We had to attend an event, the nature of which I’m not at liberty to divulge. It’s not that this event was so “out there” or that I delight in being secretive, but if I were to tell you the name of the conference I was attending it will undoubtedly taint the story to follow. But you be the judge.

We stayed at a sketchy bed and breakfast where the family poodle roamed the hallways night and day and over breakfast “relieved” himself while I was buttering my French Toast. In short, the place was run down. Mice droppings dotted the sheets. But there was an inviting arm chair near the TV and if I slept with the windows open, I would hardly smell the pronounced odor of urine. I turned off the lights, propped my legs up on a chaise stolen from the living room, when I heard and felt it. A distinct thump, a whoosh followed by a cascade of cold air. I turned on the light but all I saw was my own distorted reflection in the window. Assuming and hoping it was my imagination, I turned off the light. A heartbeat later, mischief ensued. Clearly this entity, being, presence (call it what you will) had a sense of humor. I slept with the lights on hoping that this might dissuade the ghost from bothering me further. For the most part it worked save for the loss of my tube of cinnamon flavored Tom’s toothpaste, the contents of which I found smeared across the walls. I wish I could say some creepy words were spelled out with the paste, but mostly this ghost spent the night applying a thin glaze to the walls, as if he or she had all the time in the world to re-paint the room to his/her liking.