Recently, near bedtime, Ben decided to scare the hell out of Jill. She was putting him to bed when he looked up into the corner of the room and asked Jill “Who’s dat?” Jill didn’t really have an answer because no one was there.
“Who’s who, honey?”
“Dat?” of course.
“I don’t see anyone.”
So Ben looked back at Dat. Like he was looking at someone floating in the space above the window. Defying physics and human vision. And he made a face. He squinted his eyes and said “No,” waving a hand at the dark space. Waving someone away. Some thing.
This startled Jill because Ben, unknowingly, was carrying on a Terry Tradition. ALL of our kids have done this or some variation of this. They’ve all swiped at the ceiling and voiced disapproval. If they were old enough to talk, they’d tell us how we were going to be killed by these apparitions.
Ian: “He’s coming to get you daaaaaaddy.” In a horror movie whisper. Like something they’d play in the trailer for Amityville Horror or Poltergeist. So I took off points for lack of originality.
Me: “Who’s coming to get me?”
Ian: “The man.”
Me: “What does he look like?”
Ian: “Teeeeeeeth. Gonna get youuuuuuu.”
Elsa: “She’s gonna cut you mommy.”
Elsa: “She.” Obviously.
Jill: “Where is she?”
Elsa: Pointing to the same damn spot over the window.
So in this version of THE SIGHTING, Ben informed Jill that the female ghost was not happy and was hurt in a fire. And couldn’t come down stairs because she didn’t have legs. So Jill went downstairs.
I don’t know. I’d think by now Jill would be desensitized to this. After all, I didn’t get chewed and Jill didn’t get stabbed and those were the previous premonitions. Yes, three out of three have looked at the same spot and made the same gestures and expressed the same disapproval. Proof? Coincidence? Gas leak? Whatever. We’re not seeing anything and the days are long enough without losing sleep over teeeeeeeth.
In fact, I don’t think any ghost could do much in our dump of a house anyway. If Dr. Teeth wanted to come at me, he’d have to step around a tremendous amount of crap. The toys on the floor, the rejected drawings all over and under the dining room table, the stacks of stuff that needs to be “gone through.” It all sits as a barrier between me and the paranormal.
Teeth thing: “Geeeeet youuuuuuuuuu.”
Me: “Well come get you some.”
Teeth: “I willlllll.”
Me: “Get to steppin.”
Teeth: [Trying to find a route] “You’rrrrrre going to get iiiiiit.” [Trying to kick some toys out of the way. Realizing there are too many.] “Jusssssssst waaaaaait!!”
Me: “Will do.”
Teeth: [Muttering] “Look at this goddamn mess.” [Picking up a few toys, looking for a place, any place, to put them down] “Where do these go?”
Me: “Seriously? Are you asking me?”
Teeth: “Yeah. How the hell do you guys live here??!” [Noticing a banana that has entered the stage beyond turning completely black. Pointing to the banana, with Burger King toys clutched in his hands.] “Do you not see this banana?”
Me: “I barely see you.”
It could work out, actually. If the spirit, or disembodied soul, or whatever you think ghosts might be, followed me from room to room clearing a path to get me. After a while, the place might be clean. Or it would be a Hoarders and Paranormal Witness crossover show. The ghost would be allowed to give his testimonial:
“I’m goddamned dead and I can’t stand being here.”
The worst case scenario: the Teeth thing gets me. Fine. At least I won’t have to clean the house.