I was with my immediate family, dog included, at the ancestral seat of Heartbreak Hotel, sojourning for the weekend with my parents and their pack of unruly hounds. Heartbreak Hotel is a ramshackle residence, falling apart at the seams, with a hastily added wing that had already begun to deteriorate before it was fully finished. Usually a companionable beast who shadows me everywhere, my dog had opted to spend the night downstairs nestled within the pungent cocoon of his fellow canines. Our child slept soundly in the adjoining room, whilst my wife and I occupied another in the aforementioned new wing of the house. It was a restless night, for I have never slept soundly in that place, and I soon discerned that I was not alone in my nocturnal vigil. My wife was also awake.
"There's something wrong with this house," she whispered. "I'm worried about Lucinda sleeping on her own, oughtn't we to check on her?" Before we could do so, the atmosphere in the room changed abruptly, arresting us with a stifling fear. In such situations one often reads of an icy chill permeating the room, yet in my experience, the reverse is quite usually the case. It is as though all the oxygen is suddenly withdrawn, leaving one as breathless and claustrophobic as though trapped in a tin garage on a hot summer's day. A wavering light had appeared at the foot of our mattress, and we perceived it to be a brown taper, floating quite independently of any hand. "Don't look at it," my wife instructed in a panicked whisper, but her warning had come too late.
Unable to tear my eyes from the candle as it bobbed closer, I was horrified when in its aura I beheld the wasted, spectral features of the Pink Lady. My persecution at the hands of this woman began back in my freshman years when she chased me down the corridors of the university campus one ill-fated night. Sometimes I can still hear the phantom clop of her hooves echoing down those empty halls. This night, only her face was visible, yet I knew it to be she by the all-too-familiar grip of suffocating fear she evoked, and those wild, abandoned eyes starting from deeply hollow sockets. I am not ashamed to admit I let out a cry of horror, cringing beneath the bedsheets in a shameful display of manhood.
When I eventually gathered the courage to look again, the Pink Lady's face was gone, but the hovering taper remained. This time I took my wife's advice and speedily averted my eyes, my breathing laboured in the closeness of the room, my legs feeling paralysed. Without a second assault on my nerves, I was able to rally somewhat, the paralysis left me, and I forced myself out of bed to hit the light switch. With the lights on, my courage returned and I shouted out a defiant challenge to the ghost, daring her to lay a hand on my family. A loud crash, followed by an audible pop of air pressure made me immediately regret my bravado. We checked next door and our daughter remained sleeping soundly.
Next we went downstairs and the dogs were likewise in an undisturbed state, groggily wagging their tails as we entered. Woken by the sound of my scream and our activity in the house, my mother joined us downstairs in her dressing gown and I told her what had happened. She seemed concerned, yet unsuprised by the news of the unwelcome presence. Since sleep was now impossible, she went about preparing to cook a meal in the kitchen. After all, it is far better to face up against the supernatural on a full stomach. A mousy professor of the arts from the nearby university was also staying at the house, for my parents took the occasional tenant, and she came to sit with us in the dining room.
"The Pink Lady was a great admirer of classical music," she explained. "Back when she was alive, the rigidity of the class system prevented her from enrolling on any degree, but after her tragic suicide, she haunted the antechambers of the music dons and many an orchestral performance was plagued by her shadowy presence, watching from the wings. Indeed, if you watch Disney's Fantasia closely, you can dimly make her out hovering next to Deems Taylor. They say she can still be summoned with music." With a return of my former recknlessness, I decided to test this theory, and boldly went to turn on the stereo.
As soon as the local radio station began to play, the lights in the dining room and kitchen cut out, and a glowing golden orb appeared near the patio doors. A throbbing sickness overtook me, and I tried to scream, but nothing but a hoarse croak escaped my parched lips. My mother screamed, and all of the dogs began to bark in terror. "What have you done?!" the professor cried. "Tis Irene O'Hare, we are forsaken!" In the morning, when I awoke, my wife complained that I had woken her by screaming in my sleep, whilst on her other side, our daughter was laughing in hers. I fear this will not be the last I encounter of the dreaded Pink Lady.
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