Moving ~ma, Glam! It's always an adventure.
Laura, that sounds like a wonderful living situation for him, if he'll take it. I kinda want them to take 18-year-old me in; she could have used such an environment.
Kitty ~ma for Java the Cat. May he live long and happily.
I don't know that I believe in ghosts or hostile spirits, etc., but I kinda do...if that makes sense.
My Science Brain says Materialism is all! Ghosts are not possible! and my Sensitive Brain says, Uh, Remember that freaky shit we've already had happen? You can't deny the evidence of our own senses! and Science Brain says ...you're probably just nuts.
So here's a little not-scary ghost story, if you're in the mood for one:
I grew up in an old house, built circa 1820, burned and rebuilt and burned and rebuilt and added on to, that my grandparents bought from grandmother Mam's uncle, during the Depression. My mom and her siblings grew up there, with their grandmother who died in one of the bedrooms (there are a couple stories right there), and my sister and I grew up there too. That house had some spirits in it. We didn't really talk about things like that in our family, but Mom would answer my questions sometimes. I got strong feelings of "presence" in two of the bedrooms, but the "ghost" I remember was the early-morning riser.
From my bed when I was a kid, I could look out my door and see the entrance to the hall that lead to the bathroom and the bedroom where my grandparents and my mother slept. (Note that my mother slept in the same bedroom as her parents, but not because they needed any aid; they were both in fine health until I was about 11. Why didn't she sleep in the empty bedroom? Ah, good question. Nobody even went into that bedroom if they didn't have to, and nobody ever said why.) (Because it was creepy as hell, that's why.) Sometimes, early in the morning just before sunrise, I would hear someone walking down the hall from the bedroom. I knew my family's footsteps; I knew when one of them going to the bathroom or coming to the kitchen, and it wasn't them. It was clearly footsteps, not the random creaking of an old house. The footsteps would come down the hall, but no one would come out, no one went into the bathroom, it was just footsteps coming down the hall. I never saw anything. I don't know how many times this happened in the 14 years I lived there, but enough that I got used to it. I sure never told anyone about it, though, not even my BFF G., I figured I'd get laughed at. G. stayed over a few nights with me when we were teenagers, like you do. It wasn't until we were in college that she told me what happened one morning. She'd gotten up before I was awake and gone to the kitchen a little before sunrise, to make a pot of coffee. As she sat at the table, she heard someone walk down the hall and looked up, expecting to see my mom. No one was there. The footsteps continued into the kitchen, and then a chair pulled away from the table as if someone sat down. G., being the person she is, said Good morning and got up, poured a cup of coffee and set it down for the ghost, and went back to reading. And that was that. Mind, G. told me that before I ever told her about the early-morning riser. There's no way she could have known.
End ghost story!
It's things like that, that make me not able to declare I don't believe in ghosts.
edit for too much words