I used to have a ghost in the house. I was pretty sure it was the farmer who originally built the house around the turn of the last century. He was no trouble, except he got up at 4:30 every freaking morning and stomped around upstairs, then stomped down stairs in his big, clunky barn boots to go milk cows. I could almost smell the manure.
I told my mom about him when she was visiting once, and she yelled, “Depart from this house in the name of Jesus!”
I was so mad! I said, “Mom! He was here first! It’s HIS house!”
Didn’t hear him again after that. Shit.
Since then, though, he has sent earthquakes to take his place.