There’s Something Sinister In My Grandma’s Old House And Nobody Knows About It But Me

Thank God I had an appointment with my therapist the next morning. I usually dreaded our little parent-forced sessions, but I truly needed to talk to someone at that moment in time, or I might officially lose the last of the marbles I was grasping.

It was a while in the session before I broached the topic, but a back-and-forth about the consequences of my solidarity provided a nice, defensive segue.

“So how often do you interact with other people, on average?” My therapist asked from behind thick glasses and a clumsy plume of grey hair which tickled down at her eyes.

“At least a few times a day,” I said in a tone I’m sure could not have sounded more defensive.

“I mean, true human interaction. Conversation. Feeling. Touch. Not just a please, thank you with the clerk at the store, an ‘is that seat open?’ From a classmate.”

“Uh, I don’t really know.”

“I know it might seem hard, but I think you need to make an effort to include more interaction in your life. I understand it’s not easy.”

“I don’t think you truly understand what I’m going through?”

“I think you’re right. You haven’t been overly forthcoming with exactly what has been troubling you.”

“I’m haunted.”

I couldn’t believe I outright said it. I immediately swallowed my tongue.

“What are you haunted by?”

I waited a long time to respond.

“A girl.”

“An ex-girlfriend? Your mom mentioned you left a girlfriend up in Oregon, but you broke up. Classmate who spurned you?”

“No. I have no idea who she is.”

“So it’s the idea of a girl?”

“NO. IT’S A FUCKING GHOST. A FUCKING GIRL GHOST IN MY GRANDMA’S FUCKING HAUNTED HOUSE.”

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