I’ve made no secret of my love for all holidays here, and especially Halloween. So it will come as no surprise to you that, when I found out about an actual haunted boat tour I became determined to go.
No, I have no idea how it even works. Are there ghosts on the boat? Is the lake or river haunted? Do we cruise past several haunted locations from the relative safety of a non-haunted boat, complete with cocktails and maybe cocoa?
I. Don’t. Know.
And it almost doesn’t matter, because I love boats and I was cruelly cheated out of buying a house old enough that it was almost certainly haunted,* so he owes me, right?
I’m still working on it.
HIM: I need to go downstairs to get water to take my pills
ME: Why don’t you just leave a glass of water up here at night?
HIM: (earnestly) I do. I get a glass of water to take my pills before bed, and then in the morning, it’s just gone.
ME: Are you saying we have ghosts?
ME: Well good news! I found a boat tour we can go on with them.
HIM: They don’t even supply their own ghosts?
ME: I’m sure they do, but we could bring the ones who are stealing your water and maybe they’ll –
HIM: I’m not going on a boat with a ghost.
ME: Why not?
HIM: Because of the implications.
I may need your help wearing him down.
* It’s cool, though. Because we made a deal: I wouldn’t buy that perfect house, with the lovely old squeaky floors and original woodwork and two staircases and giant kitchen, and he would agree that I was right about everything else until the end of time. Our realtor was there as a witness. It was a very awkward brunch, I’m sure, but he got his way that one time and has since totally forgotten the agreement. And now I’m stuck in an unhaunted house with carpet everywhere and 1970’s wood paneling in my study. Sure, all of the bedrooms technically have a floor under them that will bear the weight of an actual human being, but the stairs don’t squeak so I think we can agree that we’re in a much poorer situation all around.