My House is Haunted and Ripe For Thieves

My home is filled with poltergeists and thieves attempt to break in constantly. This kind of living situation would cramp my style but it is limited to when Roscoe is not home. I live in an 85 year old house in the student ghetto, this fact rarely bothers me. But the moment that Roscoe leaves something changes, shadows grow to enormous sizes, the hallways become endless and the ghosts emerge from the woodwork. Suddenly every passerby on the street below is a convicted felon, hell bent on stealing my toaster oven and collection of jigsaw puzzles.

I do my best to deal with the unwelcome spirits and burglars on my own. And by on my own, what I mean is I call my parents, grandparents, friends, sister, the Coca Cola 1-800 number, anyone who will pick up their phone. “The house is haunted ! And there are armed bandits outside the door.! ” I’ll wail into the phone. My parents, having lived with me for twenty some odd years are rarely fazed. They will say “The strange thing is, our house stopped being haunted the day you moved out. Just lock the door- you’ll be fine”. Not a helpful observation when one hears a ninja with a baseball bat lurking near the kitchen window.

The ninja I picture outside of my house looks just like this but with a bat. Obviously he wasn't terrifying enough with only a sword thing and handcuffs alone. (Photo Credit :

The ninja I picture outside of my house looks just like this but with a bat. Obviously he wasn’t terrifying enough with only a sword thing and handcuffs alone. (Photo Credit :

My best friend Chastity, who is a PhD candidate and a first rate problem solver immediately starts looking up natural remedies “A ghost? Did you try burning sweet grass? You’ll need a match, and some sage too.”

My sister, after seeing I’ve posted strange things on her Facebook twice that evening; “Diana, my house tripled in size, I got lost walking to the pantry, please call me” and “Diana, I’m becoming strange because Roscoe isn’t home, please call me” won’t even pick up her phone.

The people at the 1-800 Coca Cola number quickly tire of talking with me. “My house is filled with ghosts! Cannibalistic ghosts! And robbers!” I say in a high pitched voice that my parents endearingly named my “hysterical chipmunk” tone. “Thank you for calling ma’am but what does this have to do with your Sprite beverage?” the kindly operator will say. “Oh, I don’t consume soft drinks but I thought a multimillion dollar corporation might have some suggestions for how to deal with a paranormal infestation and burglary” I’ll reply. Funny enough my calls to 1-800 numbers seem to disconnect a lot.

After exhausting my conversational skills, I’ll retire to bed. This is a whole process in and of itself. In order for me to sleep when I’m home alone, the chest of drawers must be pushed up against the bedroom door. However last night this was impossible because Roscoe had moved the chest of drawers upstairs. Lacking any other option, I began to move the giant, dirty laundry mountain in front of the door. It is widely known that ghosts hate the scent of old socks. Also any potential intruders would be caught in the many arms of the clothes-spider  I created using Roscoe’s dress shirts.

With all of my ghost busting and crime protection measures in place I am able to climb into bed. Just before I nod off to sleep, many hours past my standard eight thirty pm bedtime I send off a text to Roscoe. “Stop treating all the car accident victims and come home. House has become a den of thieves and Mecca for the afterlife.”

*Names have been changed to protect the identities of the brilliant. However for once I actually let the person in question choose their written name. When she was three, after emigrating to Canada from China, not only did Chastity get to choose her English name but she also chose her little brother’s English name when he was born. I don’t even know if I could have shouldered that level of responsibility now as a fully functional adult let alone as a toddler. If given the choice, three year old me probably would have called Diana “Dry Goods”. She would have been easier to sell that way.

My brilliant and somewhat conservative friend chose the name “Chastity”, because she wanted to keep with the stripper nom de plume theme The Great Unwashed has going.

Nocturnal Apparitions

So I had a “Travesty Tuesday” post all written and ready to go with the intention of posting it this week then I realized last night that it was Wednesday. If four day weeks back to back separated by a four day weekend don’t throw your sense of time and day for a loop, I don’t know what does. However I was heading out to a friend’s and decided to post it when I got back along with a note about my thinking it was only Tuesday.

But then our house got broken into. By ghosts. So instead of posting hilarity for my readers, I spent fifteen minutes crouched in my bathroom because it’s the only room in the house with a lock, on the phone with my parents waiting for Gordy* to come over.

Gordy has been a close friend for nearly a decade and thus is well versed in the Great Unwashed hierarchy of fears. After hearing that the door to the upstairs was wide open without my having touched it, he rushed right over.

Queue the two of us searching the entire house. Now if Roscoe and I lived in a normal apartment this wouldn’t have taken long. Regrettably we don’t. We live in a two story apartment in an 85 year old house that has always had a doctor’s office on the lower floor. We have more walk in closets than most people have fingers and toes.

Luckily our search turned up no intruders. Therefore the only logical conclusion is that my house was broken into by ghosts. This does happen occasionally, most often when Roscoe isn’t home, the last time that he was on call there was a poltergeist in the fridge.

That was a really long way of explaining why the Travesty Tuesday will now be on Friday.

*Names have been changed to protect the identities of those who are willing to drive over to my house in the middle of the night to search for the phantom of the doctor. Mostly because if his name got out everyone would be calling him and then he’d be run off his feet with women who thought they had a spook in their toaster.

The First In the Lengthy List Of Things That I’m Terrified Of or Near Death By Haunting

I nearly died the other night. This may be a slight exaggeration. But only slight. Roscoe is currently living an hour and a half away from home as a part of his job. He’s been put up in a spacious apartment, fully equipped with a kitchen and washer dryer facilities. These would be fabulous amenities were Roscoe to actually use them. As it is I periodically send him with actual dinners and the rest of the time he appears to eat cereal next to a growing mountain of dress shirts.

This fabulous apartment is situated above the town’s post office in a building that may or may not be eight hundred years old. That’s a high estimate but not really. One of the buildings down the street is advertised as having been a hotel since 1895, so it’s at least 118 years old if not older. The giant house cum post office slash all purpose building for the community that Roscoe is staying in looks to be a little younger but only a little less haunted than the hotel.

The first night Roscoe stayed there, he called and told me how much I would love the gigantic staircase leading up to the apartment because at five feet wide, it possessed a kind of grandeur I can’t resist.

Prior to last Thursday I had stayed one other night with Roscoe. He was correct, I did love the staircase. I pictured myself wearing a ballgown walking slowly up the aged steps, the dark thick paneling at my feet gleaming and reflecting the image of my imaginary stiletto heels. At the top I slowly walked around the large banister post, appreciating its solid artistry.

Roscoe is very conscientious, so when staying in housing provided by his job he tries not to use too much water or electricity, not wanting to be a burden on the community that has very kindly put him up. So the next night that I came to stay, Roscoe turned on the lights to let me  ascend the staircase but as soon as I reached the top he flicked the switch, leaving me in total darkness in a foreign, spooky house.

The view from the poltergeist's loft, while plotting my demise.

The view from the poltergeist’s loft, while plotting my demise.

“EEEEEEEE” I clutched the solid oak banister, the only thing in a world of darkness, strange noises and the sound of my husband’s feet moving up the darkened steps. “I’m here. I’m here.” Roscoe reached the top of the staircase patting my hand briefly then leading me across the pitch black landing to the door of the apartment. All around the sounds of the house echoed through the hundred year old bathrooms that also opened onto the landing. Shadows descended from the staircase which led to the next floor of the house.

Above us I heard a distinct thump. The noise moved through the house, bouncing off the tiles in the bathrooms and back to my ears distorting the alarming sound even more. “EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE” I grabbed for any part of Roscoe to squeeze and cling to before I was spirited away by angry two hundred year old ghosts who were pissed that a blonde who loved ball gowns was invading their space. “You’re fine. Almost there.” Roscoe opened the door to the darkened apartment.

Recalling the light switch located across from the doorway, I lunged into the apartment slamming my shin into the chair that the residents of the community had so thoughtfully put there so guests could remove their shoes while sitting. “Damn it ghosts!” I cursed.

Seeing how shaken up I was Roscoe promised that next time he would wait until we were inside the lit apartment to turn off the downstairs and hallway light. But it didn’t matter, the ghosts knew I was there and more importantly I knew they were there, I felt them. All that night and the next I listened to them play the radiator xylophone and wrestle one another on the third floor. I knew what they were fighting about “I get to devour her head!” thud. “No, I do!”

Me, after being slain by 200 year old, blonde-hating spirits.

Me, after being slain by 200 year old, blonde-hating spirits.

Today the toilet flooded in the Roscoe’s temporary apartment. He’s blaming the old pipes, but I know better. The ghosts want me to know that they’re still here, they’re just biding their time.