The Presence

García was caught off guard by her appearance even though he knew she was under a great deal of stress. Her eyes were sunken under dark, puffy cheeks. Her makeup couldn’t conceal her incredibly pale skin. He noticed a slight tremor under one of her eyelids, a sure sign of anxiety and exhaustion. García knew enough about the effects of trauma to interpret all those signs. It was an integral part of his years of rigorous work with Indian and Tibetan astrology masters. After twenty-five grueling years of study, one of his teachers remarked, “you’re less than halfway there.”

Sylvia, his client, sat gingerly on the chair across from his desk, finding it uncomfortable to look at him at first. Her eyes darted about the room, jumping from the Tantric deities weaved in cloth hanging on the walls to the shelves full of books with titles as foreign to her as this entire situation.

“Would you like some water or coffee?” García asked.

“No, thank you, I’m fine,” she replied hoarsely, “How does this work?”

García smiled politely, pointing to his laptop, “I’ve brought up your natal chart with the date, time, and place of birth you gave my secretary. Try to be as specific and straightforward as possible about why you’re here so we can try and find a solution as quickly as possible.”

Sylvia still looked around the room, averting his gaze. Tears began to well in her eyes. “I—I’m having these horrible nightmares… Ever since my husband passed, I dream of him almost every night! Sometimes I feel he’s in the bed next to me, and other times he’s… I see him standing in the room staring, and I’m terrified!” Sylvia began to shake as the tears finally gushed out of her bloodshot eyes. García carefully pushed a box of tissues in her direction. She pulled one out of the box, softly wiping her eyes. “I’m sorry… please it’s just…” she said, shutting her exhausted eyes.”

“That’s OK. Nothing to be sorry about. Just continue when you’re ready.”

“Yes… Well I, it sounds ridiculous I’m sure, but I just want to know if I’m just dreaming or…” Sylvia covered her eyes, embarrassed.

“I understand. And it’s not ridiculous. Your concern is perfectly understandable.” Sylvia looked up at García for the first time as he began to enter information into his laptop computer.

Sylvia had tried to work through these nightmares with her therapist. The therapist didn’t believe in sedating Sylvia, preferring instead to help her face the problem head-on. But after trying a number of techniques, the trauma and fear wasn’t subsiding. The therapist finally suggested exploring the matter from a different perspective and referred her to García, a trusted collaborator.

“In Vedic astrology we have a way of determining whether you’re being visited by a spirit of some kind,” García said, looking up from his computer. “We call that, Pitra Dosha. There are a number of indicators describing curses emanating from spouses, and your chart clearly points to one or more of them,” he said pointing to a pattern of squares and symbols on the laptop screen.

“Curses?”

“Well, this knowledge has been handed down from ancient writings by Vedanta Masters from India so the term “curse” might not be the most appropriate today. But, nevertheless, it seems clear to me that you’re not suffering from bad dreams or hallucinations.”

“What do you mean?”

“It means that you are indeed being visited by him.” Sylvia’s face became even more pale than before. She didn’t know how to react or what to think. Then, abruptly, her words exploded uncontrollably, “I am cursed! First, he runs out on me, to go off with this floozy named Karen! He leaves me with nothing and no way of finding him! And then… One day, they find him, his body, in his car, with…“ Sylvia was now crying unconsolably, “another woman, not Karen, a different one, for God’s sake! Both of them dead, shot, murdered! And the police, the know nothing, they’ve done nothing — ”

“Sylvia, can you look at me?” Sylvia stopped and stared at García, her sobbing subsiding, trying to regain her composure. “The important thing right now is to get you well, to reduce the fear, to mitigate the stress.” he said softly.

Sylvia spoke in a desperate whimper, “He left me with no documents for our home, our accounts, no money… I don’t know where any of that stuff is… Nothing except these nightmares… And now you’re telling me it’s not my imagination, that it’s him?” Sylvia’s eyes began to water again. She closed them shut, raising her voice slightly, “When I see him… I can see the, his, the bullet wound!” she said, pointing to her forehead.

“Would you like to take a break?”

Sylvia took a deep breath, “No, no, thank you. I’ll be OK.”

“Does he try to speak to you?”

“What?”

“Has he tried to communicate with you in any way?” The question seemed to give her pause. It seemed to take her mind off her fear for a moment, her rational mind overcoming her emotions.

“I… I’ve… now that you mention it. His lips, his mouth moves but I, I usually jump up and wake up screaming as soon as he shows up, so I don’t know, I never thought about that, I’m sorry.”

“That’s OK, no reason to be sorry. Let’s try an experiment, if you think you can. I’d like you to record everything that happens when he re-appears. Have something next to your bed to write down what you remember, while your memory is still fresh. Do you think you can do that?”

“I, think so, yeah.”

García explained that when a person dies violently before their time, their spirit may continue to linger in the places familiar to them or where they felt comfortable when they were living. He surmised that her dead husband meant her no harm but it was incredibly stressful for her to endure his presence.

Sylvia felt that “reporting” on the unpleasant encounters could offer her some comfort. In a way, it made her feel more in control of the situation, like she was on a mission of discovery, an analyst studying her own self. They agreed to meet in a week’s time.

__

Sylvia dreaded how huge her home felt since living alone. She couldn’t sell the house until it became legally hers, until she could claim her rights as the widow. She felt so alone, so small and frail in that large, empty space.

She stepped into her shower. The water was already running, warm, inviting, like a needed balsam to ease her dread. She let the water wash away her tears as she leaned forward, shoulders slumped, both hands resting against the tiled wall. She opened her eyes, grabbed the shampoo bottle, and as she turned around, there HE was! The pale, chilling presence, a sad, mournful expression on sunken eyes, a dry bullet hole on his forehead, his mouth moving without making a sound! Sylvia jumped back in terror, slipping on the shower, pummeling backwards into an abyss, screaming!

Sylvia sprang up into a sitting position on her bed, her scream echoing in her mind. She pulled the blanket up to her neck instinctively and, trembling in fright, took a deep breath, turned on the lamp on the nightstand and looked for the pen and notebook she’d left there. It was gone! She jumped out of the bed and ran through the seemingly endless, shadowy corridors of her house. She reached her dead husband’s study, opened the door and, there HE was! Sylvia gasped, catching her breath, feeling sick, ready to turn around and run! But she noticed her husband’s apparition lifting one hand slowly as he pointed to the floorboards underneath his desk with the other. She felt a very sad, guilt-ridden energy coming from his lifeless form, begging to be forgiven—

Sylvia sprang up into a sitting position on her bed. She immediately turned on the lamp on the nightstand and saw the pen and pad she’d left there the night before. She jumped out of the bed and ran straight to her husband’s study. She turned on the light and walked over to the desk, her pulse racing, heart pumping wildly. She squatted down under the desk and began to rap on the floor with her fist. There! The sound was hollow! She looked for a crease to get her fingernails into but the board was fit too tightly to be lifted that way. She got up, frustrated, looking for something she could use as a tool, a letter opener, a pair of scissors, something! She had packed most of his things into boxes and was too flustered to remember where everything was. She stomped on the floor in frustration, and the board lifted slightly! She stomped again furiously and this time the board flew up revealing the space underneath. Sylvia got on her knees and lifted the two adjoining boards easily, then got up and ran to the kitchen to get a flashlight.

The bright light revealed a small, black, leather notebook covered in dust next to a package made out of a plastic trash bag, wrapped in duct tape. She pulled both objects out of their hiding place. She loosened the thin elastic strap that held the black notebook closed and read through it feverishly. Sylvia couldn’t believe her eyes! Inside the notebook’s pages were handwritten lists of financial institutions with account numbers and the names and contact numbers of people identified as CPAs and attorneys. She pressed the notebook to her chest and breathed a sigh or relief.

She then directed her attention to the small package, tearing at the plastic material with her bare hands like a giddy child opening a gift on Christmas day. As the plastic wrapping gave way, her body shook in a wave of excitement! There were two bundles of $100 bills, each bundle a hundred bills each, $20,000 cash! She closed her eyes, holding back tears, trembling with emotion.

After gaining her composure, Sylvia carefully surveyed the space underneath the floor again and recovered a dark plastic envelope. Inside she found her marriage certificate, insurance policies, and other documents HE had hidden from her for so long!

__

García was pleased by the change in Sylvia’s countenance and the turn of events surrounding her husband’s apparition. But there was still the issue of HIS continued, unwanted, presence.

“There is a technique you might have heard of.” García said. “It’s called Mantra Shastra or the study of sound and its effects. There’s one that can help your husband’s spirit evolve to the next plane of existence.”

“So he will stop bothering me?”

“So he may find the light, and stop bothering you.”

García showed Sylvia a string of beads, much like a rosary, and explained how to use it to count the recitations of the mantra. Then, he asked her to repeat after him, and began to chant, “Om, ham, hanumaté, rudratmakaya, hum, phat.” They recited for a half-hour or so. “Just continue to do this every chance you get.”

“Thank you, I will.” Sylvia gave García a slightly embarrassed look. “There was another dream, you know.”

“Oh?”

“He showed me who killed him. Do you want me to tell you?”

“That’s entirely up to you.”

“Remember his live-in lover, Karen, the one he left me for?” García nodded, Sylvia winced, “My husband showed me - it was her brother.”

“Oh my God!”

“Even worse, he’s a cop! Now I understand why the police did nothing!” Sylvia shrugged, “So, even if anyone else believed my ghost story, it’d be too dangerous to reveal. I’d be digging my own grave, and, honestly all I want right now is peace of mind, and you’ve given me just that, so I thank you very much!”

“Thank you, Sylvia, It’s been an honor.”