harlotte Rowe became more and more reclusive over the years. She retreated from the world, retired from human contact. In 1968, Charlotte stopped giving séances permanently. She retired from the public eye, and from all eyes. She spent all of her time in her home, going through the motions of life.
In 1972, a biography of Charlotte Rowe was published. It was entitled Charlotte Rowe: Ghostly Revelations and contained much that was patently untrue. This sensationalistic work contained a bizarre mixture of fact, speculation, and myth. It caused a stir of interest in Charlotte, but she retained her seclusion. Journalists were turned away at the door. Eventually, they lost interest. Other stories came along. No one thought about Charlotte. No one speculated about what happened in that strange, archaic stone house.
Most of the time, Charlotte led a quiet existence. She cooked simple meals. She ate alone at a small table in front of a radio, and later a television. The world outside the house was changing. Her black and white television was replaced by a color television. There were wars and war protests. There was odd music. There were odd clothes. There were odd hairstyles. There were new beliefs and new religions.
Charlotte saw the changes from her retreat. She did not belong in the new world. She was comfortable in her own pocket of the past.
The spirit of the baby had never left her. It lived in the house, in the highest room—Charlotte’s room.
It was not the only thing in the house.
One day, Charlotte was out in the front of the house, planting flowers. This was a new whim, to plant a garden all around the house. She looked up from the ground, wiping dirt off of her gloved hands. She sat on her heels and glanced at the tower. Something about the tower always drew her glance.
A man hung there by the neck.
She never knew who this man was, but he appeared every so often, slowly swinging in the breeze.
The air was filled with voices. She could never make out what they were saying. Every once in a while, a word or phrase would jump audibly out of the air.
There was a cold spot in what had been her father’s study. He had left something behind him there. It was seventeen degrees colder than the surrounding air.
Though her life was one of solitude, Charlotte was not alone.
She had things around her.
She had things in her head.
She decided, one day, to begin to write them down. A literary gift had been inherited from her father—the gift of writing whatever she thought, whether it was true or not. Once she began, all kinds of things came out on the page, all kinds of truths and lies. This exercise of writing seemed to settle her, and it also seemed to settle the infant who hovered around her constantly. There were fewer dreams. There was less crying in the night.
Charlotte began to get older. She began to forget. The memories were mixed up with dreams, and the dreams were mixed up with imagination.
When it was quiet, she would talk things over with Nanette.
Are you really here, Nanette? Or did I just imagine you? Don’t leave me. I don’t want to be alone.
The baby’s crying.
I’m tired.
I must go to sleep.
I am the most powerful person in the world.
I am its narrator.
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