THE GHOST DID IT

I live in a haunted neighborhood.

When I say this, I am often surprised at the number of people who feel the need to tell me that they do not believe in ghosts because there's no such thing as ghosts.  Well, first of all, good for you; second of all, nobody asked.  I don't necessarily believe in ghosts, either, but this little patch of land is loaded with them.  I'm not asking for debate; I accept it as fact, whether I believe it nor not in my rational mind.

I've never had any trouble with ghosts in my current abode, in which I've lived for more than thirteen years.  When I lived two houses over, we had weird things happen, like missing kitchen utensils.  Next door to that house and forming a triangle to where I live now, there is a small, older home that is so badly haunted no one stays for more than six months.  I feel very fortunate to have been spared the spectral home invasion.

Until now.

Sure, sure, sometimes I get antsy, like there's someone else in the room with me when I know there isn't.  I try to convince myself it's okay to glance to the dark, far corner of the basement when I'm doing laundry late at night (I usually lose the battle and hustle up the stairs without looking over).  Sometimes noises come from the townhouse next door during the night, even though I know it's unoccupied.  Lately I catch myself seeing someone in the room with me out of the corner of my eye, then when I do a double-take, there's no one there.  My eyes playing tricks, perhaps.

However, there is no denying the table mats.

I have four table mats for the kitchen table.  They're made from rusty-red colored cloth, and I recently wash and dry them.  All four go into the washer; all four come out of the dryer.  They need ironing, so I place all four onto the center of the table and put the Advent wreath and candle on top.  After I iron them, I'll place them around the table where they belong.  All four of them.  Yes, I still have four; I know because I count them again.

The next time I look, a day or two later, there are three.

I count them several times, as if I cannot comprehend that three is not four.  I search the kitchen, the den, the linen closet.  I check the washer, the dryer, between the washer and dryer, beside the washer and dryer, and behind the washer and dryer.  No table mat.

I look upstairs, downstairs, under things, over things, here and there.  I Dr. Seuss the shit out of my searching (in a box, with a fox, in a house, with a mouse...), and still no table mat.  I contact people who have been in my house and ask such bizarre questions as, "When you picked up your coat, did you perhaps accidentally swoop up a table mat, too?"

I give up.

Apparently our neighborhood ghost is getting ready for Thanksgiving because it has lifted utensils and now a table mat over the two decades that I have lived in this neighborhood. 

I count the mats and recount them again and again, as if three will magically morph into four, but this doesn't happen.  It could be worse, I know.  If only I could train the ghosts to clean ... THEN I'D BE A TRUE BELIEVER.