The Ghost Of The Mouse In My House

 

It was hard to believe, but it was true. Or so they said. As weird as it seemed, there was a mouse in my house, appearing sporadically, and moving through walls and doors as if they weren’t there. Its mere presence had my wife and daughters standing on beds and table tops, to avoid its malevolent mischief making. “The mouse is back.”, my wife informed me.”

“That’s impossible.”, I advised her. “We have 3 different kinds of traps, poison all over the house, and we haven’t seen a mouse in a couple of months.”

“Well then,”, one of my daughters stated, “then we have the ghost of a mouse.”

“Really?, I asked, somewhat amazed at this turn of paranormal events. “A ghost mouse?”

“It’s haunting us.”, my daughter added.

“I see.”, I said, dreading what I knew was soon to come.

“I want you to get rid of it.”, my wife ordered. “I want it out of here. For good.” I thought about this for a long time, considering all possibilities, and rejecting only the insane.

“We should have a seance.”, I advised.

“A seance?”, one of my daughters asked quite surprisingly.

“Yes.”, I told them all, “a seance. You know, we sit around the table in the dark, hold hands, and try to contact the spirit to find out what it wants so it can cross over to the other side.”

They grew disturbingly quiet, and then began whispering among themselves, occasionally looking over at me with disapproving eyes.

“Are you making fun of us?”, my youngest daughter asked.

“Oh, no.”, I told her. I would never do something like that. We only have so many choices. We can have a seance, or an exorcism. And since the mouse is dead, I don’t think he needs any exorcise do you?”

“It’s not funny!”, my wife shouted from atop the bed. “Get the damned thing out of this house.”he gave me the Moroccan look, the one that she always gives to show me that she is going to put a curse on me. I have told her for years that I am immune. It is my superpower.

“Okay.”, I said. “Everybody out of my room. I need to change into my mouse catching gear.” What I wouldn’t have given to have had a deer stalker hat, a red cape, and blue tights to change into. I could be Exterminator Man.

“Where should we go?”, one of the girls asked.

“Go stand on your own bed.”, I said, and they left, tip toeing as they walked, checking the hallways, and the corners for its presence. I put on some old sweats, and began my crusade. I checked bedrooms, pulled everything out of closets, moved furniture, and looked under beds, but I saw no trace of this revenant rodent.

“I’ll look again tomorrow.”, I told them.

“How can I sleep tonight,” a daughter asked, “when there’s a ghost mouse roaming around the house?”

“If you’d like, you can stay awake all night, and if you see him, call me.”, I answered.

I went into my room. “Does a mouse really need to haunt someone?”, I asked my wife.

“Why not?”, came her response.

“Well”, I postulated, “When he’s alive, he’s haunting you. I don’t understand why he would need to continue that after death.”

“Maybe he has some unfinished business.”, she replied.

“What unfinished business could they possibly have? Did he not eat half a piece of cheese?”

“I don’t know.”, she answered. “I do know I want that damn thing out of here, tomorrow!”

Sometime in the middle of the night, I went to the bathroom. As I opened the door, and turned on the light, there he was, the little brown bastard. He ran out of the bathroom, down the hallway, and into one of my daughter’s rooms. I grabbed a broom from the kitchen, and we met on the battlefield. He was hiding in the closet, and I began to move boxes, and bins out. I saw him! Hiding behind a box of mementos, his beady little eyes peering out at me, and I, in my boxers, holding my broom. The lines were drawn. The little rodent was not getting out of this room alive. He made a run for it, and I swung my mighty broom, making contact, and knocking him over. I held him down with my broom, and that was it. It was over. He was terminated, no longer terrifying my family with his malevolent mouse mischief.

I disposed of the remains, made coffee, and waited for the haunted to awake. I was sitting at the table, drinking coffee when they got up. I had my broom of power at my side, and nothing else, except for my boxers of bravery.

“What are you doing?”, my wife asked.

“Drinking coffee.”, I replied.

“Why are you holding the broom?”, she clarified, “and why are you walking around half undressed?”

“I came, I saw, and I conquered.”, I told her.

“What are you talking about?”, my wife asked.

“It was horrible.”, I explained. “I woke up and saw the ghost mouse.”

“Really?”, she asked, filled with the wonder of a 10 year old child.

“Really.”, I continued. “He was just sitting there in the bathroom, staring at me. He was dressed in a kilt, and playing little wee bag pipes.That’s all he wanted. It seems he was a Scottish mouse, named Angus, who left this realm, happy to be playing his pipes again. I don’t think he’ll bother you again.”

“Really?”, she asked, although I was sure she didn’t believe me.

“I drove him out with the broom of power. Its over. He’s gone.”

“Broom of power?”, she questioned.

As we walked out of the kitchen, she turned to me. “You know”, she said. “Since you’ve got that broom of power handy, how about sweeping the kitchen floor.”

“I don’t know.”, I told her. “Its extremely powerful.”

“I know.”, she said. “Just be careful, and you’ll be okay.”

The Return Of The Mouse In My House

 

“He’s back.”, my wife informed me as soon as I walked in the door.

“Oh, hell.”, I said. “Which one of the boys have moved home?”

“NO, not one of the boys!”, she shouted, bordering on hysteria. “The mouse. The damned mouse is back.”

There was a time when I was greeted on my return from work with a hug, and a kiss. ” I doubt it’s the same mouse.”, I told her.

Oh, it’s the same one.”, she exclaimed. “I recognize the look in his eyes.”

I didn’t doubt, not for a moment, that my wife had seen a mouse. I had some reservations that she could tell one mouse from the next, by the look in its eyes. She has a gift for the paranormal, all things ghostly, and weirdly, but retinal recognition of rodent’s was not something I would be willing to believe she had mastered. I told her I would buy some traps to get rid of the rodent, but she only balked at the suggestion. I offered to call a pest control specialist, but that too did not bode well, and she rejected the use of poison, as she was afraid that she would find the mouse, laying on the floor, dead.

“What is it that you want?”, I asked. “Should I try to capture and rehabilitate it?”

“If you could.”, she said in all seriousness. “catch it and release it in the wild.  That would be best.”

“You understand, this mouse is not wild.”, I told her. “There are no field mice scampering  through the forests.”

She a bit disconcerted, but it was made clear that there is no mouse sanctuary. This was a city mouse.After much deliberation, we agreed that I would dispose of the mouse in any way I saw fit, but would never, ever, reveal what I had done to this rodent.

“Can’t we keep it as a pet?”, my daughter asked. “I’ll keep it in my room.” I looked at my wife, the explosion was imminent.

“There will be no mice, and no snakes, and no spiders or lizards in my house.”, she exclaimed.

“Have you seen a snake in here?”, I asked.

“Not yet.”, my wife replied, “but I’m sure that’s coming next.”

“Well”, I said, “if its any consolation, they are much easier to catch. They move very slowly.” It was no consolation.

The following morning, on my way to the kitchen to make coffee, I saw the little bastard on my kitchen floor, twitching his whiskers. He didn’t look like much of a threat. based on my wife’s reaction, I was anticipating a much bigger mouse. As I got closer, it ran off, scurrying under the oven, and vanishing into thin air. I said nothing to my wife. I left for work, leaving her alone with a desperado mouse, hiding out in our kitchen.

Several hours later, I received a call informing me that Mr.Tarkanian, had come over to catch the mouse, as it ran past her in the kitchen this morning. He was unsuccessful, but in his exuberance, had smashed one of my classic posters that had been on the wall in the living room. “What was he doing in the living room if the mouse was in the kitchen?”, I asked her.

“Well, the mouse ran out from behind the oven, across the kitchen floor. Mr. Tarkanian tried to get it with the broom, but the mouse was too fast, and ran out of the kitchen and into the living room.  And the rest, well, he just has very bad hand eye coordination. “. she explained. “Sorry.”

“Did he catch the mouse, at least?”, I asked.

“No.”, I was advised, “he got away. And just so you know, I’m not making dinner tonight.  I’m not putting one foot in the kitchen until that mouse is gone.”

On the way home I stopped at the hardware store and picked up some traps. “Don’t you think you should have got poison too?”, one of my daughters asked.

“I’m trying to catch a mouse.”, I told her, “I only need to kill it once.”

“You’re going to kill it?”, she asked.

“No.”, I told her, “I’m merely going to hold it hostage, and wait for his family to bring the ransom of cheese. Then I’ll let him go.”

“Not funny.”, she advised me. I never realized  before that my family had no sense of humor. None. I was certain that it was, indeed, funny.

The next morning I checked the traps. Nothing. For 3 days I baited and left them for the pest. For 3 days he eluded me. “I told you he was a smart mouse.”, my wife reminded me.

He was a smart mouse, alright. Shockingly elusive. “Well, what are you going to do now?”, my wife asked

“I don’t know”, I told her.

The next afternoon, she called me. “We got the mouse,”, she told me. I wasn’t sure what she meant, I mean we had had the mouse for about 5 days now.

“What?”, I asked.

My wife told me how my son had come over, and saw the mouse running across the kitchen floor. He jumped up and threw a book at the rodent, and as luck would have it, hit the mouse and stunned it long enough for my son to trap it in a box. He was going to take it over to the park behind the school, but the mouse died. It was tragic.

“Just out of curiosity, what book did he use?”, I asked.

“The Southern Cooking cook book.”, she said. “You know, the big one.”

After careful consideration, and a thoughtful pause, I let her know that I would not be home for dinner.