A couple of months ago, I lost a T-shirt in Rapid City, South Dakota.
It’s not nearly as salacious as it sounds. Nor was it just any old T-shirt. It was this beauty in charcoal grey.
The thing is, it’s not something I do, losing a piece of clothing like that. The missus and I have a routine whenever we check out of a hotel: I load the car, she performs a hard-target search for anything we may have left behind. Sometimes it’s a book, sometimes it’s a toothbrush. It’s never clothing. Yet the very shirt I was wearing when we arrived in Rapid City is the shirt that was mysteriously missing when we returned to Spokane a week later.
Then I remembered where we stayed. A place that, according to the TV show Ghost Hunters, “is so freaky that contractors have walked off the job and refused to return.” A place rife with “unexplained noises and groaning” and “ghostly piano music.” A place where a “heart-broken bride still cries and relives her suicide.”
Granted, I was probably tempting fate when I requested a room on a floor noted for its paranormal activity. And I should have known that, just because you’re a spiritual being trapped between two planes of existence, it doesn’t mean you don’t recognize a stylin’ T when you see it.
It’s a bit unsettling, though.
