How could Chuck do it?
Just the night before, his friend had stopped by and casually mentioned that she’s clairvoyant. She told me that the original owner of our 1920s home was a sea caption who couldn’t afford to keep coal in the coal bin and that that is why we have cold pockets throughout our home. She told me that his favorite room was the dining room. She said his name had a D in it and that he liked to drink.
I easily would have dismissed (ok, mocked) her observations if one of Chuck’s friend’s wives—who also claims to be clairvoyant—hadn’t said the same exact thing the day we moved into the house (there’s absolutely no way the two women know each other).
Chills. I got the damn chills. Then I looked at our New Year’s Eve pictures and saw this, from the dining room.
Do you see it? Look:
There’s a glass hovering in the window! It’s him! It’s the poor drunken sea caption raising his glass for a toast!
Even though Chuck knew that I was obsessing about a 110-year-old spirit sitting in my dining room and how overactive my imagination is when it comes to his ghostbusting—it runs in the family—he still drove to Assachusetts to do an overnight investigation, this time for a different TV show (Chuck’s first ghostbusting show, an episode of Mystery Quest, aired on the History channel in December—yes, the show he filmed in June).
So awake I lay, all the while thinking, nice sea caption. Like this:
Not like this:
Somehow I managed to fall asleep. Then at 3 a.m. I heard a noise.
Thumping, from downstairs. The thumping grew louder. Because our house has been broken into, I grabbed my cell phone, set it to 911 and crept downstairs. Even more thumping. The fat cats were sleeping on the sofa; it wasn’t them.
I went to the foyer and turned on the light. I checked the security system. I checked some of the windows then—gasp! Shudder!
I heard what sounded like ice clinking in a glass. Coming from the dining room. Holy shit, the captain was enjoying a beverage and he was trying to let me know. There it was again! I screamed and called Chuck.
“He’s here he’s drinking in our dining room I heard him please come home I’m going to pee myself.”
"Come home right now! Why can't you invite people over who can't see into the past? Please come home!"
Chuck did come home. The next morning. I'd been up all night listening to thump, clink clink, thump, clink clink. I was bug eyed and freaked out. I was ready to call a realtor—or an exorcist.
"Investigate this!" I hissed when he walked through the door. I shoved him into the dining room.
Two seconds later we were standing in front of the furnace. Thump, clink clink, thump, clink clink.
"Here's your sea captain," he said. All smug and shit.
Well, you know what, Chuck? Smuggy smug Chuck? I'm signing you up for a bowling league. A nice, normal bowling league where people talk about strikes and pins, not spooks and poltergeists.
(Please tell me they still have bowling leagues?)
About me: I'm 40 and just added a gherkin to our pickle party of a family. My husband Chuck, our 7-year-old Junior, our 4-year-old Everett and I live in a town in Connecticut I affectionately call Mulletville Lite (aka my childhood hometown). My friends call me Nutjob, and they're right. In my husband's spare time he dresses up as a Viking and chases ghosts (and I'm the nutjob?). When I'm not busy working as a graphic designer, I lie in a ball in the corner.