Though we know better how to control electricity than the people in 18th-19th century Europe did, it is still essentially a mysterious force linked somehow with life. In the past, mesmerists linked it with the soul, and perhaps, in some ways, they were not far wrong.
The goings on in this house, with lights coming on in the middle of the night and remotes meant for one room will suddenly work not on their intended devices but on a light upstairs, on an altogether different circuit, almost convince me of the existence of spirits, electrical will-o-the-wisps, illuminating the rooms at their whim.
Yet if this is a haunted house, it is not one with a malign spirit. I feel comfortable drifting off to sleep in the half-light shed by the street lights or downstairs on the sofa. I feel preternaturally at-home here, like nowhere I have ever lived, including and especially my parents' home in Philadelphia, where I grew up.
The cats too recognize the benign spirits of this house, and spend their days taking possession of all of its nooks and niches. They are playful and happy, though Whistler, my formerly fat Snowshoe/Siamese, threatens to make the leap from the study to the first floor, one that scares me for him.
I will have to find my camera and get a cable so I can post those promised pictures.