There was a peculiar nip in the cold air of that winter night in Chennai. The breeze that rose from nowhere danced through the open, grilled window. The twin pink colour, translucent, chiffon curtains separated, as if to make way for the breeze, and fell back in place afterwards. The Tanjore dancing woman on the study table began swaying her waist and neck languorously at the soft touch of the cool breeze. The sparkling plastic bead string curtains slowly oscillated as the breeze brushed past them and crossed the door into the drawing room. The wind chimes suddenly came to life and jingled softly, breaking the silence of the winter night.
Did you know that it’s possible to own a ghost? Well, we do. She arrived in a Victorian trunk that my wife and I purchased not too long ago, and her name is Mary. Currently, she exists in her camelback trunk on our carport here in Georgia.
Getting old is not for the squeamish. When given time and the natural marinating that comes from watching hands of a clock crawl, minute by minute, as it stares unblinking from the nightstand, ghosts taunt your mind, bones rattle from the closets, and skeletons get restless. This morning the ghost from the old chest in the garage came calling.
Ghosts live in my house. Sounds crazy, I know, but hear me out. Just to be clear, I’m talking about spirits of our dearly departed. People who’ve bought the farm. Met their maker. Well, maybe they haven’t passed to a conventional afterlife yet. I mean, they’re dropping in regularly at my house.