I was in my little Pied a’ Tierre in Loma Linda two weeks ago headed toward the bedroom door when suddenly my feet went out from under me. I stumbled, grabbed at the wall to try to steady myself, but the wall would not cooperate. I grabbed at the doorsill but it ignored me rudely. I spun and fell on my butt. Hard.
Hard enough to cause my back to sprain. O, Lordy, it hurt. It still does.
I have no idea of why I suddenly lost contact with terra firma. There was nothing on the ground I tripped over. There were no clothes to tangle my feet. I didn’t even trip over my own clumsy legs.
I just, sort of, stumbled with no reason.
The only thing I can think of is that a ghost tripped me. Which is surprising, because I haven’t sensed any ghosts in my little Loma Linda hideaway. No chains rattling at night. No moaning from the other room. No emaciated dark-haired women staring at me with hungry eyes asking for a quarter.
Yet something weird happened that day. And I’m still paying the price for it every time I get out of a chair. The back is killing me.
I mean, if I have a ghost around here, you’d think it would at least have the courtesy to introduce itself. “Hi, I’m Wendy, and I’ll be your ghost for the night.”
Or at least it could summon the spirit to wash my dishes.
At the very least it could come keep me company on the many lonely nights I sit on the couch reading mysteries. Some of the mysteries I’ve read lately have been so badly written that a conversation with a dead person would be an improvement.
But no. The ghost only manifests itself to trip me in mid-stride and make me fall hard on the butt. It didn’t even have the grace of ghostly laughter after the performance.
So right now I’m living on Advil and hope. And I’m watching my step in case my invisible friend decides to try it again.
Mark Bruce, Writer 