October 23, 2009
The Haunted House
Thanks to an eleven-year-old neighbor, my children now know the truth about our house; namely, that it's haunted. No one knows for sure who died in our house or when, but judging from the quantity of red carpet and green wallpaper that graced our humble abode at the time of our move-in, my best guess is Santa.
"There are no ghosts in this house," I assured my children. "Small rodents, maybe, but definitely no ghosts."
My children were more disappointed than relieved by this news. In protest, they've spent the past week trying to prove me wrong.
Early Tuesday morning, I opened the pantry door to retrieve some oatmeal and my daughter popped out. "Boo!" she screamed.
The first time that my kids startled me, it was funny. Ditto for the second and third times. By the fourteenth time, I started to fear for my children's safety.
"All of the ghosts need to disappear for awhile," I warned Kellen and Camber.
"Nuts!" shrieked Cortlen, tumbling out of the hall closet.
At 5:37am this morning, I felt the presence of a real-life apparition standing next to my bed. I opened my eyes to find Kellen three inches from my face.
"Boo!" he whispered.
"You've got to be kidding me," I growled. "Why aren't you in your bed?" I wanted to know.
"I don't feel so good," he explained. That's when I noticed my son's unnaturally pale skin.
When Cortlen stumbled in our room as white as a sheet a few hours later, I was forced to apologize.
"I stand corrected," I told my children. "There are ghosts in this house. And they have the flu."