The house is quiet, except for the drone of the fan blowing behind me. Everyone is asleep, but not the spirit who lives here. It is one thirty in the morning. I should be in bed, but I’m in my office, writing. I stop, because I smell toast. I wonder, who could be up at this hour, and eating. I check my daughter’s room, her door is closed. Hubby is peacefully snoring away in the bedroom. So, the question remains, who’s making toast!!
I shrug it off to my imagination. Perhaps it’s me who’s hungry and I desire bread. I don’t think so but I won’t rule it out. I go back to my writing. Fifteen or so minutes later, I now smell nail polish. Unless I can type and do my nails at the same time, it’s not me. I contemplate checking the rest of the house but decide to let it go. Whoever it is, is having a good time. Maybe they have a date, maybe they’re getting ready for work. Who am I to obsess over it? Back to writing.
A knock on my office door. No one’s there. I try to concentrate on my writing but it’s hard to do with so many interruptions. There are footsteps in the hallway, almost a shuffle, like slippers, sliding across the hardwood floor. I don’t wear slippers. It’s not me. I sit, anxious, waiting for the next scent to waft my way. My ears are ringing, someone is talking about me.
It’s time to sleep, and I rise out of my chair and turn to head into the bedroom. My way is blocked, but I can’t see why. I move left, and I still can’t get through the door. I move right. I’m getting frustrated and go full on and push whatever it is that won’t let me in. I’ve had enough for this early time, I will figure it out later. Or will I? This has been going on for years. Maybe I should give up trying to figure it out. But the detective in me will never let that happen.
And so, I continue searching, for shadows in the night…
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