This is the fourth part in a series, so if you have not already done so, you might want to read Part I, Part II, and Part III before continuing.
Tanya didn’t talk about ghosts after that day, but she became suspicious of the entire house. When she was in the kitchen especially, she would constantly look over at the stove, as if she was expecting it to spontaneously combust at any moment. Every few minutes she would check the silverware drawer to make sure everything was in its rightful place.
There were no more mishaps, but she got to be so jumpy that I couldn’t take it anymore and finally banned her from the kitchen, taking over dinner duty as well as breakfast. Taking on the additional work was worth it not to have her constantly looking over her shoulder and opening and closing drawers. She was worse than any poltergeist … or so I thought.
Maybe Tanya was right to be wary of the kitchen because the next incident happened there. I was chopping garlic and onion for our omelettes one morning when my eyes started to water. I ignored it and kept chopping as long as I could, but I finally had to give up, put down the knife, and go get some air. When I came back, I reached for the knife, and as I watched, the knife flew just out of my reach, flipped over, and sliced through the palm of my hand faster than I could register what was happening. I stared at my hand, watching blood seep from the wound for a second before I felt any pain at all. Then the pain registered and I started screaming, more from shock than pain.
Tanya and the kids all came running to see what all the screaming was about. As soon as she saw my bleeding hand, Tanya grabbed a towel and wrapped it around my hand. When she asked what happened, I looked at the knife, then I lunged for it, trying to grab it before the ghost could, but who’s faster than a ghost?
My finger was less than an inch from the knife when it flew away from me and flipped in the air so the point faced me and my sister. We both froze.
“No!” Jamie screamed and jumped up, grabbing the knife by the handle and running away with it.
“Jamie!” All I could think was the damage that knife could do to my baby boy.
There were three doors leading out of the kitchen: one into the dining room, one to the steps leading down to the basement, and one outside. Jamie headed for the first door, only to find it magically slammed in his face. He pivoted on one foot like the baseball star he was becoming and turned towards the second door. As he approached it, I watched in horror as the kitchen table moved to follow him. Awful visions ran through my head of my firstborn tumbling down all those stairs.
Tanya threw herself at the table, grabbed onto one leg, planted her feet, and pulled with all her might. Little Charlene grabbed onto another leg and pulled with all her tiny might.
As they struggled, the kitchen chairs moved around them and sped towards my boy.
I can’t explain why I reacted the way that I did. Just that I was acting on instinct.
“Enough!” I screamed as loud as I could.
Everything and everyone froze.
“This is my house!” I stamped my foot for emphasis on the third word. “And you are not welcome here!” I stamped my foot again. “So GET. OOOOOOOOUUUUUUUUT!!!” I summoned all the rage I could muster and poured it into that last syllable and then stood there, panting, having emptied myself of every ounce of energy and willpower I had ever had.
Everything was still.
Jamie stood at the top of the basement stairs, knife still clasped in one hand, staring at me, his mouth hanging open.
Tanya and Charlene had both sat down on the kitchen floor, the table having given up its fight, and they both stared at me. Tanya’s mouth hung open. Charlene’s mouth remained closed, but her eyes were so wide I was afraid they were going to pop out of her skull.
Nothing moved. There was no sound but the sound of my own panting breath and pounding heart.
“Tanya, would you and Charlene please put the table back where it belongs?” My breath was hoarse from all the screaming I had done, but I carried on as if nothing were out of the ordinary.
“Jamie, please give me my knife back.”
He hesitated, but I kept looking at him, hand held out for the knife until he finally walked over and gave it to me.
I turned back to the cutting board to resume chopping vegetables, and only then did I remember the dish towel wrapped around my injured hand.
“Charlene, would you please get me a bandage?”
Charlene rushed to obey, and as she did, Tanya said, “We don’t have to make breakfast today. We can order something.”
“Absolutely not,” I said, surprising myself with how forcefully the words came out of my mouth. “This is my house, I bought it with my own money, and no one but me decides when I do and do not cook in my own house.”
I couldn’t tell you why that was so important to me, but at the time, I felt like proving that point was worth risking my life. So, Charlene brought me a bandage and we carefully cleaned and wrapped the cut. Then I went back to making breakfast and we never again spoke of what had transpired there.
We never had to because nothing like it ever happened again. After a while it was easy to pretend it was all a figment of our imaginations. Something out of a story.
The end.