It began, as all good mysteries do, with good intentions and mild apprehension. We’d agreed to house- and dog-sit for friends while they were off gallivanting overseas. Lovely house, nice area — except for one small detail: the mozzies. On previous visits, we’d been treated like an all-you-can-eat buffet by the local mosquito population, so this time we came armed with sprays, coils, and long sleeves.
What we hadn’t factored in was the household’s newest security system — a dog with the reflexes of a fighter pilot and the appetite of a frog. The moment a fly dared to enter the airspace, the dog sprang into action, snatching the intruder mid-flight and crunching it with a look of triumph.
Within hours, our once-buzzy war zone was silent. Not a single winged creature dared to enter the no-fly zone patrolled by The Insect Assassin .
With the skies now clear and our blood supply intact, we retired to bed, grateful for the peace and a large, tidy room. That’s when I noticed it — the sock drawer beside the bed, half open. Odd, I thought. I could’ve sworn I’d closed it earlier when we unpacked. No matter. I shut it again and turned in.
Morning came, and so did the shock — the drawer was open again. “That’s strange,” I muttered. I shut it once more, firmly this time, convinced it was just my imagination. But that evening… there it was. Open again.
By day three, I’d given up trying to reason with it. If the ghost wanted the drawer open, the ghost could have it open. I wasn’t about to start a turf war with the supernatural. But of course, the next morning, it was closed.
I’m not saying anything, but I know what I saw.
We’re back in the caravan on Saturday — no drawers in there, and every cupboard has a lock. At least if anything moves on its own, I’ll know it’s not me… or will I?