Ask someone the question, “Do you believe in ghosts?” and you’ll get one of two reactions.  The smile that says, “Yes, I do and let me tell you why.”  Or the blank stare that thinks, “You can’t be fucking serious.”

My partner used to be of the latter mindset.  That was until very early Friday morning when he and I were visited by a ghost or an intruder who either vanished or left.  The evidence suggests that no one was in our apartment but we both know what we saw, what we heard and what we felt.  It was not an intruder.

After my initial shock and reaction, “Something was here and I know you heard and saw it too.”  I calmed down enough to play devil’s advocate, my partner’s favorite game, but not before going out for a walk.  How could we stay in the (literally) damned apartment?

“Maybe it was rats!” I said.

“We don’t have rats!” he said.

“Maybe our housekeeper snuck in to return something she had mistakenly borrowed!” I said.

“We didn’t hear the door open or close and she doesn’t steal!” he said.

“Maybe you should have believed my ass three years ago when I told you our goddamn apartment was haunted by that ghost of the little old lady who likes to hang around the foyer!” I said.

“Maybe I should have.” he said.

I love being right.  But I hate being right about this.  We have taken to waking up in the middle of the night and not being able to get back to bed.  My partner now sleeps with a pillow over his head so he won’t catch himself searching the hallway for what he saw.  I now refuse to look at the clock in the hallway when I wake up early just to see what time it is for the same reason.

Because of things that have happened in my own past, I do believe in ghosts.  I wish I didn’t.  Now I watch my partner grapple with our own ghost and I can tell that he wishes he still didn’t believe in ghosts.