It all started about a week ago.
I was headed out on a walk, and before I even made it to the base of my driveway, I felt someone's foot give a hard shove to my lower back.
I fell onto my knees, sparing my face from hitting the concrete with the palms of my hands, then quickly turned my head to the right, just in time to sense the image of a full-figured gal, walking straight toward the garbage bins.
“Tart,” she sneered, as she blew a lung's worth of smoke out of the left side of her mouth. As she spoke, a bobby pin landed on the driveway, right near my face, bouncing twice before it stopped. When I looked back up, she was gone.
Three nights later, as I lay alone in my room, feeling half terrified by Roald Dahl's Book of Ghost Stories I became aware that someone was. . . chewing on something. I did a quick visual inventory of all three dogs, but I noticed that not one of them had an actual bone in their mouths. As my senses became more alert from fear, I realized what I was hearing was a person crunching on ice. As I looked around the room in a panic, I felt the hot breath of someone laughing on my neck and was greeted with a blast of bourbon.
I risked a squeaky question to the hot air: “Shirley?”
A bobby pin landed with a light tap on the cover of my closed book.
And, last night, as I opened Shirley Jackson's 'The Lottery' The Authorized Graphic Adaptation to the preface from the illustrator, Miles Hyman (Ms. Jackson's grandson), I read:
Visits with my father often include a ceremony, a unique sort of family séance. . . By now even the youngest members of the family know what is afoot: we are about to listen to Grandma Shirley's music box. . . Beyond the haunting nature of the music itself, playing the music box is moving for other reasons. It represents a curious bond to the person who is not there with us, the most notable absence in the room: Grandma Shirley.
And I thought. . . No shit, Miles. It's because she's at my house.
Here I was, planning a séance in Vermont (or maybe Vegas), with cigarettes, booze and bobby pins, all to raise Shirley Jackson from the dead.
But, it appears she's here already, muffin top hanging over her pants, flecks of ice falling from her surly mouth, bobby pins hanging wildly from her hair.
Now I need to perform an exorcism.
Hey! You listen to me, Shirley Jackson. . . have you ever heard the expression Don't bite the hand that feeds you? I mean. . . do you have any idea how many copies of your books I've sold in the past 2 weeks?
It's not like I'm receiving commission, lady.
Besides, a friend of mine just informed me that there's a male ghost up at the Stanley Hotel (45 minutes away, of Stephen King fame) that's fond of performing acts of foreplay on the female guests.
If you have any plans to stay, Shirley, well, sister, you better step up your game.