It’s five thirty when my sister calls, driving home from work. Sometimes she’ll call me to reduce the monotony of rush hour traffic. Today she’s calling me to tell me about a dream she had.
“I walked down to the kitchen and you were sitting it a chair, just looking bored.”
“I asked why you were sitting there and you just looked at me like I was an idiot and said, ‘Because it’s three o’clock.’ I asked you why that mattered, and you said, ‘because at three o’clock, the ghost comes.’. And you get annoyed at me because I don’t remember this daily ghost that’s been haunting you for ten years that you’ve never told me about. Everyday, at three o’clock, the ghost of a girl flickers into your room and stands there, motionless, holding her hands like she’s praying. But today, ‘you just didn’t feel like dealing with her.’.
We go on to talk about how we would deal with ghosts if we were being haunted. She thinks my reaction to being haunted would be just like dream-me. Tell no one and be mildly annoyed. And she’s not really all that wrong. I wouldn’t tell her if I saw a ghost. People don’t believe you. But I would try to get the ghost to talk to me. Surely a ghost would have stories I could use. If there was nothing to learn from the ghost? I’d sit in the kitchen and wait it out.