As someone who can't stop writing about ghosts, it was inevitable that I would eventually be visited by one of my own.
While writing my new manuscript a few nights ago, I frantically typed, trying to get my ideas on the page before I forgot them. I'd written a few pages when all of a sudden my cursor started dancing across the screen. I'd try to anchor the dang thing, but no go. Then letters appeared. But not letters I'd typed.
I debated telling my son, who was doing homework at his desk behind me. Nah, he'll just laugh and question my sanity. Again.
That's it, I thought. I've finally raised my own ghost. My skin tingled, a breeze blew by my neck, and I looked around for loose change. Then, a crash sounded behind me.
It was my son. He'd tossed his mouse on his desk in frustration because it wasn't working. "Look, nothing happens," he said, rolling his mouse on his desk. I turned around and saw a cursor looping across my screen. His mouse was controlling my computer. We called tech support (husband) for advice, and he'd never seen this problem before. Leave it to Joan, I'm sure he was thinking. But then he figured it out. He tossed aside my Bluetooth mouse and wired up the old one. The words I typed were my own.
I was kind of let down that it wasn't an apparition after all. I'd already made plans to bring her to critique with me on Thursday night. Ghost writer, indeed.