At the end of the summer my best girl Biz came to visit so we could get our girl time freak on (that's where you hug and then cuss and drink bloody marys) and also so she and Jon could run around in a big circle. I cleaned up our cozy little guest room in the attic for her arrival, complete with freshly washed sheets on the bed and the air conditioner cranked to its limit. That's how I do. HOSTESSSS WIN.
The next morning we all stumbled blearily around the living room with our eyes closed and our hands straight out like mummies looking for coffee, and she cracked open one bleary eye and asked if Jude ever gets up at night and walks around.
"No, definitely not. We lock his door, because the stairs are so steep and I don't want him to die in the night."
"...Oh. Huh. Okay."
"Because in the middle of the night I heard the door open and I felt something come up and sit on the edge of the bed by my feet."
COOL. OKAY THEN. MOVING ON FROM THAT FOREVER.
Our house is what historians would typically classify as HELLA OLD (lead, mice, imaginary burglars, etc etc etc) so it's not outside the realm of reasonable conjuncture to assume that at one point or another somebody has kicked it on down to dead-town someplace in the building, these are what we call 'old-house facts,' and since we rarely use the formerly cozy attic room and I've sure as hell never slept up there that's right, it's dem fucking ghosts.
I'm not saying I believe we have a ghost, even though the attic door has given me the long-time heebie-jeebies and it locks from the outside why, why does it lock from the outside? What were they locking up there? – It's not that I don't believe in ghosts, or that I do believe in ghosts, but I definitely believe that I'm not sure what I believe about ghosts in my attic trying to feel up my friends with sultry bedside chatter.
Because I also tend to be paranoid to the nth degree I've been on heightened ghost-alert ever since. One morning recently I dug my heels into the carpet, crossed my arms over my chest, and resolutely refused to go up the stairs at all. I told Jon he'd have to go wake up Jude himself because it was "dark up there, the fuck, too creepy." He didn't bat an eye at this impromptu declaration which is a sure sign that he's lived with me too long.
My defense strategy is to make Harlan go first every time I need to go upstairs like the sacrificial horror movie virgin. FACT: Dogs can smell ghosts. I figure at the very least he'll use his heightened canine senses to snuff out invisible supernatural pranksters and then prick his ears up towards incoming metaphysical danger just in time for me to yell, "RUN AWAYYYYYYYYY." So far it's working out great and he has alerted me to many spooOOoky pillows and the specter of one discarded plastic hanger.
Right now Jude is upstairs in his room, alone, holding an extended conversation with a girl named Crystal who is hiding under his bed and needs our help. If she wants us to go up into the attic I'm sending Harlan.