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A vase inhabited by a ghost that pinches you occasionally when you forget to water your plants.

A mirror housing a genie who trips you as you pace your home, who won’t grant your three wishes until you catch him in the mirror as he’s tripping you.

A possessed couch that spirits away objects from your pockets, then devours and places them in it’s pocket dimension for you to retrieve when you turn sixty.

A skeleton in my closet made of whitest ivory that creaks and chimes when I lie.

A bogeyman stowaway in my basement who yells compliments while i cook grits in the kitchen.

A bar that only serves alcoholics everclear spritzers in cups full of fresh fruit.

An oven that undercooks your food if you’re Irish and burns it to high heaven if you’re German.

A curtain, red, velvet, and impossible to escape from once you peer behind it, that houses a desolate lonely land of milk and honey.

A pink flower-adorned bowl that is always chock full of your favorite childhood cereal and spoiled lemonade.

A wisp that lives in the grandfather clock and whispers sweet nothings in your ears while you sleep on weekends, holidays, and all throughout May.