“I called you right away,” I said. The man dressed like a ghostbuster barged into my closet. The sleeves of my shirts and jackets tangled around the equipment on his back like they were the tentacles of a creature. He swatted them away. I stood behind him still wearing my nightgown, it was old silk I’d stolen from my mother.
“Do you think it’s a spirit?” I said, again with no response. I sniffled the snot from my nose. It was clogged after a few hours of crying on my pillow. I could not stop weeping.
My bedroom was being featured on a ghost-hunting show. The cameraman moved to stand next to me, filming the ghost-hunter pilfering my closet.
I could imagine the green night-vision visual of my bed and my vanity desk, plus the window with the billowing curtains. And my face, as he turned to film my reaction. I would appear as a stark green woman with laser beam eyes. I had showed them where the light switch was but they refused to turn it on.
“I’m getting something,” the ghost-hunter said. He marched out of the closet like a dog following a scent. As he came closer to me, the arrow on his phantom-o-meter spiked all the way up to the red zone. A rattle noise behind us startled us all. We looked at my vanity desk. A half-used lipstick had mysteriously fallen over and onto it’s side. It continued to roll and tip over the edge, landing on the wooden floor with a clink. It rolled again until it stopped short at my bare feet. The plastic was cold.