Checking under the bed for my guests

Page 5

For the past six-and-a-half years, it seemed I had shared an apartment with some unexpected guests. As luck would have it, the rental Gods had seen fit to bless me with a rather large two storey, two bedroom apartment located on a lovely street in Toronto. What I don't remember seeing in the lease involved some unforeseen boarders living in the second floor room that doubled for the guest bedroom and office. I am writer and it's been in that second floor room where I created some of my (hopefully) great works of art. Alone, I originally thought.

But unbeknownst to me, somebody or something else had a prior claim to that patch of space.

It all started one or two years after I had moved in. A fellow playwright, also Native, was staying in that spare room while in town working on a production. I was away, but she later told me about the night she was sitting on the steps directly underneath the window of the mystery room having a cigarette. Out of the corner of her eye, she thought she saw a shadow cross the house directly in front of her - meaning the "thing" that cast the shadow came from the room in which she planned to sleep. Puzzled, she watched the house where the shadow had been moments before, only to see it pass by again. Unnerved, she investigated but found nothing. A comfortable night of sleep followed.

Several years later, another friend, this time a Native film-maker, told me she thought she saw a person in that room once when she too was staying under my roof. It was only a fleeting glance out of the corner of her eye, but it was enough to make her comment to me. She, like the other woman, shrugged it off and nothing else happened.

Now this is where I began to puzzle. While having nothing more than a passing interest in the supernatural, I began wondering if, maybe, we had a . . . dare I say it . . . ghost in the house. I had never seen whatever this thing was, but, then again, when I was in that room it was usually to write, and I become pretty focused at that time. A walking corpse would have to tap me on my shoulder to get my attention.

The final and perhaps most perceptive experience came when my girlfriend's best friend came for a visit. The morning after she spent the night in that room, she calmly asked if we had any "little people" living in our house. Evidently she had felt "somebody" tugging on her hair as she lay in her bed.

I was not unfamiliar with "little people." The concept and reputation of "little people" extends well beyond the famous Irish leprechaun version. In fact, most cultures around the world have legends detailing the adventures of these diminutive creatures that can live anywhere and everywhere. In this case we are talking of a more Indigenous clan. The multitude of Native societies existing in Canada and the States are no different in these beliefs. My people, the Ojibway, have many stories about them. So do the Iroquois, my girlfriend and her friend with the tuggable hair.

One odd aspect of these miniature inhabitants is that, to my knowledge, they have only revealed themselves to Native women, at least in my house. All three of my guests were Native women. Maybe they have a predilection for the double X chromosome, or perhaps the men who have stayed in that room don't have hair long enough to tug. Two of the three were artists of one sort or another. The other, a student. Maybe they were more open to the possibility. Accountants or stockbrokers might not be so receptive. But regardless, as a sign of respect, I have been very careful with mousetraps.

But this issue recently became an irrelevant point. A new house beckoned on a new street with new adventures - we moved. But I must not be too confident. Little people can move too. Maybe they will decide to join us in our new house. Or maybe they will stay behind and play games with the next tenants. The will of these tiny dwellers are unfathomable to us people of a more blessed vertical stature.

As is the custom of my people,we put down a little tobacco when we left, as a parting gift to them. We hoped they would accept it and remember us fondly. Or they might consider it a bribe to travel with us. Whatever their decision is, we will accept it.

But one thing does bother me. Little people or ghosts . . . they were there in the room with me as I wrote and struggled with many different writing projects. Often I would reach a dead end, or face writer's block as I stared at a blank computer screen. Then suddenly, out of nowhere, I would receive a flash of inspiration. It wouldn't be long before I found myself typing "The End". So if my unforeseen house guests were responsible for such stimuli, does that make them my ghost writers?