You know, I’ve actually been surprised by the fact that living in what is essentially the country (yeah, we’re toeing the line, but to me the presence of woods and deer and lakes says “country” more than “suburbs”) hasn’t freaked me out all that much. I mean, this may sound weird to those of you who were raised in rural areas, but when you grow up in the city surrounded by lights and noise and people 24/7, there are few things more unnerving than a silent, dark, foresty road.
I mean, monsters live in the woods. Don’t you know that?
But like I said: I guess it’s just that I feel really at home here, or cozy, or something, because I haven’t experienced a single case of non-spricket-related heebie jeebies.
Until a couple of nights ago, that is, when I was sitting on the couch in a darkened living room with no husband around and my son fast asleep upstairs, and I heard something pitter-patter across the ceiling over my head. And because I am nothing if not a reasonable person, I immediately decided that we had purchased a home that came complete with a ghost.
But then I decided to come up with a logical thought, and called the exterminator.
And yep: our visitor, as it turns out, is more American Tail than American Horror Story. Which I guess is good news (although I have to say, Fievel may be a cutie-pie…but I’d rather run into Evan Peters in our basement).