the Story Shop

  It was much later that I heard breathing. Not loud, but enough to wake me from a fitful sleep. When I sat up in bed I saw her. She was sitting in the chair, wearing an old fashioned kind of dress, a dusty rose colour. The only light was from the small window so it wasn't entirely clear what she looked like.

  I reached over and turned on the light by my bedside. She was smiling and reasonably pretty.

  "Do not be alarmed," she whispered. "This is my room, it has always been my room and I will visit for just a short while."

  Realizing I was naked, I pulled the sheets over me. The lady arose and came to sit on my bed. She ran her hand across my cheek and leaned forward. I could smell her perfume: lilac. Then she stood, let her dress fall to the floor, then climbed into bed beside me. I could not believe what was happening. Perhaps I was dreaming. If so, I would not resist ... so we made love.

  In the morning she was gone. I went to the lobby and told Gustav. He nodded gravely.

  "Yes," he said. "She comes often, always to that room."

  "How long have she been doing this?" I asked. "How does she get into my room without a key?"

  "Oh, she needs no key. She passes through the door. I have owned this hotel for over forty years and she has been coming since then. The previous owner told me of her. He said she lived in this hotel several hundred years ago and died mysteriously in that room."

  "You mean she's not real?" I said, almost shouting.

  "No, of course not," Gustav said. "She is a ghost."

  I thought about our night together for some time. Gustav just stared at me, smiling.

  "I'd like to stay another three nights if you please," I said.

  "Certainly," he said and continued to smile.

  I spent the day just walking about this delightful town, but eager to get back to my bed. I retired early, now dressed in pajamas. Although I tried to stay awake, I fell asleep–until I felt someone slide into bed beside me. It wasn't until almost noon the next day that I awoke. Of course, the lady of the night was gone. When I went to the lobby, Gustav was smiling. He must have known. I nodded and he understood.

  The third night she didn't come. I spent most of the night awake, waiting, but she didn't come. The next morning I checked out of the hotel. Gustav stood at the door and saw me off. He seemed quite pleased.

  In a little over four hours I arrived in Berlin. I was staying with a friend, Helmut, and he welcomed me with open arms. He had schnapps ready and we sat and sipped and ate German Lebkuken, a delicious cookie. I think Helmut knew every nook and cranny in Germany, so I told him where I stayed in Treysa. He said he knew it well and that Gustav Bohner and his wife were both delightful hosts.

  "I never met his wife," I said.

  "Oh, you must have," Helmut said.

  "No ... but ..."

  I was hesitant to tell Helmut of my nighttime adventures with a ghost. When I described the lady and her sexual appetite, he bent over with laughter.

  "Yes, she wore a rose-coloured dress," he said. "And she stripped while you were in bed. And you made love."

  "How did you know?' I asked.

  "Ah, you see, you did meet Gustav's wife. After the first night with her, every guest books another three nights. Clever, don't you think?"

  I am writing this story so that others may appreciate my medical contributions. I am still confused by the reaction of the public and especially the medical community. Surely they would understand the great strides I had made. However ... but let me begin at the beginning:

  When I was a young man I dreamed of being a surgeon. Imagine seeing the innards perform, watching the heart pumping blood, grasping some organ, massaging a gall bladder, a kidney, a pancreas. The mind boggles at the thought. I always felt that many features are poorly designed. Perhaps the male urethra should not pass through the prostate gland. If I were in charge, I would change that. In fact, there are many characteristics that I would change.

  Alas, I failed my medical entrance exam. I wrote correct answers to incorrectly posed questions. Nevertheless, I was determined to become a surgeon, so I studied every book in the medical library ... then moved to Mexico to open a clinic. My parents had left me a pile of money when they died so I had no need to make money with the clinic. I could fulfill my life-long dream of becoming a surgeon.

  My clinic, Angelo's Clinica Sanatorio, was in a town whose name I can't pronounce; it's spelled with a bunch of x's and q's and z's. It's just outside Mexico City, the largest city in North America. I figured no medical investigation team would show up. After all, I had the knowledge but not the actual diploma. Well, that's not entirely true. I did get one of them fake diplomas from an online diploma mill. The certificate cost me $350, is issued by the Universidad Nacional de Médico and now hangs proudly in my office at the clinic.

  To get business going I advertized in the Xoquizatlan Noticias, a local newspaper. My ad mentioned prices that were ridiculously low. You could get an abortion for the price of a hamburger and an appendectomy for the cost of the milkshake and fries. There were lineups outside my door from day one. I should mention that my equipment was top of the line, imported from the best suppliers in the U.S., Canada and Europe. Opthalmoscopes, cardiovascular ultrasound, anesthesia carts ... I got it all, comin' out the wazoo.

  My first surgery was the removal of a cancerous tumour located on a woman's breast lobules, a common ductal carcinoma. She was rather flat-chested, so, while at it, I enlarged her breasts. She was ecstatic and, within a week, I had a hundred women complaining about breast cancer. Of course, they were only interested in the plastic surgery so I decided that I'd change my specialty from internal medicine to cosmetic. Want a nose reduction or rearrangement? I'm your man. Want a facelift, lip augmentation, liposuction, tummy tuck? My door is always open.

  After dozens and dozens of such cases, I found the rituals boring, non-challenging. I needed something more audacious, something that would put my name into the annals of medical history, some procedure that would advertize itself. It hit me one day while resting on the beach in Veracruz. I was gazing at the clouds and noting the fascinating geometry, the ever-changing designs, the images of faces and bodies. I could do that! I could change a face or a body to suit the individual! I was so eager to start this new phase that I cut my vacation short and returned to my clinic.

  The surgeries would be drastic, dramatic, novel, sensational. They would require weeks of recuperation, so I bought several dozen acres of land in the country and built an apartment complex: Angelo's Recovery Sanctuary. My patients would be sent there to recover from the surgery.

  A fifty year old man came into my clinic complaining about hearing loss. After a thorough inspection, it was clear that there was a simple solution that didn't require a hearing aid. I simply increased the size of his ears. After surgery, his ears extended some four inches from the sides of his head, rather like a slice of bread. I sent him to the Sanctuary.

  The next patient complained that food got stuck in his throat, he had difficulty swallowing, he choked several times each day. The surgery was unusual. I created a second mouth on his neck, just below his chin. He could actually eat with that mouth while talking with his original mouth. I sent him to the Sanctuary.

  A woman was pregnant. She had one child and knew that milk production would be minimal, yet she insisted on being able to breast feed her new baby. I created a third breast with ample milk supply. I sent her to the Sanctuary.

  A habitual smoker came in with lung cancer. The malignancy hadn't metastasized, so I was able to remove the lungs and replace them with pig's lung. His new lungs were actually external, located in his arm pits so that they might be replaced if necessary. I sent him to the Sanctuary.

  It was the following Spring that George Glimmer came to my clinic. I had given George a second nose, located in his forehead. He had complained of difficulty breathing, often gasping for breath. He was angry. He spent four weeks at the Sanctuary, saw the miracles I had performed and was irate
. I didn't understand his anger. He shot me in the chest.

  When the paramedics came they opened my chest, removed the bullet and took me to the hospital. When I had recovered I was sent to prison and that is where I am now, writing my sad story. The Sanctuary has been closed now for some time. Apparently the inmates there didn't want to leave. I assumed it was because they appreciated the facilities I had provided. According to the newspapers, it was because of embarrassment. I still don't understand. Perhaps I never will.

  My wife, Sally, we argued all the time. That wasn't always the case. When we first married we were happy, we laughed a lot, we were always in bodily contact, I'd caress her cheek, she'd place her arm about my waist. Then, after some thirty years of marriage, we hardly talked to each other. I wasn't the best husband in the world, but neither was she the best wife. She used to make my favourite meals at dinner, pasta al pesto, lasagna. Then she made her favourite meals, herring and boiled potatoes. Ugh!

  We slept in separate beds, as you might expect. I often worked late and I'd come home to find her sleeping. She used to wait up for me, but she hadn't done that in years. We used to take holidays together. Then, after thirty years, I'd go alone and she'd go with her girl friends ... or so she said. I actually suspected that she went on holidays with Wilfred, our next door neighbour. Why did I think that? Because he's a bachelor, handsome (so they say) and he was always on holidays exactly when Sally was on holidays. Besides, Sally and he would talk for an hour over the backyard fence. That wasn't natural, was it? I mean, an hour? Who talks for an hour?

  A month ago I told Sally that we should take our holidays together. She just grunted and ignored my suggestion. I repeated it and she got angry and left the room. I followed her and asked where she intended to go for her vacation. She said: "South, someplace warm, with a beach, with the girls." I didn't believe the last part for a minute. I actually went over to Wilfred's place with a couple of beers, asking if he was going to watch the ball game. I wanted to ask him about his vacation plans. He said he never watches ball games. He saw the beers in my hand, but just stood there at his door until I left. What a jerk. With a name like Wilfred, what would you expect, eh? I looked up the meaning of the name. It means "desiring peace". That's a lot of crap. I suspect it really meant "desiring piece".

  Okay, so a couple of weeks ago I mentioned to Sally that, when I die, I'd come back as a fly. I'd then keep track of her comings and goings. In particular, who was in her bed at night. She didn't believe in reincarnation and neither did I, but I just wanted her to know that I suspected she was having an affair. She just grunted as she usually does.

  Then wouldn't you know it? The brakes failed on my car, I ran into a tree and I broke my neck. I wasn't ready to die, but there I was, in the forever after, the twilight zone, the bright light at the end of the tunnel. Then, the next thing I knew, I was looking down at Sally from the ceiling of our kitchen. I could hear buzzing. It was me! Jeesuz! I had come back as a fly! I followed Sally wherever she went that day. She often looked up at me and swore. When the sun went down there was a knock on the door. I was sure I knew who it was.

  When Sally opened the door, Wilfred walked in, smiling ear to ear. He had a large bottle of wine. He gave Sally a peck on the cheek and they headed for the bedroom. I knew it! I quickly flew to the bedroom wall and waited for them. For some reason it took a while for them to arrive. When they did, Wilfred had a curious look on his face, as though he were confused. He was staring at Sally who had a fly swatter in her hand. Sally was grinning. She walked casually to the wall, raised the fly swatter and ...

  My name is Barbara Sheldon and I am writing this story so that you will understand what happened. I cannot explain it, not entirely, but I hope you can appreciate my concern.

  When I saw the Egyptian vase I was enchanted. Many would think it ugly ... old and ugly. I thought it was magical. It was actually made of some kind of glass, because I could see the interior–fuzzy and indistinct, but translucent nevertheless. The shop was very small and quaint, in the Khan el Khali Li Bazaar in Cairo. The owner, a Mr. Hamadi, wasn't there at the time but his son was. When I expressed an interest in the vase, the son–about twelve or thirteen years old, I'd say–said his father did not want to sell it. He knew that because there was no price on the vase. Anything without a price is not for sale. That was the only instruction the father had left for the son.

  "When will your father be back?" I asked. "I'd like to make an offer, a generous offer."

  The boy said his father would be back my morning. Unfortunately, my plane left in the morning so I made the offer to the boy.

  "I will give you enough money to buy a Honda scooter. Wouldn't you like that?" I asked the boy. I could see his eyes light up.

  "But my father said ..."

  "Oh, I will give you enough money to buy him a scooter, too!" I said with much glee.

  The boy began to jump up and down. "My father will be so happy," he said. "So happy."

  I wasn't sure how much a scooter would cost, so the boy closed the shop and, together, we went down the street and bought two scooters. I was shocked by the price, but I was determined to have that vase. He wrapped it very nicely and I took it back to Burlington, Ontario the next morning. It now sits in the window of my shop: Barb's Gift Shop. Although it had come with a tight fitting cork of some sort, I removed the cap. When the sun is just right, you can see the interior of the vase. It actually seems to glow. My customers always commented on the inner light. It was nice and I'm glad I bought it, even at that monstrous price.

  I must digress for a moment. It may seem a curious digression, but I think it might help explain things.

  Full moons occur roughly every month and are often associated with insanity, hence the term lunacy. I only mention this because strange things happen in my shop during a full moon: things get rearranged. That is, when I open the store in the morning, objects have been moved, sometimes just a few inches, sometimes several feet. However, this only happens after a full moon. I did stay in the store overnight once or twice, in order to observe this phenomenon. In fact, I have a collapsible cot so that, if I work late, I can spend the night in the shop. It doesn't happen at every full moon so I never actually observed things being moved.

  Now there are myths associated with a full moon. For example, it is unlucky to look at a full moon through glass and it is bad to bury a body during a full moon. However, I cannot, for the life of me, understand the effect a full moon has on the items in my shop. I should mention, however, that the rearranging of objects isn't haphazard. It's as though they were being straightened, arranged more neatly, a row of perfumes would become a straight line, a misplaced item moved to a more sensible location.

  Oh, there is one other thing I should mention. Scott, my husband, left me several months ago. Apparently the name 'Scott' means 'wanderer' and that's exactly what he was. In fact, he often wandered into the bedroom of my neighbour. I missed him for a while, but no longer. He wasn't a bad man, just ignorant, unfeeling and often drunk. How he is connected to my story will become clear.

  Anyway, I mentioned the occasional moving of objects on nights of a full moon. There is one other curious feature of this rearrangement: the slime. Well, it may not be slime, technically, but it's sort of greasy or oily. The grease stains were usually long and thin and had a greenish tinge. They washed easily with soap and water, but it was time consuming.

  The final piece of this puzzle is the Egyptian vase, but you probably knew that, else why would I begin this story with the purchase of the vase. In fact, you will recall the son was not supposed to sell the vase. I suspect that that instruction was for a purpose. Also, the vase originally had a stopper in the mouth. I suspect that, too, was for a purpose.

  Although I did not know it at the time, there was a seed in the vase. The contents of the vase were mostly dust and dirt that had accumulated for years, but buried within the dirt was this curious seed. I only learned about the seed when I attempted to clean
the vase. I turned it upside down and the seed fell out. The seed was round, brown and about the size of a grape and covered in tiny spikes. After removing the dirt, I dropped the seed back in the vase. I'm not sure why I didn't just throw it away, that seed, but it was from Egypt and I felt it belonged within the vase. I imagined the vase as belonging to some Pharaoh and the seed was ancient. Yes, it's silly, but that's the reason for my returning the seed to the vase.

  Okay, I have related all the things that matter, that lead up to the final set of events.

  The reorganizing of objects became more evident, as though someone or something was reading my mind. One afternoon I swore at a picture on the wall. It had been put there by my husband and it was ugly. One of those paint-on-black-velvet things that are sold in Mexican flea markets. A dancing girl wearing few clothes. I hated it, but it covered a crack in the plaster and I never got around to buying a replacement picture. It was one of those full moon nights and in the morning the painting lay smashed on the floor. This was much more than a simple reorganizing of objects. It's as though something was aware of my dislike of the painting and destroyed it. There was, of course, the telltale smears of green on the wall.

  On another occasion a customer left a package on the table where I keep the little jewellery boxes. I hate it when customers do that. It's often a bag with leftover junk food or sometimes plastic containers that held popcorn or peanuts. I didn't notice it when I closed up shop, but the next morning the package was torn to shreds and lay scattered across the floor–and yes, it was the morning after a full moon and the green slime was there.