The Ghost at Grandpa's House
It’s not every day that I get a text message warning me about a ghost.
I didn’t get one this time, either. The cautionary alert went to my wife, Lola. No one particularly cares if my soul gets torn asunder by an angry spirit. It’s just as well since I’m immune. I sold my soul for a Klondike Bar. I got the better end of that trade. If the devil asks about it, tell him no take-backs.
Lola and I were alone in her grandfather’s house Sunday when we got the warning. He recently moved into a nursing home and was less than thrilled with the transition. He has the motive to pull off a haunting but not the means since he has the notable handicap of being alive. Truthfully, he’s a sweet man who had some health setbacks that meant he could no longer live on his own. That’s a tough reality for anyone to accept. His family moved him from his home in southern Indiana to a fancy assisted living facility in Indianapolis. He went from a four-thousand-square-foot house to a one-bedroom apartment. Unlike the TARDIS, his new place is not bigger on the inside. Regrettably, he had to leave most of his worldly possessions behind. Soon, they’ll be auctioned off along with the house itself. Before that happens, Lola’s mom and her siblings encouraged anyone who wanted sentimental keepsakes or practical items to swing by the house to claim them now. Everything else will go to the highest bidder, probably at a steep discount. Emotional attachment doesn’t mean much on the open market. That’s how we found ourselves at Lola’s grandpa’s house with an empty minivan this weekend. It should have been a simple enough trip. We didn’t count on interference from the great beyond.
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