u/Comfortable-Emu-4478

It was the first long weekend in May. Amy and I had decided we were going to start the summer off with a camping trip. The goal was to set the tone for what we hoped would be a series of memorable adventures. 

The destination was a special one. We planned to load the boat and cross the lake from camp to search for my great-grandparents’ first cabin. Success depended on going before the undergrowth and tree canopy made it impossible to make out the ruins of the foundation. 

The weather wasn't great that Saturday morning. There was partial cloud cover and the forecasted high of only 50° for the next couple of days meant we were in for a challenge. As usual, Amy's enthusiasm gave me inspiration. She posed for pictures in her layers before we shoved off.

“Admit it, you love your Insta-Camper Momma, don't you?” she teased, twerking awkwardly on the side of our boat.

“I really do,” I answered, smiling in spite of my usual pre-trip anxiety.

As we moved upstream, the landmarks came into view. The cabin had been built across the lake from another old property that was a few miles from camp. As we floated near it, I looked across the lake and up the hill until I noticed a subtle, but recognizable dip in the treetops. I pointed it out to my companion.

“What do you think?” I asked.

“That has to be it.” 

I couldn't help but smile as she pulled her compass, took a quick reading to align our current location with our target and a landing point on the opposite shore. She was all business now.

We beached the boat, secured it and helped each other shoulder our backpacks. The weight staggered me at first. 

“We can switch,” Amy offered, throwing me a concerned look.

“Lead on Momma,” I shot back.

The hill was steeper and much higher than it looked from the opposite side of the lake. However, there were no obstacles large enough to force a diversion. After 200 yards of steady climbing, I heard Amy's triumphant shout from the top of the ridge.

“Look!” 

She was pointing to what was clearly a corner section of very old, roughly hewn wooden pilings, partially hidden by dead grass and brush. 

“Well done,” I smiled as we lowered our packs. 

After a break for water, we raised our tent in a small, slightly elevated clear spot near the ruins. The stove went in, then we rolled out our sleeping bag and stowed our gear. Amy managed to get a fire going outside using birch bark and relatively dry deadfall.

We explored the old cabin site and photographed everything we found. There were remnants of rusted cans fragile with age, small bottles, and what looked like the remains of an old wood stove. 

Eventually, the climb caught up with us. We smothered the fire with wet dirt and retired to the tent. I got the stove going and prepared MREs while Amy shed her outer layer and lay on the sleeping bag. 

“We're gonna have fun in here tonight,” she cooed, striking a pose.

“Let's eat,” I interjected. 

After dinner, I dumped the water out of the pot, put it away, filled the little stove and joined Amy in our bag. We used our layers to prop ourselves up and reviewed the pictures we'd gotten. 

We had been lying down for five minutes at most when I heard a faint noise in the distance. I froze.

“Did you hear that too?” Amy asked.

“Yeah, it sounded like it came from the lake.” We sat in silence for a moment.

"That was definitely a person.”

“Long weekend,” I suggested. “Voices carry on the water.”

I turned off my phone and dimmed the lantern. What followed was the result of two people who loved each other very much repressing their desires for more than ten hours. 

Afterwards, we stood outside in our base layers, boots, and puffers, sharing a cigarette. The night was clear and cool compared to our tent. As we looked up at the sky, we both distinctly heard a long, gravelly scream for help coming from the direction of the lake. 

“What do we do?” Amy asked.

“Nothing yet.”

“Nothing?”

“What can we do up here in the dark?” I asked. 

The scream echoed through the trees once more. This time it came from the southeast, directly from the lake below us. 

“Hello! We're here!” 

“Amy!” I cut her off. Every wilderness horror story I had ever read suddenly ran through my head. 

“Jesus Christ, someone's hurt!”

“It's too dangerous out there in the dark. Besides, we have no reception.”

“What if it were us?” 

I looked at her. Our eyes met and I instantly knew she wasn't going to back down.

“Flashlights, water, hats and both compasses. We stay together and don't deviate. Grab your knife.”

I led the way downhill with my light focused on the unstable ground in front of me. Amy followed close behind with a compass and gave me micro adjustments as we moved.

“Flagging tape would be an idea for next time,” she said quietly as we stumbled down the hill. 

I just kept on going. If one of us got hurt, or we lingered too long without moving, we'd be no better off than whoever we heard in the lake. 

The descent went surprisingly well and we reached the shoreline about ten yards from the boat. 

“Hello?” Amy yelled again, scanning the lake and shoreline with her flashlight. 

We split up and searched the shoreline about fifty yards northeast and southwest of the boat. We both found nothing. Amy continued to call out and I cringed each time despite knowing it was the right thing to do. She never got a reply.

When we met back at the boat, she looked completely dejected. 

“We tried honey, I don't know what else we can do until daylight.”

“I know,” she whispered.

We stood for five minutes longer and listened as we split a bottle of water. There was nothing.

The climb back to our tent was uneventful. We both lay down in our bag and watched the little stove in silence until it went out completely. 

When the sun came up, we took down camp without making breakfast and began to pack up. 

“We did what we could, Amy.” I was tired of the silence.

“It's just weird,” she said. “There was nobody else on the lake.”

“This part,” I added, “It's really a river when you think about it. It was probably some drunk at a party farther up.”

“Either way, I have to report it.”

“Of course, it should only take a couple of hours to get back to town.”

When we got there, we each gave a painfully detailed account of what happened. We tried to make the most of the rest of the weekend. The days went by and life continued the way it always does. 

After weeks of monotony, I had almost forgotten about the trip. It was the third Monday in June and Amy was working from home. I was in the basement when I heard her yell something I couldn't make out and her headset hit the floor. 

“What's wrong?” I asked as I ran into the living room. She stared at me. Her face had gone pale and she pointed to the computer screen, her mouth hanging open. I looked. It was a social media post dated for this morning. 

Body Found in Local Lake was the title.

“Amy, we did everything we could do with what we had.” I hugged her as she got up from her chair.

“I know,” she said, her body was shaking as she squeezed me. “It could have been us.”

I gently reached around her, grabbed the mouse and closed the tab. 

It was the first long weekend in May. Amy and I had decided we were going to start the summer off with a camping trip. The goal was to set the tone for what we hoped would be a series of memorable adventures. 

The destination was a special one. We planned to load the boat and cross the lake from camp to search for my great-grandparents’ first cabin. Success depended on going before the undergrowth and tree canopy made it impossible to make out the ruins of the foundation. 

The weather wasn't great that Saturday morning. There was partial cloud cover and the forecasted high of only 50° for the next couple of days meant we were in for a challenge. As usual, Amy's enthusiasm gave me inspiration. She posed for pictures in her layers before we shoved off.

“Admit it, you love your Insta-Camper Momma, don't you?” she teased, twerking awkwardly on the side of our boat.

“I really do,” I answered, smiling in spite of my usual pre-trip anxiety.

As we moved upstream, the landmarks came into view. The cabin had been built across the lake from another old property that was a few miles from camp. As we floated near it, I looked across the lake and up the hill until I noticed a subtle, but recognizable dip in the treetops. I pointed it out to my companion.

“What do you think?” I asked.

“That has to be it.” 

I couldn't help but smile as she pulled her compass, took a quick reading to align our current location with our target and a landing point on the opposite shore. She was all business now.

We beached the boat, secured it and helped each other shoulder our backpacks. The weight staggered me at first. 

“We can switch,” Amy offered, throwing me a concerned look.

“Lead on Momma,” I shot back.

The hill was steeper and much higher than it looked from the opposite side of the lake. However, there were no obstacles large enough to force a diversion. After 200 yards of steady climbing, I heard Amy's triumphant shout from the top of the ridge.

“Look!” 

She was pointing to what was clearly a corner section of very old, roughly hewn wooden pilings, partially hidden by dead grass and brush. 

“Well done,” I smiled as we lowered our packs. 

After a break for water, we raised our tent in a small, slightly elevated clear spot near the ruins. The stove went in, then we rolled out our sleeping bag and stowed our gear. Amy managed to get a fire going outside using birch bark and relatively dry deadfall.

We explored the old cabin site and photographed everything we found. There were remnants of rusted cans fragile with age, small bottles, and what looked like the remains of an old wood stove. 

Eventually, the climb caught up with us. We smothered the fire with wet dirt and retired to the tent. I got the stove going and prepared MREs while Amy shed her outer layer and lay on the sleeping bag. 

“We're gonna have fun in here tonight,” she cooed, striking a pose.

“Let's eat,” I interjected. 

After dinner, I dumped the water out of the pot, put it away, filled the little stove and joined Amy in our bag. We used our layers to prop ourselves up and reviewed the pictures we'd gotten. 

We had been lying down for five minutes at most when I heard a faint noise in the distance. I froze.

“Did you hear that too?” Amy asked.

“Yeah, it sounded like it came from the lake.” We sat in silence for a moment.

"That was definitely a person.”

“Long weekend,” I suggested. “Voices carry on the water.”

I turned off my phone and dimmed the lantern. What followed was the result of two people who loved each other very much repressing their desires for more than ten hours. 

Afterwards, we stood outside in our base layers, boots, and puffers, sharing a cigarette. The night was clear and cool compared to our tent. As we looked up at the sky, we both distinctly heard a long, gravelly scream for help coming from the direction of the lake. 

“What do we do?” Amy asked.

“Nothing yet.”

“Nothing?”

“What can we do up here in the dark?” I asked. 

The scream echoed through the trees once more. This time it came from the southeast, directly from the lake below us. 

“Hello! We're here!” 

“Amy!” I cut her off. Every wilderness horror story I had ever read suddenly ran through my head. 

“Jesus Christ, someone's hurt!”

“It's too dangerous out there in the dark. Besides, we have no reception.”

“What if it were us?” 

I looked at her. Our eyes met and I instantly knew she wasn't going to back down.

“Flashlights, water, hats and both compasses. We stay together and don't deviate. Grab your knife.”

I led the way downhill with my light focused on the unstable ground in front of me. Amy followed close behind with a compass and gave me micro adjustments as we moved.

“Flagging tape would be an idea for next time,” she said quietly as we stumbled down the hill. 

I just kept on going. If one of us got hurt, or we lingered too long without moving, we'd be no better off than whoever we heard in the lake. 

The descent went surprisingly well and we reached the shoreline about ten yards from the boat. 

“Hello?” Amy yelled again, scanning the lake and shoreline with her flashlight. 

We split up and searched the shoreline about fifty yards northeast and southwest of the boat. We both found nothing. Amy continued to call out and I cringed each time despite knowing it was the right thing to do. She never got a reply.

When we met back at the boat, she looked completely dejected. 

“We tried honey, I don't know what else we can do until daylight.”

“I know,” she whispered.

We stood for five minutes longer and listened as we split a bottle of water. There was nothing.

The climb back to our tent was uneventful. We both lay down in our bag and watched the little stove in silence until it went out completely. 

When the sun came up, we took down camp without making breakfast and began to pack up. 

“We did what we could, Amy.” I was tired of the silence.

“It's just weird,” she said. “There was nobody else on the lake.”

“This part,” I added, “It's really a river when you think about it. It was probably some drunk at a party farther up.”

“Either way, I have to report it.”

“Of course, it should only take a couple of hours to get back to town.”

When we got there, we each gave a painfully detailed account of what happened. We tried to make the most of the rest of the weekend. The days went by and life continued the way it always does. 

After weeks of monotony, I had almost forgotten about the trip. It was the third Monday in June and Amy was working from home. I was in the basement when I heard her yell something I couldn't make out and her headset hit the floor. 

“What's wrong?” I asked as I ran into the living room. She stared at me. Her face had gone pale and she pointed to the computer screen, her mouth hanging open. I looked. It was a social media post dated for this morning. 

Body Found in Local Lake was the title.

“Amy, we did everything we could do with what we had.” I hugged her as she got up from her chair.

“I know,” she said, her body was shaking as she squeezed me. “It could have been us.”

I gently reached around her, grabbed the mouse and closed the tab. 

It was the first long weekend in May. Amy and I had decided we were going to start the summer off with a camping trip. The goal was to set the tone for what we hoped would be a series of memorable adventures. 

The destination was a special one. We planned to load the boat and cross the lake from camp to search for my great-grandparents’ first cabin. Success depended on going before the undergrowth and tree canopy made it impossible to make out the ruins of the foundation. 

The weather wasn't great that Saturday morning. There was partial cloud cover and the forecasted high of only 50° for the next couple of days meant we were in for a challenge. As usual, Amy's enthusiasm gave me inspiration. She posed for pictures in her layers before we shoved off.

“Admit it, you love your Insta-Camper Momma, don't you?” she teased, twerking awkwardly on the side of our boat.

“I really do,” I answered, smiling in spite of my usual pre-trip anxiety.

As we moved upstream, the landmarks came into view. The cabin had been built across the lake from another old property that was a few miles from camp. As we floated near it, I looked across the lake and up the hill until I noticed a subtle, but recognizable dip in the treetops. I pointed it out to my companion.

“What do you think?” I asked.

“That has to be it.” 

I couldn't help but smile as she pulled her compass, took a quick reading to align our current location with our target and a landing point on the opposite shore. She was all business now.

We beached the boat, secured it and helped each other shoulder our backpacks. The weight staggered me at first. 

“We can switch,” Amy offered, throwing me a concerned look.

“Lead on Momma,” I shot back.

The hill was steeper and much higher than it looked from the opposite side of the lake. However, there were no obstacles large enough to force a diversion. After 200 yards of steady climbing, I heard Amy's triumphant shout from the top of the ridge.

“Look!” 

She was pointing to what was clearly a corner section of very old, roughly hewn wooden pilings, partially hidden by dead grass and brush. 

“Well done,” I smiled as we lowered our packs. 

After a break for water, we raised our tent in a small, slightly elevated clear spot near the ruins. The stove went in, then we rolled out our sleeping bag and stowed our gear. Amy managed to get a fire going outside using birch bark and relatively dry deadfall.

We explored the old cabin site and photographed everything we found. There were remnants of rusted cans fragile with age, small bottles, and what looked like the remains of an old wood stove. 

Eventually, the climb caught up with us. We smothered the fire with wet dirt and retired to the tent. I got the stove going and prepared MREs while Amy shed her outer layer and lay on the sleeping bag. 

“We're gonna have fun in here tonight,” she cooed, striking a pose.

“Let's eat,” I interjected. 

After dinner, I dumped the water out of the pot, put it away, filled the little stove and joined Amy in our bag. We used our layers to prop ourselves up and reviewed the pictures we'd gotten. 

We had been lying down for five minutes at most when I heard a faint noise in the distance. I froze.

“Did you hear that too?” Amy asked.

“Yeah, it sounded like it came from the lake.” We sat in silence for a moment.

"That was definitely a person.”

“Long weekend,” I suggested. “Voices carry on the water.”

I turned off my phone and dimmed the lantern. What followed was the result of two people who loved each other very much repressing their desires for more than ten hours. 

Afterwards, we stood outside in our base layers, boots, and puffers, sharing a cigarette. The night was clear and cool compared to our tent. As we looked up at the sky, we both distinctly heard a long, gravelly scream for help coming from the direction of the lake. 

“What do we do?” Amy asked.

“Nothing yet.”

“Nothing?”

“What can we do up here in the dark?” I asked. 

The scream echoed through the trees once more. This time it came from the southeast, directly from the lake below us. 

“Hello! We're here!” 

“Amy!” I cut her off. Every wilderness horror story I had ever read suddenly ran through my head. 

“Jesus Christ, someone's hurt!”

“It's too dangerous out there in the dark. Besides, we have no reception.”

“What if it were us?” 

I looked at her. Our eyes met and I instantly knew she wasn't going to back down.

“Flashlights, water, hats and both compasses. We stay together and don't deviate. Grab your knife.”

I led the way downhill with my light focused on the unstable ground in front of me. Amy followed close behind with a compass and gave me micro adjustments as we moved.

“Flagging tape would be an idea for next time,” she said quietly as we stumbled down the hill. 

I just kept on going. If one of us got hurt, or we lingered too long without moving, we'd be no better off than whoever we heard in the lake. 

The descent went surprisingly well and we reached the shoreline about ten yards from the boat. 

“Hello?” Amy yelled again, scanning the lake and shoreline with her flashlight. 

We split up and searched the shoreline about fifty yards northeast and southwest of the boat. We both found nothing. Amy continued to call out and I cringed each time despite knowing it was the right thing to do. She never got a reply.

When we met back at the boat, she looked completely dejected. 

“We tried honey, I don't know what else we can do until daylight.”

“I know,” she whispered.

We stood for five minutes longer and listened as we split a bottle of water. There was nothing.

The climb back to our tent was uneventful. We both lay down in our bag and watched the little stove in silence until it went out completely. 

When the sun came up, we took down camp without making breakfast and began to pack up. 

“We did what we could, Amy.” I was tired of the silence.

“It's just weird,” she said. “There was nobody else on the lake.”

“This part,” I added, “It's really a river when you think about it. It was probably some drunk at a party farther up.”

“Either way, I have to report it.”

“Of course, it should only take a couple of hours to get back to town.”

When we got there, we each gave a painfully detailed account of what happened. We tried to make the most of the rest of the weekend. The days went by and life continued the way it always does. 

After weeks of monotony, I had almost forgotten about the trip. It was the third Monday in June and Amy was working from home. I was in the basement when I heard her yell something I couldn't make out and her headset hit the floor. 

“What's wrong?” I asked as I ran into the living room. She stared at me. Her face had gone pale and she pointed to the computer screen, her mouth hanging open. I looked. It was a social media post dated for this morning. 

Body Found in Local Lake was the title.

“Amy, we did everything we could do with what we had.” I hugged her as she got up from her chair.

“I know,” she said, her body was shaking as she squeezed me. “It could have been us.”

I gently reached around her, grabbed the mouse and closed the tab. 

Amy and I were in a bit of a rut this past summer. It was late August, and we could feel fall creeping in quickly. So, when she suggested retracing a boat trip we had taken ten years ago, I felt the need to deliver.

I had completed the trip multiple times at different points in my life, and it could be accomplished in four or five hours. My twelve-foot aluminum boat and four-horse outboard handled the shallow water well. As long as I was careful and took it slow, the worst we could encounter was a fallen tree blocking our route.

We began on a Saturday morning around 10:00 a.m. The weather was perfect. We had a full tank of freshly mixed gas, paddles, life jackets, a good anchor and rope, water, and a marine emergency kit. Amy also included a basic med pack, as well as two EpiPens with extra epinephrine and syringes in case she was stung deep into the trip. I put a small bow saw and hatchet in the boat just in case.

My mom and daughter shoved us off shore. Amy sat in the bow facing me. She was reclining, her back against the bow plate with her arms on the gunwales and feet up on the middle seat. The little engine sprang to life with half a pull, and we slowly made our way to the creek. By the time we got there, I was already feeling sore and using my Type II PFD as a seat cushion. I idled the motor down.

“You got deadheads?” I asked, half serious. I could see everything in front of the boat, but rocks and depth were still a concern. There were other benefits to having Amy watching for obstacles too.

“Always!” she replied, then turned, knelt on the front seat and bent over with her elbows resting on the bow.

We crept into the creek, both of us pleased with the view.

The air was cool and refreshing after being on the open lake in the mid-August heat. Where the creek narrowed, there was a brilliant mix of shadows and sunlight reflecting off the dark, silty water. We managed to get within ten yards of a great blue heron before it rose from the bank and slowly lifted itself into the air. The beat of its wings could be heard over the outboard as it flew upstream.

The final corner before the falls was guarded by a large cranberry bush that hung over the creek. We pushed through it and were rewarded with a clear view of the fifteen-foot chute. The pool below it fed a series of narrow tongues that cascaded down the long, boulder-filled slope toward the creek, only visible this time of year when the water was low. I cut the motor, and the boat gently nudged itself ashore.

Amy took off her shades, slipped her PFD over her head, and shook her hair out. She gave me a quick smile before she got out and pulled us up a little farther. I joined her, and we embraced.

“We made it,” she whispered.

“Of course we did,” I answered, trying to hide my excitement.

We began rock-hopping the seventy yards toward the main chute, stopping now and then to look at crayfish in the pools and take pictures. The place was exactly how I remembered it. As we approached the main chute, the noise of the water drowned out the forest ambience.

“Are you alright?” Amy shouted over the roar of moving water.

“I guess so,” I answered. We were on schedule, the boat was intact, the engine was fine, people knew where we were, and we hadn't seen a single bee all morning.

“Relax,” Amy mouthed at me as she stuck her hand in the chute and splashed me.

“Okay, let's get going,” I said, loud enough to be heard over the falls.

Amy nodded, and we turned just in time to see the boat slowly starting to float downstream. We forgot to toss out the anchor.

I ran as best I could, jumping over the rushing tongues and small pools that we had slowly explored minutes ago. I pulled away from Amy, but I didn't slow down. When I hit the shoreline, I didn't stop. I plunged into the creek and half waded, half swam after the boat.

Thankfully, the cranberry bushes snagged it for me at that last corner fifty yards downstream. Grabbing it, I turned in the water and began forcing it back. Amy had returned to the spot where we originally beached. 

However, she had clearly slipped on a wet rock and fallen in the process. Her elbow was scraped, and she was avoiding pressure on her left leg. As I got closer, I noticed her leggings were torn at the knee. Her smile was gone now, replaced with a look of blank determination. 

“Is it intact?” she asked as I climbed back on shore, pulling the boat with me.

“No damage or leaks,” I told her.

Her knee was bad. I slowly helped her back into her reclined position in the bow, and then we improvised a brace using her PFD. I secured it under her knee joint and snugged the belt up around her upper thigh.

After giving her a bottle of water, I primed the gas line with a few good squeezes, then turned to lower the motor and get it going. On the first three hard pulls, it didn't even fire.

“I've flooded it,” I said calmly, picking up a paddle.

Amy gave me a brief smile as I began pike-poling us downstream. After we rounded the first corner, the current slowed and I began to paddle. Without the engine noise, we heard the rustle of the wind in the poplar trees, the ducks, and other birds. I did my best to keep her talking and taking sips of water.

“You're so handsome right now.”

“Stay with me, nurse… When did I get so goddamn old?” I was struggling hard to hold it together.

“About ten years ago.”

Her face looked strained, and she was starting to get pale. I reefed on the starter cord, this time without checking the prime, and the engine coughed blue smoke, sputtered, then finally caught. I ran the motor at half throttle with my eyes focused on the creek all the way to the second shallows.

As we approached, my body went weak and I began to feel my heartbeat in my earlobes. My chin dropped to my chest for a moment, and then I looked back up, once more idling the engine down.

“What now?” Amy asked.

“Tree.”

It was a cedar, ten inches thick at the base, that had fallen. Its root system was fully exposed on one bank, and it extended across the creek nearly three feet above it. Going under or overtop was not an option. It was either going to be a long and painful portage for Amy, or I’d have to find a way to cut through and clear it.

“You’ve got this,” she whispered as I killed the engine. Her voice had become weak. I dug the survival blanket out of the emergency kit and wrapped it around her. “Do your thing. I’m just going to relax and get some sun.”

She smiled as I slipped back into the waist-deep water and pushed the boat ashore. It was now late afternoon. I looked at the fresh, seemingly healthy cedar blocking our route with my small bow saw in one hand and hatchet in the other. Limbing it seemed to be a good first step.

This took the better part of an hour. My hands were partially skinned and covered with sap. Amy was considerably more quiet now and it bothered me. We shared a bottle of water while I contemplated the trunk. The forest was still, and the sun was dipping, partially hidden by the canopy.

Standing in the middle of the creek, I reached up and dragged the saw backward across the top of the trunk. The wet wood made it miserable, but long pulls were producing good amounts of sappy sawdust. A quarter of the way through, the saw bound up completely.

I started chopping underneath the cut, trying to create a notch. My hands were bleeding now and I was cold from standing in the brown-tinted water that flowed calmly around my waist. Eventually, the notch widened and the log split. Both ends crashed into the water, as I jumped back out of the way.

“You alright?” Amy shouted from ten feet away. She tried to sit up to look and then gave up. 

“It’s clear!” I answered and waded for the back of the boat.

After pulling it in and guiding it past the tree, I pushed it ashore and climbed back in to catch my breath. Amy grinned at me.

“Breathe. You’re doing great,” she said, her eyes locked with mine.

I leaned forward in the boat, knelt on the middle seat, and kissed her hard. Her lips felt cool against mine. We were running out of daylight. My body shook as the adrenaline began to fade. Luckily, the engine sprang to life as it usually did, and we pushed on. I ran the engine at full throttle the rest of the way out to the lake.

By the time we got back to camp, it was dusk. My father was waiting in his truck for us down by the lake. I didn’t kill the engine until I had run the boat as far ashore as it would go. He and I helped Amy out of the boat, and I made her as comfortable as I could in the back seat.

Ten minutes into the drive to the hospital, my dad asked, “Why did it have to be the creek?”

“It was a lot more fun the first time,” Amy mumbled.

We drove the rest of the way in silence. Triage was quick and businesslike for both of us. They held Amy overnight for observation and to allow the X-ray tech time to wake up and come in. I sat beside her in the room and held her hand through my bandages as the medication began to take hold. There, in the dark, the emotional weight of the day finally broke me. I was so tired of repressing the thought that I could lose her.

“Please never leave me,” I said, squeezing her hand, leaning in as the tears came.

“I won't,” she whispered. 

I tried to smile, but broke halfway. “Promise?”

She let out a slow breath, her eyes looked heavy. “I'm here,” she said. “I'm not going anywhere.”

Her eyes closed and she drifted off.

Amy and I were in a bit of a rut this past summer. It was late August, and we could feel fall creeping in quickly. So, when she suggested retracing a boat trip we had taken ten years ago, I felt the need to deliver.

I had completed the trip multiple times at different points in my life, and it could be accomplished in four or five hours. My twelve-foot aluminum boat and four-horse outboard handled the shallow water well. As long as I was careful and took it slow, the worst we could encounter was a fallen tree blocking our route.

We began on a Saturday morning around 10:00 a.m. The weather was perfect. We had a full tank of freshly mixed gas, paddles, life jackets, a good anchor and rope, water, and a marine emergency kit. Amy also included a basic med pack, as well as two EpiPens with extra epinephrine and syringes in case she was stung deep into the trip. I put a small bow saw and hatchet in the boat just in case.

My mom and daughter shoved us off shore. Amy sat in the bow facing me. She was reclining, her back against the bow plate with her arms on the gunwales and feet up on the middle seat. The little engine sprang to life with half a pull, and we slowly made our way to the creek. By the time we got there, I was already feeling sore and using my Type II PFD as a seat cushion. I idled the motor down.

“You got deadheads?” I asked, half serious. I could see everything in front of the boat, but rocks and depth were still a concern. There were other benefits to having Amy watching for obstacles too.

“Always!” she replied, then turned, knelt on the front seat and bent over with her elbows resting on the bow.

We crept into the creek, both of us pleased with the view.

The air was cool and refreshing after being on the open lake in the mid-August heat. Where the creek narrowed, there was a brilliant mix of shadows and sunlight reflecting off the dark, silty water. We managed to get within ten yards of a great blue heron before it rose from the bank and slowly lifted itself into the air. The beat of its wings could be heard over the outboard as it flew upstream.

The final corner before the falls was guarded by a large cranberry bush that hung over the creek. We pushed through it and were rewarded with a clear view of the fifteen-foot chute. The pool below it fed a series of narrow tongues that cascaded down the long, boulder-filled slope toward the creek, only visible this time of year when the water was low. I cut the motor, and the boat gently nudged itself ashore.

Amy took off her shades, slipped her PFD over her head, and shook her hair out. She gave me a quick smile before she got out and pulled us up a little farther. I joined her, and we embraced.

“We made it,” she whispered.

“Of course we did,” I answered, trying to hide my excitement.

We began rock-hopping the seventy yards toward the main chute, stopping now and then to look at crayfish in the pools and take pictures. The place was exactly how I remembered it. As we approached the main chute, the noise of the water drowned out the forest ambience.

“Are you alright?” Amy shouted over the roar of moving water.

“I guess so,” I answered. We were on schedule, the boat was intact, the engine was fine, people knew where we were, and we hadn't seen a single bee all morning.

“Relax,” Amy mouthed at me as she stuck her hand in the chute and splashed me.

“Okay, let's get going,” I said, loud enough to be heard over the falls.

Amy nodded, and we turned just in time to see the boat slowly starting to float downstream. We forgot to toss out the anchor.

I ran as best I could, jumping over the rushing tongues and small pools that we had slowly explored minutes ago. I pulled away from Amy, but I didn't slow down. When I hit the shoreline, I didn't stop. I plunged into the creek and half waded, half swam after the boat.

Thankfully, the cranberry bushes snagged it for me at that last corner fifty yards downstream. Grabbing it, I turned in the water and began forcing it back. Amy had returned to the spot where we originally beached. 

However, she had clearly slipped on a wet rock and fallen in the process. Her elbow was scraped, and she was avoiding pressure on her left leg. As I got closer, I noticed her leggings were torn at the knee. Her smile was gone now, replaced with a look of blank determination. 

“Is it intact?” she asked as I climbed back on shore, pulling the boat with me.

“No damage or leaks,” I told her.

Her knee was bad. I slowly helped her back into her reclined position in the bow, and then we improvised a brace using her PFD. I secured it under her knee joint and snugged the belt up around her upper thigh.

After giving her a bottle of water, I primed the gas line with a few good squeezes, then turned to lower the motor and get it going. On the first three hard pulls, it didn't even fire.

“I've flooded it,” I said calmly, picking up a paddle.

Amy gave me a brief smile as I began pike-poling us downstream. After we rounded the first corner, the current slowed and I began to paddle. Without the engine noise, we heard the rustle of the wind in the poplar trees, the ducks, and other birds. I did my best to keep her talking and taking sips of water.

“You're so handsome right now.”

“Stay with me, nurse… When did I get so goddamn old?” I was struggling hard to hold it together.

“About ten years ago.”

Her face looked strained, and she was starting to get pale. I reefed on the starter cord, this time without checking the prime, and the engine coughed blue smoke, sputtered, then finally caught. I ran the motor at half throttle with my eyes focused on the creek all the way to the second shallows.

As we approached, my body went weak and I began to feel my heartbeat in my earlobes. My chin dropped to my chest for a moment, and then I looked back up, once more idling the engine down.

“What now?” Amy asked.

“Tree.”

It was a cedar, ten inches thick at the base, that had fallen. Its root system was fully exposed on one bank, and it extended across the creek nearly three feet above it. Going under or overtop was not an option. It was either going to be a long and painful portage for Amy, or I’d have to find a way to cut through and clear it.

“You’ve got this,” she whispered as I killed the engine. Her voice had become weak. I dug the survival blanket out of the emergency kit and wrapped it around her. “Do your thing. I’m just going to relax and get some sun.”

She smiled as I slipped back into the waist-deep water and pushed the boat ashore. It was now late afternoon. I looked at the fresh, seemingly healthy cedar blocking our route with my small bow saw in one hand and hatchet in the other. Limbing it seemed to be a good first step.

This took the better part of an hour. My hands were partially skinned and covered with sap. Amy was considerably more quiet now and it bothered me. We shared a bottle of water while I contemplated the trunk. The forest was still, and the sun was dipping, partially hidden by the canopy.

Standing in the middle of the creek, I reached up and dragged the saw backward across the top of the trunk. The wet wood made it miserable, but long pulls were producing good amounts of sappy sawdust. A quarter of the way through, the saw bound up completely.

I started chopping underneath the cut, trying to create a notch. My hands were bleeding now and I was cold from standing in the brown-tinted water that flowed calmly around my waist. Eventually, the notch widened and the log split. Both ends crashed into the water, as I jumped back out of the way.

“You alright?” Amy shouted from ten feet away. She tried to sit up to look and then gave up. 

“It’s clear!” I answered and waded for the back of the boat.

After pulling it in and guiding it past the tree, I pushed it ashore and climbed back in to catch my breath. Amy grinned at me.

“Breathe. You’re doing great,” she said, her eyes locked with mine.

I leaned forward in the boat, knelt on the middle seat, and kissed her hard. Her lips felt cool against mine. We were running out of daylight. My body shook as the adrenaline began to fade. Luckily, the engine sprang to life as it usually did, and we pushed on. I ran the engine at full throttle the rest of the way out to the lake.

By the time we got back to camp, it was dusk. My father was waiting in his truck for us down by the lake. I didn’t kill the engine until I had run the boat as far ashore as it would go. He and I helped Amy out of the boat, and I made her as comfortable as I could in the back seat.

Ten minutes into the drive to the hospital, my dad asked, “Why did it have to be the creek?”

“It was a lot more fun the first time,” Amy mumbled.

We drove the rest of the way in silence. Triage was quick and businesslike for both of us. They held Amy overnight for observation and to allow the X-ray tech time to wake up and come in. I sat beside her in the room and held her hand through my bandages as the medication began to take hold. There, in the dark, the emotional weight of the day finally broke me. I was so tired of repressing the thought that I could lose her.

“Please never leave me,” I said, squeezing her hand, leaning in as the tears came.

“I won't,” she whispered. 

I tried to smile, but broke halfway. “Promise?”

She let out a slow breath, her eyes looked heavy. “I'm here,” she said. “I'm not going anywhere.”

Her eyes closed and she drifted off.

Amy and I were in a bit of a rut this past summer. It was late August, and we could feel fall creeping in quickly. So, when she suggested retracing a boat trip we had taken ten years ago, I felt the need to deliver.

I had completed the trip multiple times at different points in my life, and it could be accomplished in four or five hours. My twelve-foot aluminum boat and four-horse outboard handled the shallow water well. As long as I was careful and took it slow, the worst we could encounter was a fallen tree blocking our route.

We began on a Saturday morning around 10:00 a.m. The weather was perfect. We had a full tank of freshly mixed gas, paddles, life jackets, a good anchor and rope, water, and a marine emergency kit. Amy also included a basic med pack, as well as two EpiPens with extra epinephrine and syringes in case she was stung deep into the trip. I put a small bow saw and hatchet in the boat just in case.

My mom and daughter shoved us off shore. Amy sat in the bow facing me. She was reclining, her back against the bow plate with her arms on the gunwales and feet up on the middle seat. The little engine sprang to life with half a pull, and we slowly made our way to the creek. By the time we got there, I was already feeling sore and using my Type II PFD as a seat cushion. I idled the motor down.

“You got deadheads?” I asked, half serious. I could see everything in front of the boat, but rocks and depth were still a concern. There were other benefits to having Amy watching for obstacles too.

“Always!” she replied, then turned, knelt on the front seat and bent over with her elbows resting on the bow.

We crept into the creek, both of us pleased with the view.

The air was cool and refreshing after being on the open lake in the mid-August heat. Where the creek narrowed, there was a brilliant mix of shadows and sunlight reflecting off the dark, silty water. We managed to get within ten yards of a great blue heron before it rose from the bank and slowly lifted itself into the air. The beat of its wings could be heard over the outboard as it flew upstream.

The final corner before the falls was guarded by a large cranberry bush that hung over the creek. We pushed through it and were rewarded with a clear view of the fifteen-foot chute. The pool below it fed a series of narrow tongues that cascaded down the long, boulder-filled slope toward the creek, only visible this time of year when the water was low. I cut the motor, and the boat gently nudged itself ashore.

Amy took off her shades, slipped her PFD over her head, and shook her hair out. She gave me a quick smile before she got out and pulled us up a little farther. I joined her, and we embraced.

“We made it,” she whispered.

“Of course we did,” I answered, trying to hide my excitement.

We began rock-hopping the seventy yards toward the main chute, stopping now and then to look at crayfish in the pools and take pictures. The place was exactly how I remembered it. As we approached the main chute, the noise of the water drowned out the forest ambience.

“Are you alright?” Amy shouted over the roar of moving water.

“I guess so,” I answered. We were on schedule, the boat was intact, the engine was fine, people knew where we were, and we hadn't seen a single bee all morning.

“Relax,” Amy mouthed at me as she stuck her hand in the chute and splashed me.

“Okay, let's get going,” I said, loud enough to be heard over the falls.

Amy nodded, and we turned just in time to see the boat slowly starting to float downstream. We forgot to toss out the anchor.

I ran as best I could, jumping over the rushing tongues and small pools that we had slowly explored minutes ago. I pulled away from Amy, but I didn't slow down. When I hit the shoreline, I didn't stop. I plunged into the creek and half waded, half swam after the boat.

Thankfully, the cranberry bushes snagged it for me at that last corner fifty yards downstream. Grabbing it, I turned in the water and began forcing it back. Amy had returned to the spot where we originally beached. 

However, she had clearly slipped on a wet rock and fallen in the process. Her elbow was scraped, and she was avoiding pressure on her left leg. As I got closer, I noticed her leggings were torn at the knee. Her smile was gone now, replaced with a look of blank determination. 

“Is it intact?” she asked as I climbed back on shore, pulling the boat with me.

“No damage or leaks,” I told her.

Her knee was bad. I slowly helped her back into her reclined position in the bow, and then we improvised a brace using her PFD. I secured it under her knee joint and snugged the belt up around her upper thigh.

After giving her a bottle of water, I primed the gas line with a few good squeezes, then turned to lower the motor and get it going. On the first three hard pulls, it didn't even fire.

“I've flooded it,” I said calmly, picking up a paddle.

Amy gave me a brief smile as I began pike-poling us downstream. After we rounded the first corner, the current slowed and I began to paddle. Without the engine noise, we heard the rustle of the wind in the poplar trees, the ducks, and other birds. I did my best to keep her talking and taking sips of water.

“You're so handsome right now.”

“Stay with me, nurse… When did I get so goddamn old?” I was struggling hard to hold it together.

“About ten years ago.”

Her face looked strained, and she was starting to get pale. I reefed on the starter cord, this time without checking the prime, and the engine coughed blue smoke, sputtered, then finally caught. I ran the motor at half throttle with my eyes focused on the creek all the way to the second shallows.

As we approached, my body went weak and I began to feel my heartbeat in my earlobes. My chin dropped to my chest for a moment, and then I looked back up, once more idling the engine down.

“What now?” Amy asked.

“Tree.”

It was a cedar, ten inches thick at the base, that had fallen. Its root system was fully exposed on one bank, and it extended across the creek nearly three feet above it. Going under or overtop was not an option. It was either going to be a long and painful portage for Amy, or I’d have to find a way to cut through and clear it.

“You’ve got this,” she whispered as I killed the engine. Her voice had become weak. I dug the survival blanket out of the emergency kit and wrapped it around her. “Do your thing. I’m just going to relax and get some sun.”

She smiled as I slipped back into the waist-deep water and pushed the boat ashore. It was now late afternoon. I looked at the fresh, seemingly healthy cedar blocking our route with my small bow saw in one hand and hatchet in the other. Limbing it seemed to be a good first step.

This took the better part of an hour. My hands were partially skinned and covered with sap. Amy was considerably more quiet now and it bothered me. We shared a bottle of water while I contemplated the trunk. The forest was still, and the sun was dipping, partially hidden by the canopy.

Standing in the middle of the creek, I reached up and dragged the saw backward across the top of the trunk. The wet wood made it miserable, but long pulls were producing good amounts of sappy sawdust. A quarter of the way through, the saw bound up completely.

I started chopping underneath the cut, trying to create a notch. My hands were bleeding now and I was cold from standing in the brown-tinted water that flowed calmly around my waist. Eventually, the notch widened and the log split. Both ends crashed into the water, as I jumped back out of the way.

“You alright?” Amy shouted from ten feet away. She tried to sit up to look and then gave up. 

“It’s clear!” I answered and waded for the back of the boat.

After pulling it in and guiding it past the tree, I pushed it ashore and climbed back in to catch my breath. Amy grinned at me.

“Breathe. You’re doing great,” she said, her eyes locked with mine.

I leaned forward in the boat, knelt on the middle seat, and kissed her hard. Her lips felt cool against mine. We were running out of daylight. My body shook as the adrenaline began to fade. Luckily, the engine sprang to life as it usually did, and we pushed on. I ran the engine at full throttle the rest of the way out to the lake.

By the time we got back to camp, it was dusk. My father was waiting in his truck for us down by the lake. I didn’t kill the engine until I had run the boat as far ashore as it would go. He and I helped Amy out of the boat, and I made her as comfortable as I could in the back seat.

Ten minutes into the drive to the hospital, my dad asked, “Why did it have to be the creek?”

“It was a lot more fun the first time,” Amy mumbled.

We drove the rest of the way in silence. Triage was quick and businesslike for both of us. They held Amy overnight for observation and to allow the X-ray tech time to wake up and come in. I sat beside her in the room and held her hand through my bandages as the medication began to take hold. There, in the dark, the emotional weight of the day finally broke me. I was so tired of repressing the thought that I could lose her.

“Please never leave me,” I said, squeezing her hand, leaning in as the tears came.

“I won't,” she whispered. 

I tried to smile, but broke halfway. “Promise?”

She let out a slow breath, her eyes looked heavy. “I'm here,” she said. “I'm not going anywhere.”

Her eyes closed and she drifted off.

In the summer of 2008, I had finished school and moved back home. Six years of city life left me feeling worn down and insignificant. I missed the freedom and familiarity of Northern Ontario, my close-knit family, and, most of all, the prospect of steady work and affordable housing. There were a number of suitable opportunities for my girlfriend and I close to my home town, so we packed up and left.

The cost of living was low. Good jobs were available in our fields, and Amy adapted to small town life quickly. We were lucky enough to sign a lease on a two bedroom in a repurposed hospital. The building opened in 1930. There had been a large addition constructed in 1932 to serve as a tuberculosis ward and it became a training hospital for nurses before closing in the early 1970s. Our unit was on the top storey with a high, ten-foot ceiling and beautiful hardwood floors. The windows looked out over the parking lot and one of the busier streets. It was cheap, spacious and ideal for a young couple starting their lives together.

As the months went by, we settled in, got to know a few other tenants and made friends with the superintendent. People talked casually about paranormal experiences. They claimed to hear voices and footsteps in the stairwells, said the elevator would randomly bring you down to the basement when you hadn’t pushed the button, and repeated all the typical haunted building things. This became a bit annoying because I never experienced anything. Climbing the stairs in the evenings for exercise, going down to the basement to dig through the storage locker after dark, even walking the hallways out of boredom proved fruitless in terms of encounters. The superintendent even set up a pool table, dart board and mini fridge in the former morgue. Everyone laughed, played games, and drank in there, but the scariest thing we had to endure was the bullshit stories from other residents. 

The months turned into years. We built a life together and had so much fun in that place, but eventually found ourselves wanting more. Starting a family required a back yard, privacy and space that our apartment couldn't offer. After years of saving, in the winter of 2016, things were looking good for us. The holidays were spent with my parents and with them came the announcement that we would be looking at houses come summer. 

Every Friday night was a party for two. However, one stands out for me in particular. Everything started as a somewhat regular afternoon in February. It was a Snow Day. The kind where people in the North officially admit they’re beat, stay home and let the weather happen. Given an early start to the weekend, Amy and I soon found ourselves sipping drinks and dancing, albeit poorly, in the living room by 3:00 p.m. We laughed, sang, had a wonderful dinner, then just sat and watched the snow fall in each other’s arms while a movie played in the background. 

At around 11:00 p.m. she led me off to bed. We had that wonderful kind of frantic sex that just happens, quickly and honestly, full of passion and desperate energy. I don't know how, but that energy lingered in me. Amy was drifting off. Wide awake and still a bit drunk, I tried to keep her up with pillow talk and gentle touches. Both failed miserably. In a final, desperate attempt to start another conversation, I said, “Hey, do you think this place is really haunted?” 

“Nooooo…” Amy groaned.

Still under the influence of cheap beer, I decided it would be a good idea to try a technique used by a then popular ghost hunting show and said, “If there’s anyone in the room with us, please tap the wall three times.” I then tapped the wall beside the headboard three times myself without waiting. Amy rolled on to her side, facing away from me and pulled the comforter over her head. Empathy and acceptance that the night was over finally sunk in. Leaning close, I put my hand on her shoulder and whispered, “Go to sleep. I love you.”

“I love you too… Now please be quiet,” she mumbled, already fading fast. A few minutes later, her breathing deepened and she was asleep. I went back out to the couch to watch TV. After an hour, feeling myself fading too, I made another trip to the washroom. I took one last look at the snow falling in the glow of the streetlights, turned off the TV and flopped down on the couch. Laying on my side, facing the back, with the throw blanket barely covering my naked ass, proved to be the best position. This was a restless sleep, but despite the dizziness and hot flashes, it took hold. 

At some point I stirred. My head rolled on the couch cushion. I kept my eyes closed, fighting consciousness as it attempted to creep back in. A faint whimper slipped out of my mouth and the room changed. Relief, in the form of coolness, washed over me. The nausea lifted, my heart rate slowed. There was a definite presence near my upper body. It was instantly comforting yet wrong somehow. Pleased by the assumption that Amy was back out and looking for fun, a smile began to form on my lips. There was a clearly audible but delicate inhale close to my right ear. A woman’s voice, calm and slowly paced, whispered, “Shhhh… It’s okay sweetheart. You just get some rest now.” This was followed by the sensation of fingertips carefully brushing my hair back in two strokes. Next, a faint pressure was applied to my forehead and the presence began to fade along with the tingling feeling of my face having been touched. From further above me, in a more authoritative tone, the voice added, “Drink a glass of water when you wake up, please.” Then, a subtle, amused little snort. 

Something suddenly clicked in my head and I woke fully. The realization that I hadn't heard footsteps, a door open, or any movement in the washroom hit me hard. My eyes opened wide and fixed on the pale whiteness of the plaster ceiling illuminated by the streetlights below. I was still lying on the couch, now flat on my back, legs straight, with my hands at my sides. The throw blanket was pulled up to my shoulders and neatly tucked in around my body. I listened intently, terrified to turn my head toward the open room, and held my breath for what felt like an eternity. There was no sound at all. “Amy?” I hissed, knowing damn well the voice had sounded nothing like hers. There was no reply. “Amy!” I said out loud, now with more conviction. No answer. A rush of adrenaline and anger hit me. I threw the blanket off, swung my feet around and sat up, ready to greet who, or whatever was in my living room with a stream of profanity. Nobody was there. It was 3:10 a.m. The world outside and the building itself were deathly still. 

After sitting there for a moment, in that oppressive lack of sound, my sanity was given a much-needed boost in the form of a snow plow on the street below. Its blade angrily scraped the pavement as it went by. I stood up and watched it go, thankful for the distraction. As silence fell upon me again, I broke, ran for our bedroom, and opened the door. Amy became visible. She was still lying on her side in bed. The sight of her silhouette was so comforting I dove under the covers and pressed myself against her. It was painfully obvious that she hadn’t moved an inch since I left the bedroom to watch TV.

That fall we bought a house just down the hill from the old hospital. You can see it from the kitchen window whenever you're standing at the sink. We’ve been here for eight years now and have a beautiful daughter who just turned six. Our lives go on. Every now and then Amy catches me staring up at that old, red brick building and asks me what I’m looking at. “Aren’t you glad we’re not still living up there?” She’ll ask. I haven’t told her about that night because I’m too embarrassed. Laughing at people who can talk about hearing or seeing strange things no longer seems appropriate to me because I still don’t have the courage to do it. The world has a way of humbling us when we need it most. Sometimes, without warning, that feeling of vulnerability and raw terror returns to me when I'm alone. I have learned how to work through it, but can't help thinking it will stay with me for the rest of my life.

In the summer of 2008, I had finished school and moved back home. Six years of city life left me feeling worn down and insignificant. I missed the freedom and familiarity of Northern Ontario, my close-knit family, and, most of all, the prospect of steady work and affordable housing. There were a number of suitable opportunities for my girlfriend and I close to my home town, so we packed up and left.

The cost of living was low. Good jobs were available in our fields, and Amy adapted to small town life quickly. We were lucky enough to sign a lease on a two bedroom in a repurposed hospital. The building opened in 1930. There had been a large addition constructed in 1932 to serve as a tuberculosis ward and it became a training hospital for nurses before closing in the early 1970s. Our unit was on the top storey with a high, ten-foot ceiling and beautiful hardwood floors. The windows looked out over the parking lot and one of the busier streets. It was cheap, spacious and ideal for a young couple starting their lives together.

As the months went by, we settled in, got to know a few other tenants and made friends with the superintendent. People talked casually about paranormal experiences. They claimed to hear voices and footsteps in the stairwells, said the elevator would randomly bring you down to the basement when you hadn’t pushed the button, and repeated all the typical haunted building things. This became a bit annoying because I never experienced anything. Climbing the stairs in the evenings for exercise, going down to the basement to dig through the storage locker after dark, even walking the hallways out of boredom proved fruitless in terms of encounters. The superintendent even set up a pool table, dart board and mini fridge in the former morgue. Everyone laughed, played games, and drank in there, but the scariest thing we had to endure was the bullshit stories from other residents. 

The months turned into years. We built a life together and had so much fun in that place, but eventually found ourselves wanting more. Starting a family required a back yard, privacy and space that our apartment couldn't offer. After years of saving, in the winter of 2016, things were looking good for us. The holidays were spent with my parents and with them came the announcement that we would be looking at houses come summer. 

Every Friday night was a party for two. However, one stands out for me in particular. Everything started as a somewhat regular afternoon in February. It was a Snow Day. The kind where people in the North officially admit they’re beat, stay home and let the weather happen. Given an early start to the weekend, Amy and I soon found ourselves sipping drinks and dancing, albeit poorly, in the living room by 3:00 p.m. We laughed, sang, had a wonderful dinner, then just sat and watched the snow fall in each other’s arms while a movie played in the background. 

At around 11:00 p.m. she led me off to bed. We had that wonderful kind of frantic sex that just happens, quickly and honestly, full of passion and desperate energy. I don't know how, but that energy lingered in me. Amy was drifting off. Wide awake and still a bit drunk, I tried to keep her up with pillow talk and gentle touches. Both failed miserably. In a final, desperate attempt to start another conversation, I said, “Hey, do you think this place is really haunted?” 

“Nooooo…” Amy groaned.

Still under the influence of cheap beer, I decided it would be a good idea to try a technique used by a then popular ghost hunting show and said, “If there’s anyone in the room with us, please tap the wall three times.” I then tapped the wall beside the headboard three times myself without waiting. Amy rolled on to her side, facing away from me and pulled the comforter over her head. Empathy and acceptance that the night was over finally sunk in. Leaning close, I put my hand on her shoulder and whispered, “Go to sleep. I love you.”

“I love you too… Now please be quiet,” she mumbled, already fading fast. A few minutes later, her breathing deepened and she was asleep. I went back out to the couch to watch TV. After an hour, feeling myself fading too, I made another trip to the washroom. I took one last look at the snow falling in the glow of the streetlights, turned off the TV and flopped down on the couch. Laying on my side, facing the back, with the throw blanket barely covering my naked ass, proved to be the best position. This was a restless sleep, but despite the dizziness and hot flashes, it took hold. 

At some point I stirred. My head rolled on the couch cushion. I kept my eyes closed, fighting consciousness as it attempted to creep back in. A faint whimper slipped out of my mouth and the room changed. Relief, in the form of coolness, washed over me. The nausea lifted, my heart rate slowed. There was a definite presence near my upper body. It was instantly comforting yet wrong somehow. Pleased by the assumption that Amy was back out and looking for fun, a smile began to form on my lips. There was a clearly audible but delicate inhale close to my right ear. A woman’s voice, calm and slowly paced, whispered, “Shhhh… It’s okay sweetheart. You just get some rest now.” This was followed by the sensation of fingertips carefully brushing my hair back in two strokes. Next, a faint pressure was applied to my forehead and the presence began to fade along with the tingling feeling of my face having been touched. From further above me, in a more authoritative tone, the voice added, “Drink a glass of water when you wake up, please.” Then, a subtle, amused little snort. 

Something suddenly clicked in my head and I woke fully. The realization that I hadn't heard footsteps, a door open, or any movement in the washroom hit me hard. My eyes opened wide and fixed on the pale whiteness of the plaster ceiling illuminated by the streetlights below. I was still lying on the couch, now flat on my back, legs straight, with my hands at my sides. The throw blanket was pulled up to my shoulders and neatly tucked in around my body. I listened intently, terrified to turn my head toward the open room, and held my breath for what felt like an eternity. There was no sound at all. “Amy?” I hissed, knowing damn well the voice had sounded nothing like hers. There was no reply. “Amy!” I said out loud, now with more conviction. No answer. A rush of adrenaline and anger hit me. I threw the blanket off, swung my feet around and sat up, ready to greet who, or whatever was in my living room with a stream of profanity. Nobody was there. It was 3:10 a.m. The world outside and the building itself were deathly still. 

After sitting there for a moment, in that oppressive lack of sound, my sanity was given a much-needed boost in the form of a snow plow on the street below. Its blade angrily scraped the pavement as it went by. I stood up and watched it go, thankful for the distraction. As silence fell upon me again, I broke, ran for our bedroom, and opened the door. Amy became visible. She was still lying on her side in bed. The sight of her silhouette was so comforting I dove under the covers and pressed myself against her. It was painfully obvious that she hadn’t moved an inch since I left the bedroom to watch TV.

That fall we bought a house just down the hill from the old hospital. You can see it from the kitchen window whenever you're standing at the sink. We’ve been here for eight years now and have a beautiful daughter who just turned six. Our lives go on. Every now and then Amy catches me staring up at that old, red brick building and asks me what I’m looking at. “Aren’t you glad we’re not still living up there?” She’ll ask. I haven’t told her about that night because I’m too embarrassed. Laughing at people who can talk about hearing or seeing strange things no longer seems appropriate to me because I still don’t have the courage to do it. The world has a way of humbling us when we need it most. Sometimes, without warning, that feeling of vulnerability and raw terror returns to me when I'm alone. I have learned how to work through it, but can't help thinking it will stay with me for the rest of my life.

In the summer of 2008, I had finished school and moved back home. Six years of city life left me feeling worn down and insignificant. I missed the freedom and familiarity of Northern Ontario, my close-knit family, and, most of all, the prospect of steady work and affordable housing. There were a number of suitable opportunities for my girlfriend and I close to my home town, so we packed up and left.

The cost of living was low. Good jobs were available in our fields, and Amy adapted to small town life quickly. We were lucky enough to sign a lease on a two bedroom in a repurposed hospital. The building opened in 1930. There had been a large addition constructed in 1932 to serve as a tuberculosis ward and it became a training hospital for nurses before closing in the early 1970s. Our unit was on the top storey with a high, ten-foot ceiling and beautiful hardwood floors. The windows looked out over the parking lot and one of the busier streets. It was cheap, spacious and ideal for a young couple starting their lives together.

As the months went by, we settled in, got to know a few other tenants and made friends with the superintendent. People talked casually about paranormal experiences. They claimed to hear voices and footsteps in the stairwells, said the elevator would randomly bring you down to the basement when you hadn’t pushed the button, and repeated all the typical haunted building things. This became a bit annoying because I never experienced anything. Climbing the stairs in the evenings for exercise, going down to the basement to dig through the storage locker after dark, even walking the hallways out of boredom proved fruitless in terms of encounters. The superintendent even set up a pool table, dart board and mini fridge in the former morgue. Everyone laughed, played games, and drank in there, but the scariest thing we had to endure was the bullshit stories from other residents. 

The months turned into years. We built a life together and had so much fun in that place, but eventually found ourselves wanting more. Starting a family required a back yard, privacy and space that our apartment couldn't offer. After years of saving, in the winter of 2016, things were looking good for us. The holidays were spent with my parents and with them came the announcement that we would be looking at houses come summer. 

Every Friday night was a party for two. However, one stands out for me in particular. Everything started as a somewhat regular afternoon in February. It was a Snow Day. The kind where people in the North officially admit they’re beat, stay home and let the weather happen. Given an early start to the weekend, Amy and I soon found ourselves sipping drinks and dancing, albeit poorly, in the living room by 3:00 p.m. We laughed, sang, had a wonderful dinner, then just sat and watched the snow fall in each other’s arms while a movie played in the background. 

At around 11:00 p.m. she led me off to bed. We had that wonderful kind of frantic sex that just happens, quickly and honestly, full of passion and desperate energy. I don't know how, but that energy lingered in me. Amy was drifting off. Wide awake and still a bit drunk, I tried to keep her up with pillow talk and gentle touches. Both failed miserably. In a final, desperate attempt to start another conversation, I said, “Hey, do you think this place is really haunted?” 

“Nooooo…” Amy groaned.

Still under the influence of cheap beer, I decided it would be a good idea to try a technique used by a then popular ghost hunting show and said, “If there’s anyone in the room with us, please tap the wall three times.” I then tapped the wall beside the headboard three times myself without waiting. Amy rolled on to her side, facing away from me and pulled the comforter over her head. Empathy and acceptance that the night was over finally sunk in. Leaning close, I put my hand on her shoulder and whispered, “Go to sleep. I love you.”

“I love you too… Now please be quiet,” she mumbled, already fading fast. A few minutes later, her breathing deepened and she was asleep. I went back out to the couch to watch TV. After an hour, feeling myself fading too, I made another trip to the washroom. I took one last look at the snow falling in the glow of the streetlights, turned off the TV and flopped down on the couch. Laying on my side, facing the back, with the throw blanket barely covering my naked ass, proved to be the best position. This was a restless sleep, but despite the dizziness and hot flashes, it took hold. 

At some point I stirred. My head rolled on the couch cushion. I kept my eyes closed, fighting consciousness as it attempted to creep back in. A faint whimper slipped out of my mouth and the room changed. Relief, in the form of coolness, washed over me. The nausea lifted, my heart rate slowed. There was a definite presence near my upper body. It was instantly comforting yet wrong somehow. Pleased by the assumption that Amy was back out and looking for fun, a smile began to form on my lips. There was a clearly audible but delicate inhale close to my right ear. A woman’s voice, calm and slowly paced, whispered, “Shhhh… It’s okay sweetheart. You just get some rest now.” This was followed by the sensation of fingertips carefully brushing my hair back in two strokes. Next, a faint pressure was applied to my forehead and the presence began to fade along with the tingling feeling of my face having been touched. From further above me, in a more authoritative tone, the voice added, “Drink a glass of water when you wake up, please.” Then, a subtle, amused little snort. 

Something suddenly clicked in my head and I woke fully. The realization that I hadn't heard footsteps, a door open, or any movement in the washroom hit me hard. My eyes opened wide and fixed on the pale whiteness of the plaster ceiling illuminated by the streetlights below. I was still lying on the couch, now flat on my back, legs straight, with my hands at my sides. The throw blanket was pulled up to my shoulders and neatly tucked in around my body. I listened intently, terrified to turn my head toward the open room, and held my breath for what felt like an eternity. There was no sound at all. “Amy?” I hissed, knowing damn well the voice had sounded nothing like hers. There was no reply. “Amy!” I said out loud, now with more conviction. No answer. A rush of adrenaline and anger hit me. I threw the blanket off, swung my feet around and sat up, ready to greet who, or whatever was in my living room with a stream of profanity. Nobody was there. It was 3:10 a.m. The world outside and the building itself were deathly still. 

After sitting there for a moment, in that oppressive lack of sound, my sanity was given a much-needed boost in the form of a snow plow on the street below. Its blade angrily scraped the pavement as it went by. I stood up and watched it go, thankful for the distraction. As silence fell upon me again, I broke, ran for our bedroom, and opened the door. Amy became visible. She was still lying on her side in bed. The sight of her silhouette was so comforting I dove under the covers and pressed myself against her. It was painfully obvious that she hadn’t moved an inch since I left the bedroom to watch TV.

That fall we bought a house just down the hill from the old hospital. You can see it from the kitchen window whenever you're standing at the sink. We’ve been here for eight years now and have a beautiful daughter who just turned six. Our lives go on. Every now and then Amy catches me staring up at that old, red brick building and asks me what I’m looking at. “Aren’t you glad we’re not still living up there?” She’ll ask. I haven’t told her about that night because I’m too embarrassed. Laughing at people who can talk about hearing or seeing strange things no longer seems appropriate to me because I still don’t have the courage to do it. The world has a way of humbling us when we need it most. Sometimes, without warning, that feeling of vulnerability and raw terror returns to me when I'm alone. I have learned how to work through it, but can't help thinking it will stay with me for the rest of my life.