There’s a ghost in the house I’m staying in. I saw it a few nights ago at 3 am when I got up to pee. I’m not going to tell you what it looked like because I don’t want you to think I’m one of those ladies who stays at home all day wearing a robe and drinking shots of rum mixed with diet pepsi in a big gulp cup. (Okay, it was just a black transparent shape that sailed past the doorway.) See? I mean you can tell me I imagined it, whatever, but I have no doubt there was a presence. I mentioned it to the owner of the house when she called, expecting her to think I was a weirdo for saying such a thing, but instead she said I know. I Know!
She told me there was a sage brush in the kitchen that I could burn if I wanted to, but that she didn’t use it because she thinks he likes being there. Say no more, babe! Say no more. I don't want to upset anyone. I am fine with a ghost. I mean what’s the worst that could happen? He can’t kill me. He could drive me insane I suppose, or try to get me to jump off the roof and get impaled on a wrought iron gate, but that could happen anyway. I do get the creeps when I’m heading up the stairs at night and think maybe he’s standing by the bedroom around the corner, leaning on the door jamb, just staring, just hovering, waiting.
Whats up, I say nervously, like a dork at school trying to scooch past the cool kid who's standing in front of my locker. How's it going? It's intimidating when you talk to someone, even a presence or a, you know, figment, and they don't talk back. So I try to shut up and play it cool. I know he'll never actually be there if I expect him.