So apparently my four-year-old decided tonight was the perfect time to psychologically ruin me for the rest of my life.
I’m standing in the kitchen, minding my own business, when Zelda walks up to me all urgent and waving me over like, “Mama, come look. Let me show you.”
And I’m like… show me what?
Then this child curls her little hands into claws, looks me dead in the face, and goes, “RAWR!” Then she makes this low-pitched creature noise that slowly turns into a high-pitched siren sound straight out of a haunted VHS tape.
So naturally, I’m standing there like… what the actual hell.
Then she leads me down the hall into the office, peeks through the blinds, and goes, “Nope, not there.”
NOT WHERE, ZELDA? Why are you saying this like sometimes there is something there??? 😭
Then she opens the closet door, turns around, curls her little hands into claws again, does the demon rawr one more time with a ghostly little “WoOoOo,” and asks me, “Is it a ghost?”
I’m sorry, wh-WHAT? 🥹
Why are we doing ghost investigations at bedtime? And why do you sound like you already know something I don’t?
Then later, she goes back in there by herself because there’s a bucket of snacks in the office, and from down the hall, I hear her yell, “Mama… who is that?”
Oh Lord have mercy on my soul. WHO IS WHO? 🥲
Then I hear Zelda answer me from the darkness with, “Is it 6-7?”
Like what does that even MEANNN?? Why are you responding to my ghost-related panic with a cursed number riddle?!
I am spiritually packing a bag.
If Zelda crawls down the hallway tonight whispering “six seven,” I’m leaving the house to her. She can have the snacks. She can have the office. She can explain the lease to the ghost.
I’m out.