So now I knew what he was and where he was.
What was some sort of trader or trapper or murderer or rapist or all around bad man. He wasn’t a Native because the Shoshone didn’t grow mustaches, weren’t tall (as my son described him) and probably didn’t wear big brown hats. Besides, my son told me he was a white man.
If a 6 year old says the ghost is a white man then the ghost is a white man.
Where was buried behind or beneath that nasty storage room.
The question was, what in the hell was I supposed to do? I called the rental agency. The agent in charge denied knowing anything about it. Besides, she said disclosure of a haunted dwelling is only required when one is buying a house. Stupid fine print.
I still had a good six weeks to go before hubby could join us. I was at my wit’s end.
My husband suggested I call a priest. But I’m Jewish. There were no orthodox Jews around to perform a Jewish exorcism, and I was worried a Catholic exorcism might make things worse.
Hey, I watch movies. I know how bad it can get when you call a priest.
Besides, do you really think a priest would have believed me? C’mon. Any priest I talked to was likely to think I was nuttier than a fruitcake.
So, one evening at supper – my two kids sitting in their chairs, the baby in her high chair, the dog beneath the table, me serving spaghetti, we heard noises coming from the tiny bedroom next to the master bedroom. Remember it was too small for a bed. I’d stacked a few unpacked boxes in there along with one book shelf filled with books.
We all looked at each other. So being mom, I gave a big sigh and went to investigate.
I stood in the open doorway. Dusk had fallen and the room was dark. It sounded as if something was being scraped along the walls.
I said, “Look, can’t we just co-exist? Does it really have to be this way? I’m sorry for whatever happened to you but I didn’t do it and I don’t really want to put up with your crap.”
I probably should have left out that last part.
Suddenly books flew off the shelves, slammed into the wall across the room. One of the cardboard boxes opened and the toys inside were tossed up in the air. I reached to turn on the light, but before I could touch it, he flipped up the switch.
I said, “That’s it. That’s it. You are dead. You are so dead. I’m going next door and I’m gonna get me a gun and I’m gonna blow you away. Do you hear me, ghost? I’m gonna blow you back into the ground. I’m gonna blow you back to hell. Do you hear me, mother fucker? Do you hear me? I’m gonna get me a gun.”
I stomped down the hall, seriously planning to go borrow a shotgun from my neighbor and shoot the hell out of that ghost when I heard him laugh. He laughed.
That son of a bitch laughed.
My son and the dog hightailed it out to the garage, leaving the two little girls in the kitchen. And I came to my senses.
Goddamn him. He’s already dead. I can’t kill him.
Tomorrow: How I Lost the Battle (But Won the War).