There has been some strange and unexplainable events as of late that could indicate the presence of a poltergeist, involving some of the furniture in my bedroom. Specifically, the furniture designed to hold The Boss' clothes.
It happens a couple of times a month, so I've gotten used to it by now. The first time it happened, though, I was shocked.
I had just returned home from work, and when I went upstairs to the bedroom, all of The Boss' clothes were strewn around the room. Five of the six drawers to her dresser were open, clothes hanging out of them. The contents to her plastic hamper had been dumped over in a slumping pile, and her pajamas were twisted together in a knot on the floor next to the bed. Her closet door was wide open, showing another pile of clothing that had previously been on hangers, while some of them still clung to the hanger by one shoulder.
I paused in the doorway, mouth agape, and assessed the damage. It was as if a small hurricane had passed through the room. Stepping carefully on the patches of carpet amid the clothing, I noticed that her towel, still damp from her shower, was in a heap on my side of the bed. Oh, did I not mention the bed? The covers and sheets were in such disarray that I had no choice but to assume that the ghosts had done that too, unless The Boss had dreamt about becoming a whirling dervish.
There was so much textile chaos that I knew something other-worldly must be afoot. This wasn't the first time we suspected there to be ghosts in our apartment, but this was entirely different. No human being could cause this much of a mess in the early hours of the morning. I asked The Boss about it when she came home from work that evening.
"Have you seen the mess upstairs?" I asked.
"Yeah, I know," she replied, "I'll pick it up later tonight."
"It's quite a disaster zone up there," I said. "Like Hurricane Katrina, the home game."
The Boss chuckled politely.
"I hope FEMA responds better this time around. Bush is out of office, so by all rights they should be on the scene by nightfall," I continued, hoping to get her to laugh.
She stared at me for a moment, and turned back to the magazine she had picked up.
"I mean, I don't think we need to call the National Guard or have the Red Cross come set up a shelter or anyth-"
"Alright! I was running late this morning, okay? I couldn't pick it up before I left! I said I'll take care of it!" The Boss snapped.
The harsh tone of voice and the stern expression on her face told me all I needed to know:
She, too, was worried about the poltergeist.
I've been trying to see if there is any pattern to the incidents, but so far the only link I can make is that the incidents tend to happen on the days that The Boss is late for work. The poltergeist must be triggered by stress. At any rate, these incidents have happened so many times since that first time, it is now almost common place. I don't even notice the camisoles or jeans or dirty socks on the floor anymore, nor do I complain about the damp towel that always seems to curl up on my side of the bed. It is all just part of the routine.
The Boss gets upset each time I mention the mess, so for the most part I let it slide. After all, it's perfectly acceptable to be afraid of ghosts. No need to make things uncomfortable. She'll get to picking up the mess eventually.
Like the ghost, she will do what she wants, when she wants. Who am I to protest?