Another friend - I'll call her Brenda - says she can see the future. This man, he's not my only deluded friend. I promised to water the plants, and he went off and left me there for two weeks. I needed the isolation and quiet to write, I told him. To prove this, I asked him to let me house-sit his farm while he was away on vacation. Until he moved out to this farm, Patrick was like me: stable, practical, reasonable. This is a practical man who's never believed in ghosts. My friend refers to his ghost as "the Lady," and he complains about not getting any sleep because the Lady was up all night, rattling pictures on the walls and resetting the clocks and thumping around the living room. It's the psychic equivalent of saying, "My diamond ring is so very heavy." Or, "I wish I could wear this thong bikini without everyone lusting after me." It's all very dramatic, but it's the kind of complaint that smells like a boast. I'm going down with my gun, and if I don't call you back in five minutes, send the police!" It's a nice, white farmhouse in the country, surrounded with gardens, and every few weeks he'll call in the middle of the night to say, "Someone is screaming in the basement. But his murdered father had other ideas.Ī friend of mine lives in a "haunted" house. When novelist Chuck Palahniuk invited friends to a haunted-house party, he was more prepared to snicker than hide behind the sofa. Originally published in The London Independent © 2002 Chuck Palahniuk: The Ghost Who Came to Say He Was Sorry
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