My cousin, Linda, a rocket scientist for NASA, lives in an old 6,000 square foot Victorian home in downtown Huntsville. She lives in the home with her mother, Mildred, a retired accountant, her ex-husband, Brooks, a retired CIA agent, and her daughter, Amy, a judge. When she bought the home, it needed a good deal of renovation. The construction work seemed to have stirred the spirit of a young girl. As very respected members of the community, stories of their ghost were published in newspapers and magazines. Now, they have ghost hunters that come from all over the country – apparently, ghost hunting is a popular sport at the moment.
I've never witnessed any paranormal activity at Linda's house, but I have come to believe I myself have a ghost. I believe my ghost to be friendly but very hungry . . . he seems to love carbs. My sixth sense tells me that my spirit is not a little girl at all. I believe that my spirit is a tall, dark, handsome man somewhere in the 6-foot range. I'm calling him Antonio. I've long since given up eating carbs as they go straight to my ass, but Antonio seems to love them. He raids my frig at night and eats entire sleeves of crackers. He also fancies leftover takeout that's usually earmarked for my lunch the following day. My biggest problem with Antonio is that he is terribly messy. I'll wake the following morning to a messy kitchen that was clean the night before. I wonder how I might teach Antonio to use the dishwasher? Perhaps I should contact someone from the Catholic church . . .
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