Our house is quirky, in that funky, built in 1940 kind of way. We have original tile in the bathroom and kitchen, doors that aren’t a standard jamb width, hardwood floors, sawdust insulation, original light fixtures, coved ceilings. You get the idea.
At 3am a few weeks ago, I woke up after a fitful bit of sleep. I turned over, readjusted Monkey from being planted on my shins, and tried to go back to sleep. Rob was sleeping peacefully. I was trying to go back to sleep, not succeeding.
And then I heard water. Running water. Inside the house.
I laid there in a frozen panic and then hurriedly tapped Rob awake.
“Babe.. babe.. BABE!”
“Hmphf mftps”
“BABE I HEAR WATER!”
“What? Where? Huh?”
Being the dutiful wife, I stayed in bed, holding the phone, ready to dial 911. Rob wandered into the bathroom and turned on the light. The faucet was on full blast. No sign of anything being disrupted. Closed window, house alarm on, dog snoring on his bed.
“What was it?”
“I dunno.”
“Probably Zion?”
“I dunno. Go back to sleep.”
“How do I go back to sleep after the water in the bathroom sink turned itself on?”
“I dunno. Stop thinking about it.”
Great answer. Yes, I won’t think about the poltergeist living in our bathroom at 3am. When it’s dark and quiet.
The next morning, we pad into the kitchen for breakfast, still a bit baffled about the bathroom sink. The drawer for the charging station was open. Rob looked at me funny and said, “Did you open that?”
“No. Did you?”
“No.”
“Is our house haunted?”
“Let’s call Chip Coffey.”
NO PSYCHICS IN THE HOUSE. We clearly discussed this after we married. I know we did. But to say the least, something weird is going on in our house.
A busy day at the office ensues and we hit up our favorite Greek restaurant for dinner. We come home, walk in through the back door and find the broiler door on the oven is wide open. Monkey is stretched out on the kitchen counter.
“Are you kidding me?”
“What the hell is going on in our house?”
“Should we name the evil spirit?”
“We already did name it. It’s name is Zion.”
“Maybe we should call those meddling kids at Paranormal State.”
“No. No Mystery Machine. TAPS.”
“Yeah. The Roto-Rooter guys have night vision.”
Rob wandered into the bedroom to change into his slippers. A pile of his clean socks were laying on the floor, his drawer pulled out.
“Are you kidding me?”
“Tuck lives.”
“Did he leave instructions somewhere?”
“Obviously.”