― Stephen King
Cyra
There are many webs—some secret, some dark—and it’s beyond the deep net where you find the Internet of ghosts. These chat rooms are for wraiths who can’t contact us in any other way, not because they’re limited, but because we’re insensitive.
There are no machines to contact these beings, but at their discretion, they may use the ether and occasionally, the Ethernet, to contact us.
I know—because it happened to me.
It all began when Cyra Mirren joined our law firm. She was exquisitely beautiful but remote and inaccessible as the Moon.
Several of my colleagues tried to date her but failed. I had no interest in being added to that list—not to say, I didn’t have an interest in Cyra—I certainly did, and dreamt of her every night, but I was shy and proud in my own way, and couldn’t bear being rejected.
Occasionally we would work late, and there were many times I could have suggested ordering in, or going out to dine, but couldn’t bring myself to risk asking, or being rejected. This strategy preserved my dignity, but tormented me with longing.
I’m embarrassed to admit I fantasized a relationship with Cyra where there was none—as a matter of fact, she was even more cold and distant with me than the others whom she rejected.
Many times my jaw muscles clenched while she laughed and chatted with Grant or Toby and they unashamedly grovelled before her.
I’d get irrationally angry and treat her curtly, even snub her if I met her in the hall or stairs. I know, it was childish, but I hated her for being so beautiful and having such influence over me.
My soul was a dark, placid sea until her silvery light rose over me. She beckoned to me, drawing me as the Moon the tides, until finally, nothing remained of me but India ink words blotted on a yellow ruled notepad.
And I hated her for making me desolate—abandoning me on a peninsula of cloud with washed up stars.
“You’re probably the only romantic, Blake, who managed to survive a law school torts course strapped to the mast of duty, and emerge still enthralled by the Sirens’ song.”
“You mean I’m not a lost soul, Claire?”
She clinked her champagne flute to mine and laughed, “A lost cause, maybe, but your soul is very much alive.”
“Well, I made Dad proud.”
She wrinkled her nose, and not just because of the bubbles. “Your dad died in first year law—you didn’t have to see it through to a LL.M. degree and then join Bernstein and Cohen.”
“You’re right,” I smiled, “I could have stopped after being called to the bar—but you know me, I’ve always had a weakness for bubbly.”
“How many promotions of yours have we toasted since law school?”
“Oh, three or four, but who’s counting? You know it’s not about that, Claire—I’d trade it all for love.”
Her smile darkened seductively. “Not a torrid affair?”
I patted her hand affectionately. “Oh, you’re beautiful, Girl, but we’ve been down that road before and didn’t hit it off—we’re better suited as friends.”
“Touché, but I still worry about you, Blake—remember, stars are lovely, but they’re out of reach.”
I tipped my glass toward her and grinned, “But that’s what makes them so lovely, Dear Heart.”
Two hours later, I send Claire home in a cab to Rosedale and set off walking back to my condo, figuring the walk will sober me up. Six a.m. comes early and clients are not sympathetic to late night partying—not when their interests are at stake.
I’m almost at the door of my building when a blind man approaches me and offers a small card. I figure it a ploy for some forced charity and reach for my wallet, but somehow he senses my response and shakes his head.
“This is what you’ve been waiting for all your life,” he simply says.
I glance down at the card and realize it’s an Internet address, but when I look up, the man is gone.
I didn’t know it then but what I had in my grasp was an initiation to a secret mystery rite— my private key to enter the internet of ghosts.