Our house is the site of a haunting. This is a very scary story, so please consider yourself warned if you are reading while home alone.
When preparing for a guest's arrival, I placed a plate of three chocolate-chip scones on the coffee table. Ten minutes later, only one scone remained, sitting sadly amidst a few lonely stray chips and errant crumbs.
I asked Ethan if he had any clue where the missing scones had vanished to. His response was that he was not sure, but it *might* have been a ghost that took the scones.
Interesting. I was prepared to believe that perhaps an escaped tiger from the zoo had jumped through the upstairs window, padded down the stairs, and eaten the scones while my back was turned. Or aliens, always prime suspects when something goes missing without explanation. You know, a reasonable explanation.
When pressed for further detail about his otherworldly encounter, Ethan recalled some specifics: maybe this ghost was "wearing a hat from the 1920s ... a pin-striped vest ... and had a long moustache ... you know, longer than grandpa's ... but not as long as the one that weird guy we saw at the Mall yesterday had ... "
I listened intently. "Are you sure this was a MAN ghost?"
Ethan was certain.
"Really. Not a woman?"
NOT a woman. On this point, he was clear. Women ghosts don't eat carbs, I guess.
"Well then, the scone ghost probably knows that lady ghost I saw upstairs the other day. She was wearing a white dress and carrying a parasol. Ethan do you think she likes scones, too? If you ever see her upstairs, why don't you ask?"
His face whitened. Despite repeated assurances that I was joking, he did not find my version of a spectral encounter funny. I have only myself to blame when there is a (mortal) midnight visitor at the foot of my bed this week.
