We have an evil little imp in the house. He raises havoc and leaves my innocent children to take the blame. He also takes delight in undoing their chores. I’ve never actually seen him, but I know he is real. There is too much circumstantial evidence to dismiss.

My first introduction to Somebody-Musta came a couple of months ago. We have a rule that if someone doesn’t hang up his coat, an extra chore will be assigned. When I saw my son’s coat on the floor, I called to him, “Coat’s on the floor; extra chore.” I really quite like it when they forget to hang up their coats. I always have a few extra chores I’m happy to delegate. In fact, instead of ‘calling’, it’s more like singing, “Coat’s on the floor; extra chore. Yeah, yeah, yeah. Do Wop.”

My son came to my side, took one look at his coat and wailed, “I hung it up!”

“It’s on the floor,” I pointed out.

“Well, it wasn’t. Somebody-Musta took it off the hook and threw it on the floor.”

“Who would do that?” I asked.

“Somebody-Musta! I know, I hung it up.”

At that point, I must admit, I had my doubts. Throwing somebody’s coat on the floor seemed like a devious act, even for an imp. Little did I know that Somebody-Musta was just getting warmed up.

The next day I confronted a child about an unmade bed. “You know you are supposed to make your bed before school,” I said.

“Yeah, I know. I did.”

We took a little trip up the stairs to look at the bed. The child ran to his bed and touched the rumpled covers in disbelief. Finally, he said, “I don’t get it. I made my bed. For sure. Somebody-Musta came in here while I was at school and messed it up.”

Somebody-Musta is a busy fellow. He has left the TV on all night. He has brought out toys right after the children have cleaned up. He has an insatiable appetite for chips; emptying every opened bag within minutes. And he always forgets to flush.

Then one day Somebody-Musta worked his evil on me. In the play room that the children had already cleaned, I came upon something out of an Indiana Jones movie. I tripped on the skipping rope and the mechanism whirled into action. Toy cars sped down tracks and torpedoed into my shins. A baseball came at me from behind, hitting me right between the shoulder blades. Then I heard the loud rumbling noise. Down the kiddie slide came a formidable object. A bowling ball. I was paralyzed by fear and it hit me at full speed.

My husband found me semi-conscious sometime later. He moved the bowling ball from my throat and asked, “What happened to you?”

I gasped for breath and stammered, “Somebody-Musta tried to kill me.”