Café Mystérieux

When I got up this morning, there was a pot of fragrantly strong hot coffee already brewed.

That’s all. End of story.

Oh, except for the part about how I live alone. And I did not make that coffee.

Oh, and one more thing? Wouldn’t you know – it’s Halloween.  And just to up the ante, my house is literally The Last House on the Left on my dead-end street. Coincidence? I think not.

I looked around nervously. Could there be someone hiding in the garage who had prepared the brew? And if so, did he make it for me, or for himself? (Of course it would be a he. Because burglars, rapists and serial killers rarely come in the she variety.) Was he just about to pour a steaming cup when he heard me shuffling down the hall? Was he out there now, fists clenched in frustration, whispering “Rats”? (Or perhaps worse. After all, that’s where I keep the chainsaw.)

And if he made the coffee for me, what was his motivation? To draw me out of my cozy bed?  To scare the living bejesus out of me before doing me in? Or just to share a friendly cup, Happy Halloween! But no, the door to the garage was locked with a deadbolt on the kitchen side. He couldn’t have slipped out through that door and then locked it, too.

I poured my coffee, added cream and sugar, humming softly like everything was normal. I started meandering about the house, cup in hand, acting casual. I caressed the leather sofa in the living room and then peered over; was he behind it? No. I set my cup on the bar in the party room; was he crouched underneath it in front of the bar stools? Nope. I glanced toward the fireplace; was he standing erect inside, with just his jeans and jackboots showing? Oh my goodness, thank the universe, no. Although at least in that case I would have the advantage, the ability to bash his knees with the poker – or just get the hell out of there while he tried to unfold himself.

I continued wandering. Down the hall, past the linen closet; was it large enough to hide a man if he scrunched himself up between the comforters? Yes, but no such man. On into the guest room where I gazed out at the beautiful sunny Southern California October day; was he pressed up against the wall behind the open curtains? Nope. I stepped into the office, turned the computer on while looking back over my shoulder into the supply closet; was he lurking there between the file cabinets? Nuh uh. In the guest bath, I put the toilet seat down (why was it even up?) while I peeked behind the shower curtain; but was there a figure with a raised arm holding a butcher knife? No.  Still, I made a mental note to always leave the shower curtain open, since Alfred Hitchcock had traumatized my 13 year old self, who had now been triggered by this new coffee mystery.

At that point I breathed a sigh of relief and took a big glug of my delicious drink. I had exhausted the possibilities. Because he couldn’t be in the same master suite from which I had just emerged minutes before.

Or could he?

My coffee almost came sputtering back out, but I managed to keep it down. My heart was thumping against my ribs as I eased back into my en suite. The closet and blinds were open, the shower curtain too, the toilet seat was down, and the platform bed was too low to allow anyone other than my cat to slide underneath. Whew.

I thought, not for the first time, clearly I spend too much time with Investigation Discovery TV. Yes, I watch serial murderers while grading student papers. It tempers my desire to kill. (No, not my students; the grade school, middle school, and high school teachers who somehow managed NOT to instruct them in how to write a sentence using proper English grammar, punctuation and spelling. Now that’s a horror. But I digress.)

Secure in the knowledge that there was no murderous psychopath in my immediate vicinity, my mind turned to other possibilities. Like, could I have a ghost? A coffee-loving ghost, or maybe just a prank-playing ghost. A ghost who could slip under a bed easily as a dust bunny, disappear through curtains and shower curtains or up a chimney – could even be standing next to me right now, stifling an evil chuckle, or just a fun-loving giggle. Maybe. And who knows, maybe a ghost could be even more deadly than a serial killer.  

But I’m the Forensic Files science type, not the Blair Witch paranormal type. So I didn’t consider for long the chance that it might have been a ghost or a goblin or a zombie or some other kind of non-human perpetrator. Even though to be honest, the coffee was metaphysically good, just like when I make it myself.

Hmmm…

 Could I have actually made the pot of coffee myself? But that was impossible. I had gotten up around 4:00 to pee, and then I went straight back to sleep.  Just ask my cat if you don’t believe me.

I do usually set the coffee pot up before I go to bed, meaning that I put in the filter, the French Market New Orleans coffee with chicory, the water, and a dash of cinnamon. That plus my half and half and sugar, and my mornings are transported to the French Quarter. But I don’t set the timer on the machine because I’m too lazy to get out the instruction booklet that came with it and figure out how. Especially when it’s 10:30 pm and I’ve already been dozing on the couch, or I can’t wait to get back to that great novel that’s open on my Kindle. And where did I even put those instructions anyway?

Could I have accidentally set the timer while fumbling with the pot? Or perhaps it had come already previously set for a default 7:00 a.m. and had just dripped its last drop when I came into the kitchen. Frankly, either of those is the only explanation that makes any sense to me.

But I do know this: It was almost an other-worldly experience to get up to the smell of that coffee, already made.

So I think I’ll just go and dig out that instruction manual now.