First thing you should know about this story: it’s all true. Second: I am not  particularly susceptible to suggestion. I was one of the few kids at sleepovers who couldn’t be put into a trance. I consider myself rational. I am a devout atheist. Yet I am convinced that the house I work in is occupied by an otherworldly presence.

I was told by the weekday overnight guy that there was “a ghost” in the house. Yeah, right. This guy was obviously eating too much sugar. The first night shift I worked, though, I heard it. (Her, him, them.) I heard floorboards creaking and cabinet doors slamming. I distinctly heard footsteps. The good news: I was upstairs, and all of the activity was downstairs. But so was the coffee maker. That first shift, I decided that I would just have to rely on adrenaline to keep me awake. There was no way I was going to interrupt whatever was going on down there.

People asked me “wasn’t it just the sound of the radiator banging?” People. I lived in Brooklyn for a long time. I know from the sound of banging radiators. I also know what creaking floorboards sound like. And the only loose floorboards in the house are in the hallway, right at the base of the stairs.

Last weekend I worked two overnights and didn’t hear anything new. The same banging cabinets. Some footsteps. But it wasn’t really a big deal. I had almost convinced myself that I’d made it all up. And then last night something happened. There is absolutely no way to deny it, try as I may. I heard two very distinct, very unusual sounds between 2:20 and 5:45 in the morning. They repeated on and off thoughout that whole time: I heard a large animal, grunting, rutting. And the persistent sound of dripping water.

I assumed, of course, that one of the sinks was running. There are three sinks on the second floor. But I checked them all. I checked the tub. They were all bone dry. And the toilet wasn’t running, either.

I have no idea what to make of it. But I do know that I felt very afraid.

I can only hope that who or whatever I’ll be “spending the night” with can accept me being here again. After all, I’m willing to put up with a lot for a job in this economy. But the first time I find the chairs rearranged on the dining room table, I’m hauling ass down to the job service.

Tonight the coffee maker is coming upstairs with me.

I don’t sleep well. More specifically, I wake up a lot in the middle of the night. Yesterday, I casually mentioned my sleep “issues” to a friend. The context was caffeine. In my mind, the conversation went something like this:

Me: I quit caffeine for awhile. (Shudders.) I don’t sleep well. I need it to wake up.

Friend: I needed it, too. Once.

Me: Well, good for you! I really need it.

Friend: No, you don’t. Quit now, you caffeine junkie! Do you know how much money you could save without those two cups of needless coffee each morning??

OK, that’s not how it went down at all. In fact, I think she just nodded sympathetically. I supplied the subtext-as-dialogue in my own mind. Because I feel guilty about consuming just about anything, lately.

There’s something about parsing down my diet–and my lifestyle in general–that greatly appeals to me. If someone tells me they can fit their entire apartment into the backseat of a VW bug, I’m jealous. I don’t think “Wow, no furniture? And you’re forty years old?” I go straight to “How cool, you can move in the middle of the night!” And then I go and buy myself another pair of jeans I will probably not fit into by next next week.

I don’t know if it’s the global economy, several stalled attempts to pay off credit cards, my desire to fit into tiny sizes, or, a combination of all three. But I like the shrinking process. Shrink my debt, my needs. If I could hook myself up to an IV and skip eating entirely, by gum, I’d do it. Maybe I could get a virtual yard–then I could save time (watching my husband) mow. Or a wig that never needs combing. Or a colostomy bag….

By the way, the recommendation I really did receive for poor sleep was to take a shower with alternating hot/cold bursts. It’s supposed to be rather effective, actually. I believe it. Sounds like torture. Freezing cold water? The body processes any sleep it gets as a fabulous alternative!

I’ve  lived in Wyoming long enough to notice some patterns. One of the most recognizable is in the way the state likes to present itself. Yes, the state as a whole has a persona. Most do, I suppose; we just don’t think about the smaller ones all that much. But picture New York, California or Florida: Did you see guidos, beach blondes and blue hair in your mind’s eye? Maybe it’s just me….

The west feeds off of its cowboy image. There’s ruggedness, independence and history in that archetype. Picture the Marlboro Man, minus the lung cancer. Lately, though, the western hero has been redefinied on the airwaves. If you will allow me to use Sheridan as a microcosm of the whole, here goes. Within five minutes of tuning into any of our local radio stations, you are guaranteed to hear one of the following pop artists, none of which fits the old west image:

1. Pink. The punk/pop princess is the new independent spirit of the west. Or something. Her song “Sober” is on just about every hour. Does this mean WYO has a desire not to drink? I doubt it. But they certainly have no problem with a liberated woman on the radio. Score one for the Equality state.

2. “Paralyzer.” Finger Eleven’s purported club song, if clubs were made up of, say, all white people. Maybe Sheridan really wants to stay up late and p-a-r-t-y? Unlikely, as we don’t have a place to dance within 200 miles. OK, I’m not counting Scores, the bar at the Holiday Inn. I will never be able to accept locals going to a hotel in their own town on a Saturday night. Never. I went there once, three years ago, and still feel ill from the sight of fat white people trying to grind on the dance floor. But maybe that’s because clubs weren’t intended to be strictly Caucasian. Nice try, but minus one for WYO.

3. The Plain White T’s. Admittedly, I’m naive about radio’s source of revenue. But my theory is that in Sheridan, every dollar is presently coming from the Plain White T’s label, manager and possibly the band members themselves. They’re on CONSTANTLY. And they only have two singles! Now, the music itself is sweet, charming, catchy and cute. So there we have it, the new musical archetype of the new west: harmless.

Personally, I would prefer to go back to something that sounds the way Jack Palance looked. Grizzled, full of wisdom, tobacco and beef. Now what that sounds like, I have no idea. But I’ll know it when I hear it.

And knowing Sheridan, I’ll hear it over and over and over….

Last week, I honestly heard this, word for word, reported as news on a local radio station:

“A lamb was killed by a wolf this week in Bitterroot, Montana.”

Now, this was before Russia started giving Georgia gunpowder noogies. It was even before the Olympics opening ceremonies. But we ARE in an election year. A very important election year, I might add. Oh, and the US is currently waging war in two nations (that we admit to).

You might think that a #$@! lamb getting slaughtered might fall under the metaphor category in times like these. But you’d be wrong. As far as our local news media, this was straight up reportage.

This is also why I listen to NPR. Their local weather forecast may not be as accurate, but at least they occasionally mention Iraq. As in, “Civilians were killed by US troops this week in Baghdad.”

The wolves, my friends, are us.