Alone time. Precious alone time. I’d looked forward to having a weekend by myself for so long that my list of things to do was as long as my arm. Still, it was the To-Do list of my dreams. Finish unread magazines. Empty bottle of wine. Organize box of chocolates according to which should be eaten first.

Nothing was going to ruin this weekend for me. Not even a ghost.

Especially not a ghost. I didn’t believe in them anyway. Silly see-through apparitions. The paranormal couldn’t manage anything scarier than the see-through specter I’d once viewed in the dressing room mirror at Victoria’s Secret.

So there I was, stretched out on the couch, finishing off a box of KFC extra crispy with a George Clooney movie playing, wine chilling, and the animals patiently awaiting their scheduled lap times, when it began.

Tiny white feathers drifted down from above.

“What the . . .?” I said out loud as I held out my hand, where a few brilliant white feathers soon settled.

I looked around to see if perhaps a bird had sneaked in and had an unfortunate encounter with our ceiling fan. But there weren’t any birds and the fan wasn’t on.

What was “on” was George Clooney, looking so fine I soon forgot those strange feathers. I cracked the seal on my wine (I’m too cheap for real corks) and organized a few of those chocolates. Somewhere around midnight, I must have drifted off.

I was awakened by a strange thwacking sound–a wet sounding crash-crunching that seemed to come from all sides of the house at the same time. Flashlight in hand, I cautiously stepped onto my front porch. It was littered with egg shells, the walls dripping with yolk.

“What the . . .?” I found myself saying again.

That’s when I first heard the crazed cackle–a sound so insane I rushed back inside. I slammed the door closed and fastened the locks. Then slipped on the yolk-slick floor. I plopped down in the puddle of broken eggs and was still sitting there, stunned and confused, when another batch of white feathers began to rain down. Followed by that crazed cackle.

Heart pounding, I found my footing and raced up the stairs, my terrified terriers close at my heels. We passed our three cats. Each appeared poised and ready to pounce–tails twitching, eyes glowing. Licking their lips.

I wasn’t sure where to go. Nowhere seemed safe. As I searched wildly about for the phone (which was, as usual, not on its base), the bad odor began. Within seconds, the whole house smelled fowl. Then again, the crazed cackle.

I began to tremble and cry. The mad cackle then changed to a taunting, “Bawk! Bawk!”

Whatever it was, it was cruelly egging me on. I began to get angry. My house was a mess. I was a mess. Sticky and smelly and covered with feathers. Egg on my face.

Then it hit me. I knew what it was. Our house was haunted. And it wasn’t just your average ghost. No, what we had was a poultrygeist.

My fear quickly turned to frustration. The last thing I needed was to have to shell out for an exorcist, especially one abreast of hauntings like this.

There was only one man to call: The Colonel.

Luckily, I had a coupon, so not only did the Colonel rid my house of the demon, but I got my choice of two sides. And let me tell you, that Colonel really delivered. He gave that demon chicken took a good lickin’. In the week since his visit, I’ve not heard a peep.

Although I suspect that right about now, I might hear a few groans.

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