I think my house was haunted. Was. Like, I don't think it is anymore, but you know what they say about little kids and ghosts and stuff, so maybe it still is but my kid just can't pick up the vibes anymore. About a year ago, I was minding my own business and waiting for the Instacart order to arrive. When the shopper arrived, she looked at me and the house as though she'd seen a ghost and greeted me with, "I was friends with the family who lived here before. The dad died here pretty young after being slipped something bad at a party." Ooookay. Actually, this explains a lot. I should backtrack. When my son was about a year and a half old, he came running out of his room to the kitchen where I was making dinner. Don't judge. My house is literally about 50 feet long. Yes. I know what literally means. And my house is literally, not figuratively, 50 feet long. My kid's room is, like, no inches away from the kitchen. I digress (albeit a tad bitte