This particular relative, though, is mostly impish. She was an older woman who is said to have had three little dogs by her side at all times. One of the dogs supposedly is buried beneath the cement in the basement. (This being New Jersey, I find this perfectly logical.)
One night, when Son the Second was raiding the fridge, the stereo in the family room turned itself on. To an opera. Our ghost's choice of stations freaked my younger son more than her turning the system on.
This ghostly woman can also be bossy. One time I was angry at one of my sons and my voice boomed. An unseen hand shoved my left shoulder, effectively cutting off my tirade. My husband applauded her. She accomplished something others have tried and failed at.
And then there is the electronic equivalant of a whoopee cushion that impresses this spirit immensly. I think most of us have been introduced to this wonder of technology.
One day, about two weeks ago, Son the First was asleep in the afternoon. A very loud noise--louder than any male could make--echoed throughout the house from his room. Then stopped. I left my writing and opened his door. My son looked up from bed, bleary-eyed, and said, "I didn't do it!" I looked over to his dresser where he usually keeps his beloved fart machine remote and also its speaker. There they were, the ultimate jokesters. I climbed over the mountain of clothes mixed with you-don't-want-to-know stuff. There was no way he could have hurled himself across the room to press the button then fly back to bed without being buried up to his neck.
A few nights later, around two in the morning, various types of breaking wind woke me. I rolled over and saw my selectively hard-of-hearing husband asleep. And quiet. I padded into Son the First's room while Son the Second followed me, laughing. Again, my older son was in bed, but sitting up, amazed that his precious machine could turn itself on like that. The machine was going non-stop this time. Again the remote was on top of the dresser, the speaker near it.
It took me a half-hour to maneuver through his room, but I did it. I took the batteries out and killed the machine. For the time being, that is.
My only hope is that our resident ghost won't learn how to use our cell phones. She might think it great fun to text everyone in our contacts. Or take and send photos....
We better lock our phones away.
*When Anne Skaltiza isn't chasing down the resident ghost, she battles MGD or Multiple Genre Disorder with her writing. Her blog is Mightier Than A Sword.