Spook

Casal Palocco, 1972

In the villa on Via del Canale della Lingua,a third woman—Aunt Lucy, this time—confided to you the story of cold hands at night,a pressure at her throat—not lethal, morelike a warning—as she thrashed the dark abovethe covers, gasping, "Che vuoi? Che vuoi?"What did she want? And it was a she: motherhad seen her earlier that night betweenthe chest of drawers and vanity, a pale notionwhich bore such a resemblance to her ownmother that she called out on impulse.The thing made a half turn and faded gentlybackward through the wall. Later the hands,and the following weekend Rita, our au pair,also awakened by hands. It all beganin your absence. Doors would slam upstairsand we'd turn up The Fifth Dimension,turn on all the lights, make popcorn and singwhile overhead the storm of her phenomenonwent room to room searching for life.Our house-trained Weimaraners would foulthe ingresso, whining their embarrassment.Clorina, the superstitious tenant maid, onlyconfirmed whatever happened happened upin the yellow guest room. And the cold spot,just inside the door—Chad and I would standwithin its circle, counting off long secondswith Mickey Mouse, laugh and squirm untilthat more than physical chill buckled our knees.Cool tiles felt like safety to the cheeks.For a year that was all—cold spot and doors—we knew of anything strange. For us, you werethe real mystery. After three full monthsin Oman (a country the color of sand in my atlas), you'd drift in like an Old World conqueror, Attilain khakis, with kilo tins of caviar, pistachios,body still warm from the desert, and ask,"Has everyone been good while I've been gone?"Father, chiropteran kin, home from your owncovert mission, what else could you dowith suspicion but call it belief? Didn't you winseveral hundred-dollar bets with drunkand skeptical party guests, none of whomcould manage a night behind the only doorin the house with no key? When the spirit camefor your old friend Jean-Loup and his wife,she came invisibly. The temperaturedropped suddenly—about twenty degrees—and the window wouldn't open to deliver themwith warm night air, nor the door with escape,so they clung together. And poor Bill Galino,that pop song pianist from The American Club:all night she strode from the foot of the bedtoward his pillow. He'd bury his face and backshe'd come until finally he held up a scapular,shouted prayers in Latin, and she left.Eventually I would meet her on the balconyoff mother's painting studio, daylight stillvisible through the pines. More than whateverI saw, I remember my distress, how I ranto find mother in the kitchen and said, "Mom,Grandma's upstairs and she won't speak to me."After two years we'd pack our bags for England.You'd settle with the landlord, see the leasehistory before us, a roll call of monthly quitters.Those five acres have grown weeds for a decade.The villa's eighteen eyes are blind with boards.Umberto, the local crow-killer, gone to ground.What more could you have done, father,occasional man of the house, than what you didthat night you stayed up in the yellow roomwith .45, camera and coffee, sat up until dawn,periodically taunting her, an invitation to meetthe creature she could only seldom have seen?