisoning at my mother’s barbecue party. The problem was, no one else had gotten sick. He brought me flowers while I was in bed recovering. I stopped eating food that he provided for me.
I realized that maybe Adam wasn’t the man I’d met that night in the bar. Or maybe he was, and it was my filter that had screened out the bad parts. I started quietly making plans. Ways to get him out of the house. When I approached him again, he threw me against the wall, his hands around my throat. He would leave when he wanted to leave and not before. I considered calling the police, but I didn’t. I was shocked at the action and not thinking clearly. He came back to my room a few minutes later and apologized. He told me he was stressed about the new girlfriend and the baby. That he’d messed up, and he didn’t know how to get out of it. That he still loved me.
I kept looking for easy ways to get him to move, since my ultimatum hadn’t done the trick. He went out of town to work on a construction site. When he came back three weeks later, I had a new boyfriend.
I’d met Jim, now my husband, months earlier, and we’d had our first date during the summer break when Adam was out of town. Mutual friends had filled him in on what was going on with my life. He decided he was going to help out and jumped into the fray.
All I knew was I really liked him, and I had a feeling that Adam wasn’t going to like this strong, assertive man in my life. But for the first time in months, I felt safe.
My new boyfriend kept pointing out reality to me.
One step at a time, I reclaimed my life. I took back the credit and ATM cards. I deposited one last check of Adam’s into my account and paid off all the late fees he had racked up. I turned off the cell phone and got a new one under my name. And finally, realizing he’d lost the war, he moved out and into a house his girlfriend’s mother had rented for them.
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