I'm fairly certain there's nothing haunting my house, save maybe the leftover Super Bowl cheese dip still in the fridge. But so far, its intentions seem friendly. You just have to ignore the constant paranoid screams from the tofu.
"It wants my soul!"
"Shut up, tofu."
It's not entirely uncommon for me to have these lively conversations with my food. I probably need a girlfriend. Or a hobby. Or years of therapy.
Fortunately, though, since the worst of my supernatural household concerns is confined to the lingering spirit of old Velveeta, I do sleep fairly well at night in the 2 square feet of bed space kindly allotted to me by my dog.
Quite simply, I respect the demon cheese. The demon cheese respects me. And my dog respects nobody.
Which is far better than what could have been said of two flatmates in London who recently sold an antique mirror on eBay because they were convinced it was haunted and willfully endangering their lives.
"I'm going to murder both of you. Probably tonight."
"But, Mirror, we saved you from the trash heap!"