The Super Sister, Help Me Move signal was sounded again. My little sister has two oak credenzas. Do you know how heavy oak credenzas are? I do. Down a flight of stairs then up a flight of stairs. Always the second floor. This time she moved into a converted creamery near our hometown. A real creamery. To keep milk cold the metal buckets were kept in a creek that used to run through the dirt floor. Then it housed horses. Now it houses my little sister.
Massive wood beams in unexpected places and wild flowers out the window. A makeshift bridge over the shifted creek takes you to an abandoned shack of unknown origin. At night there are noises, paranormal noises.
Her last place was too new for ghosts so paranormal speculation focused on the surrounding woods. The one before had a jagged hole in a closet ceiling leading to a windowless attic full of strange footsteps too heavy and steady to belong to a squirrel or raccoon. Every time we talked on the phone I heard voices in the background even though she swore she was alone. That place was surrounded by empty vacation mansions but we convinced ourselves someone was living in the walls of her cold, tiny hut.
Fun fact: In his memoir Iron Man Tony Iommi wrote about hearing voices in his home. Turned out squatters were actually living in his walls.
After one of my sister’s first moves, we discovered the basement crawl space beside the washer/dryer smelled like one of those rainbow swirl lollipops she always begged for as a kid and never ate. That was an easy case to solve. She was clearly being haunted by the restless remains of unfinished snacks.
Now that I’m no longer losing my grip on her hefty-bottomed couch, I appreciate her new home’s slightly uneven staircase and odd angles. The porch is a nice place to doze off while counting bruises. A woman walked by chatting on her phone, trailing a very tired little boy behind her. We tired people can spot our kind with one eye open. Also he said, I’m tired. The woman told him to sing his song. He said, No. I’m tired… tired… tired.
That kid is onto something. Tripling a point is magical. Degree of intensity is hard to express when you’re consumed by a single sensation. Today I ate a cookie for lunch because it was within arm’s reach and I was hungry… hungry… hungry but still too sore to do much else about it. This was the sixth move I helped a sister with in the last two years. That may not sound like much, but they’re all readers who like heavy wood furniture and steps.
My boyfriend thinks our imagined hauntings are the cause of these constant moves. He doesn’t share my family’s affinity for ghost stories. I’m not even allowed to hide when he gets home or takes a shower and I love…love…love jumping out and scaring people.
Convincing my younger sister that every place she moves to is haunted probably negates any good I do my karma by helping her move. I accept that. And it’s not mean because this way she never feels alone. She loves it. And anyway she started it.