Doors in our home have been mysteriously closing. Bathroom doors. Which isn’t all that strange, I suppose: if you’d want any doors to be closed in your home, I imagine bathroom doors would follow a close second to the front.
Except that no one’s using these bathrooms while the doors are closed.
I knock and the doors swing inward. The lights are off. I don’t think our home’s old or its history sordid enough to have a poltergeist: no ancient burial grounds, no pet cemeteries. Still, it’s spooky.
I’ve spent the past few days at home, trapped in pajamas and surrounded by wadded tissues, strewn blankets, and mugs of tea. I made a brave attempt at work yesterday but came home a few hours later, after my computer monitors started to melt and I could no longer understand English.
Ian was home, so I changed into jammies and we played The Spiderwick Chronicles together. After a few minutes of battling goblins, he stood and went to use the bathroom. I heard the toilet flush, the faucet run, and then saw Ian slowly, carefully close the door behind him.
‘Ian, have you been shutting the bathroom doors?’
‘In case it floods.’
‘What? The bathroom? You think the bathroom’s going to flood?’
Several weeks ago the downstairs toilet backed up; unfortunately, it happened on Ian’s watch. I’d forgotten about it.
‘Ian, toilets don’t usually flood. It only happened once, and we fixed it. But even if it does happen, the bathroom won’t fill with water.’ I didn’t mention that closing the door wouldn’t help. ‘Okay, kiddo?’
‘Okay.’ And he finished closing the door.