My house is haunted.
I’m, like, ninety percent sure of this. For one thing, the stats are there:
-Our house is almost a hundred years old, which is pretty fucking old for North America. Shush, Europeans.
-I know for sure that at least one person died here.*
-There’s an attic, which horror movies have convinced me is essential to any haunting.**
Now, to be clear, I don’t think it’s bad haunted. If there’s something living inside the walls of Chez Snow, it’s the type of spirit that randomly rearranges your books and puts your action figures in compromising positions. Not the type that wants to wear your skin like a cheap suit.
It’s just that things move when I’m not looking. I’ll put everything away for the night and wake up to find books left out. Maybe the cats are more literate than I thought.
I’ve thought of setting up some kind of Misery-like trap—“The Groot bobble head always faces South.”—but if this thing has been here since we moved in, it’s had time to read that book by now.*** I’d probably find Groot in the same position but Knifehead and Gipsy Danger having anatomically improbable sex.
Monday challenge on the table: things keep moving around when you’re not looking. Who’s moving them?
Updates may be on a strange schedule this week, because we’re gone away. I hope they’ll go up at the right times, but if not you’ll just have to rest assured that my Type A personality with fix it as soon as possible. Or whenever I’m not playing D&D on a beach somewhere.
*That would be the previous owner, who—according to her children, from whom we bought the house—passed away quite peacefully. Of course, if I was selling a house, that’s what I’d say, too.
**Because where else does the ghost live? Obviously.
***If it hasn’t, get on that shit, ghost.