WEBVTT

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Welcome to Macabre Miscellanea, a curated collection

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of creepy curiosities. Tonight, we have a practical

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man with a practical problem. Three ghosts in

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his house. A man, a woman, a little girl. None

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pay rent. They keep moving his things, drink

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his beer. There are worse roommates, but there

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also happens to be fates worse than haunting.

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I'll leave it to you. to decide which side of

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that equation applies here. Tonight's tale, ghost

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story. Turn down the lights. Let's begin. Hi,

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my name's Flint, and my house is haunted. I know

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how that sounds. I'm not one of those guys. I

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don't burn sage or talk to crystals or watch

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those shows where some idiot with a... Thermal

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camera creeps through a dark hallway and acts

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surprised when the thermal camera picks something

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up. I'm a practical man. I fix things when they

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break. I have a label maker. But I've got three

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ghosts, and I've counted them more than once.

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And three is what I keep coming up with. I've

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never told anybody about this before, mainly

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because I don't got anyone to tell. I live a

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solitary life, if you can even call it a life.

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Don't get out much, just home and work. I sit

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in front of a computer all day and in front of

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my TV at night, and that's pretty much the whole

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of it. Same thing every day. I'm so entrenched

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in my routine, I don't think even dying could

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interrupt it. I don't got friends to tell, and

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I'm not one of those guys who needs to... cry

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about his feelings on a podcast or whatever,

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but I feel like I need to tell somebody before

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I go completely nuts. A guy could lose his mind

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living in my place. Don't get me wrong. I'm completely

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stable. No dogs giving me instructions or anything

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like that. I just need to get this out. Maybe

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I should just move. But who am I kidding? I should

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tell you about the job first because it's relevant.

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I work in data processing, have for a long time,

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long enough that I've stopped counting, which

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is probably its own kind of warning sign. I sit

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in my cubicle, stare at my screen, don't talk

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to my co -workers, and they don't talk to me,

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and at the end of the day I go home. I like it

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that way. You stay under the radar. Nobody asks

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you to do things. The days blur together, even

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before any of this. One Tuesday is pretty much

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every Tuesday, and that stopped bothering me

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sometime around year four. It's like being invisible,

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but on purpose. I get home right after sunset,

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same as always. Up before dawn, home after dark.

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I can't remember the last time I saw a natural

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light through my own windows on a day I wasn't

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at work. Between the commute and the cubicle

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and the TV, it's all just inside. One long inside.

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It's really killing me, if I'm being honest.

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But a guy's got to make a living. So, the ghosts.

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There's a family of them. which I did not see

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coming. A man, a woman, and their little girl.

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They don't interact with me, and mostly don't

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interact with each other, which honestly describes

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most families I've met. So maybe that part's

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not so supernatural. The man I've got no name

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for yet. He's younger than I expected. Late.

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thirties, which, if you're going to haunt somebody's

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couch for eternity, seems like a real waste of

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an eternity. He's got the build of a guy who

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was athletic once and then discovered couches,

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parks himself on mine every night, takes the

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remote, watches whatever's on. I come home and

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he's already there, settled in like he paid for

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the place, flipping channels like he's looking

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for Something he knows he's not going to find.

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I have a system with the remote. I keep it next

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to my easy chair where I can reach it without

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moving, which is the whole point of a remote

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control. But every night I get home and it's

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on the couch next to him. Every single night.

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I've started hiding it. He finds it anyway. The

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little girl I usually find asleep on the couch.

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Eight or nine. Blonde hair, the kind of face

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you'd put on a greeting card. Little pajamas

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with the feet in them. She shows up after he

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does. Falls asleep at the other end of the couch,

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and that's her whole evening. Honestly, out of

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the three of them, she's the least aggravating.

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She's quiet. She sleeps. I could use more roommates

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like that. The woman I'll get to. The woman is

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a whole other situation. Three ghosts, all of

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them convinced they live here. None of them paying

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a dime toward the mortgage. Welcome to my house.

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The first real incident was a Tuesday, I think.

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Like I said, they blur. I got home the usual

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time. Right after sunset, dead on my feet the

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way I always am. Dropped my keys on the hook

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by the door. I'm particular about my keys. I

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like them on the hook, not on the counter. Not

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in my pocket. On the hook. And went straight

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to the fridge for a beer. No beer. I could have

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sworn I had a six -pack in there. But the fridge

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had a Coke, some leftover something I... couldn't

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identify and a general attitude of disappointment.

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I took the coke. Fine. I've had worse Tuesdays.

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I went into the living room to catch the news

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and the TV was already on. Channel 11. Some home

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improvement show. A guy in Arizona explaining

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why you'd want travertine over ceramic in a high

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-traffic kitchen. I don't have a high -traffic

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kitchen. I don't really have a kitchen. I have

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a room with a fridge in it that I pass through

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on the way to the couch. I know I didn't turn

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it on. I'm not that far gone. I switched to 6

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for the news and sat down in my easy chair. Before

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my second cheek hit the cushion, it flipped back

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to 11. I switched it back to 6. Back to 11. I

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figured the remote was acting up. I just bought

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the thing, which is exactly when electronics

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decide to develop a personality. So I got up

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to change it manually. I'm standing there at

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the TV, finger on the button, 6 o 'clock, when

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I hear from behind me, What the hell? I turned

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around. There's a man on my couch. Late 30s.

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maybe 40, the build of a former athlete who has

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made his peace with the couch. Sitting up now,

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holding my remote, looking at me with an expression

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like I'm the one who doesn't belong here. My

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first thought was vagrant. Some guy found an

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unlocked door and helped himself to my living

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room and my beer and my remote control. And now

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he's looking at me like I'm the problem. I said,

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loudly, what the hell are you doing in my house?

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He pointed the remote at me and flipped it back

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to 11. I want you to understand the nerve of

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that, the sheer breathtaking nerve. Breaks into

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my house, drinks all my beer, takes my remote,

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and when I confront him, he changes the channel

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at me like I'm the one who needs to be managed.

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I grabbed a vase off the end table, not one I

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was attached to, I've never been a vase guy,

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I think it came with the place, and smashed it

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on the floor and told him to get out before I

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called the cops. He bolted, off the couch, out

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the door, gone so fast I barely saw him move.

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I stood there a second, vase pieces on the floor,

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coke in my hand, news on the TV. I remember thinking

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it was strange, a guy like that running so hard

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from a cop threat. But I was tired, and the news

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was on, so I sat down. The news was on for exactly

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four minutes before it switched back to Channel

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11. I went to bed. After the remote incident,

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I figured I had my answer. Vagrant. Case closed.

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Weird night. Moved on. Except the TV kept switching

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to 11. Every night, come home, flip it to 6,

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sit down. Five minutes later, back to the home

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improvement guy and his opinions about tile.

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I bought a new remote. Same thing. I unplugged

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the TV entirely one night and went to bed. And

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when I came back downstairs in the morning, it

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was plugged back in and on channel 11. I stopped

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fighting it. I know more about backsplash tile

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than any man should. A few nights later, I fell

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asleep in my chair. Don't even remember doing

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it. One minute, the game was on. Next minute,

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I'm waking up to a living room gone quiet and

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dark, except for the TV doing its late -night

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thing. Infomercials, mostly, except it kept cycling

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back to some documentary. about the 1969 World

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Series, like that's what people want at two in

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the morning. No idea who won. Don't care. I flipped

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it off and got up to head to bed. That's when

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I saw her. Little girl, asleep on my couch. Blonde

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hair, face like a Kewpie doll. Little blue pajamas

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with the feet in them. Sound asleep, one arm

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hanging off the cushion. I've heard of leaving

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babies on doorsteps. I have not heard of leaving

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a sleeping child on a stranger's couch while

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the stranger is sitting four feet away watching

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the same TV. I crouched down next to the couch,

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close enough to see she was breathing, and tried

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to figure out my next move. She must have felt

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me there because her eyes opened, still half

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asleep, blinking slow. the way kids do when they're

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not quite back in their bodies yet. She sat up,

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rubbed her eyes with both fists, swung her little

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legs off the couch, like she knew exactly where

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she was going. I got down to her level. Hey,

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pumpkin, you okay? Where'd you come from? She

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didn't even look at me, just stood up and...

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started walking, still mostly asleep, heading

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for the doorway where I was crouched. I figured

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she was going to walk into me, so I stayed put,

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thinking the contact would wake her up enough

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to tell me something useful, like whose kid she

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was and how she got into my house. She walked

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through me instead. And I mean through. Not around.

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Through. It felt warm, like standing over a heating

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vent on a cold morning. That specific warmth

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that comes up from the floor lasted half a second,

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and then she was past me and gone up the stairs,

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and I was still crouched in the doorway, frozen,

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and I believe I may have wet my pants. I'd like

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to tell you I handled it with dignity. I did

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not. Then the shock hit me. Not the electrical

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kind, the other kind. The kind where the world

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slips sideways and you're somewhere else entirely.

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35 years. 35 goddamn years. And they let him

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go. No seniority, nothing. Not one of those 35

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years meant a thing when it came right down to

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it. Budget cuts, they said. Restructuring. And

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now what? Back on the job market. At his age,

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he'd almost rather... Then I was back on my floor,

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kneeling in my own living room with wet pants

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and a heart rate that had some serious catching

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up to do. I have no idea whose thoughts those

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were. My whole life has been the same job. I've

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never been laid off. Never had to think about

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going back on the job market. I sat down on the

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couch where the girl had been and stared at the

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wall. Call a priest? Call a doctor? Call someone

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who handles both? My legs didn't have it in them

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to make it upstairs, so I pulled the throw blanket

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off the back of the couch, turned the TV back

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on, and slept right there with the lights on.

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The home improvement guy was still going when

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I woke up. From that night on, weird was just

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the nightly forecast. A few nights after the

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girl situation, I went upstairs to get a shower

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like I always do after work. Force of habit.

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You come home. You clean up. You feel like a

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person. Again. Done it the same way my whole

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life. And I wasn't about to stop. Just because

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my house had become a way station. for the recently

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deceased i did what i needed to do stood in front

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of the mirror to shave and that's when the door

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opened woman mid -thirties dark hair bathrobe

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walked in like she owned the place which to be

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fair to her from her perspective she probably

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did and didn't even clock me standing there with

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half my face covered in shaving cream looking

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like Kenny Rogers. I pressed myself back against

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the sink as far as I could without actually climbing

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into it. After the girl, I wasn't taking any

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chances. The last thing I wanted was another

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round of the warm, fuzzy feeling and its associated

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consequences. So I stayed very still and watched

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her walk to the shower, drop the robe, and turn

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the water on. I'll say one thing for her. She

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had a nice rack for a dead girl. I'm not proud

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of that thought. I'm just telling you what happened.

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I grabbed my razor and my shaving cream and took

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the whole operation down to the kitchen sink,

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which is not ideal, but considerably better than

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the alternative. I found something out that night,

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though. Ghosts can feel temperature. I know this

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because... When I turned the hot water on in

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the kitchen, I could hear her all the way upstairs,

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carrying on like I'd done it on purpose. I mean,

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maybe I left it on a little longer than necessary.

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But that's between me and the hot water heater,

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so that was my life for a while. Come home, fight

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over the remote. Lose, watch tile. Find things

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moved, put them back. Find them moved. Again.

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The remote kept migrating to the couch. My keys

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they liked on the kitchen counter instead of

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the hook by the door. My wallet. They kept moving

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from the dresser to the nightstand. Which is

00:17:35.690 --> 00:17:38.650
not where my wallet goes. My wallet goes on the

00:17:38.650 --> 00:17:42.009
dresser. I've kept it there my entire adult life.

00:17:42.519 --> 00:17:45.720
And I see no reason to change now. Every night,

00:17:45.839 --> 00:17:48.900
I'd put everything back exactly where it belonged.

00:17:49.119 --> 00:17:52.700
And every night, they'd move it again like we

00:17:52.700 --> 00:17:55.440
were playing the world's most pointless game.

00:17:56.700 --> 00:18:00.740
I started hiding things. Didn't help. They found

00:18:00.740 --> 00:18:05.259
them anyway. And the mess. God, the mess. I'd

00:18:05.259 --> 00:18:08.440
come home to dishes in the sink, shoes in the

00:18:08.440 --> 00:18:11.799
hallway. The general state of someone lives here

00:18:11.799 --> 00:18:15.349
that... I did not authorize. I'm not a neat freak,

00:18:15.509 --> 00:18:18.549
but I have a system, and the system was being

00:18:18.549 --> 00:18:22.109
systematically dismantled by people who were

00:18:22.109 --> 00:18:25.730
technically not even alive. The worst was the

00:18:25.730 --> 00:18:29.410
dining room table. I came home one night and

00:18:29.410 --> 00:18:33.390
the whole thing was buried in tax forms and receipts,

00:18:33.490 --> 00:18:37.329
stacks of them spread out like someone had been

00:18:37.329 --> 00:18:40.769
working through them all day. which I suppose

00:18:40.769 --> 00:18:44.410
they had, from their point of view, most already

00:18:44.410 --> 00:18:48.230
filled out in handwriting that wasn't mine. The

00:18:48.230 --> 00:18:52.710
name on everything was Gaines, Robin Tammy Gaines.

00:18:53.230 --> 00:18:56.730
I had to gather up every one of those forms and

00:18:56.730 --> 00:18:59.829
take them down to the furnace, when I should

00:18:59.829 --> 00:19:02.609
have been watching the news and having a cold

00:19:02.609 --> 00:19:06.170
one, standing there feeding someone else's tax

00:19:06.170 --> 00:19:26.839
documents into the fire. Mr. and Mrs. Gaines,

00:19:27.019 --> 00:19:29.519
I really think you're going to love this house.

00:19:34.680 --> 00:19:38.220
leading a young couple through rooms I knew like

00:19:38.220 --> 00:19:43.000
the back of my hand. My rooms. My hallway. My

00:19:43.000 --> 00:19:46.059
living room. My scratch on the hardwood near

00:19:46.059 --> 00:19:50.380
the stairs. This is my house. What the hell is

00:19:50.380 --> 00:19:54.339
she doing showing my house? The young guy, Rob,

00:19:54.500 --> 00:19:57.799
I guess, looked around with the expression of

00:19:57.799 --> 00:20:01.539
a man doing math he already knew the answer to.

00:20:02.059 --> 00:20:05.680
His wife was small, dark -haired, the kind of

00:20:05.680 --> 00:20:08.940
pretty that's going to hold up. She was already

00:20:08.940 --> 00:20:12.339
imagining where the furniture would go. People

00:20:12.339 --> 00:20:17.299
do that. Walk into a place and start moving things

00:20:17.299 --> 00:20:20.619
around in their heads before they've even asked

00:20:20.619 --> 00:20:24.059
about the water pressure. We'll take it, Rob

00:20:24.059 --> 00:20:28.200
said. Didn't even have to ask her. The realtor

00:20:28.200 --> 00:20:31.400
smiled the smile of a woman about to make a commission.

00:20:32.349 --> 00:20:36.150
Wonderful. Now, just for full disclosure, it's

00:20:36.150 --> 00:20:39.089
not a big deal, really, but the previous owner...

00:20:39.089 --> 00:20:43.990
Then I was back in my basement with a fistful

00:20:43.990 --> 00:20:49.369
of ashes and the furnace ticking down. Previous

00:20:49.369 --> 00:20:54.190
owner. I stood there a minute. Then I went upstairs

00:20:54.190 --> 00:20:58.349
and watched the tile guy. Some things you file

00:20:58.349 --> 00:21:02.789
away to think about later and later. never comes.

00:21:03.750 --> 00:21:07.529
That's just how it goes. A man's got a routine.

00:21:08.589 --> 00:21:12.630
Then came Thanksgiving. I came home one night

00:21:12.630 --> 00:21:15.250
to the dining room table spread out like a magazine

00:21:15.250 --> 00:21:19.650
photo. Turkey, stuffing, mashed potatoes, sweet

00:21:19.650 --> 00:21:23.410
potatoes, corn, the works, six -place settings,

00:21:23.609 --> 00:21:27.829
candles lit. If I was on death row, I'd request

00:21:27.829 --> 00:21:31.109
the same thing. Maybe with a couple cold ones

00:21:31.109 --> 00:21:34.829
on the side. I figured they were expecting company.

00:21:34.950 --> 00:21:38.950
Their company, not mine. But the food was there,

00:21:39.069 --> 00:21:42.690
and I hadn't eaten a real meal in, I couldn't

00:21:42.690 --> 00:21:47.150
remember how long, actually, ages. So I sat down

00:21:47.150 --> 00:21:50.789
and helped myself. I ate half that table. It

00:21:50.789 --> 00:21:55.210
was good, too. Really good. The kind of meal

00:21:55.210 --> 00:21:58.410
that reminds you what... food is supposed to

00:21:58.410 --> 00:22:02.289
taste like. I was feeling pretty charitable toward

00:22:02.289 --> 00:22:06.329
my ghostly roommates, right up until my stomach

00:22:06.329 --> 00:22:09.250
started making noises like a backed -up drain.

00:22:10.269 --> 00:22:13.970
Then came the cramps. I spent the rest of the

00:22:13.970 --> 00:22:18.069
night in my easy chair, sweating and moaning,

00:22:18.190 --> 00:22:22.710
curled around my midsection, convinced I was

00:22:22.710 --> 00:22:27.140
dying. Which, looking back, It's funnier than

00:22:27.140 --> 00:22:30.500
it felt at the time. They'd had enough of me.

00:22:30.599 --> 00:22:34.660
I can see that now. An uninvited house guest

00:22:34.660 --> 00:22:38.700
who fights you for the remote, runs cold water

00:22:38.700 --> 00:22:42.200
while you're in the shower, sits down, and eats

00:22:42.200 --> 00:22:45.180
half your Thanksgiving dinner without being asked.

00:22:45.460 --> 00:22:48.519
From their side of things, I was the problem.

00:22:49.000 --> 00:22:54.369
I was the haunting. They started packing. I came

00:22:54.369 --> 00:22:57.650
home one night and the whole place was in boxes.

00:22:57.829 --> 00:23:01.950
My stuff, all of it, packed up neat and labeled.

00:23:02.069 --> 00:23:06.890
Every box marked the same way. Ship to Rob and

00:23:06.890 --> 00:23:11.529
Tammy Gaines. The nerve. The absolute nerve.

00:23:12.210 --> 00:23:15.309
Bad enough they'd been moving my wallet and drinking

00:23:15.309 --> 00:23:18.390
my beer and commandeering my remote for months.

00:23:18.809 --> 00:23:22.490
Now they were boxing up my belongings. and shipping

00:23:22.490 --> 00:23:25.470
them off to themselves like I was the one who

00:23:25.470 --> 00:23:29.930
needed to go. Conceited bastards, the lot of

00:23:29.930 --> 00:23:34.349
them. This is my house. I'm not getting evicted

00:23:34.349 --> 00:23:38.750
by a family of corpses. I unpacked everything.

00:23:39.069 --> 00:23:42.849
Put it all back exactly where it belonged. Every

00:23:42.849 --> 00:23:46.589
item in its right place. Wallet on the dresser.

00:23:46.650 --> 00:23:51.029
Keys on the hook. Remote next to my chair. Took

00:23:51.029 --> 00:23:55.160
me. Half the night. They packed it again. I unpacked

00:23:55.160 --> 00:24:00.460
it again. This went on four times. Four times

00:24:00.460 --> 00:24:03.839
they packed up their lives. And four times I

00:24:03.839 --> 00:24:07.480
put my things back where they went. Because this

00:24:07.480 --> 00:24:11.740
is my house. And I'm not going anywhere. By the

00:24:11.740 --> 00:24:14.380
fourth time the fight had gone out of them, the

00:24:14.380 --> 00:24:19.039
boxes stayed empty after that. Well, that's my

00:24:19.039 --> 00:24:22.440
story. I wish I could give you some kind of epiphany

00:24:22.440 --> 00:24:26.500
at the end of it. A white light. A deep truth.

00:24:27.019 --> 00:24:31.480
Some wisdom I picked up along the way. But I've

00:24:31.480 --> 00:24:34.680
got nothing like that for you. Just a man and

00:24:34.680 --> 00:24:37.920
his house and the people who keep moving through

00:24:37.920 --> 00:24:41.759
it. They're not the same ones anymore. That's

00:24:41.759 --> 00:24:44.779
the thing I didn't expect. The Gaines family

00:24:44.779 --> 00:24:48.200
moved on eventually. Even they couldn't stay

00:24:48.200 --> 00:24:52.160
forever, I guess. New ones come. They stay a

00:24:52.160 --> 00:24:56.720
while. Drive me crazy. Move on. It's like living

00:24:56.720 --> 00:25:00.940
next to a bus stop. I'm still here, though. I

00:25:00.940 --> 00:25:04.160
keep thinking I should move. Get a fresh start

00:25:04.160 --> 00:25:09.079
somewhere. But who am I kidding? I can't move

00:25:09.079 --> 00:25:12.619
on. I'm too much of a creature of habit for that.

00:25:13.700 --> 00:25:16.960
And that was Ghost Story. A man so entrenched

00:25:16.960 --> 00:25:19.539
in his routine that not even death could interrupt

00:25:19.539 --> 00:25:23.220
it. The tragedy isn't the haunting. It's that

00:25:23.220 --> 00:25:25.839
he never noticed the difference. If you want

00:25:25.839 --> 00:25:29.759
more, follow Macabre Miscellanea here. And if

00:25:29.759 --> 00:25:32.140
you prefer your nightmares with visuals, the

00:25:32.140 --> 00:25:35.460
full video version is on YouTube. Until next

00:25:35.460 --> 00:25:39.720
time, remember, the lights were never on for

00:25:39.720 --> 00:25:39.859
you.
