keeping to myself these days. Kind of tired. Ever since that last exorcism, the house has never really felt comfortable. So much dust stirred up, bad memories, those crazy ones who live in the cupola. ‘Who needs em!’ I always said, and now I know that’s the truth. All the time screeching and clawing at the wall paper. They just ruined the lovely cabbage roses I remember them putting up in ’68. Always liked it. Now, after surviving for 150 years, it’s hanging in ribbons.
I just don’t feel like myself. I used to enjoy making a little mischief too! When those ghost tours would come through? Or before that, young people looking for a thrill. Kids, drunks looking for a dry place. I’d toss that old chamber pot around and moan and sometimes woosh by to cause a little wind. If I was feeling particularly spirited I’d pull their hair or knock one down. But it’s just gotten boring now, I mean what’s the point? Another person to scare, another producer taking a tour of the house going, “wow! Oh! Brr!” It just doesn’t thrill me like it did, watching their eyes widen, the hair on their bodies zinging up with electricity. There’s not much variety in their responses.
So I stay up here in what’s been a nursery, a sewing room, a bedroom, a room for punishment, an empty room, a room for art, a storage room. I may figure out how to get those freaks back to the cupola, but right now I just don’t have the energy. If they don’t tear this place down, I may have another 100 years to rest. That’s all this is, I’m just tired. I’ll probably feel better by then.
CELLOPHANE 