Our first full day in this house.
My husband took our three year old out in the stroller, accompanied by the dog on a leash (Rosie, our golden retriever). Our six year old went along on his bike. I was left alone with the baby.
I opened the back sliding door and laid her on the floor in that weird tiny room that was too small to hold much of anything. I wanted to give her a little sun and let her have a chance to wiggle around. The only piece of furniture in the room was an antique marble-top table I’d inherited from my grandmother. It hadn’t been put together yet. The frame was pushed into a corner while the heavy marble table top – weighing in at about 40 lbs. without the packing – was still in its box, leaning against the wall where the movers had left it.
Now, if this heavy box had fallen, gone splat on the carpet, I wouldn’t have thought a thing about it. I would have assumed the movers simply weren’t careful when they propped it up.
But that’s not what happened.
What happened was this– the box slid along the wall, moving six inches. Exactly like someone had pushed it from right to left. I held my breath, stared for a moment, picked up the baby, went to find my husband and I said, “The house is haunted. We can’t stay here.”
He laughed. “Ha! Ha! Ha! Don’t be silly!”
“No,” I said. “It’s haunted and I can’t live here.”
“Ha! Ha! Ha! Well you don’t have a choice.”
Damn him. Stupid white man.
Tomorrow – Welcome to My Parlor Said the Ghost to the Dumb-ass Jewish Woman.