Oh, sure. It could be forgetfulness. Rob and I are getting on in our forties and Dee is a kid. You know how feeble brained 40 somethings are and kids just think electricity flows as freely as tap water.
But, over the last week, the basement stairs have lit up at least twice with the most memorable being when we arrived home from the city on Saturday evening. I’d had anatomy in a dicey area of the city, so Rob drove me in and picked me up. It was after dark when we got home and he noticed the light shining up from the downstairs as we walked in the front door.
“Did you forget to turn off the basement lights?” he asked Dee.
Her playroom is in an old bedroom space downstairs.
“No,” she replied.
“Well they are on,” he needlessly pointed out.
“Well I turned them off,” she said. “Remember, I checked.”
Cue the Twilight Zone music and then crank it to eleven because I’d discovered the lamp next to my side of the bed blazing the night before when there hadn’t been anyone upstairs at all since the afternoon, so there was no reason for a light to even have been used.
And in the middle of the night Saturday, Rob headed down to the bathroom where the hallway light was ablaze as though someone had anticipated his arrival.
“Maybe we should take Stephanie’s advice and ask what’s up?” he mused.
Frankly, I don’t want to know. The last bit of “activity” preceded the death of my late husband’s best friend’s eleven year old son. Whatever the spirits have to say, they can keep to themselves.