Down the Rabbit Hole

Things that go Bump...

The phantoms I profess to share my spaces with have been quiet for some time. I have found that I miss those soft music box chords drifting down through the bedroom ceiling, the oddly spaced footfalls and all the other random and unexplainable noises. I wonder, have my ghosts moved on? Did they finally grow weary of the barking dogs? Have they fled after witnessing the fury of my toddler's tantrums? I have found myself actively listening lately, searching for a sign that we warm and living occupants are not alone in the old house. This time of year it is easy to find oneself preoccupied with specters, perhaps that is why I notice their apparent absence more and more. My husband would certainly appreciate their departure. He never shared my comfort with living in a house that may be, for lack of a better word, haunted. These days the only cold drafts are from the leaky windows and one could barely hear something as subtle as faint music or footsteps above the dim of our busy daily lives, and that saddens me in some strange way.