It sounds crazy. I know. But the truth is, my mom and I have always had “visitors,” and we’ve never been much bothered by them—in fact, they can be quite comforting. My mom’s father died when she was a girl, leaving her without a dad for most of her life. Except she always saw him . . . in her closet. Not in a scary way or anything, just kind of standing there, making sure she was okay. When my parents moved into their Upper East Side apartment and Mom told Dad that her father was hanging out in the closet at night, he thought she was nuts. I was only a few years old at the time, and they never mentioned any of this to me. Then one morning after I had crawled into their bed, I looked at both of them and casually asked, “Who is the man who lives in your closet?” Dad was officially spooked after that. The weird thing was, I never saw ghosts at Crawford. I only felt them—and I wasn’t the only one. After the promotion, Monica had stopped talking to me altogether—so I was surprised the day she came running out of the bathroom, and, seeing as I was the only one around, grabbed my arm.
