Where the Summer Ends

•II•

The cabin stairs were too treacherous for Janet, and so Gerry had to carry her—and then both nearly fell. But Janet insisted on exploring each drafty level of the old place as soon as the late breakfast was cleared. Hungover, Gerry reluctantly joined the game. Strange how frail she seemed in his arms—she had always been so solid. Maybe if she’d exercise her legs more, like the doctors had told her to do.

The cabin was in reasonable repair, but not much more. The floor sagged in places, and the roof showed signs of having leaked, but by and large everything seemed sound. Squirrels had slipped in and chewed up some of the furnishings. The furniture all was cheap, beat-up—caught in a limbo somewhere between antique and junk. None of it had captured the fancy of the countless prowlers who had broken in over the years. Disreputable iron-railed beds with collapsed springs and dirty mattresses, scarred tables and cheap dressers with many layers of paint, boxes and trunks of discarded items. A grimy bookshelf with several Edgar Wallace mysteries, a copy of Fox’s Trail of the Lonesome Pine, a Bible, odd volumes of Reader’s Digest Condensed Books, other nondescript items. Janet delightedly pawed through each new trove, and Gerry became interested despite himself. He joined her laughter when one drawer yielded a bedraggled two-piece man’s swimming costume.

The first level included the kitchen with its ancient appliances, two bedrooms, a bathroom with an old chemical toilet, and a large open area for dining or sitting. Below were two more bedrooms and a narrower open space along the screened front. The lowermost level was a narrow porch with several army bunks and a room at one end that had once been a bar. The insubstantial posts that supported the cabin were a good twelve feet high at the far end, so that there was a large dry storage area underneath. This had been stuffed with boxes and piles of junk not worth the effort of hauling away.

Here Gerry returned after a light lunch; Janet was tired and wanted to lie down. The disorder was fantastic—a clutter of discarded trivia decades old. Gerry had an appreciation for the cash value of an antique, and with a treasure hunter’s enthusiasm he rummaged through the tottering stacks of lost years.

More junk than any attic would attempt. Broken chairs, cracked dishes, boxes of Mason jars, heaps of newspapers, rusty tools, old tires, a wheel-less bicycle, fishing poles. Anything. Doggedly he worked his way from pile to pile, covered with a paste of sweat, red dust and spider web. Once he found a scorpion under a wooden box, and remembered that black widow spiders, too, liked these places. Maybe there were snakes. But he paid no more attention to such misgivings than to the dirt—although a year ago he would not have braved either just to rifle through old junk.

It had been profitable so far. He had pulled out a tool chest, in case he felt up to making repairs. There was a stack of crumbling pulp magazines —Argosy, Black Mask, Doc Savage, Weird Tales, and others—that would provide a few laughs. A crockery jug—just like the moonshine jugs in the cartoons—would make a nice lamp. An old copper lantern might be a nice antique, along with the cane-bottomed chair. Some of these picture frames might be valuable...

He stopped. Against one post leaned a stack of old pictures—mostly mountain scenes and calendar cutouts behind glass opaque with dirt. But as he shuffled through them, one picture suddenly caught his eye.

It was an original oil painting, he saw on closer examination, and did not look quite finished. For a moment he remembered stories of undiscovered masterpieces, but laughed the thought aside. Carefully he blew away loose dust. Sandwiched between several larger frames, the canvas was undamaged. Critically he held it to the yellow sunlight.

The picture caught him—drew his attention in a manner he had never experienced. Inexplicable. Art had never meant anything to him, aside from a few tasteful reproductions dutifully purchased to fill wall space.

A woman’s portrait, nothing more. Curiously blurred, as if the oils were somewhat translucent. Was it unfinished—or was it an attempt at impressionism? She wore a simple green frock—a light summer outfit stylish in the ’20s. Her auburn hair was cut in the short bob popular then. Almost in keeping with the latest styles, but for an indefinable air that proclaimed an older period.

It was a lonely picture. She stood against a background of dark pines, cold and lonely about her. There was a delicacy about her and, illogically, an impression of strength. The face was difficult, its mood seeming altered at each glance. Indefinable. Sensuous mouth—did it smile, or was there sorrow? Perhaps half open in anticipation of a kiss—or a cry? The eyes—soft blue, or did they glow? Did they express longing, pain? Or were they hungry eyes, eyes alight with triumph? Lonely eyes. Lonely face. A lonely picture. A song, long forgotten, came to his mind.

In the pines, in the pines,

Where the sun never shines.

And I shiver when the wind blows cold...

He did shiver then. Sun falling, the mountain wind blew cold through the pines. How long had he been staring at the portrait?

Struck with a chill beyond that of the wind, Gerry cradled his find in cautious hands and started back up the dusty bank.

Janet was in a cheerful mood for a change. Not even a complaint about being ignored most of the afternoon. “Well, let’s see what goodies you’ve brought up from the basement,” she laughed, and glanced at the picture, “Oh, there’s Twiggy! Gerry, how camp! Look—an original piece of nostalgia!”

He frowned, suddenly offended by her gaiety. In view of the profound impression the picture had made, laughter seemed irreverent. “I thought it was kind of nice myself. Thought I’d hang it up, maybe. Can’t you just feel the loneliness of it?”

She gave him a hopeless look. “Oh, wow, you’re serious. Hang that old thing up? Gerry, you’re kidding. Look how silly she looks.” He glanced at her prefaded bell-bottoms and tank top. “Maybe that will look silly in a few years too.”

“Hmmm? I thought you liked these?” She inspected herself in faint concern, wondering if she had gotten too thin. No, Gerry was just being pettish.

“Well, let me take a good look at your treasure.” She studied the picture with a professional attitude. On Tuesday afternoons she had taken art lessons along with several of her friends. “The artist is really just too romantic. See—no expression, no depth to his subject. Pale girl against dark woods—it’s corny. Too much background for a portrait, and that dress dates it too severely to be idealized—not even a good landscape. His greens are overused and too obvious. His light is all wrong, and there’s certainly no imagination with all those dark colors. Is it supposed to be night or day?”

Gerry bit his lip in annoyance. Snotty little dilettante. He wished he knew enough about art to tear apart her prattling criticism.

“This is pretty typical of the sort of maudlin trash they turned out in the ’20s. Probably some amateur on vacation here did it of his girlfriend, and she had enough taste to leave it behind. Let’s see—it’s signed here on the corner, E. Pittman... 1951. 1951? That’s funny...” she finished awkwardly.

Gerry’s mustache twitched sarcastically. “And when did they make you valedictorian of your art class? That gossip session where bored housewives can splash on gobs of paint and call it a subtle interplay of neo-garbage.”

That stung. “Oh, stop sulking. So I insulted your male ego because I don’t care for your little Twiggy-of-the-woods.”

“Because you’re too damned insensitive to get into the mood of this painting!” Why had she gotten him so riled over an old picture? “Because you don’t feel the...” Damn! How do art critics choose their phrases! “Because you’re jealous over a portrait of a beautiful woman!” What the hell sense did that make?

“You’re not hanging that piece of junk up here!” Now she was mad at him. Her lips made a white line across her blonde face.

“No! No, I’m not! Not where you can sneer at her! I’ll hang her up downstairs!”

“Way downstairs, I hope!” she shouted after him, close to tears now. And things had been going so well...



Dinner had been awkward. Both sheepish but sulking, apologies meant but left unspoken, quarrels ignored but not forgotten. He left her fiddling with the portable TV afterward, making the excuse that he wanted to read without distraction.

Downstairs he had replenished the old bar. The portrait hung against the wall, watching him. In cleaning it, he had noticed the name “Renee” scrawled at the top. Maybe the artist’s name—no, that was E. Pittman. Probably the title, then. Name suited her well. “Mind if I have a drink, Renee?” he murmured. “Wife says I have a few too many a bit too often. Cliche for the day: Bitter hero drowns his grief in booze.” The eyes stared back at him. In pity? Loneliness? Hunger? How lost she looked!

Gerry flipped on a lopsided floor lamp and settled down to read some of the pulps he had resurrected. God, how ingenuous the stuff was! Were people ever so naive? He wondered how James Bond would appear to readers back then.

Bugs slipped through the rusty screen and swarmed to the light. Buzzed through his ears, plopped on the pages, fell in his drink. In vexation he finally clicked the lamp off.

His gaze was drawn back to the portrait, visible through the darkness by the glow of the bar light. He considered it with the careful patience four double shots of Scotch can bestow. Who was she, this Renee? She seemed too real to be only an artist’s imagination, but it was curious that an artist of the ’50s should paint a girl of the ’20s. Had she once sat here on this porch and listened to this same wind? This cold, lonesome wind in the pines?

God. Getting sentimental from Scotch. Mellow over a painting that a few months back he’d have laughed at. He closed his eyes wearily and concentrated on the night, letting its ancient spell wash over him.

The cool, velvet-soft night. Pines whispering in the darkness. The sound of loneliness. And Gerry realized he had become a very lonely man. A lost soul—adrift in the darkness of the pines.

Again came the faint scent of jasmine, haunting perfume. Jasmine, antique like this cabin. Worn by enchantresses of another age. Fragrance lingering from dead years. Delicate floral scent worn when beauty was caressed by silken gowns, garlanded with pearls, glinted with lacquered nails. Gone now, vanquished by synthetics. Today a woman clothed, adorned, perfumed herself with coal tar and cellulose. No wonder femininity had declined.

He breathed the rare fragrance, the cool night, somewhere between waking and dreaming. Faintly he heard the rustle of silk behind him, a sound separate from the whisper of the pines. A cold breath on his neck, apart from the mountain breeze. Like the elusive scent of jasmine, sensations alien to the night, yet part of it. The wind brushed his dark hair, stroked his damp forehead, almost as if a cool, delicate hand soothed the lines of pain.

He sighed, almost a shudder. Tension softened, days of anguish lost their sting. A feeling of inexpressible contentment stole over him; anticipation of ecstasy came to him. He parted his lips in a smile of dreamy delight.

“Renee.” The sigh escaped him unbidden. It seemed that another’s lips hovered close to his own. Sleep came to him then.



•III•

The sign announced “Pennybacker’s Grocery—Drink Coca-Cola.” Maryville had modern supermarkets, and ordinarily Gerry would have driven the extra distance. But today the country grocery with its old-fashioned general store atmosphere appealed to him—and it was close by.

The building was old. In front stood two battered gas pumps of some local brand. A long peaked roof overhung to form a sheltered enclosure between gas pumps and store front. Two wooden benches guarded the doorway. Their engraved invitation to “Drink Royal Crown Cola” was almost obliterated by countless carved initials and years of friction from overalls. The paint was starting to peel, and the windows were none too clean. Rusty advertising signs and a year’s growth of posters made a faded patchwork of the exterior.

Inside was packed more merchandise than there seemed floorspace for. Strange brands abounded on the crowded shelves. Fresh produce from local farms stood in open baskets. Cuts of meat were displayed within a glass counter. Odd items of hardware, clothing, medicines, and tackle augmented the fantastic clutter.

Here was a true general store without the artificial quaintness of the counterfeit “country stores” of Gatlinburg’s tourist traps.

Grocery buying was something of an adventure, and Gerry was glad Janet had not come along to quarrel over selections. A display of knives caught his eye as he waited for the proprietor to total his purchases on a clattering adding machine. Among the other pocket knives, he recognized the familiar shape of a Barlow knife.

“It that a real Barlow, or a Japanese copy?” he asked.

The storekeeper looked up sharply. “No, sir! Those knives are every one made in America. For your real quality knife you want your American one every time—though there’s some likes the German. Take them Case knives there. Now you can’t ask for a better knife. Lots of folks swear by a Case knife. Now that Barlow’s a fine one too. It’s a Camillus, and as fine a knife as any you could’ve bought fifty years ago. Cost you just four bucks. Want to see one?” Gerry tossed the stubby knife in his palm and decided to buy it. He had never carried a penknife, and this one was too bulky for his pockets. Still, a good souvenir. The storekeeper was disposed to talk, and the knife led to a rambling conversation.

Lonzo Pennybacker had run this store since the Depression. His uncle had built the place about the time of the Great War, and the gas pumps were some of the first in the area. Lonzo was interested to learn that Gerry was from Columbus—two of his cousins had families up around there, although he supposed Gerry wouldn’t know them. No, Gerry guessed he didn’t.

Lonzo’s expression was peculiar when Gerry mentioned he had rented The Crow’s Nest. “So they’ve got somebody to stay in the old Reagan place again,” he reflected.

“Oh? ” Gerry’s bushy eyebrows rose. “Why do you say that? Is the place haunted or something?”

Pennybacker scratched his pointed chin pensively. “Hants? No—don’t think you can say that rightly. Far’s I know, nobody’s ever seen no hants around the old Reagan place. If it’s hants now, you could’ve seen as many as you’d care in the old Griffin house. Everybody knew it was for sure hanted. Course it burned down in ’61.

“No. Far’s I know the Reagan place ain’t hanted. It’s just what they call unlucky.”

“Unlucky? How do you mean that?” Gerry wondered if he should laugh.

Lonzo finished packing the groceries before answering. “Well sir, I was just through schoolin’ back in ’22 when David Reagan built The Crow’s Nest. He was a mine owner out of Greenville and a wealthy man as we counted them in those days. Built the place as a honeymoon cabin for him and his wife. Fine handsome young lady, I can remember. She was maybe twenty years younger than David Reagan—he being in his forties and sort of stout. Renee, though, was a mighty prettysome girl.”

“Renee?”

“Renee. That was her name. Quite a looker. Wore her hair bobbed and those short dresses and all. A real flapper. Women around here was scandalized with all her city ways and manners. Men though liked her well enough, I’ll tell you. Red hair and the devil in her blue eyes. Used to draw a regular crowd down at the hotel swimming pool when she’d come down.

“Well, she liked it here in the mountains, so they spent the summers here. Back then this area was pretty lively Tourists came from all over to spend their vacations here. Used to be some big fancy resort hotels and all the cottages, too. Yeah, this place was real busy back before they opened the park.

“Well, Renee was a little too much woman for David Reagan, they said. Anyway, summer of 1925 she took up with one of the tourists—good-looking fellow name of Sam Luttle, staying the summer at a resort hotel near here. Far as anyone can say, David Reagan must’ve found out about them—you know how gossip gets around. So one day Renee just plain vanished. And before anyone really noticed she was missing, David Reagan one night drove his Packard off the side of the mountain. Remember seeing that one. Threw him through the windshield, and his head was just about cut loose.

“When Renee didn’t show up, they got to searching for her. But nothing ever did turn up of that girl. Disappeared without a trace. Since David Reagan was known to have a mean temper and a jealous streak besides, folks sort of figured he’d found out about his wife and Sam Luttle, and so he’d killed Renee and hid her body out somewhere in the mountains. All that pine forest—they never could find her.

“Some figured maybe she’d run off with Luttle, but he claimed he didn’t know a thing. Anyway, he got chewed up by a bear out walking one night not long afterwards. So there wasn’t nobody left who knew anything about the business. David Reagan had a brother who sold the cabin, and it’s been passed around and rented ever since.”

“And have there been stories since then of ghosts or something in connection with the place?” Somehow the idea did not seem as absurd as it should have.

“No, can’t say there has,” acknowledged Lonzo, his expression guarded. “Not much of anything unusual gone on at the Reagan place. Nobody’s ever cared to keep the place for too long for one reason or another. Still, the only thing you might call mysterious was that artist fellow back in the early ’50s.”

“Artist? What about him?”

“Some New York fellow. Had some disease, I think. Kind of strange—crazy in the head, you could say, maybe. Anyway, he killed himself after living there a few weeks. Cut his throat with a razor, and didn’t find him for a week. Had trouble renting the place for a while after that, you can guess. Fellow’s name was—let’s see. Enser Pittman.”



•IV•

Janet seemed disgustingly solicitous during dinner, going out of her way to avoid mention of Gerry’s long absence that afternoon. She had fixed Swiss steak—one of his favorites—and her eyes were reproachful when he gave curt, noncommittal answers to her attempts at conversation. If only she wouldn’t be so overbearing in her attempts to please him, Gerry thought, then act like a whipped dog when he didn’t respond effusively.

Dutifully he helped her clear away the dishes—even dried while she washed. Afterward she offered to play gin rummy, but he knew she really didn’t like the game, and declined. Conversation grew more dismal, and when Janet seemed disposed to get romantic, he turned on the TV. Presently he lamely mentioned paperwork, and left Janet protesting her loneliness. He thought she was crying again, and the familiar flash of anger returned as he descended the precipitous stairs. Anyway, she’d perk up for the Doris Day flick.

Drink in hand, Gerry once again studied the strange painting which had captured his imagination. E. Pittman—1951. Enser Pittman who had once stayed here. And committed suicide. Artists were never stable types.

But why had he painted a woman dressed in the fashion of a quarter century previous? Renee. Gerry felt certain that this Renee was the unfortunate Renee Reagan who had probably been murdered by her jealous husband in this cabin years before.

Of course! Pittman had discovered an old photograph. Certainly he would have learned of the cabin’s tragic past, and the photograph of the murdered woman would have appealed to his artistic imagination. A mind on the brink of suicide would have found sick gratification in the portrayal of a murdered temptress from a decadent period like the ’20s.

She was a beautiful creature. It was easy to see how such beauty could drive a man to adultery—or murder. Easy to understand why Pittman had been fascinated as an artist.

Moodily he stared at the painting. She was so vital. Pittman must have indeed been talented to incarnate such life within the oils. Strange how her eyes looked into your own. Her smile. If you looked long enough, you could imagine her lips moved, her eyes followed you. Amazing that he had painted it from only a photograph.

She would have been easy to love. Mysterious. Not a shallow housewife like Janet. Strange how things had changed. Once he had loved Janet because she was a perfect housewife and mother. A woman like Renee he would have considered dangerous, trivial—desirable, perhaps, like a film sex goddess, but not the type to love. So old values can change.

And Gerry realized he no longer loved his wife.

Bitterness flooded his mind. Guilt? Should he feel guilty for treating Janet so callously? Was it wrong to be unforgiving over an accident, a simple accident that...

“You killed my son! ” he choked. Tears of rage, of pain, blinded his eyes. With a sob, Gerry whirled from the painting and flung his empty glass through the doorway of the bar.

He froze—never hearing his glass rip through the rusty veranda screen and shatter against a tree below.

Renee. She was standing in the doorway.

Only for a second did the image last. For an instant he clearly saw her standing before him, watching him from the darkness of the doorway. She was just like her picture: green summer frock, bobbed flame hair, eyes alight with longing, mouth half open in invitation.

Then as his heart stuttered at the vision, she vanished.

Gerry let out his breath with a long exclamation and sank onto a chair. Had he seen a ghost? Had they started bottling LSD with Scotch? He laughed shakily. An after-image, of course. He’d been staring at the painting for an hour. When he had abruptly looked away against the darkened doorway, the image of the painting had superimposed on his retina. Certainly! They’d done experiments like that in college science.

It had been unnerving for a second. So that was how haunted houses got their reputation. He glanced about him. The porch was deserted, of course. The wind still whispered its cold breath through the rhythmically swaying pines. Again came a faint scent of jasmine on the night wind. God! It was so peaceful here! So cold and lonely! He closed his eyes and shivered, unreasonably content for the moment. Like being alone with someone you love very much. Just the two of you and the night.

“Gerry! For God’s sake, are you all right?”

He catapulted out of the rocker. “What! What? Of course I am! Damn it all, stop screaming! What’s wrong with you?” Janet was at the top of the staircase. She called down half in relief, half in alarm. “Well, I heard a glass smash, and you didn’t answer when I called you at first. I was afraid you’d fallen or something and were maybe hurt. I was about to start down these steps, if you hadn’t answered.” Gerry groaned and said with ponderous patience, “Well, I’m all right, thank you. Just dropped a glass. Turn down the television next time, and maybe I’ll hear you.”

“The TV’s off.” (So that was why she took time to think of him.) “It’s started acting crazy again like last night. Can you take a look at it now? It always seems to work okay in the daytime.”

She paused and sniffed loudly. “Gerry, do you smell something? ”

“Just mountain flowers. Why?”

“No, I mean do you smell something rotten? Can’t you smell it? I’ve noticed it several times at night. It smells like something dead is in the cabin.”



•V•

Gerry had been trying to move an old trunk when he found the diary. The rusty footlocker had been shoved into one of the closets upstairs, and Janet insisted that he lug the battered eyesore downstairs. Gerry grumbled while dragging the heavy locker to the stairs, but its lock was rusted tight, and he was not able to remove the junk inside first. So it was with grim amusement that he watched the trunk slip from his grasp and careen down the narrow stairs. At the bottom it burst open like a rotten melon and dumped its musty contents across the floor.

Clothes and books mostly A squirrel had chewed entrance at one point and shredded most of it, while mildew had ruined the remainder. Gerry righted the broken trunk and carelessly tossed the scattered trash back inside. Let someone else decide what to do with it.

There was a leather-bound notebook. Its cover was thrown back, and he noted the title page: Diary. Enser Pittman. June-December, 1951. Gerry looked at the footlocker in alarm. Were these the possessions of that artist, left unclaimed after his suicide?

He set the diary aside until he had cleared away the rest of the debris. Then he succumbed to morbid curiosity and sat down to thumb through the artist’s journal. Some of the pages had been chewed away, others were welded together with mould and crumbled as he tried to separate them. But he could read enough to fasten his attention to the tattered diary.

The first few entries were not especially interesting—mostly gloomy comments on the war in Korea and the witch hunts at home, the stupidity of his agent, and what a bitch Arlene was. On June 27, Pittman had arrived at The Crow’s Nest for a rest and to try his hand at mountain-scapes. From that point, certain passages of the diary assumed a chilling fascination for Gerry.

June 28. Went out for a stroll through the woods today, surprisingly without getting lost or eaten by bears. Splendid pine forest! After N.Y.’s hollow sterile canyons, this is fantastic! God! How strange to be alone! I walked for hours without seeing a soul—or a human. And the carpet of pine needles—so unlike that interminable asphalt-concrete desert! Pure desolation! I feel reborn! Extraordinary those pines. Can’t recall any sound so lonely as the wind whispering through their branches. Weird! After N.Y.’s incessant mind-rotting clamor. If I can only express this solitude, this unearthly loneliness on canvas! Fahler is an odious cretin! Landscapes are not trite—rather, the expression has cloyed...

June 30. Haven’t found those flowers yet. Guess the night breeze carries the scent a long way. Didn’t know jasmine grew here. Weird. At nights it almost feels like a woman’s perfume...

July 2. The horns are growing. Several times at night now I’ve definitely sensed a woman’s presence in the darkness. Strange how my imagination can almost give substance to shadow. I can almost make myself visualize her just at the corner of my vision...

July 4. Wow! Too much wine of the gods, Enser! Last time I get patriotic! A little excess of Chianti to celebrate the glorious 4th, I drop off in my chair, and Jesus! Wake up to see a girl bending over me! Nice trick, too! Looked like something out of a Held illustration! Vanished about the time my eyes could focus. Wonder what Freud would say to that!...

July 7. Either this place is haunted, or I’m going to have to go looking for that proverbial farmer’s daughter. Last night I woke up with the distinct impression that there was a woman in bed beside me. Scared? Christ! Like a childhood nightmare! I was actually afraid to reach over—even turn my head to look—and find out if someone was really there. When I finally did check—nothing, of course—I almost imagined I could see a depression on the mattress. The old grey matter is starting to short out...

(The next several pages were too mutilated to decipher, and Gerry pieced together the rest only with extreme difficulty.)

.. .seems to know the whole story, tho it’s hard to say how much the good reverend doth impart. Banner’s a real character—strictly old-time evangelist. Mostly the same story as Pennybacker’s and the other loafers—except Rev. Banner seems to have known Luttle somewhat. Renee was a “woman of Satan,” but to him doubtless any “fancy city woman” would reek of sin and godlessness. Anyway his version is that she married Reagan for the bread, but planned to keep her hand in all the same. She seduced Sam Luttle and drove him from the path of righteousness into the morass of sinfulness and adultery. In Banner’s opinion Renee only got... (half a page missing)... no trace of Renee’s body was ever discovered. Still it was assumed Reagan had murdered her, since she never turned up again in Greenville or anywhere else—and Reagan seemed definitely to have been on the run when he drove off the mountain. Here Banner gets a bit vague, and it’s hard to tell if he’s just getting theatrical. Still he insists that when they found Reagan with his throat guillotined by the windshield, there wasn’t a tenth as much blood spilled about the body as would be expected. Same regarding Luttle’s death. Superficial scratches except the torn throat, and only a small pool of blood. Banner doesn’t believe the bear explanation, but I don’t get what...

(pages missing)

... know whether my mind is going or whether this cabin is actually haunted.

July 15. I saw her again last night. This time she was standing at the edge of the pines beyond the front door—seemed to be looking at me. The image lasted maybe 15-20 seconds this time, long enough to get a good look. She’s a perfect likeness of the description of Renee. This is really getting bizarre! I’m not quite sure whether I should be frightened or fascinated. I wonder why there haven’t been any other reports of this place being haunted...

July 16. I’ve started to paint her. Wonder what Fahler will say to a portrait of a ghost. It’s getting easier now to see her, and she stays visible longer too—maybe she’s getting accustomed to me. God—I keep thinking of that old ghost story, “The Beckoning Fair One”! Hope this won’t...

July 17. I find I can concentrate on Renee at nights now, and she appears more readily—more substantial. Painting is progressing well. She seems interested. Think I’ll try to talk with her next. Still unsure whether this is psychic phenomenon or paranoid hallucination. We’ll see—meanwhile, damned if Enser will let anyone else in on this. Tho aren’t artists supposed to be mad?

July 18. Decided to use the pines for background. Took a long walk this afternoon. Strange to think that Renee probably lies in an unmarked grave somewhere under this carpet of pine needles. Lonely grave—no wonder she doesn’t rest. She smiles when she comes to me. My little spirit remained all of 5 - 6 minutes last night. Tonight...

(pages missing)

... to no one other than myself, and I think I understand. This goes back to something Bok once talked about. Spirits inhabit a plane other than our own—another dimension, say. Most spirits and most mortals are firmly anchored to their separate worlds. Exceptions exist. Certain spirits retain some ties with this world. Renee presumably because of her violent death, secret grave—who knows? The artist also is less firmly linked to this humdrum mortal plane—his creativity, his imagination transcends the normal world. Then I am more sensitive to manifestations of another plane than others; Renee is more readily perceived than other spirits. Result: Our favorite insane artist sees ghosts where countless dullards slept soundly. By this line of reasoning anyone can become a bona fide jr. ghostwatcher, if something occurs to make him more susceptible to their manifestations. Madmen, psychic adepts, the dying, those close to the deceased, those who have been torn loose from their normal life pattern...

... for maybe half the night. I think I’m falling in love with her. Talk about the ultimate in necrophilia!

July 26. The painting is almost complete. Last night she stayed with me almost until dawn. She seems far more substantial now—too substantial for a ghost. Wonder if I’m just getting more adept at perceiving her, or whether Renee is growing more substantial with my belief in her...

July 27. She wanted me to follow her last night. I walked maybe a mile through the dark pines before my nerve failed. Maybe she was taking me to her grave. It’s auditory now: Last night I heard her footsteps. I’ll swear she leaves tracks in the dust, leaves an impression on the cushions when she sits. She watches me, listens—only no words yet. Maybe tonight she’ll speak. She smiles when I tell her I love her.

July 28. I swear I heard her speak! Renee said she loved me! She wants me to return her love! Only a few words—just before she disappeared into the pines. And she seemed as substantial as any living girl! Either I’m hopelessly insane, or I’m on the verge of an unthinkable psychic discovery! Tonight I’m going to know for certain. Tonight I’m going to touch Renee. I’m going to hold her in my arms and not let her go until I know whether I’m mad, the victim of an incredible hoax, or a man in love with a ghost!

It was the last entry.