the country, where the owners of the house had unexpectedly stepped out for a moment.
It was all quite lovely, but it wasn’t getting me any closer to my goal. I found the stairs that led to the next level. More niches, some with personal items that clearly had meant something—a harmonica, a pair of reading glasses, ballet shoes, an antique dentist drill. It was surprisingly affecting—not sad, just touching.
Photographs were everywhere. Many showed young men, arms linked around friends, smiling at the camera. Others watched as dogs frolicked happily on the grass. Faces were licked; wagging tails were stopped midmo tion, frozen in time forever. The men had all died young, disproportionally so for a place of the dead. I wondered about it until I noticed the ending dates, almost all in the early eighties. That was when the AIDS epidemic had raged through San Francisco, cutting short thousands of young lives. I gazed at these shrines, filled with memen toes. And thought of all the wasted potential, all the pain, all the sorrow of those left behind. I found myself in the odd position of missing people I had never known.
Up I went, circling around until I reached the top level, where a side room caught my attention. A small window of stained glass was set in the ceiling, no more than two feet from the top of my head. Sunlight streamed in, casting a cheery glow over the room. Glass cases had replaced the usual niches, filled to overflowing with keepsakes. It was more reminiscent of an ancient curio shop than it was a final resting place.
Lou wandered around the room, respectfully subdued, sniffing at the glass cases. This wouldn’t be a bad room for a final resting place, I thought. Light. Airy. Downright . . . pleasant. Although if things continued on as they had the last couple of years, it seemed unlikely I was going to be blessed with a peaceful end.
I watched Lou carefully for any signs he’d noticed ghostly activity, but he was relaxed and content to wander aimlessly. I took out the wire figure of the guitar player I’d brought and tried to concentrate on Sherwood, remembering when she’d given it to me, how she’d looked, how I’d felt when we were still close in that special way. Nothing.
The room was so peaceful I was loath to leave, but I wasn’t getting anywhere. I beckoned to Lou and returned to the ground floor. The music was still echoing through the air, and through sheer repetition it had finally lost its nostalgic charm and taken on a melancholy aspect. I stood in the center of the main floor for one last look, then headed toward the door to the outside.
I’d almost made it to the door when I noticed Lou wasn’t following. He had stayed at the center of the room and was staring at the back stained-glass window with an air of puzzlement. I walked back to see what he was looking at.
“What is it?” I asked.
Lou glanced over his shoulder briefly before turning his attention back to the window. The form of an angel, wings outstretched, filled almost the entirety of the stained glass. As random clouds outside passed over the sun, the angel alternately glowed and dimmed, pulsing with an internal life. The slight smile on the angel’s face changed subtly each time the light varied, first soft and compassionate, then gently mocking, then sad, then almost cruel. The figure grew brighter as I watched, and at the same time the temperature in the room dropped twenty degrees.
Uh-oh. I’d wanted some indication of paranormal activity, but now that it was here it was making me nervous. I’d been hoping for a warm presence, or maybe a set of instructions appearing in bright glowing letters on a dusty wall. The angel in front of me was taking on a sinister aspect, awesome in the old sense of the word, not cool, but worthy of fear and dread.
The figure of the angel grew until it filled the room, so bright I could barely look at it. Its face began to seem familiar, idealized yet more personal than before.
It was all quite lovely, but it wasn’t getting me any closer to my goal. I found the stairs that led to the next level. More niches, some with personal items that clearly had meant something—a harmonica, a pair of reading glasses, ballet shoes, an antique dentist drill. It was surprisingly affecting—not sad, just touching.
Photographs were everywhere. Many showed young men, arms linked around friends, smiling at the camera. Others watched as dogs frolicked happily on the grass. Faces were licked; wagging tails were stopped midmo tion, frozen in time forever. The men had all died young, disproportionally so for a place of the dead. I wondered about it until I noticed the ending dates, almost all in the early eighties. That was when the AIDS epidemic had raged through San Francisco, cutting short thousands of young lives. I gazed at these shrines, filled with memen toes. And thought of all the wasted potential, all the pain, all the sorrow of those left behind. I found myself in the odd position of missing people I had never known.
Up I went, circling around until I reached the top level, where a side room caught my attention. A small window of stained glass was set in the ceiling, no more than two feet from the top of my head. Sunlight streamed in, casting a cheery glow over the room. Glass cases had replaced the usual niches, filled to overflowing with keepsakes. It was more reminiscent of an ancient curio shop than it was a final resting place.
Lou wandered around the room, respectfully subdued, sniffing at the glass cases. This wouldn’t be a bad room for a final resting place, I thought. Light. Airy. Downright . . . pleasant. Although if things continued on as they had the last couple of years, it seemed unlikely I was going to be blessed with a peaceful end.
I watched Lou carefully for any signs he’d noticed ghostly activity, but he was relaxed and content to wander aimlessly. I took out the wire figure of the guitar player I’d brought and tried to concentrate on Sherwood, remembering when she’d given it to me, how she’d looked, how I’d felt when we were still close in that special way. Nothing.
The room was so peaceful I was loath to leave, but I wasn’t getting anywhere. I beckoned to Lou and returned to the ground floor. The music was still echoing through the air, and through sheer repetition it had finally lost its nostalgic charm and taken on a melancholy aspect. I stood in the center of the main floor for one last look, then headed toward the door to the outside.
I’d almost made it to the door when I noticed Lou wasn’t following. He had stayed at the center of the room and was staring at the back stained-glass window with an air of puzzlement. I walked back to see what he was looking at.
“What is it?” I asked.
Lou glanced over his shoulder briefly before turning his attention back to the window. The form of an angel, wings outstretched, filled almost the entirety of the stained glass. As random clouds outside passed over the sun, the angel alternately glowed and dimmed, pulsing with an internal life. The slight smile on the angel’s face changed subtly each time the light varied, first soft and compassionate, then gently mocking, then sad, then almost cruel. The figure grew brighter as I watched, and at the same time the temperature in the room dropped twenty degrees.
Uh-oh. I’d wanted some indication of paranormal activity, but now that it was here it was making me nervous. I’d been hoping for a warm presence, or maybe a set of instructions appearing in bright glowing letters on a dusty wall. The angel in front of me was taking on a sinister aspect, awesome in the old sense of the word, not cool, but worthy of fear and dread.
The figure of the angel grew until it filled the room, so bright I could barely look at it. Its face began to seem familiar, idealized yet more personal than before.
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