Her: I know what you wrote about me in that blog.
Me: Yeah, so?
Her (discorporeal eyes widening and jaw tightening in that threatening way): I am really, really, REALLY mad at you, mouth-with-legs.
Me: What are you going to do about it? You can’t hurt me. You’re dead.
Her (threateningly): Well, I’m going to do something bad to you. Something really, really bad. Something so bad you couldn’t possibly even guess what it is. I might even kill you, you ungrateful little bitch. I wish to God I’d miscarried you when Daddy threw me down the stairs.
Me: Oh, is it going to be the whole death-threat thing again then, Mom? That old “you’re the cancer of the family and sometimes a cancer needs to be cut out to spare the good parts of the body” song-and-dance? Or will it be “if something bad happened to you and you died, I’d just tell the police what a bad little girl you were and they’d understand that I had to do it and they’d let me go, because no parent could possibly love you” bit?
Her: (silence…thank God)
Me: Go bug someone else, Mom. Go death-threaten another spirit or something, that ought to be a hoot. Better yet, just go into the Light already, or won’t It let you in, you freaking witch?
Good times. Sigh.
And I still feel afraid.
Note: I didn’t really think I was talking to my dead mother. I haven’t quite gone that far around the bend. Yet.