Several years ago, my wife, who is also my boss, decided that I should write monthly articles. I wrote and was surprised at how much I enjoyed writing them. Over time, I realized that there was a story I wanted to tell.
My grandmother was a patron of the arts and had a particular fascination with Egyptology. I was told that she died reading the Egyptian Book of the Dead.
On top of that, there was her house that passed to my father. I knew it simply as Rhinebeck. It was a mysterious place: huge, dark, and silent. My brother, sister, and I would visit during school vacations. There were several “incidents” during those times. I realized then that those who surrounded us were afraid of something, but of what they wouldn’t say. I found out years later that many of the servants and several visitors had seen the spectral form of my grandmother moving through the house in the dead of night. One governess refused to return. Add to that my father’s ghostly tales told over lunches at the St. Regis, and I was thoroughly enchanted by the place.
I took those mysterious incidents and added my own. As to whether there really was a ghost, I cannot say. I never saw one, but that doesn’t mean I haven’t wondered. Perhaps we are all haunted but in other ways? I thought the question worth exploring, and "Eye of the Moon" is my answer.
