Tara's fear is so intense that she's been sleeping in the dog house in the backyard for the last two weeks. According to her the ghost will not leave the house because that is where it meet it's end. In that respect I feel a little sorry for the ghost, having to stay in the same home it died in for all eternity. I'm not sure who makes the rules about where you go after you've shuffled off your mortal coil, but I certainly hope Tara is wrong about ending up in the same spot you croaked in. If this hypothesis is correct it means that the king of rock and roll, Elvis Presley, is spending the next million years in his bathroom, watching tourists shuffle by as they gawk at the toilet he ejected his last peanut butter and banana sandwich into.
I'm not quite sure why ghosts have certain rules about where they can go and who they can talk to, but according to all the "experts" (and I use that word very loosely), if someone meets an untimely end or they have yet to finish some important life endeavor, that person is doomed to haunt the place they perished for all eternity. This sounds like the very definition of Hell if you happen to get poisoned by your crazy old grandmother. Walking around her musty smelling home while tripping over cat toys is no way to spend your afterlife, but what if you died someplace more exciting, where you could watch live music and order nachos anytime of the day or night?
How great would it be to choke on a hotdog or get your head crushed by one of those giant tea cups, at Disneyland? Or be violently ejected from a roller-coaster at Bush Gardens? Maybe even asphyxiate from clouds of pot smoke in Snoop Dogg's tour bus? I could definitely see myself spending eternity in any one of these places, but unfortunately I'm very healthy, live nowhere near those attractions, and Snoop has a restraining order against me.
I'll tell you where I wouldn't want to die, SeaWorld. Spending forever with a bunch of pissed-off, semi-aquatic marine mammals who were abducted from their home and dumped in a glorified fish tank to distract overweight tourists from their sad, sober existence, does not sound like a good time to me....unless of course I can ride the whales.
However, none of my pointless ramblings helped my friend Tara, she is convinced of the ghosts reality and refuses to enter the very place she keeps all her stuff in, so as a favour to her and because she has a 70" television, I decided to spend a full week at her place, sleeping in her bed, eating her food, and trying on her wigs. I think all she really wanted was someone besides herself to actually see the ghost, so she could know she's not crazy (which she is).
I would love to report that I had many adventures chasing a blood soaked apparition around her home, but unfortunately no such excitement occurred. The most fun I had was putting my clothes in her dishwasher to see what kind of job it would do on them. I never tried this at my own house because I had a feeling it would ruin the dishwasher, which it did (please don't tell Tara).
What I found most interesting about the whole experience was that the very night I left her home, Tara reported seeing the ghost juggling kitchen knives and chasing her down the hall with a rusty chainsaw. It seems, the moment I left, Casper decided to return. So where the hell was that ghost when I was eating all of Tara's food and digging through her underwear drawer? Why didn't it make it's presence known to me? Am I some kind of a shmuck, not worthy of its hostility and aggression? Maybe. But, what I really think is that if you are prone to believing in such fanciful things, you are much more likely to see them.
It's no coincidence that the people who say they don't believe in ghost never see them, while those who claim they are real, see spooks everywhere they go. People like Tara might tell you this is because they are more attuned to the spiritual realm than you, but what they are really saying is, you are a spiritual turd that is incapable of deep emotional connections, whereas, they possess a profound aptitude to detect imaginary friends.
So, my advice to anyone being fondled in their sleep by their dead uncle (aside from insuring he's actually dead and not just a pervert), is to ignore the intruder, eventually it will begin to fade like the crotch of my blue jeans and you will be left with nothing but the cat and yourself to blame for the bodies stacked neatly in your cellar.