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No one had told me the house was haunted, not that I would have believed them if they had. Before the empty milk carton flew past my left ear, projected forward from the kitchen behind me by something or someone unknown, I would have told you I didn’t believe in ghosts. I’m still not sure I do.
Energy though, which can’t be explained or fully described? Oh sure, I believe in that, and there was plenty of it, good and bad floating around in the brokedown palace I called home on Robert Street.
Five of us had rented the place as a press collective for the underground paper we’d been publishing, which wasn’t a paper so much as a newsletter but was definitely “underground,” so much so that we never published another issue after moving in.
Everyone got busy with other things — school, odd jobs, or in my case, working in the campaign against modern Nazi David Duke, who was running for the United States Senate, after having won a seat in the Louisiana House of Representatives the previous year. With his polling creeping dangerously high as the summer ended, I had no time to write — let alone sell ad space — for an 8-page rag that only about 500 people would read in a good month.
