For me there is a fine line between imagination and the paranormal.
Take characters, for instance, those charming, evil, morose, lovable, laughable, maddening beings more real than the person sitting next to me on the bus. They are the charmers who continue breathing and sparring with one another long after I’ve closed the book or left the computer screen. My mind is filled with them. They are as close to me as family. Their blood runs in my veins.
Or consider the way story engages the brain, sashaying in like a spirit from the local cemetery, appearing when it will, uninvited, late to the party. It makes its grand entrance and casts its spell, tying up my attention, spewing characters and plot points into my field of vision like stars in the milky way.
So when someone asks me, do I believe in the paranormal, I say, of course. The paranormal insinuates itself into my life, arresting my fingers, making them move on the keyboard in ways they do not wish to roam.
I’m thinking now of an unforgettable scene in Wolf Hall when the dead Cardinal Wolsey appears to Thomas Cromwell. I keep coming back to that moment in the book, not a pivotal point, surely, but memorable for me. Why? Damned if I know, but if that’s not a haunting, I don’t know what is.
Photo: Sunset in Scilla. Credit: Fortu Tato (Flickr)