I find a lone handprint embedded in our bathroom rug.
Yes, I have witnessed this strange phenomenon quite a few times, and yet my brain automatically justifies its occurrence. That little ol’ brain of mine makes me think I absentmindedly leave a handprint while on my hands and knees digging around for something under the bathroom sink.
Yes, Brain. You’re so clever. That must be it.
I wipe away the handprint (because it is really quite irksome no matter the cause) and go about my day.
I have probably done this ‘wipe it away, can’t see it, it’s not happening’ move several times over the course of a couple months.
I don’t know about you, but that is way too many times.
There it is again. On yet another chilly November evening, I come across the handprint. Always just one.
And this one is very prominent.
Instinctively, I place my hand in it to see if it matches.
And it does.
Pretty much perfectly.
My heart skips a beat…or possibly two.
Holy shit! We have a ghost.
Or an evil spirit child playing pranks. Which is equally, if not more terrifying.
My worst nightmare.
Or I’m possessed and leaving handprints in the bathroom rug. Ya know, for whatever reason. Maybe the demon who possesses me has a wicked yet subtle sense of humor and thinks it will be a riot to see me freak out over a fucking handprint in the bathroom rug.
Demons can be assholes like that.
I frantically wipe away the handprint and leave the bathroom before the demon reaches up through the floor to grab me.
Because that’s where he lives when he’s not possessing my body.
And he knows I’m on to his wily pranks. What a trickster, this demon.
I walk into the kitchen where the husband and I have been preparing a scrumptious meal of comfort food before friends arrive for Friendsgiving. Bourbon whipped sweet potatoes topped with bacon and crispy fried sage. Cheddar and jalapeño stuffing. A decadent Honeybaked ham warming in the oven along with soft, buttered rolls.
Oh yes. It will be a great last meal before I must come to terms with the exorcism that must happen. I hope our friends are up to the task!
But first, I decide I must tell my husband about this possession/ghost-haunting/demon-taunting handprint business happening in our very own bathroom.
I take a deep breath.
I try to hide my anxiousness and be lighthearted about it. As you do when you seriously think your place may be haunted or you may be possessed. Ain’t no thang.
“The strangest thing,” I blurt out the next words in a rushed jumble, “sometimes, when I go into the bathroom I find a handprint in the rug.”
I wait for puzzlement. Utter horror. Amazement. Thoughts of hauntings.
Yeah, the husband just laughs.
I am confused.
“Yeah, I sometimes do push-ups in the bathroom.”
“Whaaat!? Oh. My. God. I thought we had a fucking ghost! Like, a construction worker died building the bathroom in this brand new apartment type of ghost. And why does he leave one handprint in the rug? I don’t know!”
I do not tell the husband that demon possession briefly crossed my mind. Alright, yeah…more than briefly. He’ll find out that little tidbit soon enough.
I am so preoccupied breathing many sighs of relief and happily realizing we do not have a ghost (or a demon) that it takes me several minutes to even ask him why he does push-ups in our bathroom.
The answer? He just likes to, I guess?
Also for clarification, the husband and I have similar sized hands.
Ghost free bathroom. Demon possession averted. Hell yeah. Time to stuff my face and succumb to a food coma.
I imagine it was a much calmer evening than one that would have been rife with exorcism.
The husband really wishes he had played dumb about this whole handprint business. My heart and mental state thank him though. Otherwise, I would still be freaking out to this day.
And that, my friends, is the true story of the one time I thought the bathroom of our brand new apartment was haunted or yeah, that I was possessed.
Let us just say I sometimes have a vivid imagination for the worst (and yes, least likely…probably?) case scenario.