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144 Haunting José   Don’t ask if I believe in ghosts. I refuse to, even as I lie here listening to the strange sounds coming from inside the walls. If this were my old apartment I’d dismiss the noises as the everyday chatter of an old kitchen: the overworked wires in the stove, the pipes beneath the sink, shrinking or expanding in response to the season, the refrigerator creaking with the burden of its own weight. No ghosts there. Only the echoes of the living. My family, on the other hand, can’t get enough of ghosts. They’ll sit for hours in the evenings, spinning tales of spectral visitations and paranormal activity—memories of moving objects, hearsay of haunted houses, postpartum possessions, demon dwellings, et cetera. Each time I hear the stories they come with a little more flourish and flair than the earlier versions. That’s why it took me so long to lose my fear of the dark, and why, before I became a grown-up and an atheist, I recited every memorized prayer in the catechism—the Ave Maria, the Credo, the Lord’s Prayer, et cetera—before I could sleep. Those prayers were like a nice Catholic shield against my grandfather’s hoof-footed, chicken-legged, goat-homed, pitchfork-carrying dwarf devils that wandered the shadows after sundown, searching for errant children. All through my college years I’ve never taken home a friend or a lover, afraid that my grandfather would come over and commence to 145 entertain his captive audience with his long-winded, implausible, unbelievable stories. I’d be embarrassed to place a friend in a situation like that. Or worse yet, what if my guest witnessed one of my mother’s many superstitions—odd, unrecognizable ones like her habit of crossing herself whenever the clock chimes to the hour, or lighting the candle on top of the television whenever the pope appears on the screen? Even other Mexicans don’t behave this way. I would never think to tell my mother about the sounds in my new studio apartment in Seattle. She’d either want to rush over to bless every comer with one of her crazy concoctions of oil and cactus extract or she’d bring it up at the next gathering of ghost telling I happen to stumble upon. “José’s new apartment is haunted. Isn’t it, José?” she’d say, and then my grandfather would pounce on it, never letting up until I fabricated some acceptable narrative around the whole thing. There isn’t really anything worth talking about anyway. I’m simply unfamiliar with the new place and its noises. All living spaces have them, I’ve discovered. My old apartment channeled those sounds through the appliances because I spent many an evening preparing an exquisite meal that would earn me an exquisite roll in the hay. That’s why I don’t date vegetarians. I’ve also discovered that the best aphrodisiac is meat—steak, preferably, but in moderation. It must trigger something primal in a man when combining the two acts, eating and fucking, so close together. They always come back for seconds. They also tend to sleep quite soundly when all is said and done. Derek here is snoring like a bull and keeping me up. I could light a firecracker in his ear and he wouldn’t budge. It’s a miracle I can still hear the sounds inside the walls. Outside, the wind is blowing. But the glass must be bulletproof or something because I can barely detect the rustling of the leaves. I’m not sure yet if this is better, the silence of the outside world. In my old apartment the window was a thin glass and I could hear the passersby stumbling home late at night, arguing all along the sidewalk , or jabbering on their cells to friends in later time zones. This random eavesdropping was like an urban lullaby that eased me into dream. Not that Seattle needs another lullaby: the traffic and the rain are good enough. Maybe that’s why I’m having trouble sleeping tonight—I can hear no street noise, and it hasn’t rained in a week, and Derek here snores like he dances, without rhythm. There it is again. The sounds are coming from inside the walls, not through them. I know the difference. Through plaster and brick the noises that carry are Haunting José [18.217.228.35...

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