by Roger White
Those of you who follow along with the home version of This Old Spouse are surely aware of my fondness for all things Rod Serling, Alfred Hitchcock, and even a trifle Stephen King. However, just because these guys are my personal heroes does not mean for one minute that what I’m about to lay on you is fictional, counterfeit, or even a tad exaggerated.
What I’m about to tell you is as true as Abe Lincoln’s golf score, I promise. The tale that shall henceforth unfold is, as Johnny Carson used to say, some weird, wild stuff, so I suggest we all gather ’round the campfire and turn off our flashlights. Feel free to hold hands with the person next to you, if you wish. Wait, did you hear that? Probably a coyote.
Okay, here goes: My house is haunted. The end.
No, just kidding. Just kidding about the end, not about my house being haunted. I’m serious. My wife and girls will vouch for me. It started some years back when little things began to move around in my daughter Lindsey’s room. It all began with the Barbie car. When Linz was little, she had a pink remote control Barbie car, which went with the pink Barbie house and all the pink Barbie accessories and pink Barbie dog and pink Barbie dog poo and pink Barbie clothes and all that other pink stuff. And I guess there was a pink Barbie in there somewhere, too.
Anyway, one day we noticed the cute little pink Barbie car running around in slow circles in Lindsey’s room—and Barbie was not behind the wheel! (She was passed out from her little pink Barbie happy hour she had with Ken, Midge, Kanga, Tigger, and Polly Pocket the night before.) We figured the remote got stuck face down somewhere, so we hunted for it. When we found it, none of the cute, little pink buttons were pushed – the car was supposed to be off. And there it was, running around and crashing into furniture, making me wonder if somebody sold little pink Barbie liability insurance. It happened a couple more times, too. (Although one time, I must confess, while I observed the ghostly pink Barbie car traveling by itself all over the room, I discovered Lindsey hiding, snickering, and working the remote. Very funny, Lindsey.)
Seriously, Lindsey’s room—and the garage beneath her room—host some sort of poltergeisty presence. It may be a little pink poltergeisty presence, but I’m not sure. I could just be hung up on the Barbie thing. Lindsey her own self has noticed things in different places from where she left them in her room, and at times when she was certain no one else had entered her room. Well, except for the cat. But I don’t think Max the cat would be able to move Lindsey’s nail polish from her bed to her closed dresser drawer, unless someone’s been training Max to open drawers—and appreciate the finer aspects of nail care. I have noticed, however, how shiny and polished Max’s claws are of late. Naaaah. I’m more willing to believe we have a ghost than believe that our male cat has gone metrosexual. Not that there’s anything wrong with that.
And the garage beneath Lindsey’s room? Let’s just say Amityville has nothing on our little domicile. My wife’s cousin, Karen, came to visit one time, and she can bear witness to the following: We were all getting ready to go out to dinner one night when Karen, my wife Sue, and I noticed Sue’s car in the garage locking and unlocking itself. It was as if someone was saying, “Don’t go out to eat tonight. Ooooh.” We went anyway, but our poltergeist was right. The dinner was lousy and way overpriced. But that’s not the end of the story. When we got back from going out to eat, as we came to a stop in the garage, Karen spied something unusual sitting on top of her purse. It was a Phillips-head drill bit, from my power drill I keep on the shelf in the garage. No one admitted to putting it there, and I’m certain it was my drill bit because when I checked, sure enough, it was missing.
The thing of it is, this is the power drill I inherited from my father-in-law, who passed away years ago, when Sue and I were dating. As cousin Karen held the drill bit up, we all eyed each other with that Rod Serling feeling climbing all over us. Doo doo, doo doo, doo doo, doo doo.
“So what’s the message?” I asked.
“It’s obvious,” Sue replied. “It’s my dad. He’s saying, ‘Don’t screw around on my daughter.’”
Aha. I hear ya, Ed. And I’m walking the straight and narrow.
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