Dear Diary:

The former apparition that was accustomed to roaming the rooftop has returned, in addition to similar anomalies that previously occurred during my stay in the grandmother suite. Since abandoning that portion of the house more than a year ago, on behalf of threatening disturbances on a daily basis, I have not taken residence in the suite, and merely utilize the space for storage. However, on account of a clogged pipe in the main kitchen recently, I resorted to visiting the kitchenette in that portion of the home, considering that my only alternative was to install a temporary sink for dish washing purposes.

As a result of deserting that section of the house over one year ago, and assigning the main house as my permanent living quarters, the clomping boots on the rooftop and the sound of a creaky door had ceased. In fact, the majority of evil doings had come to a halt, as though the demonic activity was unable to escape the suite and the breezeway connected to the main house. I considered the lack of activity a blessing, on account of having no where else to live throughout the home’s endless renovations.

In the present circumstances:

This morning, on the boundary line of three o’clock ante meridiem, I jolted in my blankets when the ruckus of clomping boots trampled across the rooftop. Acting accordingly, I rushed toward my golf bag in the guest room, watching steadily at the ceiling as I fumbled through the clubs for my driver.

Straightaway I moved stealthily through the darkness, pursuing the weighty strides toward the bonus room and into the back of the house. And with my club arched over my right shoulder, prepared to strike, I idiotically darted outside into the nighttime atmosphere, expecting to rush into the house upon witnessing the culprit.

While standing doltishly beneath the moonlight, armed with a golf club in the chilled air, there was evidence of absolutely nothing on the roof of my home. Although I gained distance, backing several yards into the night in order to capture sight of the entire rooftop, there was nothing, not a tree nearby, nor a lick of wind.

Upon returning to my bedroom, on the brink of calling my mother (yes, I’m a bit of a weenie), I suddenly recalled the accounts I experienced during my short stay in the grandmother suite the year before last. That was the moment I realized, the rooftop rover had returned!

My mother’s notion is that a construction worker or a roofing contractor possibly died while in the process of building the house; a close friend of mine believes a two-story home existed on the plot previous to my home being built, theorizing that the homeowner roams the second story, while opening and closing the door with the screeching hinges; as for what I believe, I believe I’m in debt to a distressed home that shows little promise.