You see that shit right there? THAT is why Audrey is a good friend.
Husband, on the other hand, is a jerkface an engineer and keeps arguing this point with me.
I’m about to invite every single one of you over so you can walk around this house and feel how fucking haunted it is.* Because Husband is full of explanations for everything: I hear voices because of dog toys or the neighbors’ stereos, and I’m not used to the reflective properties of all this brick and tile after our last house (admittedly 80% wood) and I’m just scaring myself… blah, blah, blah.
First of all, I am a person who wants a cool haunted house. You know, the kind that’s old and probably has some confused ghosts hanging around? Mostly I want floors that talk to me but I’ve sworn to give up that argument in favor of winning every other argument forever (see how well that worked out for me?) and now I have to settle for decorative hinges or maybe someday an old cemetery somewhere on the property.**
This house is not what I had in mind.
I keep seeing things, just out of the corner of my eye; when I turn to look of course there’s nothing there, nothing that could have even tricked my eye (no weird shadow or blowing leaves outside the window or anything) or been mistaken for… what I’m sure I just saw. And sometimes the front wall looks… odd. I don’t know how to explain it without sounding batshit crazy so I’ll just point out that I know I’m not going mad because I only see and hear these odd things in the house.
And I’m not the only one.
ME: Okay, I was just coming down the hall and I heard someone talking in the storage room—
HIM: Where’s Olaf?
HIM: Are you sure it’s not just one of the dog toys, is my point.
ME: (sick of this shit) All of the dog toys are in these boxes. This one (points) and (storms out, down hall, into dining room)
ME: (shouting) This one! (kicks tall box of stuffies)
HIM: (follows) Okay.
ME: My stuffies are in that box (points) along with Jimmy, because her giant fucking rabbit wouldn’t fit with her other friends.
ME: And the cat toys, some of which also make noise, are in this box (jostles box, waits through cacophony of chirps and whistles)
HIM: So it’s not a dog toy.
ME: (beyond annoyed) No. It’s. Not.
ME: And when I opened the door to check—you know, once it was quiet—
HIM: Just in case.
ME: (glares) I looked around and didn’t see anything. Then I turned on the light.
HIM: … And?
ME: Something yelled “OW!”
ME: I turned off the light and got the fuck out of there.
HIM: The tile—
ME: And that’s why Alexander Hamilton is obsessed with that room right now. Just thought you should know. (walks away)
ALEXANDER HAMILTON: (crouches outside storage room, batting at something under the door)
* That’d teach him to doubt me, coming home to five hundred or so of my favorite people wandering around his house, commenting on cold spots and weird wall shimmers and also the fact that his dirty clothes seem to be in a pile next to the hamper.
** Fingers crossed—those places don’t come cheap in this country.