The house we live in was built in 1930 and when you visit it wouldn’t surprise you. A true shotgun house, I can open every door and see straight through from the back porch to the front yard. There are things I love about it (hardwood floors, glass doorknobs) and things I hate about it (no bathtub, random windows painted shut).
When a house has been standing for over eighty years with most of its original pieces, I respect the probability that 1) someone has died within these walls and 2) they still live here. As a ghosts.
I also believe that as long as I acknowledge and respect these terms I will never have to encounter said ghosts. So far, so good.
Until we came home from vacation to vandalized underwear.
The morning of our trip down south, I blindly stripped out of my pajamas and pulled on my car outfit most closely resembling a second pair of pajamas. So when we returned home, my pile of clothes were on the floor where I left them.
Except…well, except my panties had a big hole in them. Like, a perfect oval right where my lady parts had been. They had obviously been chewed, but seriously WTF??
With the house as old and drafty as it is, I can’t rule out a mouse. But because there wasn’t any food available it went for the ONLY THING ON THE FLOOR OF OUR HOUSE? Or was it just some really hungry, really perverted mouse?
The hole was almost TOO perfect, though. And this is entirely Ben’s fault for letting me watch Paranormal Activity I and II, but my first thought was, “Only a demon could make a hole that perfect.” A perfect hole in UNDERWEAR, mind you. RIGHT WHERE MY LADY PARTS GO.
The pest control people come tomorrow to set traps, but I might need to call an exorcist.
