ROSEDALE, TORONTO 2012
A small creek bubbles quietly down along a winding ravine. It is cool down here amongst the raccoons and skunks. There is the occasional sighting of a fox or a coyote. Large old maples and cedars hang over a nearby walking path shielding the valley from the sweltering heat above the trees. A few wild roses can still be found here and there, though most have died out.
People stroll or jog past, and bicycles whiz by at an alarming speed. Underneath the series of bridges for traffic and trains heading into the city there lives an unknown number of homeless people in over 300 camp sites. And yet just above this ravine lies a community of money and decadence.
Rosedale is one of Toronto's oldest and wealthiest neighbourhoods. In the summertime the foliage is so thick that you will strain to see the Victorian era mansions that sometimes sit precariously upon the steep cliffs leading up from the ravine. The winding roads are confusing to outsiders. But the residents know them well. The roads were paved over the old horse trails that were once the backyard of one large estate. Frustrated drivers who try to find a shortcut out of downtown Toronto's gridlocked rush hour become hopelessly lost in the bizarre labyrinth of this privileged neighbourhood.
Just south of the quiet and idyllic world of Rosedale - across the Sherbourne St. Bridge and then across Bloor Street you enter another world - downtown Toronto. The energy is different here. Traffic is congested. Today the heat pounds the pavement. It is 36 degrees Celsius with no relief for those without air conditioning. There are newly built glass clad condominiums, surrounded by the over crowded low-income high rises that were built in the sixties.
It is daytime in this bustling business area. Crowded restaurants and bars are scattered around the office buildings. And up on the twelfth floor of one of those office buildings is a psychologist named Dr. Nina Clayborne. Looking inside her large office window we see her patient, a 34 year-old resident of Rosedale named Rupert Hilden. Dr. Clayborne had long ago diagnosed Rupert as an obsessive compulsive with an anxiety disorder after a childhood trauma that left him with post traumatic stress disorder.
* * *
"I had the nightmare again last night...the one with my younger brother...." Rupert gazed at the label on his paper cup of coffee as he recalled the dream.
Dr. Clayborne gave Rupert an encouraging smile. "Were there any variations in the dream this time?" she asked.
"Well... yes. This time I'm in a hotel. A nice hotel. In Europe somewhere, maybe it's Germany...not sure. There is a knock on the door." Rupert described his dream to his therapist nervously.
"Yes. Go on," she said encouraging him.
"For some reason Hogan's Heroes was playing on the TV. I don't know why," Rupert said furrowing his brow in confusion. Dr. Clayborne laughed.
Rupert chuckled at the absurdity and relaxed for a moment. "But anyway. I get up from the bed and look through the peep hole and I see Terry, just like he was when I saw him in the window that night."
Rupert's eyes stared forward as he remembered the unconscious event. At the time he experienced the dream it was so real he was sure he was awake. He even thought to himself, 'This isn't a dream. This is real! How am I going to face this?!'
"How does he look? In the dream," asked Dr. Clayborne, with her soft Bajan accent.
"Scared," replied Rupert.
YOU ARE READING
13 WINDOWS
Mystery / ThrillerRupert Hilden is haunted by the image of a bald man he saw through his bedroom window as a child. 24 years later he sees the same man in a distant apartment window and each time he sees the man he is closer. But Rupert is unable to convince anyone...
