Only an asshole would squat in an occupied house, harass the
occupants, and not pay a dime of the rent.
Sometimes you just need to bust out the sage and bells and
evict a bitch.
My girl Erin recently moved into a cute lil’ 1920s bungalow
with her fiancée and a couple of friends. I was offered a room, but as much as
I love my friends, I hate people and need my own space to be an antisocial
hermit crab.
So, my nerd squad had a few busy weeks of getting settled in,
and as I was dealing with my own shit we had a three-week span of limited
communication. I eventually got to check out the nest, and with Erin leading
the way we toured the space. Hard wood floors, pocket doors, high windows—I got
punched in the face with nostalgia for the house I had lived in until I was
laid off from my job last December.
Erin broke through my reverie by opening the door between the
kitchen and mudroom and exclaiming, “Now you get to see the Murder Room!”
Uh, what?
Apparently the basement has been lovingly nicknamed “Murder
Room,” since it is totally the kind of place where a serial killer would
dismember bodies in a horror movie. Concrete, a layer of grime over the
foundation walls, a few dirt troughs near the water heater, and enough gossamer
to make even Arachne want to break out a Swiffer duster.
I had barely planted one foot beyond the stair landing when
the nastiest shudder passed through me. Not only was the basement butt-ugly,
but I got hardcore heebie jeebies just being down there.
Beating a hasty retreat upstairs, I only calmed down after gulping
a scorching mug of rooibos. Erin related to me the weird shit that had been
occurring since shortly after the group had moved in. Most of the instances
involved a shadow that creeped on Erin and tried to grab her a few times,
though it took a particular dislike to her roommate, whom I will call Nate, an
ordained African shaman who pissed off the entity by telling it to leave. Since
Nate is a full-time college student, zie hadn’t had the time to do a proper
exorcism and mentioned to Erin that I could help. It was obvious what was and
what had to happen.
Some ghost motherfucker was in the house.
We had to get that motherfucker out.
I came back a few days later with my trusty Gladstone bag,
stuffed full of supplies I would need to do the house cleansing. I decided to
go all out, not knowing to what the thing in the basement would respond. I
brought my statue of La Santa Muerte; sage and sweetgrass; a cauldron, black
feather, and Morrigan incense; and a bell. Asshole ghosts hate bells. Though I
had planned to promenade through every room of the house with sage later, I knew
that, as with any mess, the source has to be mopped up before the detritus can
be dealt with, otherwise you are just continually cleaning the secondary
sludge.
I wasn’t comfortable having too many people in the room
while doing my work, especially if they didn’t know what was going on, so we
asked the other roomies, Mickie and Austin, to hang out and play video games
upstairs. Nate joined us, having a knack for communicating with the entity and
an entire arsenal of lore that complemented mine pretty well. I figured that
since Erin was both the primary female target and the mother hen of the house,
she should tag along, letting the spirit know that the matriarch didn’t approve
of its presence. I gave her a china bell shaped like a tama cat, a gift from an
air force brat buddy who had lived in Japan.
So, down to the Murder Room we go!
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