The realtor paused. Her countenance changed from her normal chirpy one to one of utter graveness. "Now, I have to disclose to you that there have been reports of a haunting here."
Victoria and I exchanged looks. Her eyes said, let me handle this, Darren.
Victoria said, "My mom still tells me all kinds of stories about the house she grew up in. It scared her to death. Just how motivated is this seller, anyway?" Her savviness was masked by a convincing level of concern in her eyes. The realtor, now on the defensive, backpedaled and began reassuring us there was very little to be worried about.
We closed on the house, a Craftsman in Highland Park, several weeks later. We got a nice discount off the asking price. We were both skeptics, so we used the purported haunting as a bargaining chip. It became a running joke of ours. "Maybe the ghost can help us move in," she quipped. I love Victoria because we share the same sense of humor.
Maybe I made a mistake when, during a night of unpacking, I welcomed the ghost to make an appearance. I stood up with my arms out, and announced: "Oh, ghost! Please join us in our life! Make yourself known!" Victoria smirked at me and deadpanned, "Yeah ghost, come out wherever you are." Nothing happened that night except for wine and Netflix.
It started about a year later. First it was drawers opening and closing. Then clothing from the drawers would be left on the floor. Objects on tables would be found on the floor. We'd wake and find the TV on, playing cartoons.
We met with a psychic, who explained that it was a mischievous ghost. It meant us no harm. The psychic began telling us about the proper cleansing ritual, but Victoria got an emergency call and we had to cut the meeting short. Then she embarked on a research quest, reading everything she could find. I didn't really trust the mumbo-jumbo coming out of the psychic's mouth, anyway. Victoria was a lot more trustworthy than any pseudoscientist.
Victoria explained, "What we're dealing with isn't a spirit, it's not even something that's self-aware. It's more like an echo in physics. If you yelled Hello into a canyon, does it make sense that there is someone else answering you?"
It made enough sense to me, and I was busy enough with work, so I didn't put much thought into it. I dropped it and let Victoria handle the ghost. She installed latches on all the drawers and kept the TV remote under lock and key. She stayed home and I really didn't have to worry about anything.
A few years later, toys began arriving at the door. The packages were sent from Amazon. When I checked the order history, the orders were indeed from our account. It must have been the ghost, I told Victoria. She returned all the toys and set up a password on our iPad.
And then we realized it. The ghost was a little kid. And it was growing up.
I hate her.
She doesn't let me do anything. She takes away my toys and doesn't let me watch cartoons. She's not even nice to me.
She knows how to let me go, but she's keeping me here and torturing me. Now I know how to write and I'm writing a letter to tell her to stop. The boyfriend doesn't do anything because he sucks and she controls him too.
I realized my skill early in life. I could get the world with a well-timed smile or pout. I'm blessed with a pretty face and piercing eyes, as one of my old boyfriends used to say. Which makes people just want to make me happy. Darren was my favorite because he never started to question me.
I found the letter on the dinner table. At first I was shocked, but then I understood. The ghost could write now. I folded it up and tucked it into my purse. The reporter would be here any minute. The little shit's letter wasn't part of the plan.
"Okay, Tim. I'm going to let you play with the X-Box. It's set up right over there," I said, into the air.
Immediately, the TV flicked on and the controller levitated.
The reporter entered the house, and his jaw dropped when he saw what was happening. We sat, and I answered his questions.
Then the reporter asked, "Has the ghost ever tried to communicate with you?"
Suddenly, the controller fell to the floor and my purse got knocked off the table, its contents spilling everywhere.
I rushed over and put everything back in, tucking the letter into my bra. "See what I have to live with?" I generated some tears, which ran down my cheeks.
"It's incredible. I mean it's terrible," the reporter said. He reached out and touched my shoulder to comfort me.
"Thank you," I replied. "I'd like to write a book about this, but I'm not a very good writer."
The reporter paused. "I'll be your ghostwriter. Do you think this is going to continue for some time?" Realizing the irony of his words, he broke into a wry smile.
I gave the reporter my signature we're buddies now smirk.
"Yes," I replied. "I think this is going to continue for a long time."
