I had just moved into a new apartment block which was modern with spotless, neat framework and an immaculate garden. My neighbors were pleasant and good-humored young adults and we all bonded very quickly. We had the type of relationship where you can talk about absolutely anything, as bizarre and unfounded as it may be, and we would still consider the speculation as earnestly, delicately and helpfully as we possibly could. In a nutshell, we were all very good friends who could suffer the shenanigans playfully and find the humor in any situation.
On one evening, I was lying in bed unable to sleep as I didn't feel tired at all. Most of the time when this happened, I would try and catch a glimpse of the flower garden outside of my window which would have an ambiance of variegated and hued lights and sometimes bright, tiny specs of dusts dancing in-and-around the flower beds. I have never seen faeries but I do believe that there were faeries in that garden. I would even leave my curtains open because of the charming, elegant and fascinating spectacle which I enjoyed before falling asleep. On this occasion, I turned onto my back facing upward towards the ceiling with my room in full field of vision, and only the dim light from my open curtains.
A figure appeared before me, at the foot of my bed, a man who appeared to be having a troublesome time forcing his way out or through some sort of saturated, blackened porthole. His face appeared and I first acknowledged his enraged, bitter, wrathful and resentful disposition. He was shouting at me as he came closer and closer but I could not hear anything and he was held back within the thick, smokey cavity. To this day, I believe that I incited something of hatred within him or provoked him in some way. I was absolutely petrified, I couldn't breathe as I sank further back into my bed pulling the sheets all the way up to my eyes staring at him in horror. And eventually, the phenomena subsided as he, with unwillingness and disfavor, was pulled back into the porthole from whence he came.
The following morning, we had a new tenant and such it was that I could not resist the anticipation and thrill to share my obscure experience with him. As we sat around the table, about 7 of us, I went on to describe the pudgy, infuriated man whom had charted to visit me the night before. He didn't say or think much of it, instead he shrugged and responded in an apathetic and dull tone, to the effect of, "hmmm, well there are no ghosts anyway." In response, I swore fervently to my experience and detailed the account with even more passion and conviction.
A few days later, a few of the guys and their girlfriends offered to show me the grounds and I accepted as I needed a walk and to enjoy a bit of the outdoors. As we reached the top of the hillside, my friends rested against the three or four pillars that were available while I caught my breath and then began walking around the small but charming architecture. Suddenly, I saw the mans face, again! Only, this time it was in the form of a stone, grey sculpture mounted on a wooden assemble about 1m high and 30cm in width. I screamed in elation and hysteria, "this is the man! This is the man I saw inside my bedroom the other night! This is him!" My friend, Johnny, while resting on a pillar looked up at me and said, "Kiki, that is the man who built this estate." And, I replied, "No, way! But, this is the man I saw the other night that I was telling you about!" He signaled me with his hand to the plaque on the other side of the sturdy wooden mounting and said, "read it for yourself!" Well, I whisked briskly around the sculpture looking for the plaque, until I found it, and it read "Sir Edward Clarkson, built Mysiferi Heights in 1870, Lived 1835 - 1909".