A SLICE OF LIFE

Lori Borgman finds the funny in ev­ery­day life, writ­ing from the heart­land of the US. Now, if she could just find her car keys…

Friday - - CONTENTS -

Our colum­nist Lori Borgman is start­ing to won­der if her house is haunted.

Since our daugh­ter, her hus­band and their three lit­tle ones moved in with us while wait­ing to move into the house they’re hav­ing built, I’ve had a most pe­cu­liar feel­ing. It’s an odd feel­ing – as though I am not en­tirely alone.

Oh, I catch glimpses of shad­ows now and then, long hair fly­ing around a cor­ner, muf­fled laugh­ter, but I of­ten do not see who the shad­ows, the hair and the laugh­ter be­long to. They’re quick, very quick.

I dash up the stairs and the faint echoes of foot­steps trail be­hind.

I stop, the echo stops. I re­sume the stairs, the echo re­sumes.

Some­times I feel as though there is a pres­ence be­hind me and other times it feels as though a pres­ence has gone be­fore me.

I turn into the bath­room to put on my makeup and see my cos­metic drawer is ajar. I would never leave it like that. Or did I? Or did some­one else? But who? It’s un­likely the hus­band has de­vel­oped an in­ter­est in blush and mas­cara. The hair­brush and comb are out of place. Two of my lip glosses have lip gloss slid­ing down their sides and are with­out caps.

I straighten the drawer, fix my face and step into the bed­room.

In­den­ta­tions have pock­marked the bed like div­ots on a golf course or craters on the moon. Odd. The bed was made more than an hour ago. Muf­fled gig­gling comes from the other side of the bed and the bed ap­pears to shake ever so slightly.

Strange, sim­ply strange.

I re­turn down­stairs and pause at my desk. The tape dis­penser is empty. Again. For the third time in three days. I don’t re­mem­ber us­ing vast amounts of tape. Maybe I need more sleep. Maybe I tape things in my sleep.

The sta­pler is open and empty as well. Surely, I would re­mem­ber fly­ing through 100 sta­ples. But then I don’t re­mem­ber cre­at­ing this pile of draw­ings with coloured mark­ers – pic­tures of peo­ple with beady eyes, crooked smiles, wild hair and stick bod­ies, with dis­jointed arms and legs.

The scis­sors are out as well. They’re the good scis­sors –the pair that is sharp and not for chil­dren. Strange, I don’t re­mem­ber cut­ting either.

Some­thing among the pieces of pa­per ly­ing on the floor catches my eye. It is a long golden curl of hair. I don’t re­mem­ber cut­ting my hair. What’s more, I don’t re­mem­ber be­ing blonde.

I mut­ter aloud, ‘When did I use up the tape? When did I empty the sta­pler? When did I cre­ate these won­der­ful, beau­ti­ful draw­ings?’

The door to the closet be­neath the stairs softly closes. Laugh­ter em­anates from be­hind the door.

Creep­ing to the closet ever so silently, I fling

I pause at my desk. The tape dis­penser is empty. Again. For the third time in three days. I don’t re­mem­ber us­ing vast amounts of tape

open the door and yell, ‘GOTCHA!’

The phan­toms tum­ble out and roll on the floor, arms and legs fly­ing in ev­ery di­rec­tion, scream­ing and shriek­ing with laugh­ter.

‘You scared us! How did you know we were in there?’

‘Oh, just a lucky guess.’

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