When I went to drive my car I found it parked
in my neighbor’s driveway. It wasn’t in my
driveway, it was in hers. I had heard rumors
from several different people, a former
policeman included, that my neighbor is a
mystic. No one knows where she came from,
but she is known to be incredibly reclusive and
averse to telephones, although she does respond
to letters. I went back in the house and locked
the door. Through the blinds over my bedroom
window, I watched my parked car. The car
started, backed up, pulled into my driveway, and
turned off. It was really a scream, considering I
was still holding the keys. I squeezed them,
making sure they were really there. The former
policeman I spoke to advised that I avoid
interacting with my neighbor at all costs, “even
if there are forces invading your domain.” I
didn’t know what he meant by that until now, I
guess my car is a part of my domain. So his
advice was pertinent. I stayed inside and continued
to stare at my car. I called Mr. MacDonald and
told him about the driverless phenomenon.
“Stay in your house. Do not leave your house,”
he said. “I’ll be right over.” Two minutes later,
Mr. MacDonald’s truck drove onto my yard,
nearly mutilating my petunia bed. He got out
with a large, handmade crucifix. You should
have seen it. I didn’t want to see what he’d do
next. I ran into the kitchen and began making a
sandwich, but, of course, I had moldy bread.
“Yep, I suppose this bread is my domain too,” I
said out loud, loudly—in fact I yelled it—while
I waited tensely for the Wiccan screams
from outside. I waited and waited, but there
were none. I went back to my bedroom window
and looked out. It was nighttime now, and I
couldn’t see a thing—and I have terrible night
blindness, cataracts, two astigmatisms,
hypertension, and I overuse laxatives. I walked
around the house, drawing every curtain and
blind, turning off each light. And yet nothing—
except that I forgot to flush the toilet since last
using it—was out of order in my domain.